Law of the Mountain Man

4

Smoke walked outside the barn with Walt and paused to roll a cigarette. “Does Jud Vale know about Clint being his son?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s why he wants Clint dead and Doreen his so bad. He suspects, and rightly so, that I changed my will leaving everything to Doreen. He don’t want no wood’s colt hanging around, messin’ everything up. And with Doreen his woman, willing or not, he could produce a false weddin’ license and claim it all. At worse, he could tie it up in court for years.”

“Jud sounds like a real nice fellow.”

“A regular Prince Charming,” the old man said sourly.

“I’m glad you told me this, Walt.”

“Me and the old woman talked about it last night. We agreed that it wasn’t right for you to come in here and lay your life on the line for us, and us not to level with you. I’d have gotten around to tellin’ you, son.”

“You say you found gold around here?”

“A small pocket of it. I panned it plumb out. There was enough for me to invest in one thing or the other and become a well set up man. That’s another thing, Smoke. Jud Vale knows about me panning the gold. But I never could convince the hard-headed no-good that there ain’t no more gold. The gold I panned washed in here from God knows where, and the small pocket I mined is gone. Nature is a funny critter, Smoke. She’ll sometimes put precious minerals in a place where they just ain’t supposed to be. And when it’s gone, it’s gone forever. There just ain’t no more.”

“But Jud Vale doesn’t believe that.” It was not a question.

Walt sighed. “No. The man’s a fool when it comes to money. Greediest man I ever saw in all my life. Got hisself a regular palace on his spread. And Doreen believes the man is in love with her; obsessed, is the way she put it. He’s finally found something that he can’t have; he can’t buy it or steal it, and he’s furious about it.”

“He might try to take her by force.”

“That thought has come to me from time to time.”

“You going to tell her that you leveled with me?”

“Yes. Oughta ease the tensions around here.”

“For a fact. Let’s go all the way with it and then we’ll speak no more of it. How were you getting your food in here?”

“Shoshone friends of mine. But rations was gettin’ kinda sparse since Jud found the trail they was usin’ and posted guards on it.”

“Toward the end of this week, once the boys have settled in, we’ll take a ride to the trading post and stock up. I imagine Alice and Doreen would like a little outing.”

“I reckon so. Ain’t none of us been off this spread in months. And them boys you brung eat like starvin’ animals!”

The boys settled right in and soon needed very little supervison. They began stringing wire and doing a good job of it. Smoke took Cheyenne and several of the older boys and went looking for Box T cattle. He felt he knew where most of the cattle would be, and his hunch paid off.

“We been on Bar V range for a time,” Cheyenne pointed out.

“And seeing more and more of Walt’s cattle. Jamie, you boys start hazing them out and bunching them.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Smoke.”

They hadn’t gone another half-mile before Jud Vale and half a dozen of his hardcases came galloping up, punishing their horses needlessly. That was another way you could judge a man’s character—by the way he treated his horse. Smoke’s dislike for Jud Vale deepened as he looked at the lathered-up gelding he was riding.

“What the hell are you doing on my range, Jensen?” Jud demanded.

“Looking for Box T cattle, Vale. And finding them. You got any objections?”

Cheyenne had shifted positions so the muzzle of his Winchester was aimed right at a Bar V rider’s belly, and the Bar V man didn’t look a bit happy about it.

Smoke had pulled his Winchester out of the boot and had his thumb on the hammer. Jud didn’t seem to be too terribly thrilled about that either, since the muzzle was pointed in his general direction.

“Yeah,” Vale finally replied. “I got objections. I can’t help it if that old coot’s cattle wandered onto my range, eatin up all my grass.”

“Well, then, you should be glad to see us, Vale. We’re going to take them back to home range and then you won’t have to spend your nights worrying about them. Now we can either do that, or I can wire the territorial governor and ask for range detectives to be sent in here. How do you want it, Vale?”

The man puffed up like a ’possum and gave Smoke some dark looks. “Well ... git your damn cattle and git the hell off my land then. I’m tired of lookin’ at your damn ugly face, Jensen.”

“Unless you want us over here every day for a couple of weeks, Vale, why don’t you have your boys assist us? It would move a lot faster.”

Cheyenne’s leathery old face struggled to hide his grin. Smoke was pushing the big blow hard into a corner and the man couldn’t find a way out.

Vale blustered and hissed like a spreadin’ adder and shifted around in the saddle. “I ain’t helpin’ you do nothin’, Jensen. I don’t give a damn how often you come over here. You just make sure all the beeves you push across the crick are wearin’ Box T brands, or by God, you’ll answer to me.”

“We can do that now, Vale,” Smoke told him. He booted the Winchester and dropped his right hand to his thigh, close to the butt of that deadly .44.

