War of the Mountain Man

20

The trial of the outlaws and the arsonist went off without a hitch. Judge Garrison handed down the toughest sentences he could under the law and the territorial prison was notified. The returning wire said it would be two or three weeks before the wagon could come and pick them up.

Smoke noticed the now-familiar buggy rolling out of town, heading north. He walked to the livery, threw a saddle on Star, and headed out, staying to the high ground, which oftentimes ran parallel to the road but high-up.

He trailed the buggy to within a few miles of Hell’s Creek and watched as Max Huggins rode out to meet it. Max and the driver of the buggy sat for a long time on a log, talking, Huggins with one big arm around the other person’s shoulder.

That night he told Sally about it. She shook her head in disgust. “Things are just never what they seem to be, are they, honey?”

“This thing isn’t, that’s for sure. Problem is, I don’t know what to do about it. No laws have been broken. The only thing broken will be the faith of the townspeople.”

“And a broken heart when the other partner in the marriage learns of it,” she added.

“Yeah. If they don’t already know about it.”

“I hadn’t thought about that. Oh, Smoke, I just can’t believe that. Just thinking about it makes me sick!”

“I’ll have to face one or the other pretty soon, I reckon. And I’m not looking forward to that. Well, let’s get off of it. How’s the bank coming along?”

“I just got word this morning. It’ll open for business next Monday morning. The money will be coming in day after tomorrow. And it will be heavily guarded.”

She handed him a telegraph and let him read it. He whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Yes. And that will be too good an opportunity for Max to pass up.”

“I wish you and Victoria would get out of here, Sally. The two of you go on back to the Sugarloaf.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m staying. We’ll leave together, Smoke.”

He had expected that answer so it came as no surprise to him. “I’d say I have two weeks before Max hits us. Maybe three. But no longer. I think those rumors the snitch carried to him about those old warrants back east has him spooked. And I’m told that Red Malone is getting jumpy, too.”

She smiled at him. “The Sugarloaf will look good, won’t it?”

“You bet.” He got up and found his hat. “I’m going to prowl the town for a while.”

“Anything wrong?”

“No. I just want to check around.”

“I’m going to read. If you’re late, I’ll leave the lamp low.”

Smoke walked down the stairs and through the lobby, speaking to the night clerk at the desk. The Grand Hotel was full, for with the coming of the paper, a doctor, two lawyers, and a half-dozen new businesses, the town was experiencing a growth unseen since its inception.

The saloon was doing a land-office business and had hired two nighttime waitresses and a piano player. The piano player was banging out a tune, the melody floating on the night air.

Pete walked up, spurs jingling softly. “Horse tied out of sight down by the creek,” he told Smoke. “I never seen the brand before. Fancy riggin’. Rifle is gone from the boot. We might have us a back-shooter in town.”

“You tell the others?”

“Goin’ to now.”

“OK. Watch yourself.”

Pete gone, Smoke stepped back into the shadows created by the storefront and lifted his eyes, inspecting the rooftops of the buildings across the street. He squatted down and removed his spurs, laying them behind a bench on the boardwalk.

Standing up, he freed his .44’s and slipped into an alleyway, walking around behind the buildings. He paused at the alley’s end, staying close to the hotel’s outside wall. He listened, all senses working overtime.

Smoke watched a man come out of a privy and walk into the hotel, through the back door. The lamplight inside flashed momentarily as the door opened. Smoke closed his eyes to retain his night vision. He opened his eyes and walked on, slipping around the buildings.

He angled around Martha’s Dress Shoppe and came out behind the cafe. A slight movement ahead of him flattened Smoke against the back wall of the cafe, eyes searching the darkness. He caught a faint glint of moonlight off what appeared to be the barrel of a carbine—short-barreled for easier handling. Smoke waited, muscles tensed. He pulled his right-hand .44 from leather and, with his left hand over the hammer to reduce the noise, cocked it.

The man behind the gun stepped away from the building, and for an instant, Smoke could see his face. It was no one he had ever seen before. The man was clean-shaven, his clothing dark and looking neat. The man took a step, a silent one. He wore no spurs.

Slowly, Smoke knelt down, carefully stretching out on the cool ground to offer the man less of a target. “You looking for me, partner?” Smoke softly called.

The man turned and fired, the slug striking the wood of the building some four feet above Smoke’s head. Smoke fired, the .44 slug hitting the rifle and tearing the weapon from the man’s hands. The gunman ran back into the darkness.

