Absaroka Ambush

26

Three of Clint Black’s hands disappeared while out rounding up the last of the horses. Horses and riders just vanished. No trace of them was ever found.

“Them ol’ men got them,” Bronco opined. “They’re camped all around the edge of the range. Brazen about it, too. They don’t make no effort to hide their cookfires. They’re darin’ us to come get them.”

“Hell with them,” Clint said. “They’re not our main problem.” He was still shaken by the news that eight of his best gunhands had gone face down in town. Now it looked like his brother was going to live, and that irritated him. Everything was going sour. He’d lost two more of his hired guns. They had just saddled up and ridden out. Didn’t even ask for any pay. They just left.

What made matters even worse was that not a single reply had been received on his latest bid to hire more men. No one wanted to tangle with a dozen or more living legends. Including the cook, he had twenty-six men. At one time, Clint had boasted he could field seventy-five of the toughest hands in the territory. Now he didn’t have a single working cowboy left. Not that it mattered, for he personally had ridden his range and found that he didn’t have a steer left. They had all been rustled, probably by the mountain men. His house and all the outbuildings were in a shambles from hundreds of rounds being pumped into them; the roofs all leaked. He could not find any workmen to repair the damage. No one would work for him. And he had even put ads in the Helena paper.

Clint sat in his den, his thoughts dark. The Double D was now in good shape, with a large herd and at least fifteen tough, seasoned hands to maintain it. Clint and his men had been banned from ever setting foot in Blackstown—the name of which had now been changed to Canyon City. His town no longer.

Clint was under no illusions about facing Smoke Jensen—the one person he blamed for all his misfortune. He wasn’t as fast with guns as Smoke was and he didn’t think he could take him in any type of stand-up fistfight.

Any reasonable man would have called it quits and tried to make peace. But Clint Black was not a reasonable man.

He rose from his chair and looked out a bullet-shattered window. He could almost smell the odor of defeat. It was not a smell he liked.

“God, I hate you, Jensen,” Clint whispered. “I despise you.”

He walked slowly back to his chair and sat down heavily. He did not know what to do next. But he did know this: he was going to kill Smoke Jensen. He just didn’t know how he was going to accomplish that.

“I think you ladies are reasonably safe now,” Smoke told the twins. “Unless I completely missed the mark, I believe Clint has shifted his hatred to me. Sending those ten gunhands into town this morning tipped his hand.”

“Then you feel we could safely ride our own range, Smoke?” Toni asked.

“As long as you have a couple of hands with you. I know some of those old mountain men are watching your range. I’ve seen their smoke.”

“Their…smoke?” Jeanne said.

“Indian talk. They’re out there. And remember this: you’ve got twelve pretty salty ol’ boys on the payroll now, and that’s plenty for a spread this size. And they’re good men. Clint, on the other hand, has been losing men steadily. He can’t have more than twenty-five men on his payroll right now. And none of them can tell the difference between a steer and a buffalo. I know gunhands. When they start sensing defeat, they’ll pull out. And I’ll bet that right now, it’s pretty darn glum over on the Circle 45 spread.”

“What do you think Clint will do next?” Toni asked.

Smoke shook his head. “I wish I knew.”

Nelson, Clements, and Bankston (who was now free of the skunk odor) rode into town, their gunbelts hanging from the saddle horns. They stopped in front of the general store and were immediately met by a shotgun-toting deputy.

“Whoa!” Bankston said. “We don’t work for the Forty-five no more. These are our horses. Look at the brands. All we want to do is provision up, have a hot meal at the café, and we’re history, Deputy.”

“All right. Suits me, boys. I’ll pass the word to leave you be.”

“’Preciate it, Deputy,” Nelson said.

The word quickly spread up and down the street, and the former Circle 45 riders were shocked when the townspeople actually spoke to them and were friendly. They certainly were not used to that from the citizens of the newly named town of Canyon City.

And true to their word, they bought supplies, had a drink and a meal, and were gone within the hour. Harris Black lay in the bed at the doctor’s office and watched them leave.