Jud didn’t like that idea at all. It was seven against two, for a fact. But it was also a fact that this was a no-win situation. Cheyenne was an old he-coon from ’way back. Jud’s men might take him, but the old man was sure to empty two, maybe three saddles before he went down; and even down the old goat was as dangerous as a cornered grizzly. Even dying, if you got too close to the old bastard, he’d sure likely come up with a knife and cut you from brisket to backbone.

Smoke Jensen was quite another matter. Everybody knew he’d been raised by Preacher, and Preacher was a legend. Jensen had killed more than a hundred men—and that wasn’t counting Injuns. Jud Vale knew the first thing to happen should he grab for iron, was that Smoke was going to blow him right out of the saddle.

And there just wasn’t no percentage in dying.

“Round up your damn cattle and get off my range,” Jud finally backed down. He savagely jerked his horse around and galloped off, his men following him.

“I hate a man treats a horse like that,” Cheyenne said. “A horse or a dog. You show me a man who’s unkind to animals and I’ll show you a man that just ain’t no damn good.”

“I’m going to have to kill that man someday, Cheyenne. I can see it coming.”

“I ’spect, Smoke, they’s a long line of folks ahead of you thinkin’ the same thing.”

Saturday, they went to the trading post on Mud Lake.

Walt drove the wagon, with Alice by his side, and Doreen, all prettied up, and Micky sitting on boxes in the back of the wagon.

Doreen was a looker, no doubt about that, and a flirty thing, too. Smoke did his best to avoid her sliding glances. The heat coming out of her eyes could fry an egg. Although Smoke didn’t think kitchen cooking was what she had on her mind.

Cheyenne, Winchester across his saddle horn, rode on one side of the wagon. Smoke on the other.

As they rode and rattled up to the big store, Cheyenne pointed out the two fresh graves out back of the building.

Doreen and Alice and Micky went into the store part of the building to shop, and Smoke, Walt, and Cheyenne went into the bar to have a beer.

“Not you agin!” the barkeep moaned, as Smoke stepped inside.

“I’m peaceful,” Smoke grinned at him.

“Haw! You won’t be when some of them no-count hardcases from the Bar V show up. Just don’t wreck my damn place,” he warned.

“Why don’t you just shut up and get us a bottle,” Cheyenne told him. “You prattle on like a scared old woman.”

The bartender looked at the skinny old mountain man with the wicked look in his eyes and shut his mouth. He placed a bottle on the bar and several shot glasses. Smoke pushed the shot glass away and ordered a beer.

Cheyenne downed one quick belt and poured another, taking the shot glass and moving to the far end of the bar where he could watch the door. He had left his Winchester in the saddle boot. If anything happened in the barroom, he would rely on the old Colt with the worn handles hanging low on his right side. Or on the Bowie knife sheathed on his left side. Or on the .44 derringer in his boot. Or anything else he could get his hands on. If it just had to be, the old mountain man would pick up a porcupine to use as a weapon and damn the needles.

Micky had a bottle of sarsaparilla and was sitting on a bench in front of the store. Coming to town was quite an outing for the boy.

Alice and Doreen were oohhing and aahhing over some new dress material in the store.

Two farmers were sitting at a table, nursing mugs of beer, talking quietly. They finished their drinks and left. A fat man, a drummer from the looks of him, was sitting alone at a table next to a window. He kept shifting his eyes to Smoke, stealing fast sly glances.

“Say!” he finally spoke. “Aren’t you Smoke Jensen, the gunfighter?”

Smoke cut his eyes. “I’m Smoke Jensen.”

“Well, I’ll just be hornswoggled! I just read a big article on you in the Gazette. The writer said you’ve killed more’un five hundred men.”

“Not quite that many,” Smoke corrected.

“Kilt two right in here a few days back,” the barkeep said with a grin. “This is my place. I’m Bendel.” He pointed. “Kilt ’em right over yonder. They’s buried out back.”

“You don’t say!” the drummer bobbed his head up and down. “I’m from St. Louis myself. I got the finest line of women’s underthings and unmentionables on the market today, I do.”

“How kin you sell ’urn if you cain’t mention um?” Cheyenne asked him.

The drummer looked startled for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that.” He stared at the old mountain man. “Are you somebody famous?”

“I have been a time or two,” Cheyenne grumbled.

“That’s Cheyenne O’Malley,” Smoke informed the drummer.

“No kidding! You once fought off a hundred hostile savages.”

“More like fifteen,” Cheyenne told him. “And they wasn’t savages or hostile. They was just mad at me ’cause I bedded down with the chief’s oldest daughter. She was due to marry the war chief who led the band who come after me. Never could make no sense out of that. I enjoyed it and so did she. I went back about ten years later and looked her up. Sorry I did that. She was about the size of a tipi. Hit me up side the head with a rock and called me all sorts of vile names. Damned if I didn’t have to fight the same bunch all over again. But this time that war chief was mad ’cause I hadn’t toted her off ten years back. I don’t think they got along too well.”