“Yo, Smoke!” Sal called from the street.

“I’m all right. Stay under cover. I’m thinking this man is not alone.” Smoke rolled to his left as some primal warning jumped through his brain.

Two fast shots, coming from different weapons, tore up the ground where he had been lying.

Smoke caught the muzzle flashes of one of the guns and snapped off a fast shot. The gunhand screamed as the slug ripped his belly and sent him tumbling off the roof of the saddle shop. He hit the ground and did not move.

An unknown gunhand stepped out of his hiding place behind Smoke and leveled his pistol. Jim and Sal fired as one from the main street, both slugs striking the man, knocking him off his boots.

Smoke rolled and came up on his feet, behind a tree. Both his hands were filled with .44’s, hammers back. A slug ripped the night, burning through the bark of the tree, knocking chips flying. Smoke stepped to the other side of the tree and fired twice, left and right guns working. The man doubled over, both shots taking him in the stomach. Smoke ran to him and kicked the dropped guns out of his reach. He knelt down beside the hard-hit man just as his deputies came running up.

“You’re not going to make it,” Smoke told the bloodied man. “Who hired you?”

The man grinned through his pain. “Told the boys we was gonna be buckin’ a stacked deck comin’ after you.” He groaned. “But the money was just too good to pass up.”

“Whose money?” Smoke asked.

“You go to hell!” the man said, then closed his eyes and died.

“This one’s still alive!” Sal called, kneeling beside the man who had fallen off the roof. “But not for long. I think his neck’s broke.”

“Hell, that’s Blanchard,” Pete said, looking down at the man. “I thought he was in prison down in New Mexico.” He knelt down. “Come on, Blanchard,” he urged. “Go out clean for once in your life. This is your last chance, man. Who hired you?”

Two dozen people, men and women, in various dress, including nightshirts and long-handles, had gathered around.

“Huggins from over to ... Hell’s Creek,” the dying man gasped. “Pulled us up from Utah. We rode the train. Me and Dixson. Dee was ... he rode over from Idaho.”

“Dee Mansfield?” Smoke questioned.

“Yeah.”

“That his horse down by the crick?” Sal asked.

“Yeah. He ... Gettin’ cold and I can’t ... move my hands.”

Dr. Turner pushed through the crowd and knelt down, looking at the man. It was a quick look. Blanchard had died.

The doctor stood up and faced Smoke. “When is this carnage going to end, Jensen?”

“Whenever Red Malone and Max Huggins call it off,” Smoke told him. He spotted the undertaker. “Haul them off,” he said. “OK, folks, show’s over. Let’s break it up.”

“No, it isn’t,” Tom Johnson said, walking up. “Melvin Malone just rode into town. He’s calling you out, Smoke.”

“Damn!” the word exploded from Smoke’s mouth. “I knew that kid would cut his wolf loose someday.” He punched out his empties and loaded up full. “Sal, clear the streets.”

“I demand an end to this barbaric practice of justice at the point of a gun!” Dr. Turner said. “Just arrest him, Marshal. You don’t have to kill him. You have the manpower to overwhelm him.”

Smoke looked at the man in the dim light. “You ... demand, Robert? Who in the hell do you think you are, anyway? Demand? Overwhelm him? How? He’s come to kill, Robert, not talk. He’ll shoot anyone who tries to disarm him.”

“You don’t know that, Smoke. That’s just conjecture on your part. Law and order must prevail out here. It’s past time.”

“Why don’t you go disarm him, then, Doctor?” Sal suggested.

“I ... uh ... I’m not a lawman,” the doctor said, his face coloring. “That’s your job.”

“Yeah, right,” Sal’s reply was dour. “I think that was the reason I hung up a badge the last time I wore one.”

Smoke turned his back to the doctor and walked away, his deputies moving with him, the crowd following along.

“He’s in the saloon,” Tom called. “You goin’ to kill the punk, Smoke?”

“I hope not,” Smoke muttered.

“There might not be any other way, Smoke,” Jim pointed out.

“I know. But 1 can always hope.”

Smoke stepped up onto the boardwalk and pushed open the batwings. The piano player stopped his pounding of the ivories when he spotted Smoke. The waitresses moved as far away from the bar as they could get. The long bar was already void of customers. Only Melvin stood there, a whiskey bottle in front of him, his right hand close to the butt of his Colt.

“Come on in, Jensen,” Melvin said. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

“You were banned from this town, Melvin. Leave now and I won’t toss you in jail.”

