War of the Mountain Man (8 page)

Not much was said during the nooning, for in the West, eating was serious business. The farmer told Smoke his name was Brown, his wife was Ellie, and his boys were Ralph and Elias. And that was all he said during the meal.

After the meal, Ellie poured them all coffee and Smoke brought the family up to date on what had taken place in Barlow.

The farmer, his wife, and his sons sat bug-eyed and silent during the telling.

“Lord have mercy!” Brown finally exclaimed. “You whupped Red Malone. I'd give ten dollars to a seen that!”

Smoke imagined that ten dollars was a princely sum to Mr. Brown.

“I stopped going into Barlow because of the hoodlums and the trash, Mr. Jensen,” Ellie said. “And I certainly wouldn't be caught dead in Hell's Creek.”

“I can understand that, Mrs. Brown,” Smoke said. “I surely can.”

“I take the wagon and go into town about once every three months,” Brown said. “We're pretty well set up here. I got me a mill down on the crick, and we grind our own corn and such. Haul my grain and taters into town come harvest, and we get by.”

“You got neighbors?”

“Shore.” He pointed out the back. “Right over the field yonder is Gatewood. Just south of him is Morrison. And beyond that is Cooter's place. Just north of me is Bolen and Carson. We done that deliberate when we come out. In twenty minutes of hard ridin', we can have twelve to fifteen guns at anybody's house.”

“Smart,” Smoke agreed. “Has Max Huggins given any of you any trouble?”

Man and wife cut their eyes to one another. The glance did not escape Smoke.

Ellie sighed and nodded her head.

“Yeah, he has, Mister Smoke,” Brown said. “His damned ol' gunhands has ruint more than one garden and killed hogs and chickens. They killed the only milk cow Bolen had, and his baby girl needed that milk. His woman had dried up. The baby died.”

Smoke drew one big hand into a huge fist. “Who led the gang that did it?”

“Vic, they called him.”

“Vic Young,” Smoke put the last name to it. “I know of him. He's poison mean. Rode into a farmyard down in Colorado and shot a girl's puppy dog for no reason. I haven't had any use for him since I heard that story.”

“Man who would shoot a girl's puppy is low,” Elias said.

“He's got him a widow woman he sees about five miles from here,” Brown said softly.

Both boys grinned.

“Does he now?” Smoke said.

“Be fair and tell it all,” his wife admonished him gently.

“You're right, mother,” Brown said. “I'm not bein' fair to the woman.” He looked at Smoke. “Martha Feckles—that's the wider's name—does sewin' for them painted ladies in Hell's Creek. She's a good woman; just got to make a livin' for her and her young'uns, that's all. This trash Vic, he come up to her place one night and—” he paused, “well, took advantage of her.”

“He raped her, Mister Smoke,” Ralph said.

“Hush your mouth,” Ellie warned him.

“No, it's all right, ma,” Brown said. “Let the boy tell it. Mister Smoke needs to know, and these young folks know more about it than we do.”

“He beat her up bad, Mister Smoke,” Ralph said. “Miss Martha, she's got her a daughter who's thirteen—Elias is sweet on her—”

“I am not neither!” Elias turned red.

“Shut up,” the father warned him. “You are, too. Ever time you get around her you fall all over your big feet and bleat like a sheep. Tell it, Ralph.”

“This Vic, he told Miss Martha that if she didn't go on . . . seein' him, he'd do the same to Aggie.”

“I ought to kill him!” Elias said, considerable heat in his voice.

“Hush that kind of talk!” his mother told him. “The man's a gunfighter.”

“Listen to your ma,” Smoke told the boy, whom he guessed to be about fifteen at the most. “You have a right to defend hearth and home and kith and kin. You leave the gunfighting to me. Is that understood, boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

Smoke rose from the table and found his hat. “I'll be riding now. You all feel free to come shop in Barlow. We'll soon have us a newspaper and a schoolteacher and a preacher. I thank you for the meal.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a double eagle. Before Brown could protest, he said, “Buy some ammunition with that. It's going to get real salty in the valley before long.”

Smoke rode over to the Widow Feckles's house and made a slow circle of the grounds around the neat little home before riding up to the gate and swinging down from the saddle. A girl opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. She looked to be about thirteen or fourteen, and Smoke pegged her as Aggie.

“Good morning,” Smoke said. “I'm the new marshal over at Barlow. Don't be afraid of me. I'm here to help, not hurt you or your mother.”

The girl's eyes widened. “Are you really Smoke Jensen?”

“Yes, I am. Is your name Aggie?”

“How'd you know that?”

“I nooned over at the Brown farm. Thought I'd come over and say hello to you and your ma. Is she home?”

“I'll fetch her for you.”

Smoke waited by the gate. A very pretty woman stepped out onto the porch and smiled at him. “Mr. Jensen?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I'm Martha Feckles. You wanted to see me?”

“If I may, yes.”

“Please come in. I've just made a fresh pot of coffee.”

The sitting room was small but neat, the furniture old and worn, but clean.

“You go look after your brother, Aggie,” Martha said. “And don't stray from the house.”

“Yes, Momma.”

When the girl had closed the door behind her, Smoke said, “Are you expecting Vic Young?”

That shook the woman. Her hands trembled as she poured the coffee. “Brown spoke out of turn, sir.”

“I don't think so. I think they spoke because they're worried about you. You're in a bad situation—not of your doing—and they'd like to see you clear of it.”

“I'll never be free of Vic,” she said with bitterness in her voice.

“Oh, you'll be free of him, Martha. You can write that down in your diary. When do you expect him again?”

“This evening.”

