War of the Mountain Man

15

Melvin Malone was released from jail, the attempted murder charge dropped. Sal picked up the torn pages from the Bible and carefully disposed of them, muttering about heathens and those doomed to the pits of hell.

A week passed, with no retaliation from either Max Huggins or Red Malone. But the townspeople did not relax; they knew an attack was coming. They just didn’t know when or how.

Smoke received an unsigned telegram telling about the further misadventures of Paul Mittermaier and Henri Dubois. It seems the pair had been arrested and jailed in Kansas City for strong-arm robbery. They told some wild tale about being beaten and drugged in a small town out west, and then waking up in an empty railroad car. They claimed they were really foreign tourists, over here to do some buffalo hunting.

The judge laughed at them and sent them off to prison for a couple of years.

Smoke sent the wire to Max Huggins.

On a warm and bright summer’s day, Aggie Feckles walked into a field on the outskirts of town to pick flowers for the kitchen table.

Several hours later, Martha showed up at the marshal’s office, nearly hysterical.

Smoke didn’t need a crystal ball to know what had taken place. He sent a boy over to the hotel for Sally, so she could look after Martha, and began stuffing his saddlebags with items he might need when he declared war on Hell’s Creek.

“We’ll get a posse together,” Judge Garrison said.

“No, we won’t,” Smoke nixed that idea. “That’s what Max wants. They want a posse chasing after shadows and leaving the town undefended.” He looked around him. Sally and Martha had gone over to Mrs. Marbly’s. “If Aggie is still alive, I’ll bring her back.”

“If she’s still alive?” The blacksmith, Benson, questioned.

“The lawyers have a phrase for it,” Smoke replied. He glanced at Judge Garrison.

“Corpus delicti,” the judge told the crowded room. “It means the facts to prove a crime. In a case this heinous—and we might as well say the word: rape—Max, if it is Max, would probably dispose of the body after the viciousness was done. He’d be a total fool to keep her alive. And Max is not a fool. Let’s all hope and pray he’s savoring the anticipation and has not completed the act.”

Smoke walked out of the office and stepped into the saddle.

Judge Garrison followed him out. “Smoke, I’ve received some confirmation about Max Huggins’s back trail. I was on my way over to tell you when I heard about Aggie. He’s wanted back east. Mostly for rape of young girls. He then killed them. In several states.”

“Do you have the warrants?”

“That’ll take some time. Probably a month or better. It’s a time-consuming process, Smoke.”

Smoke shook his head and grimaced as he picked up the reins. “Aggie doesn’t have a month, Judge. Looks like this is going to be western justice. See you.”

He rode out of town, heading north.

Smoke stopped at the Brown farm and pulled the farmer off to one side, briefing him.

Brown’s face tightened. “I’ll try to keep this from Elias. The boy is sure sweet on that girl; no tellin’ what he’d try to do. Damnit!” the man cursed. “What kind of filth would do something like this?”

Ellie brought them coffee and her husband told her what had happened.

“That poor child. How much hope do you hold out for her, Mr. Jensen?”

“Not much. Max will probably do the deed and then kill her. It’s a pattern of his.”

She frowned and said, “I’m a God-fearing woman, Mr. Jensen. But I have to ask this: Why doesn’t society hang men like Max Huggins and others who do these terrible things? Why are they allowed to live?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. It has something to do with a movement started back east. Something about the worth of a criminal’s life or some such drivel as that. God help us all if it spreads out here.”

They all turned at the sounds of a horse approaching. Pete Akins was coming up the road. He saw Smoke standing in the farmer’s yard and turned in, closing the gate behind him. The gunfighter dismounted and walked over to the group.

“I’m out of it, Smoke,” he said, taking off his hat in the presence of Mrs. Brown. “Bell and Frigo and some others grabbed the little Feckles girl and hauled her to Max Huggins. My gun may be for hire, but I’ll be damned—‘cuse the word, ma’am—if I’ll have a part in abusin’ a child or botherin’ a good woman. If you want another deputy, you got one, Smoke.”

“I had a hunch you’d come around, Pete. Where is Aggie being held?”

“She ain’t bein’ held nowhere, Smoke. She’s dead. Max done his evil and give her to the men. Made me sick to my stomach. I’d ridden over to Kalispell for supplies; came back right in the middle of it. I just got out of Hell’s Creek with my hide on.”

