Absaroka Ambush

27

Of course Clint had far darker plans than just the fight on his mind. But those were quickly dashed when One-eyed Shaw told him the mountain men had left the Circle 45 range and had taken up positions all around the Double D ranch and grounds. Clint’s plans of burning out the Duggan twins, while all the Double D hands were in town watching the fight, were tossed out the window with that news. Then he thought he might have a sniper shoot Jensen during the fight. But on this Saturday, all guns were to be banned in Canyon City. Every man would leave his guns at checkpoints at both ends of town. And Harris had ordered all able-bodied townsmen to be sworn in as special deputies and they would be heavily armed.

“Jensen don’t fight by no rules,” Bronco Ford told his boss. “He fights to win. And he’ll offer no mercy nor give no quarter.”

Clint nodded his head in agreement. Since he had made up his mind to fight, he had not taken a drink of anything stronger than coffee. He knew he was in excellent physical shape, for he had always been vain about that. He was strong as a bull and had knocked men unconscious with just one punch. But could he whip Smoke Jensen? He didn’t know. He would have to rely on good footwork and lots of bobbing and weaving and ducking and try to wear the man down.

But he had to win. He had to. Everything was at stake. If he lost, he would be a humiliated and broken man in the eyes of all the people. He could not allow that to happen. One way or the other, by hook or by crook, he had to win.

“He’s a bull of a man, Smoke,” Waymore told him. “Strong and can punch like no man I ever seen. He’ll gouge your eyes and use his boots on you if he gets the chance. I saw him cripple a man like that. He likes to hurt people, really likes it. He’s a cruel brute.”

Smoke nodded his understanding. “Thank you, Waymore.” He wasn’t particularly worried about Clint Black. He’d fought bigger and better men than Clint…and stomped them into the ground. During the time between the challenge and now, Smoke had cut out tanned leather and made himself a pair of gloves. They were almost double the thickness of ordinary gloves, and would enable him to hit harder and also protect his hands.

“Lots of bets on this fight, boss,” Conny said, after returning from Canyon City. “Folks comin’ in from seventy miles away to see it. The papers in Helena have sent reporters in. They wanted an interview with you. I told them I didn’t have no authority to speak for you.”

“The fight will be an interview that will speak for itself.”

“You get a good night’s sleep, boss. Tomorrow is a big day.”

“I assure you, Conny, I will sleep like a baby.”

“Don’t nothin’ bother you, boss?” Conny asked.

Smoke smiled at him. “No point in worrying about things a man can’t change, Conny.”

“I reckon not. Good night, boss.”

Smoke ate only a light breakfast the morning of the fight. Sally and Toni and Jeanne had prepared baskets of lunches they would eat after the fight. Baked beans and huge sandwiches and fried chicken and jam and jellies.

“Aren’t you worried?” Toni asked Sally. “I would be positively beside myself with dread.”

“No. I’ve seen Smoke fight before. Oh, he’ll have a busted lip and a black eye and some bruised ribs and various other abrasions and contusions, but he’ll win and he’ll be alive. Smoke fights coldly, you see. Never loses control. It will be very brutal, ladies. I doubt that you have ever witnessed anything like it before.”

Although neither of the twins would admit it, they both were looking forward to the fight.

Canyon City had swelled to ten times its normal population, with people coming in from as far away as a hundred miles. Entire families had shown up, bringing picnic lunches and planning to make a day of it. Enterprising store owners along Main Street had rented out roof space for spectators. Bleachers had been hastily knocked together and Main Street was blocked off. Street vendors were peddling everything from beer to banners.

Boos and catcalls went up as Clint Black and his men rode into town and checked their guns under the watchful eyes of regular deputies and newly appointed special deputies. A special elevated bed frame had been built in the show window of the general store so Harris Black could look over the heads of spectators and watch the fight in comfort. The sheriff kept his pistols handy, for he suspected the fistfight would only be part of this day’s events. His brother did not enjoy losing at anything.

Wild cheering erupted when Smoke and his party rode in. They stabled their horses and checked their guns.

“Keep the Double D people on one side of the roped-off area and the Circle 45 rowdies on the other side,” Lucas told his men.

The arena was a simple one. Ropes had been stretched from one side of the street to the other, so the men could have plenty of room to maneuver.

Smoke took off his spurs, handed them to Denver, and pulled on his leather gloves. He walked to his side of the ropes. There were no rules to this fight. It was kick, gouge, and stomp until one of the men was down and could not continue.

Smoke slipped between the pulled-tight ropes and walked to the center of the “ring.”

“Come on, Clint,” Lucas said, waving at the rancher. “Let’s get this going.” He stepped back and leaned against a hitchrail as Clint walked into the ring and up to Smoke Jensen.