“My brother’s little empire is falling apart,” he said to the doctor. “It couldn’t happen to a more deserving person. He fooled me for a long time, Doctor. He lied to me and I believed him. Then when I finally began to suspect him, I still believed him. I just couldn’t, no, wouldn’t believe that my own brother would lie to me. I was a fool.”

“What do you think Clint will do next?”

“I don’t know, Doc. But he’ll go out with a bang. You can bet on that.”

Clint had strapped on his guns and gathered his men on the grounds around the front porch. “From this day on, I’m paying triple wages for the men who stay with me to the end. And the five thousand dollar bounty still stands on Jensen’s head. If you’re going to leave me, do it now.”

The gunslicks looked at one another and shuffled their feet and whispered among themselves. One-eyed Shaw finally spoke. “I reckon we’ll stay, Boss. But we want a month’s wages in advance. You might get killed and then we’d be stuck.”

“That’s fine with me. Line up and draw your advances.”

As the men were being paid, Buckskin Deevers asked, “What’s the plan, boss?”

“I don’t have one,” Clint replied truthfully. “And I’m sure open to suggestions.”

Buckskin stepped to one side of the porch, allowing the other hired guns to be paid. When the last of them had drawn their pay and only Bronco remained, Buckskin said, “Whatever we do, we’ve got to leave the ranch on the quiet. Those old mountain men have ringed us.”

“I still think we could take those old farts out,” Bronco said.

Buckskin looked at him. “Ellis and Jones and Harden had that same idea. You seen them since they rode out?”

Bronco shook his head irritably. “Only their horses.”

“That’s right. Only their horses. Boss, I’m gonna say something that you ain’t gonna like. But here it is. Those old men out yonder in the hills don’t have no job of work they got to return to. They can stay here forever, and if Smoke wants them to, they will. Sooner or later, probably sooner, one of them will get a clean shot at you and it’ll be over.”

Clint slowly nodded his head and looked up at the murderer. “Go on,” he said softly.

“We got twenty-three men able to sit a saddle and that includes you. We’re not going to win this war, so you might as well put that out of your mind.”

“I had already reached that conclusion,” Clint said. There was no anger in his voice, just resignation.

“So you want…?” He trailed that off, already knowing the answer.

“To kill my enemy.”

“Smoke Jensen.”

“Yes.”

“The twin sisters?”

“Once Smoke is dead, they can be dealt with.”

Buckskin suppressed a sigh. Clint just couldn’t get it through his head that if harm came to Smoke Jensen, those old mountain men would wait until Hell froze over to get a shot at him. Buckskin was a murderer, thief, rapist, and was thoroughly worthless, but he wasn’t stupid. Every fiber in his body told him to get clear of this fight. It was clearly over. There was no way that Clint could win, and to hang around was suicide. But Buckskin had taken the man’s money and would stay. And he knew that the others would do the same.

“Thank you, Buckskin,” Clint said, standing up. “I’ll come up with a plan.”

“Okay, Boss. Me and the boys will do whatever you say.” Back in the bunkhouse, he said, “He has no plan. If we had any sense, we’d give the money back, tie a white handkerchief to our rifles, and ride out of this damn country.”

A gunhand known only as Burt stood up and walked to the open doorway. “I want to see Smoke Jensen dead on the ground. That’s what I want to see.”

“I’m afraid Jensen will be walkin’ around long after someone buries you, Burt,” One-eyed Shaw said.

“Bull!” Burt said. He stepped outside, and a heavy rifle cracked from more than half a mile away. The big slug took the hired gun in the center of his chest and slammed him back against the outside wall. Burt slid down to the ground, dead on his butt.

After walking to the front door and seeing what had happened, Clint sat in his now heavily fortified study and cussed. All the windows had been boarded up and bookcases shoved against them. He was a prisoner in his own damn house. He cursed the old mountain men who had surrounded his home and he cursed Smoke Jensen. He cursed his brother and he cursed the Duggan twins. He cursed the citizens of Canyon City and when he couldn’t think of anyone else to curse, he just sat and cussed. He was still cussing when Tom Clark and George Miller tied white pieces of cloth to the barrel of their rifles and rode away.