“You’ll never toss me in jail again, Jensen. Me, or anyone else for that matter.”

“Boy, don’t be a fool!” Smoke snapped at him. He knew that his plan to move close enough to slug the young man was out the window. Kill was written on Melvin’s face, and his eyes were unnaturally bright with the blood lust that reared up within him. “I’ve faced a hundred young hot-shots like you. They’re all dead, boy. Dead, or crippled.”

Smoke could tell that Melvin was not drunk. The young man had enough sense about him to lay off the bottle before a gunfight. Alcohol impaired the reflexes.

Melvin laughed at the warning.

Smoke was thinking fast. He had been warned that Melvin was very, very quick and very, very accurate, so any idea of just wounding the young man was out of the question. When Melvin dragged iron, Smoke was going to have to get off the first shot and make it a good one.

“Boy, think of your father,” Smoke tried a different tact. “Your sister. Think what your dying is going to do to them.”

“Me, dying?” The young man was clearly startled. “Me? Oh, you got it all wrong, Jensen. You’re the one that’s going to be pushin’ up flowers, not me.”

“Listen to me, boy,” Smoke said, doing his best to talk some sense into Melvin. “You ...”

“Shut up!” Melvin yelled, stepping away from the bar. “You’re a coward, Jensen. You’re afraid to draw on me.”

A coldness touched Smoke. A coldness that was surrounded by a dark rage. It sometimes happened when he was looking at death. It was a feeling much like the ancient Viking berserkers must have experienced in battle.

“I tried, boy,” Smoke’s words were touched with sadness. “Nobody can say I didn’t try.”

“And that’s all you’re gonna do in this fight,” Melvin sneered the words. “Try to beat me. You’ve had a long run, Jensen. Now it’s over. Now my pa can stop worryin’ about his back trail and we can get on with our lives.”

“All but one of you,” Smoke corrected the young man.

“Huh?”

“Your life is over.”

With a curse on his lips, Melvin’s hands flashed to his guns and he was rattlesnake quick. But Smoke’s draw was as smooth as honey and lightning fast. Melvin got off a shot, the slug blowing a hole in the barroom floor. Smoke’s first shot took the young gunslinger in the belly. Melvin’s second shot grazed Smoke’s shoulder, burning a hole in his shirt and searing his flesh. Smoke shot the young man again, the slug turning Melvin. Still he would not go down.

Melvin lifted his left-hand Colt and fired, the slug smashing the bar. Smoke shot him again and Melvin went down to his knees, still holding his Colts.

Smoke stepped through the swirl of gunsmoke and walked to the young man. He kicked the guns from his hands and stood over him.

“I beat Blackjack Simmons and Ted Novarro,” Melvin moaned the words. “Holland didn’t even clear leather against me.”

“They were fast,” Smoke spoke the words softly.

“But you ...” Melvin gasped. “You ...”

He toppled over on his face and began communicating with the afterlife.

Smoke punched out his empties and reloaded. “Jim, get word to Red that he can come in and take his boy home. Just Red. Anybody else of the Lightning brand tries to enter this town, I’ll toss them in jail or leave them in the dust.”

The young deputy left the barroom and walked to the stable, saddling his horse for the night ride.

“Knowing Red as I do,” Sal pointed out, “he just might come bustin’ up here with all his hands, figuring to burn down the town.”

“If he does, it’ll be the last thing he’ll ever do,”Smoke said. He looked around the barroom. “I want ten men on guard at all times tonight. Take some water and biscuits with you when you go to the rooftops. Go home and get your rifles.” He looked at the barkeep. “Shut it down, Ralph.”

“Will do, Marshal. I’ll clean up and then get my rifle to stand a turn.”

“Thanks, Ralph.”

The body of Melvin Malone was carried to the undertaker and the lamps in the saloon were turned off. The men of the first watch were getting in place on the rooftops as Smoke, Sal, and Pete walked the boardwalks of the town, rattling doorknobs and looking into the darkness of alleys.

Smoke passed Robert Turner on the boardwalk as the man was going home. The doctor did not speak to the gunfighter.

“Yonder goes a scared man,” Sal said. “Something about that fella just don’t add up to me.”

Pete said, “I been thinkin’ the same thing. He looks familiar to me, but I swear I can’t place him.”

“Think of Max Huggins for a moment,” Smoke told the men.

“What do you mean, Smoke?” Sal asked.

“Max Huggins is Dr. Robert Turner’s brother.”