“That’s incredible!” the drummer said.

Cheyenne belched. “Damn squaw follered me from the Sun River all the way over to the Bitterroot. Hollerin’ and cussin’ and raisin’ hell. I finally lost her around Lolo Pass. Things like that tend to take some of the joy out of messin’ with wimmin.”

“What stories I’ll have to tell when I get back to St. Louis!” He looked out the window. “Bunch of riders coming.”

Smoke walked to the batwings and looked out. “Gunhands,” he said.

“Is there going to be a Wild West shoot-out?” the drummer questioned.

“I hope not.”

“Oh, that would be so exhilarating!”

“Not for them that gits shot,” Cheyenne said, slipping the hammer thong from his pistol. “All they git is plugged.”

Half a dozen Bar V hands began crowding into the barroom. They pulled up short and fell silent when they saw Smoke.

Smoke knew two of them. Blackjack Morgan and Gus Fall. The others might well be hell on wheels with a short gun, but they just hadn’t made a name for themselves as yet. And if they decided to brace Smoke Jensen and Cheyenne O’Malley, the only name they were going to get would be carved on their gravestones.

“Jensen,” Blackjack said, walking past him, his spurs jingling.

Smoke nodded his head.

Gus stopped by the bar and stared at Smoke. He shifted his chew around in his mouth and spat toward a spittoon near Smoke’s boot. He missed the cuspidor, the tobacco juice striking Smoke’s boot.

Gus grinned at him. “You can get the boy out front to come lick it off.”

His grin was wiped off his face in a bloody smear as Smoke swung the beer mug, hitting Gus’s jaw and knocking a couple of teeth slap out of his mouth. Gus was propelled backward, his boots slipping on the fresh-mopped floor. He slammed through the batwings, tearing one off, and fell into the dusty street, on his back, out cold.

Micky sat on the bench and stared, mouth open, eyes wide.

Smoke tossed the handle of the mug onto the plank. “Another beer, please.”

“There wasn’t no call to do that,” one of the young so-called gunslicks told Smoke. “’Sides, Gus is my friend. I feel obliged to take up for him.”

Cheyenne laid the barrel of his Colt against the young man’s head and he dropped to the floor like a rock.

One of the young man’s buddies thought it was a dandy time to grab for iron. He changed his mind as Cheyenne eared back the hammer on his Colt and put those cold old eyes on the kid.

“Boy,” Cheyenne warned him, “I’ll blow a hole in your gawddamn belly a horse could ride through.”

“That’s Cheyenne O’Malley!” the drummer blurted out as warning.

The young man’s face turned gray and shiny with sweat. He let his eyes slide away from the eyes of death staring at him from the face of the mountain man. Slowly, very slowly, he let his hands drop to his sides, as far away from the butts of his guns as humanly possible. He would have grabbed the boards on the floor if his reach had been long enough.

Cheyenne eased the hammer down and holstered the Colt. He turned his attentions back to his shot glass.

“See about Gus,” Blackjack told one of the men. He cut his eyes to Smoke. “You’re right touchy today, Smoke. Who twisted your tail?”

“Two-bit gunhands have a tendency to annoy me.” Smoke lifted his fresh mug of beer with his left hand and took a sip.

“When Gus gets up from the dirt, he’s gonna kill you, Smoke.”

“He’ll try.” Smoke turned his back to the gunfighter and sipped his beer.

Blackjack moved to a table and sat down, ordering a bottle.

The drummer was scribbling frantically in a notebook; he wanted to be sure to get all this down. He might write a book about this.

Gus was helped back into the barroom, his mouth bloody and his eyes wild with hate and fury. Smoke turned to watch him, his right hand by his side.

Gus shook himself away from the men on each side of him and faced Smoke. He was so mad he was trembling.

“Gus,” Blackjack warned. ”Back off, son. This is not the time.”

“Go to hell!” Gus said, without taking his eyes off of Smoke.

“You better do what he says, boy,” Cheyenne told him. “You’re just about to step off into where the waters is deep . and dark.”

“You go to hell, too, old man!”

Cheyenne shrugged his shoulders. “Nobody can ever say I didn’t try to warn you about the currents.”

“You ready, Jensen?” Gus asked.

“I’m not finished with my beer, Gus. I would suggest you get you a cool one and calm down some.”

“You, by God, don’t tell me what to do, Smoke.”

“I’m just trying to save your life, Gus.”

Gus cussed him. "Here or in the street, Jensen?”

“It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to me, Gus.” Smoke sat his beer mug down on the plank.

Gus reached for his guns.