War of the Mountain Man (18 page)

She laughed aloud at that, then sobered. “What value do you place on human life, Smoke?”

“The highest value I can accord it, Vicky . . . for those who respect the rights of others; for those who can follow even the simplest rules of society. I don't prejudge on the basis of what a person has contributed to our society, but whether a person has taken away from it. None of us are obligated to create fine art or music, or invent things that better mankind. We're not obligated to do anything to improve society. What we are obligated to do is not take away from it.” He waved one big hand. “There is an entire subculture out there with only lawlessness on their minds. To hurt, to steal, to kill, to maim, to destroy. They don't give a damn for your rights, or my rights, or Lisa's rights to live life and enjoy it in relative safety and comfort. They want what they want and to hell with anything else. They spit in the face of law and order and decency. If those types of people get in my way, I'll kill them.”

Although the day was not cool, Victoria shivered. It did not escape the attention of Smoke.

“You think I'm half savage, don't you, Vicky?” he asked.

“I don't know what my thoughts are about you,” she replied honestly. “You bring Lisa a little puppy and then talk about killing human beings. You are a philosopher and yet you've killed at least a hundred men. Probably twice that number. You respect law and order, and yet carry the name of gunfighter. I think you are a walking contradiction, Smoke Jensen.”

He smiled. “I've been called that, too, Vicky.”

“What are you, Smoke Jensen? The Robin Hood of the West?”

“I don't know whether I'm that or that fellow who went around sticking his lance into windmills.”

“Don Quixote. No, I don't think you and Don Quixote have much in common. You get quite a lot accomplished ... in your own rough way.” “It's a rough world, Vicky. There is a saying out here: A man saddles his own horse and kills his own snakes. Now, only a few species of snakes are harmful, and a rattlesnake will usually leave you alone if you don't mess with it. But these two-legged snakes we have surrounding us right now are the vicious kind. They are capable of thinking, know right from wrong, but still want to strike out and sink their fangs into anyone who gets in their way or tries to block their lawless behavior. They have had their chance to live decently. They looked at a decent way of life and chose to ignore it. And they've made that choice dozens of times. Nobody forced them into a life of crime. They chose it willingly. As far as I am concerned, that means they gave up any right to demand compassion when they're caught. If they face me, they are going to get a bullet.”

“The West frightens me, Smoke. I like the people in this town. But even they carry guns.”

“Then go back east, Vicky. Go back where you have a uniformed police officer on every street corner and it's getting to be when a criminal is caught, the punishment is light or nothing at all.”

“But they're human beings, Smoke!”

“They're garbage, Vicky. Rabies-carrying rats whose diseased fleas are hopping onto everyone who gets close to them.”

Smoke stopped talking as a tall stranger on a painted pony rode slowly into town. The stranger cut his eyes to Smoke, sitting on the porch, and smiled.

Smoke stood up. “Time to go to work, Vicky. Max is pulling in the heavyweights now.”

“What do you mean?”

“That's Dek Phillips. A hired gun from down Texas way originally.”

“Why is he here?”

Smoke stepped off the porch. “To kill me.”

Victoria gasped and put one hand to her mouth. “But . . . you're the marshal! A deputy sheriff!”

“That doesn't mean anything to men like Dek. When this is over, Vicky—the war, I mean—and Max Huggins and Red Malone are either dead or have pulled out, go on back to Vermont or wherever you came from. Maybe I'm judging you hastily. But I don't think you're cut out for the West. Excuse me now, Vicky. I got to go stomp on the head of a snake.”

“You're going to arrest him?”

“I'm probably going to kill him.”

“But he hasn't done anything!”

“That's right. So I'll just crowd a little bit and see what he's got on his mind. If he wants to ride on out, I'll let him. Thanks for the coffee. See you, Vicky.”

Smoke walked over to his office. Sal, Jim, and Pete were standing out in front. Dek's horse was tied to the hitchrail outside the saloon.

“We seen him ride in,” Sal said. “You know him, Smoke?”

“I know him. From years back. He's a no-good.”

“We agree on that,” Pete said. “I'd hired on for fightin' wages down in Arizona some years back. I seen Dek shoot a nester woman in the back. I drew my wages and left. But give the devil his due, Smoke. He's good. He's damn good.”

“I've seen him work. Yeah, he's good. But the problem is he knows it and it's swelled his head. He stopped working with his gun years ago, letting his reputation carry him.”

“By the way,” Jim said. “I been hearin' shootin' every mornin' for the past week or more. From outside of town. Real faint like. Sounds like someone practicin'. Reckon who that is?”

Smoke stepped off the boardwalk. “Me,” he said. He walked across the dirt street to the saloon and pushed over the batwings, stepping into the dimness.

The bar had cleared of patrons when Dek walked in. His reputation was known throughout the West, and unlike Smoke, he liked all the hoopla. Smoke walked to the bar and faced Dek, leaning against the other end of the long counter.

“Jensen,” Dek said. “I hear you been throwing a wide loop here of late.”

“What of it?”

“Some folks don't like it. So they got ahold of me to cut you back to size some.”

“And you figure you're the man for the job, huh?”

