War of the Mountain Man

3

Smoke looked at the boy. “You go tell Chub I said to calm down. When I finish eating and have my brandy, I’ll step outside to smoke my cigar on the boardwalk. I get testy when people interrupt my dinner.”

“Yes, sir.”

Smoke gave the boy a coin. “Now get off the streets, boy.”

“Yes, sir.”

But Smoke knew he wouldn’t. The boy would gather up all his friends and they’d find them a spot to watch. A shooting wasn’t nearly the social event a good hanging was, but it would do. Things just got boring in small western towns. Folks had been known to pack lunches and dinners and drive or ride a hundred miles for a good hanging. And a double hanging was even better.

“Who is Chub Morgan, honey?” Sally asked.

“I have no idea, Sally. But I’ll tell you what he’s going to be as soon as I finish my food.”

She looked at him. “What?”

“Dead.”

Smoke had his coffee and a glass of brandy, then bought a cigar and stepped outside. Sally took a seat in the lobby and read the local paper.

It was near dusk and the wide street was deserted. All horses had been taken from the hitchrails and dogs had been called home. Smoke lit his cigar and leaned against an awning support.

He had played out this scene many times in his life. and Smoke knew he was not immortal. He’d taken a lot of lead in his life. And he would rather talk his way out of a gunfight than drag iron. But he was realist enough to have learned early that with some men, talking was useless. It just prolonged the inevitable. Smoke also knew—and had argued the belief many times with so-called learned people—that some men were just born bad, with a seed of evil in them.

And there was only one way to deal with those types of people.

Kill them.

Smoke puffed on his cigar and waited.

A cowboy rode into town and reined up at the saloon. He dismounted, looked around him, and spotted Smoke Jensen, all dressed in a black suit with the coat brushed back, exposing those deadly .44’s.

The cowboy put it all together in a hurry and swung back into the saddle, riding down to the stable. He wanted his horse to be out of the line of fire.

After stabling his horse, the cowboy ran up the alley to the rear of the saloon and slipped inside. Everybody in the place, including the barkeep, was lined up by the windows.

“What’s goin’ on?” the cowboy called.

“Chub Morgan’s made his brags about killin’ Smoke Jensen for years. He’s about to get his chance. That there’s Smoke Jensen over yonder in the black suit.”

The cowboy pulled his own beer and walked to the window. “You don’t say? Damn, but he’s a big one, ain’t he? What’s he doin’ in this hick town?”

“Him and his wife rode in a couple hours ago. She’s a pretty little thing. Right elegant once she got out of them men’s britches and put on a proper dress. Packs a .44 like she knows how to use it.”

“Jensen doesn’t seem too worried about facin’ Chub,” the cowboy remarked.

“Jensen’s faced hundreds of men in his time,” an old rummy said. “He’s probably thinkin’ more about what he’s gonna have for breakfast in the mornin’ than worried about a two-bit punk like Chub.”

“Chub’s quick,” the cowboy said. “You got to give him that. But he’s a fool to face Jensen.”

“Yonder’s Chub,” the barkeep said.

Smoke, still leaning against the post, cut his eyes as a man began the walk down the street. As the man drew nearer, Smoke straightened up. He held his cigar in his left hand, the thumb of his right hand hooked under his belt buckle.

“He’s gonna use that left hand .44,” the cowboy said. “Folks say he’s wicked with either gun.”

“Reckon where his wife is?”

“Foster from the store said she was sitting in the lobby, readin’ the newspaper,” the barkeep said.

“My, my,” the cowboy said. “Would you look at Chub. He’s done went home and changed into his fancy duds.”

Smoke noticed the fancy clothes the punk was wearing. He’d blacked his boots and shined his spurs. Big rowels on them; looked like California spurs. His britches had been recently pressed. Chub’s shirt was a bright red; looked like satin. Had him a purple bandana tied around his neck. Even his hat was new, with a silver band.

