War of the Mountain Man (4 page)

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.

Jake swung a big fist and Smoke ducked it, at the same time driving his right fist into Jake's gut and stopping him with the blow. Jake backed up and caught his wind.

With a curse, Jake came at Smoke, swinging both fists. Jake was a brawler, Smoke knew then, relying mostly on brute strength with little finesse about him. But he could be dangerous, Smoke reminded himself, if he landed one of those powerful fists.

Smoke danced back, forcing the big man to come after him, using up his wind swinging wildly and cussing.

Smoke saw a chance and took it, popping Jake smack in the mouth with a combination left and right. The blows brought blood and one tooth was knocked out, to roll and bounce on the sawdust floor.

With a howl of rage, Jake charged, both fists flailing, the blows catching Smoke on his arms and shoulders and doing no damage. Smoke back-heeled Jake and sent the man tumbling to the floor. He could have ended the fight right then, by kicking Jake in the mouth. But Smoke stepped back. He felt no anger toward Jake; but, then, he didn't especiallly feel sorry for him, either. He proved that by knocking Jake down just as soon as the man got to his boots.

It was another combination, both blows connecting to the jaw of Jake Lewis this time and knocking him back against the bar. Jake grabbed a bottle of whiskey and hurled it at Smoke. Smoke grabbed the bottle, popped the cork and, with a grin at Jake, took him a sip.

“You son of a ...” Jake choked back the obscenity. He leaned against the bar, catching his breath.

“You want to quit, Jake?” Smoke asked. “You say so, and we'll have a drink together and call the fight over, with no hard feelings.”

“Take him up on it, Jake!” the marshal said. “The man's bein' more than fair.”

“You stay out of this,” Jake yelled at the marshal. He looked at Smoke. “To hell with you, Jensen!”

Smoke shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever you say, Jake.” Then he threw the bottle of whiskey at Jake, the bottle striking the man in the face and busting, spewing whiskey all over Jake and momentarily blinding him.

Smoke stepped up to him and began hitting Jake in the face, his big work-hardened fists like huge hammers as they pounded the man again and again. Jake's nose was broken, one eye closing, his lips smashed to pulp, and his jaw swelling. Smoke pounded the man with more than a dozen blows, then stepped back.

Jake wiped the blood and whiskey out of his eyes and reached down, pulling up his pants leg and jerking a knife out of his boot. “Now, Jensen, you get your guts spread all over the room.”

The marshal jerked iron and jacked back the hammer. “Drop the knife, Jake,” he warned. “This is a fair fight and it's one that you wanted. You either drop the knife, or I'll kill you.”

With a disgusted snarl, Jake tossed the knife to one side.

“Now you made me mad, Jake,” Smoke told him. “Now you get what you've probably had coming to you for a long time.” Smoke walked toward the man. his big hands clenched.

Jake lifted his fists and decided to use what boxing skills he had. He swung a roundhouse blow at Smoke, which would have knocked Jensen to the floor had it connected. Smoke grabbed the wrist with both hands, turned to one side, and Jake found himself flying through the air. He crashed through a front window and bounced off the boardwalk.

Smoke stepped out the batwings and was all over Jake.

Smoke hit the man twice in the belly, doubling him over. He grabbed Jake behind the head and brought his face down and his knee up. The knee connected squarely, and what was left of Jake's nose was now spread all over his face.

Smoke backhanded Jake, knocking him off the boardwalk and into the horse-crap by the hitchrail. One startled horse kicked Jake in the butt and sent him rolling and squalling into the middle of the street.

Smoke didn't let up. He had given the man a chance to not fight at all. Jake turned it down. Then Jake had shown his true colors by pulling a knife. To hell with him!

Jake staggered to his feet and feebly raised his fists. Smoke looked at the beaten man with blood dripping from his face and lowered his fists. He turned his back to Jake Lewis and walked back into the saloon. Jake sank to his knees in the street and tried to get up. He could not.