Puma Buck and Lee Staples stopped by the Double D late that afternoon and swung down from their saddles. They declined an invitation to come inside the house. Neither of them much liked houses. They sat on the porch and accepted coffee and doughnuts.

“Clint Black lost three more men this day,” Lee said. “They buried one, and two rode out with white handkerchiefs tied to their rifles. We let them go.”

“It’s gettin’ plumb borin’ on them ridges,” Puma said. “The boys want to attack the house and get done with it, Smoke.”

“No,” Toni said. “As much as I hate Clint Black, I want all the men to just go away and leave us alone.”

“Let’s ride over there and try to make peace with the man,” Jeanne suggested.

“Bad move, Missy,” Puma said. “No tellin’ what Clint might do. Situation like it is, he ain’t predictable no more. He just might shoot you both on sight. Me and the boys will stay just as long as it takes. We got no place to go and nothin’ to do when we get there. We’re living off Circle 45 beef. We rounded them up and moved them over into that valley where you-all was ambushed. He ain’t got nary a steer left. All he’s got is some mangy hired guns and a heart full of hate for Smoke. He can’t get no supplies. We got the road watched all the time.”

“I don’t think he can hold out too much longer,” Smoke said. “You boys keep up the sharpshooting, Puma. It’s taking a toll on those guns of his. He’s losing one or two every day. He’s got to crack soon and then it’ll be over.” He smiled. “And I think I’ll just heat up the fire a little bit.”

Sally looked over at him. “Every time you get that look in your eyes, I start to worrying.”

He reached over and patted her hand. “Don’t worry. This isn’t gun-talk, honey.” He stood up. “Excuse me, folks. I have a letter to write.”

Everyone looked at Sally. She shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t ask me. I’m just his wife.”

Smoke returned in ten minutes with a sheet of paper. He handed it to Sally. “Sally, how long would it take you and Toni and Jeanne to write out about fifty or sixty copies of this?”

She read the short letter and started laughing. “Not long. Come on, girls. Let’s get busy.”

Cleon Marsh found the note tacked to the gate, read it, and for a moment was stunned. Then he rode back to the ranch and handed the note to Clint.

Clint’s face turned beet red when he read the letter. “It says here he’s posted this…thing all over the country. I’ll be the laughing stock of the territory! The son of a bitch!” He threw the paper to the ground.

Bronco picked it up, read it, and said, “You sure will be if you ignore this. Did you read down at the bottom?”

“No!” Clint shouted.

“If you don’t meet him, he’s going to mail this to every paper in the territory.”

Buckskin Deevers read the note. “He’s callin’ you out, Boss. You ain’t got no choice in the matter. If you don’t meet him and slug it out, you might as well ride on out of the country. You know as well as me how Western folks are.”

Clint knew. Only too well. He took the letter and reread it.

THIS IS AN OPEN CHALLENGE FROM SMOKE JENSEN TO THE MURDERING, RAPING, AM BUSHING, NIGHT-RIDING, YELLOWBELLIED CLINT BLACK. I SAY YOU ARE AFRAID TO MEET ME IN A STAND-UP FISTFIGHT. YOU HIDE BE HIND HIRED GUNS AND DO NOT HAVE THE COURAGE TO MEET ME AND FIGHT IT OUT MAN TO MAN. I WILL BE WAITING IN THE MAIN STREET OF CANYON CITY AT NOON ON SATURDAY. IF YOU FAIL TO SHOW, THEN EVERY ONE IN THE TERRITORY WILL KNOW EXACTLY WHAT KIND OF CRAVEN COWARD YOU REALLY ARE.

It was signed, “Smoke Jensen.”

Clint lifted his eyes. All his men had gathered around the front porch. And he knew then that if he didn’t meet Smoke Jensen, he would not have a hand left. They would ride out, showing their contempt for him. The rules were few in the West, but they were enforced rigidly. And if a man was called out by another man of approximately the same size and age, you went, or you got on your horse and rode out. No one in the rugged, wide-shouldered west would tolerate a coward.

Clint was between a rock and a hard place and he knew it. He slowly folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket. “Well, boys, looks like we take a ride come this Saturday morning.”