“This one is for the boys you killed in that valley,” Smoke told the rancher. “You child-killin’ son of a bitch.” Then he hit Clint in the mouth with a powerful and totally unexpected hard right fist that bloodied the man’s lips and knocked Clint Black smack on his butt in the dirt.

The crowd roared and the fight was on.

Clint scrambled to his boots, his face dark with anger and his eyes blazing with wild hatred. He hadn’t been knocked down since he was a boy. But he maintained a tight control on himself as he lifted his fists.

Clint jabbed and Smoke flicked the blow away from his face and drove a left straight in. The leather-covered fist impacted against Clint’s mouth, and the blow snapped the big man’s head back. Clint cursed and swung; his fist caught Smoke on the shoulder. Smoke ducked, weaved, and hammered at Clint’s kidneys, forcing the man to give ground.

Smoke followed him, relentless in his pursuit. Smoke took a blow to the jaw that rattled his teeth. Clint could punch like a mule’s kick, Smoke would give him that.

“I’ll kill you,” Clint said. “I’ll beat you to death, Jensen.”

“I doubt it,” Smoke told him, then kicked the man on the kneecap.

Clint howled and jumped around, favoring the throbbing leg. Smoke stepped in and busted the man’s mouth with a left and a right. Off balance, Clint tumbled to the ground. Smoke made no attempt to use his boots on the fallen man. Unless Clint tried it dirty, Smoke would keep it as clean as brawling could be in those times.

Clint charged in, swinging wide. Smoke saw what the man had in mind and ducked. He grabbed the thick wrist with both hands and turned his body, throwing Clint to the dirt. Clint landed on his face and came up cussing, spitting dirt, and mad as hell.

The crowd was roaring and cheering, but neither man paid them any attention.

Clint bored in, smashing blows to Smoke’s face and body. Smoke’s mouth was bleeding and his side hurt where Clint had connected. Smoke stuck his fist into Clint’s face and pawed. When Clint lifted his arm to brush away the gloved fist, Smoke blasted a right into Clint’s belly. The man whooshed out air, dropped his guard, and Smoke hit him hard on the side of the jaw. Clint’s knees buckled and he backed up. Smoke didn’t let up. He stalked the man relentlessly, hammering at him with fists that seemed to be made of iron.

Clint recovered and connected with a solid left that hurt. Smoke backed up and Clint jumped at him, swinging both big fists. Smoke ducked and dove at the man, catching him in the belly with a shoulder. Smoke wrapped both strong arms around the man’s waist and hurled him to the ground, knocking the wind from him.

Smoke grabbed the man by the hair, jerked his head back, and, standing over the fallen rancher, drove his right fist into the man’s face half a dozen times. Clint’s lips were pulped, his nose was spread all over his face, and one ear was nearly torn off.

Smoke released his hold on the man’s hair, grabbed him by one arm and jerked him to his boots. Holding on to his arm, Smoke threw him across the street, with Clint spinning and staggering and flapping his arms, trying to halt the momentum. Clint slammed into a hitchrail and it shattered under his weight.

Clint crawled to his feet and ducked his head into a watering trough. Then he came up roaring like a maddened bull and charged across the street.

“Punch his head off!” Jeanne Duggan yelled, caught up in the excitement.

“Kick him in the parts!” Toni shouted.

Sally looked at them and smiled.

Clint connected with a wild swing and Smoke went down. He rolled and came to his boots. Clint bored in and Smoke stopped him cold with a right to the jaw. Clint backed up and Smoke came on, hitting him with both fists, belly and mouth. Clint went down and Smoke waited, both hands clenched into fists.

The rancher lurched to his feet and Smoke planted both boots and hit the man with everything he had, putting all two hundred-plus pounds into the blow. Those standing by the ropes heard the man’s jaw shatter. Clint was poleaxed to the ground and did not move.

Smoke walked to the horse trough, stripping off his gloves and sticking them into a back pocket. He washed his face and dunked his head into the water. The crowd was yelling and hollering and cheering. Harris rose to his knees. He reached into a boot and came up with a knife. With blood pouring from his mouth, his nose, and one ear, he screamed curses at Smoke and ran toward him. Smoke could hear nothing over the roaring of the crowd. A pistol cracked, the slug taking Clint in the center of his forehead, stopping the man and flinging him backward into the churned up dirt of the street. He lay with arms outspread, the blade of the knife twinkling in the midday sun.

Harris Black had fired through the window of the general store.

The crowds fell silent, staring at the dead Clint Black. The rancher had possessed everything any man could ever want. But Clint had wanted more. And all it got him in the end was a bullet in his brain. A ruthless man’s reign of terror had ended. It was over.