“I figure so.”

“Anybody ever tell you that you were a damn fool, Dek?”

The gunfighter flushed, then fought his sudden anger under control and smiled at Smoke. “That won't work, Jensen. So save your little mind games for the two-bit punks.”

“That's you, Dek.”

Dek carefully picked up his shot glass and took a small sip of whiskey, gently placing the drink back on the bar. “You've had all those books written about you. I even seen a play some actors put on about you once. Made me want to puke.”

Smoke waited. He'd played this scene many times in his life. Dek was working up his courage.

The barkeep said, “Can I pull you a beer, Marshal?”

“Yes, that would be nice. Thanks, Ralph. A beer would taste good.”

Dek tossed a coin on the bar. “On me, barkeep. It's gonna be his last one.”

“It's on the house,” Ralph said. “And I 'spect the marshal will be comin' in tomorrow for his afternoon taste.”

Dek didn't like that. His eyes narrowed and his left hand clenched into a fist. Slowly, he relaxed and picked up his whiskey. Another tiny sip went down his throat.

Ralph slid the beer mug up the bar and Smoke stopped it with his hand. He took a healthy pull, holding the mug in his left hand. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took several steps toward Dek.

Dek watched him, the light in his eyes much like that of a wild animal, filled with suspicion.

Smoke stopped and said, “Why, Dek?”

“Huh? Why? Why what, Jensen?”

“Why do you want to kill me?”

“That's a stupid question! 'Cause there's money on your head, that's why.”

“What good is it going to do you dead?” Smoke took another few steps.

“Huh? Dead? You're the one gonna be dead, Jensen. Not me. Now you're crowdin' me, Jensen. You just stand still. Back up and drink your beer.”

Smoke took another step. He was almost within swinging distance. “You got a mother somewhere, Dek?”

“Naw. She's been dead. Now, dammit, Jensen, you stand still, you hear me?”

“No wife for me to write to?”

“Naw. Why the hell would you want to write to my wife even if I had one?”

“To tell her about your death, that's why.” Smoke took two more steps.

“Jensen, you're crazy! You know that? You're as nutty as a road lizard. You . . .”

Smoke hit him in the mouth with a right that smashed the man's lips and knocked him spinning. Smoke jerked the man's guns from leather and tossed them behind the bar. He stepped back, raising his fists.

“Now, Dek. Now we'll see how much courage you have. Come on, Dek. You think you're such a bad man. Fight me. Stand up, Dek. I don't think you know how. I don't think you have the guts to fight me.”

Dek cussed him.

Smoke took the time to pull riding gloves from behind his gunbelt and slip them on. He laughed at Dek. “Oh, come on, Dek. What's the matter? You afraid I might kick your big tough butt all over this town in front of God and everybody? You afraid somebody might see and laugh at you?”

“That'll be the day,” Dek snarled, raising his fists. “You ain't about man enough to put me down.”

“We'll sure see, Dek. But there is one thing that puzzles me.”

“What's that?”

“Are you trying to talk me to death?”

Cursing, Dek charged Smoke. Smoke ducked a wild swing and tripped him. Grabbing Dek by the collar and by the seat of his pants, Smoke propelled him through the batwings and out into the street, Dek hollering and cussing all the way. On the boardwalk, Smoke gave a mighty heave and tossed Dek into the dirt.

Dek landed on his face and came up spitting dirt and cussing and waving his arms.

Smoke stepped in and gave Dek a combination, left and right, both to the face, which staggered the gunfighter and backed him up, shaking his head and spitting blood.

A crowd began gathering, grinning and watching the fun. The women tried to frown and pretend they didn't like it, but from the gleam in their eyes, they were very much enjoying watching one of Max Huggins's men get the tar knocked out of him.

“Knock his teeth down his throat, Smoke!” Mrs. Marbly hollered.

“Yeah,” the minister's wife shouted. “Smite him hip and thigh and bust his mouth, too, Marshal.”

Dek looked wildly around him. He looked back at Smoke just in time to catch a big right fist smack on his nose. The nose crunched and Dek squalled as the blood flew. Dek backed up, trying to clear his vision.

Jensen didn't give him much chance to do that. Smoke waded in, both big fists working. He busted Dek in the belly and connected with a left to the man's ear that guaranteed him a cauliflower for a long time . . . not to mention impairing his hearing for the rest of his life.

Dek connected with a punch that bruised Smoke's cheek and seemed only to make him stronger.

Dek suddenly realized that Smoke was going to cripple him; was going to forever end his days as a gunfighter, and was going to do it with his fists, not his guns. He looked for a way out. But several hundred people had formed a wide circle around them. There was no way out. He was trapped.

“Gimme a break, Jensen,” he panted the plea. “I ain't never done nothin' to you to deserve this.”

Smoke almost laughed at him. The man had been hired to kill him and was now asking for a break. Dek Phillips had killed women and children and brought untold grief and suffering to many, many others. And he was asking for a break.

Smoke gave him a break. He stepped in close and with one powerful fist broke several of Dek's ribs.

Dek yelped in pain and involuntarily lowered his guard. Smoke knocked him down with a left to the jaw.