“Are they planning on attacking the town, Pete?”

“If a big enough posse rides out, yeah. They got men on the ridges with signal mirrors to tell yea or nay. I figured I’d ride in and warn the townspeople.”

Smoke scribbed a short note and handed it to Pete. “This will keep someone in the town from shooting you, Pete. I’m going to go show the citizens of Hell’s Creek what hell is really like.”

“You want some company?”

Smoke shook his head. “This is something I want to do myself. How many people pulled out with you?”

“No one, Smoke. There ain’t nothin’ but trash left up there. Men and women. There ain’t no kids in the town. Not a one. Even that so’called minister up yonder took his turn with that poor child. When she went crazy-actin’ after all the horribleness, Frigo shot her.”

“You keep an eye on Elias, Brown. Hog-tie the boy if you have to.”

Smoke stepped into the saddle and was gone.

The outlaw and gunslinger experienced the chill of a cold sweat as the muzzle of the .44 was pressed against his head. He’d just stepped out of the privy and was slipping into his galluses when the muzzle touched his head.

“If I think you’re lying to me,” Smoke’s voice was as cold as the invisible grip of death that touched the hired gun, “I’ll stake you out and skin you alive. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. Jensen?”

“That’s right, punk. Did you take part in the rape of Aggie?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many more?”

“Jesus, Smoke ... ever’body in the whole damn town. Includin’ some of the women. She screamed and hollered until she couldn’t holler no more. Went on all day. Then she went nuts in the head and Frigo shot her.”

Smoke cursed under his breath. “How did you feel raping that child, punk?”

“I ... liked it, damn you!”

“Yeah, scum like you would. They waiting for me down in town?”

“Yeah. They damn sure are. So go on down and git killed, Jensen. You ...”

He never got to finish it. Smoke buried the big blade of his Bowie into the man’s back and twisted it upward with all his considerable strength. Smoke slammed the man’s face first onto the ground to stifle the scream building in his throat. He wiped the blade clean on the man’s shirttail and sheathed the weapon. Smoke checked his guns, loading them full, then took the dead gunny’s two Remington Frontier .44’s, looping gunbelt and all over one shoulder. He made his way back to his horse and circled the town, keeping to the timber until he found a good spot to picket the animal.

He changed into moccasins, slung his saddlebags over his other shoulder, picked up his rifle, and began working his way toward the town. He knew they were waiting for him because of the silence of the usually raucous place. Lights were burning, but there was no laughter coming from any of the saloons.

And Smoke was determined that before he left that night, there would be no cause for joy in the town for a long, long time. If he could, he was going to destroy as much of Hell’s Creek as possible.

He paused for a moment, listening. The old mountain man, Preacher, his mentor, had taught him many things, including patience. Smoke heard the faint jingle of spurs coming up the weed-grown alleyway. He pressed against the building. When the man drew close, Smoke hit him in the face with the butt of the rifle. The man dropped like a stone, faint moonlight glistening off his bloody and broken face.

Smoke walked on to a corral. He didn’t want to hurt any animal; they could not choose their owners. He silently slid open the bars. When the action started, the horses would find the opening and bolt. He did the same at two other corrals. He glanced at the huge livery stable and decided to leave it alone. Men were probably lying in wait for him in there.

He slipped around to the back of a saloon, dug in a pocket of his saddlebags, and came out with six sticks of dynamite, taped together, already capped with a long fuse.

He softly entered through the back door. Now he could hear voices and the tinkle of glasses and beer mugs. But the conversation was low and the drinking was probably light.

Smoke thumbnailed a match into flame and lit the long fuse, placing the charge against the storeroom wall. With a smile on his face, he slipped back into the night.

Smoke planted two more charges on that side of the street before he was spotted by a man who’d stepped out of a back door to relieve himself.

“Hey!” the man shouted, turning and still spewing water.

Smoke shot him about five inches below the belt buckle. The man fell to the earth, screaming in agony.

“You’ll not rape another girl,” Smoke muttered, then dashed across the street, at the far end of town.

The saloon charge blew. Smoke saw one man thrown from the building, crashing through glass. He hit the street and did not move. Another man fell through the floor and onto the dusty walkway in front as the rear part of the poorly constructed building collapsed under the heavy weight of the charge.