“Couple of you boys go out there and toss him into a horse trough,” the marshal ordered. “Then I'll tell him to get the hell gone from town and don't come back.” He looked at Smoke. “You'll have to kill that man someday, Jensen. You know that, don't you?”

“I hope not,” Smoke said, then ordered a mug of cool beer.

“You will,” the marshal stated flatly. “You humiliated him, and men like Jake can't live with that. It eats on them like a cancer.”

Smoke drank half his beer. “He'll have to come looking for me if he wants a killing. As far as I'm concerned, it's over.”

Smoke drained his mug and walked back to the boarding house. He needed a hot bath.

 

 

The man and wife rode out of town before dawn the next morning and made camp at noon. Sally heated water for Smoke to soak his hands in to keep down the swelling.

They stayed in camp for two days, relaxing, fishing, and behaving like a couple of kids. They walked through the woods, went skinny-dipping in a creek, and loved every minute of it. The swelling went down in Smoke's hands, and they packed up and pulled out, heading north toward Hell's Creek, following the Swan.

Two days later they rode into a small town at the south end of a lake. They were a couple of hours ride away from Hell's Creek. Their welcome in the town was slightly less than cordial. When they tried to check into the small hotel, they were told all the rooms were taken.

“Is there a boarding house?” Sally asked.

“It's full, too,” the desk clerk at the hotel told them.

“Must be a convention in town,” Smoke said dryly, looking around him at the deserted hotel lobby. “Sure are a lot of people stirring about.”

Sally tugged at his sleeve. “Let's go, honey. We can camp outside of town.”

“You don't know how the game is played, Sally,” Smoke told her. “The word's gone out on us from Big Max. These people here are scared to death of him. I've seen a few western towns buffaloed before, but this one takes the prize for being full of cowards.”

The desk clerk refused to meet Smoke's eyes.

Smoke spun the register book around and inspected it. The hotel was nearly empty.

Smoke dipped the pen and signed them in. He tossed money on the counter. “That's for your best room. Give me the damn key,” he told the clerk.

The clerk hesitated, then with a slow exhalation of breath, he handed Smoke the room key.

“Thanks,” Smoke told him. “Would you recommend the food in the dining room?”

“Yes, sir,” the clerk said wearily. “I would. Dinner is served from five to eight.”

“Thank you. You're a nice fellow.”

Five minutes after checking in and finding their room, a knock came at the door. Two mean-eyed and unshaven men, both wearing deputy sheriffs badges, stood in the hall. “You don't come into this town throwin' your weight around, Jensen,” one told him. “You're goin' to jail.”

“On what charge?”

“We'll think of something,” the second deputy said. “And we'll see that your woman is taken care of, too.”

Smoke hit him with a sneaky left. The blow snapped the man's head back and knocked him against the hall wall. Smoke backhanded the other deputy, spun, and knocked the second man down with a hard right to the mouth. He grabbed the stunned deputy he'd just slapped by the nape of the neck and the seat of his pants, propelled him down the hall, and threw him out the second-story window. The man landed on the awning, bounced once, and then rolled off, to land on the dusty street. He did not move. One leg was bent under him, broken.

Smoke ran back up the hall, jerked up the stunned and clearly frightened other so-called deputy sheriff, and gave him his exit-papers the same way. Smoke hurled him out the window, using all his strength, which was considerable. The man fell screaming, missing the awning and landing in the street on his belly, one arm bent under him. The sound of the arm breaking was nearly as loud as a pistol shot. Like his buddy, he did not move.

A crowd began gathering, looking at the two so-called lawmen and stealing glances up at Smoke, who was standing in the hall and glaring out the broken window.

“We do not wish to be disturbed,” Smoke called down to the crowd. “I'll kill the next man who bothers us.” He turned and walked back to the room. He smiled at Sally. “That's how you play the game, honey,” he told her.

“My, my,” she said with a grin. “The things I'm learning on this trip.”

“Your education is just starting. It'll really get interesting in Hell's Creek. I'll order up some hot water and you can take your bath. You tell me which one, and I'll shake out and hang up your dress.”