Smoke stood over him and said, “You know what I'm going to do, Dek. Are you going to lay there like a whipped coward while I kick you to death, or get up and fight?”

Dek slowly got to his boots. “You're a devil, Jensen,” he panted, blood dripping from his face. “You got to come from hell.” He flicked a fake at Smoke but Jensen wasn't buying it. Dek swung a looping right that Smoke ducked under and danced away.

“Stand still, damn you, Jensen!”

Smoke's reply was a right to the jaw. Even those in the rear of the crowd heard Dek's jaw break.

Smoke began to deliberately and methodically ruin the man. He gave him his overdue punishment for all the good lives he had taken over the years, and for all the misery and heartbreak he had caused.

The crowd no longer cheered. They stood in silence and watched with satisfaction in their eyes as Max Huggins's man was beaten half to death in front of their eyes. Vicky Turner stood in silence, shocked by the brutality taking place in front of her eyes. Sally Jensen stood beside her. The wife of Smoke Jensen knew fully well what her husband was doing, and she approved of it. Men like Dek Phillips could not understand compassion because they possessed none. They understood only one thing: brute force. That was the only thing they could relate to. And Smoke was giving Dek a lesson in it that he would never forget.

When Dek Phillips finally measured his length in the dirt and did not get up, Smoke walked to a horse trough and bathed his face and hands. He straightened up and said to Pete, “Tie him across his saddle and take him to the edge of Hell's Creek.”

“The man is injured!” Robert Turner shouted. “He needs medical attention.”

“Shut up, boy!” Joe Walsh spoke from the edge of the crowd. He had ridden up unnoticed and sat his saddle during the final minutes of the fight. “Dek Phillips just got all the attention his kind deserve.” The crowd muttered their agreement with that.

Sal said, “This ain't back east, Doctor. The laws are still few out here. You're a nice fellow, I'll give you that, but you got some adjustin' to do if you're gonna make it out here. You might feel sorry for a rabid dog, but you don't try to comfort it. You just kill it. You best learn that.”

His face stiff with anger, Dr. Robert Turner took Victoria's hand and left the street, walking back to his office.

Pete rode out, leading the horse with Dek Phillips tied across the saddle.

Joe Walsh told several of his hands to accompany Pete, to act as guards in case some of the scum at Hells'Creek tried to waylay him.

Smoke walked back to the hotel to bathe the sweat and grime from him and change into fresh clothing.

Henry Draper, editor of the
Barlow Bugle,
headed back to his office to write the story of how the mighty hired gunfighter Dek Phillips had fallen under the fists of Marshal Smoke Jensen. He knew he could sell the story to dozens of newspapers back east. The reading public loved it.

The crowds broke up into small groups, talking over and rehashing the fight. With each victory they were stronger as a town, becoming closer-knit. The advance party from back east was due in the next day, and soon they would have a bank. Max Huggins would continue trying to destroy them—they all knew that—but they all sensed he would fail. And they owed it all to one man: Smoke Jensen.

 

 

Max Huggins had just come from the bedside of Dek Phillips. The horse doctor who had attended the gunfighter had said the man would probably live, but he would be marked forever. His jaw was broken, his ribs were cracked, one arm was broken, a lot of his teeth had been knocked out. And worse, the horse doctor said, Dek Phillips's. spirit appeared to be broken.

“The trial will probably last two . . . three days,” Val Singer broke into Max's thoughts. “It'll take a good two weeks for the prison wagon to get around to pickin' up the boys. By that time, the bank will be operatin'. We hit the bank, loot the town, lift us some petticoats and have some fun with the women, and then strike out for greener pastures. What'd you think, Max?”

Max was thinking about Smoke Jensen. For three weeks, the big man had been exercising, running several miles a day and working out. He might not be able to beat Smoke Jensen with a gun—and that was up for grabs, for Max knew he was one of the best with a short gun—but there was no doubt in Max's mind that he was the better fighter of the two.

But how much time did he have? His informant in Barlow had sent him word that Judge Garrison and Smoke Jensen were gathering up old arrest warrants on him from his days back east. Two or three weeks might be cutting it very close.

And his informant had also told him that old warrants were being looked at against Red Malone. If the authorities back east came through, the rancher would have to run with Max. And Max knew the man would never agree to do that. The man would stand his ground and die with a six-shooter in his hand. He was too bullheaded to do anything else.

With a deep sigh, Big Max turned his attentions to the group of outlaws in his office. “Yes,” he said slowly. “We're out of time here. Smoke Jensen has beaten us. Red may not see it that way, but I do. Smoke has used fists and guns to bring civilization to our doorstep.”

Max eyeballed the group, one at a time. Val Singer, Warner Frigo, Dave Poe, Alex Bell, Sheriff Paul Cartwright. “We're all wanted men, maybe not under the names we're using now, but wanted nevertheless. Two or three weeks is going to be cutting it awfully close. But I understand that is the way it's going to have to be. Monies have to be in the bank before we hit the town. To hell with those in jail. If we can get them out during the raid, fine. If not, that's all right, too. Are we in agreement with that?”