Smoke waited. He knew where Sally was sitting; he’d told her where to sit, with a solid wood second-floor support to her back to stop any stray bullet. Not that Smoke expected any stray bullets from Chub’s gun. He doubted that Chub would even clear leather. But one never really knew for sure.

Smoke watched the man approach him and, for another of the countless times, wondered why a man would risk his life for the dubious reputation of a gunfighter.

“Jensen!” Chub called.

“Right here,” Smoke said calmly.

“Your wife’s a real looker,” Chub said, a nasty edge to the words. “After I kill you, I’ll take her.”

Smoke laughed at the man. Chub’s face grew red at the laughter. He cursed Smoke.

Smoke was suddenly tired of it. He wanted a good night’s sleep, lying next to Sally. He hadn’t ridden into town looking for trouble, and he resented trouble being pushed upon him. He was just damned tired of it.

“Make your play, punk!” Smoke called.

Chub’s hands hovered over his pearl-handled guns. “Draw, Jensen!” he shouted.

“I don’t draw on fools,” Smoke told him. “You called me out, Chub, remember? Now, if you don’t have the stomach for it, turn around and go on back home. I’d rather you did that.”

“Then you a coward!”

Smoke waited, his eyes unblinking.

“You a coward, damn you!” Chub hollered. “Draw, damnit, draw!”

Smoke’s cold, unwavering eyes bored into the man’s gaze.

“How’s it feel to be about to die?” Chub called, trying to steel himself for the draw.

“I wouldn’t know, Chub,” Smoke’s voice was calm. “Why don’t you ask yourself that question?”

The sheriff and his two deputies watched from the small office and jail.

“Now!” Chub yelled, and his hands closed around the butts of his guns.

Smoke drew, cocked, and fired with one fluid motion. A draw so fast that it was only a blur. Blink, and you missed it.

The .44 slug took Chub in the center of the chest, knocking him off his boots and down to his knees in the dusty street. His hands were still on the butts of his guns. The guns were still in leather.

“Good God!” the cowboy said. “I never even seen him draw.”

The sheriff and his deputies stepped out of the office just as the boardwalks on both sides of the street filled with people.

Smoke stepped off the porch and walked to the dying Chub. He held a cocked .44 in his right hand.

Sally had risen from her seat to stand at the window, watching her man.

Chub raised his head. Blood had gathered on his lips. His eyes were full of anguish. “I ... never even seen you draw,” he managed to gasp.

“That’s the way it goes, Chub,” Smoke told him just as the lawman reached the bloody scene.

Chub tried to pull a pistol from leather. The sheriff reached down and blocked the move.

“Bastard!” Chub said. It was unclear whom he was cursing, Smoke or the sheriff.

A local minister ran up. “Are you saved, Chub?”

“Hell with you!” Chub said, then toppled over on his side. He closed his eyes and died.

The sheriff looked at Smoke. “Now what?”

Smoke shrugged his shoulders as he punched out the empty and reloaded. “Bury him.”

Smoke and Sally rode out before dawn. The hotel’s dining room had not even opened. They would stop along the way and make breakfast.

“Why do they do it, Smoke?” Sally broke the silence of the gray-lifting morning.

Smoke knew what she meant. “I’ve never understood it, Sally. Men like Chub must be very unhappy men. And very shallow men. Let’s get off the trail and follow this creek for a ways,” he changed the subject. “See where it goes.”

The creek wound around and lead them to the Swan River. There they stopped and cooked breakfast. “Fellow back at the hotel said the Swan would lead us right to Hell’s Creek. We may as well stay with the river. There are two more little towns between here and Hell’s Creek. He said it was right at a hundred miles.”

“You’ve been in this country before?”

“Not right here. It’s all new to me. But you can bet the news of the failed train robbery has reached Huggins by now.”

“You think any of those men recognized you?”

“I doubt it. But the news of our heading north reached Huggins the day after we boarded the train in Denver. But I doubt he knows we’re heading for Hell’s Creek.”

“I’m sorry I pushed this on you, Smoke.”