Smoke loaded up the usually empty cylinder he kept under the hammer and walked downstairs to the clerk. The lobby was filled with people.

“Send a boy upstairs with hot water,” he told the room clerk. “Lots of it. My wife wishes to bathe. And she damn well better be left alone while she's doing it.”

“Y ... y ... yes, sir,” the clerk stammered.

“Who was that trash I threw out the window?”

“Big Max Huggins men,” a portly man said, stepping up. “Duly appointed deputies. By me. I'm Judge Garrison. And you're in a lot of trouble here, young man. We don't like ruffians coming into our town stirring up trouble.”

Smoke slapped him. The blow knocked the man back, one side of his face reddening and blood leaking out of one corner of his mouth. The judge stumbled on a couch and fell down, landing heavily on his butt.

“So Max bought you, too, huh?” Smoke said, looking down at the scared judge, the sarcasm thick in the words. “Looks like he's got the whole damn town in his pocket.”

“Not all of us,” another man spoke up.

“You sure could have fooled me.”

“You've brought us a lot of trouble, Mr. Jensen,” another man said. “Come the morning, Big Max will be riding in here to settle up. Not just with you, but with all of us.”

“Poor scared little sheep,” Smoke said, looking at the knot of men. “Do you have to ask Big Max's permission to go to the bathroom?”

“Smoke,” the citizen who first spoke said, “Max has got a hundred men up yonder in Hell's Creek. They's maybe thirty-five of us in town who'd stand up to them. Them ain't very good odds.”

“Thirty-six,” Smoke told him. “Thirty-seven counting my wife. And she's got more guts than any of you have shown me. How'd all this buffaloing come about?”

“Huggins killed our marshal and put in his own law,” the citizen said. “Then he burned out or beat up anyone who tried to stand up to him. We used to have a paper here in town. The editor was killed. The minister over to the church was taken out one night and horsewhipped and tarred and feathered. Two of our women was molested by Max's men. A few of us stayed; most left.”

“We're not cowards, Mr. Jensen,” yet another citizen said. “We've all fought Indians and outlaws and scum. But Max has threatened our children. He ain't never come right out and done it plain. But we all got the message.”

“How do you mean?”

“My little girl come home with a sack of candy. Told her ma and me that a man give it to her. Said that next, if I didn't stop bad-mouthin' Max, they might take a little walk in the woods. We got the message.”

Smoke said, “You all wait right here. I got an idea.” He went back upstairs and peeked in the bathroom. Sally was up to her neck in suds. “Now there is a nice sight.”

She made a face at him.

“You reckon Robert and Victoria have made it known that we're coming to see them?”

“Absolutely not. I told them not to say a word about it, and they won't.”

“How about the letters you've sent them? The people at the post office will be on Max's payroll.”

“They were sent to Kalispell. Robert goes there once a week to see patients.”

Smoke winked at her. “Good girl.”

“What's up, Smoke? I know that look in your eyes.”

“We're going to stay here for a time. I got an idea.”

“Suits me.”

Smoke shut the door and let her finish her bath. He walked downstairs. He pointed to the judge, who was sitting on a couch, holding a wet cloth to his face. “Get up,” he told him. The judge got up.

“One of you men go to the marshal's office and get me a marshal's badge.”

Grinning, a man ran out the door and jogged across the street. The two deputies were still lying in the street, moaning and calling out for help.

Smoke faced the judge. “Are you a real judge? Commissioned by this territory?”

“I certainly am! And I'm going to swear out a warrant for your arrest ... you hooligan!”

Smoke popped him again, staggering the man, rocking him back on his feet. This time the judge was really scared and his expression showed it.

“Oh, you're going to be issuing arrest warrants, Garrison,” Smoke told him. “But probably for the first time in a long time, they're going to be legal warrants.” He turned to a man. “Go outside and get me one of those deputy sheriffs badges from that crud in the street.”

“Yes, sir!” the citizen said, not able to hide his grin.

The judge began to put it all together then, and his face became shiny with fear-sweat. “You won't get away with this, Jensen,” he said.