The second and third charges blew, and chaos reigned for a few minutes as men and women poured into the street.

Smoke emptied the Remingtons into a knot of men, knocking them sprawling. He lit another charge, tossed that through a side window of a building, and dashed away. He collided with a man, recovered first, and pointed a pistol at the man’s head.

“The body of the girl Aggie, where is it?” He jacked back the hammer. “And I’m only going to ask it one time.”

“Sid tossed it into a backwater just off the river yonder. I swear to you I ain’t lyin’.”

Smoke jerked him to his feet. “Show me, you weasel. And you’d better be right the first time.”

Keeping low, as the flames began licking at the dry timber of the destroyed buildings, the man led Smoke to a dry wash and from there to the slough. The naked body of Aggie was clearly visible.

“Get her, you crud,” Smoke ordered, the menace in his voice chilling the man.

The man waded into the dark waters and pulled the girl to the shore.

“Pick her up and walk toward the timber,” he ordered.

“But she ain’t got nothin’ on! That ain’t decent!”

One look from Smoke’s cold eyes convinced the man that he’d better shut his mouth and do as ordered.

“Where is the bastard?” Smoke heard the voice of Max Huggins plain in the night. “Find him, you fools. Find him and kill him!”

At his horse, Smoke had the man wrap Aggie’s body in a blanket.

“What are you gonna do with me?” the man asked.

“Did you take a part in raping this girl? And don’t lie to me.”

“Yeah, I did. Ever’body did.”

Smoke hit him with one big gloved fist. The man dropped like a rock.

The flames in the town were slowly being contained by a bucket brigade and one small pumper.

Smoke knew there was no point in taking the man back to Barlow for trial. Once away from Smoke Jensen’s gun, the man would lie, denying any part of the rape. If a deal could be worked out, everybody in Hell’s Creek would alibi for the other and nothing would be accomplished there.

Smoke left the man on the ground and picked up the slender, blanket-covered body of Aggie Feckles. Star didn’t like the idea of carrying the dead, but Smoke managed to get into the saddle. He headed back for Barlow, taking a route first west, then cutting south, to throw off any pursuers. He doubted there would be many; they were too busy fighting the fires.

At a farmer’s house, he borrowed a horse and tied Aggie across the saddle. He rode into Barlow just as dawn was breaking fair in the eastern skies. People began lining the streets, silently watching as he rode in, leading the horse with the body of Aggie across the saddle.

Dr. Turner came out of the hotel, where he had just given Martha a sedative, and walked over to Smoke. Smoke stepped wearily out of the saddle and gave the reins to Jim. The deputy led the animal to the stable.

A crowd began to slowly gather around.

“After they abused her,” Smoke said, his words soft, “Warner Frigo shot her in the head and dumped her body in a slough.”

“Pete Akins told us the rest of it,” Judge Garrison said. A little bit of soap was still on his face. He had been shaving when the news of Smoke riding in reached him. “This is absolutely the most dastardly act I have seen in all my years on the bench.”

“How much damage did you do in Hell’s Creek, Marshal?” a citizen asked.

“Burned down about a half-dozen buildings. Got lead in maybe a dozen people. I used some dynamite, and the explosions probably killed another six or seven and put that many out of commission for a time. How is Martha?”

“She’s sleeping,” Turner said. “Victoria and Sally are with her now. I just gave her a sedative about fifteen minutes ago. She’ll be groggy when she wakes up.”

“The girl was shot at close range,” Smoke told him. “the slug took off about half her face. Have the undertaker do his work and then nail the coffin lid shut. Let’s spare Martha that.”

The doctor nodded his agreement.

“I’ve got to get some rest. I’ll see you all this afternoon.” Smoke wearily climbed the steps to their suite after asking Toby to have a boy get water for a bath.

He hung up his guns, pulled off his boots, waited in his long-handles until the tub was filled, and then took a bath. Sally came into the WC and scrubbed his back.

Smoke slipped under the cool, fresh sheets and closed his eyes. He slept deeply and soundly and dreamlessly. He awakened just after noon and was finishing shaving when the sounds of gunshots and women screaming sent him running down the hotel steps.