“You didn’t push anything on me, Sally. You want to visit an old friend who’s in trouble. That’s your right. And anybody who tries to prevent you from doing that is wrong. If they try to stop you, they’ll answer to me. It’s as simple as that.”

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Everything will always be black and white to you, won’t it, honey? No gray in the middle.”

“I know what’s right, and I know what’s wrong. Lawyers want to make it complicated when it isn’t. We’ll see your friend and her husband and help them work out their problems.”

“Legally?”

Smoke munched on a piece of crisp bacon. “Depends on whether you interpret legal by using common sense or what a lawyer would think, I reckon.”

Smoke and Sally followed the river north. Two days later they crossed the river and rode into a small village located on the east side of the Swan. There was no hotel in the village but there was a lady who took in boarders. Smoke and Sally got them a room and cleaned up.

The town marshal was waiting on the front porch of the boarding house when Smoke stepped out for some fresh air while supper was being cooked.

“Mr. Jensen,” the marshal said respectfully.

“Afternoon,” Smoke replied, then waited.

“I got to ask,” the marshal finally said. “You in town trouble-huntin?”

“No. You can relax. I don’t hunt trouble. Me and my wife are just passing through.”

The marshal sighed. “That’s a relief. I thought maybe you was on the prod for Jake Lewis.”

“Who is Jake Lewis?”

The marshal looked startled. “One of the men who survived that shoot-out you had some years ago. Over to that minin’ camp on the Uncompahgre.”

It was Smoke’s turn to look startled. “I didn’t know there were any survivors.”

“Only one that I know of. Jake Lewis. And you shot him all to hell and gone. There was fifteen men in that camp. You killed fourteen of them. Jake lived. He hid in a privy ’til you rode out.”

“It’s news to me, Marshal. I know he wasn’t one of the men who raped and killed my wife and killed our baby. I know that for a fact.”

“No, sir. He sure wasn’t. He joined up with Canning and Felter later. Jake’s brother was known as Lefty. You killed him in the shoot-out.”

“I have no quarrel with Jake, Marshal. You can tell him that.”

“Why don’t you tell him, Mr. Jensen? It would sure set his mind to ease.”

“Where is he?”

“Down at the saloon.”

Smoke stared hard at the marshal, wondering if he were being set up.

The marshal picked his thoughts out of the air. “I run a clean town, Mr. Jensen. I don’t take no payoffs from nobody and never will. This ain’t no setup. But I got to warn you that Jake is armed, and he ain’t drinkin ’.”

“What you’re telling me is that you don’t know what he might do, right?”

The marshal exhaled slowly. “That’s about it, Mr. Jensen. He may throw down on you. I just don’t know.”

“But you want it settled one way or the other?”

“Yes. Jake’s been livin’ with this for a long time. Lately, it’s been eatin’ at him. When he heard you was on the rails, comin’ north, he about went out of his mind with worry.”

“Does he know Big Max Huggins?”

“I got to tell you that he does. He spends some time up in Hell’s Creek.”

“So he hasn’t changed his ways much, right?”

“He ain’t never caused no trouble around here. You know how it is, Mr. Jensen. I ain’t got no warrants on him.”

The marshal’s authority ended at the edge of town.

Sally had stepped out on the porch to listen. Smoke turned and met her eyes. “Be careful,” she said. “I’ll save a plate for you.”

Smoke nodded and slipped the hammer thongs from his .44’s. He stepped off the porch and looked at the marshal. “You walk with me. If this is a setup, I’ll take you out first.”

“That’s fair. If this is a trap, it ain’t one of my doin’.”

Smoke believed him, and he told him so as they walked up the street to the village’s only saloon.

“Does Big Max ever get down this far south?”

“Not no more,” the marshal said. “I killed one of his men several years ago and got lead in another one. I ain’t the fastest man around with a gun, but I shoot straight.”

“That’s the most important thing. His men stay out of your town?”

“That’s it. I allow any man one mistake. He leaves after the second one. Or he stays forever.”

Smoke smiled, finding that he liked this blunt-talking marshal.

They stepped up onto the short boardwalk, walking past a dress shop, a gunsmith, and a large general store. The marshal pushed open the batwings and Smoke stepped into the saloon right behind him.

Jake Lewis stood alone at the bar. The other customers had taken tables. Smoke stared at the man, trying to place him. But the shoot-out at the old silver camp was years behind him, and he could not remember Jake Lewis.

Jake had brushed back his coat, exposing a pistol, the holster tied down. Smoke was curious about that. If the man wanted no trouble, why get set for it? Smoke concluded that Jake was wearing a hide-out gun. Maybe a sleeve gun. Shake his arm and the gun falls into his hand.

Smoke walked to the bar and ordered a beer. Jake turned mean little eyes on him. Jake was no lightweight. He’d hit a good two hundred pounds and looked to be in good shape. About forty years old, Smoke figured.

“You lookin’ for me, Jensen?” Jake broke the silence.

“Nope.”

“Just happened to ride into town and take a room, hey?”

“That’s right.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“Believe it. I got no quarrel with you, Jake.”

“I wish I could believe that, too.”

“You can. The silver camp was long ago. You weren’t part of the bunch who killed Nicole and the baby. They’re all dead. I know that for a fact.”

“I damn near died, Jensen.”

“That was your problem. You should have picked better company to run with.”

“You sayin’ my brother was no good?”

“You walk through a barnyard, you’re going to get crap on your boots.”

Someone in the seated crowd laughed at that.

Jake’s face flushed. “Lefty was a good man.”

“He wasn’t good enough,” Smoke told him.

Jake ordered a drink and sipped at the bourbon. He set the shot glass down and said, “I’m glad you showed up. We can settle this thing once and for all.”

“There is nothing to settle, Jake. Nothing at all.”

“I think there is. I sure do think that.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

Jake took another small sip of whiskey. “Momma took Lefty’s dyin’ pretty hard.”

“I’m sorry for your mother. Not for Lefty. You keep walking around something, Jake. Get to it. I’ve got supper waiting at the boarding house.”

“Don’t crowd me, Jensen.”

Smoke chuckled and Jake gave him a queer look. “I came in here to tell you that I wasn’t trouble-hunting, and instead of being happy about it, you want to give me a bunch of lip. That shooting in the silver camp was ten years ago, Jake. I wouldn’t have known you if you walked in my front door wearing pink tights and totin’ a rose between your teeth.”

All the men in the room had them a laugh at that. Jake’s face tightened and flushed deeper.

“Big Max is waitin’ for you up at Hell’s Creek, Jensen,” he said, grinding his teeth together in anger.

“Yeah? It figures that trash like you would end up rubbing elbows with trash like Huggins.”

The crowd fell silent.

Jake slowly turned to face Smoke. “You know what I think, Jensen?”

“I’m not even sure you’re capable of thinking, Jake. I think you’re about as smart as a rock.”

Jake curled one big hand around his glass and downed his whiskey. “You’re a big man with them guns on, Jensen. What are you with them off? Can you bare-knuckle fight, gunfighter? Or do you have to let them .44’s do your talkin’ for you?”

“There’s sure one way to find out, Jake. Providing you have the stomach for it.” Smoke walked toward the man, stopping well within swinging distance.

“We take off our guns together?” Jake asked.

“Just as soon as you get rid of that hide-out pistol you’re packing.”

Jake grunted and nodded his head. “It’s in my sleeve.”

“I know it.”

Jake shook his arm and the derringer fell out onto the bar. Together, they took off their gunbelts. They faced each other.

“I’m gonna stomp your face in, pretty-boy,” Jake bragged.

“I doubt it,” Smoke told him, pulling on a pair of leather gloves to protect his hands and to hit harder. He knocked the man down with a quick, hard right.

Smoke stepped back, took a sip of his beer, and said, “You going to lay on the floor all evening, Jake? Come on, hurry up. I have supper waiting for me.”

With a roar of rage, Jake jumped to his boots and charged.