Smoke sipped his coffee—mostly chicory—and studied the woman. She was under a strain; he could see that in her eyes and on her face. And he could also see the remnants of a bruise on her jaw. “Did Vic strike you, Martha?”

Her laugh held no humor. “Many times. He likes to beat up women.”

Smoke waited.

With a sigh, she said, “Vic's killed women before, Mr. Jensen. He brags about it. I have to protect Aggie. I have to do his bidding for her sake.”

“No longer, Martha. You'll not see Vic Young again. That's a promise.”

“If you put him in jail, he'll come back when he gets out and really make it difficult for us.”

“I don't intend to put him in jail, Martha. I intend to kill him.”

His words did not shock her. She lifted her eyes to his. “I'm no shrinking summer rose, Mr. Jensen. I was born in the West. I don't hold with eastern views about crime and punishment. Some people—men and women—are just no good. They were born bad. I'll be much beholden to you if you saw to it that Vic did not come around here again. I can mend your shirts, and I do washing and ironing. I—”

Smoke held up a hand. “Enough, Martha. Do you have friends who would take you in for the night?”

“Why . . . certainly.”

“I'll hitch up your buggy, and you take the children and go to your friends for the night. You come back in the morning. All right?”

“If you say so, Mr. Jensen.”

After they had gone, Smoke put his horse up in the small barn, closed the door securely, and walked the grounds, getting the feel of the place. Back in the house, he read for a time. He dozed off and slept for half an hour, waking up refreshed. He made a pot of strong coffee and waited.

Just as dusk was settling around the high country, Smoke heard a horse approaching at a canter. He stood up and slipped the hammer-thong from his .44's. He worked the guns in and out of leather and walked softly to the front door.

“Git ready, baby,” a man called from the outside. “And git that sweet little baby of yourn ready, too. It's time for her to git bred.”

Smoke's face tightened. He felt rage well up inside him. He mentally calmed himself. Only his eyes showed what was boiling inside him.

“You hear me, you . . .” Vic spewed profanity, the filth rolling from his mouth like sewerage.

Smoke opened the door and stepped out onto the small porch. Vic crouched like a rabid animal when he spotted him.

“No more, Vic,” Smoke told him. “You won't terrorize this good woman anymore.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“The name is Jensen. Smoke Jensen.”

Vic spat on the ground. “You rode a long ways to die, Jensen.”

“You're trash, Vic. Pure crud. Just like the man you work for.”

“No man calls me that and lives!”

“I just did, Vic. And I'm still living.”

“Where's Martha and Aggie?”

“Safe. And I intend to see they remain safe.”

“You got no call to come meddlin' in a man's personal business.”

“I do when the man is trash like you.”

“I'm tarred of all this jibber-jabber, Jensen. You tell me where my woman is at and then you hit the trail.”

“You got any kin you want me to notify, Vic?”

“Notify about what?”

“Your death.”

“Huh!” Vic looked puzzled for a moment. Then he laughed. “You may be a big shot where you come from, Jensen, but you don't spell horse crap to me.”

“Then make your move, punk.”

Vic was suddenly unsure of himself. He looked around him. “You alone, Jensen?”

“I don't need any help in dealing with scum like you, Vic.”

“I'm warnin' you, Jensen, don't call me that no more.”

“Or you'll do what, Vic? I'll tell you what you'll do. Nothing. You woman beaters are all alike. Cowards. Punks. Come on, Vic. Make your play.”

All the bluster and brag left the man. His eyes began to jerk and the right side of his face developed a nervous tic. “I'll just ride on, Jensen.”

“No, Vic. I won't allow that. You'd just find some other poor woman to terrorize. Some child to molest. It's over, Vic. You'll kill no more women.”

“They had it comin' to them!” Vic shouted as the night began closing in. “All I wanted from them was what a woman was put on earth to give to a man.”

Smoke waited.

Vic began cursing, working his courage back up to a fever. “Drag iron, Jensen!” he screamed.

“After you, punk.”

Vic's hand dropped to his gun. Smoke drew, cocked, and fired as fast as a striking rattler, shooting him in the belly, the slug striking the child molester and rapist two inches above his belt buckle. Vic stumbled and went down on one knee. He managed to drag his pistol from leather and cock it. Smoke shot him again, the slug taking him in the side and blowing out the other side. Vic Young fell backward, cursing as life left him.

Smoke stood over him. Vic said, “You're dead, Jensen. Max has put money on your head. Big money. He . . .”

Vic jerked on the cooling ground and died staring at whatever faced him beyond the dark river.

Smoke took the man's gunbelt and tossed leather and pistol onto the porch. He fanned the man's pockets, finding a very respectable wad of greenbacks and about a hundred dollars in gold coins. Martha would put the money to good use. He put the money on the kitchen table, along with Vic's gun and gunbelt and the rifle taken from the saddle boot.

Smoke wrote a short note and left it on the table: HE WILL BOTHER YOU NO MORE.

He signed it Smoke.

He saddled up Star and rode around to the front of the house. Smoke tied Vic across the saddle of his suddenly skittish horse and locked up the house.

Leading the horse with its dead cargo, Smoke headed north, toward Big Max Huggins's town of Hell's Creek.

 

 

It was late when he arrived on the hill overlooking the bawdy town. Lights were blazing in nearly every building, wild laughter ripped the night, and rowdy songs could be heard coming from drunken throats.

Smoke slipped the lead rope and slapped the horse on the rump, sending it galloping into the town.

He sat his saddle and waited.

He didn't have to wait long.

“Vic's dead!” the faint shout came to him as the piano playing and singing and drunken laughter gradually fell away, leaving the town silent.

Smoke watched the shadowy figures untie the body of Vic Young and lower it to the ground. He couldn't hear what the men were saying, but he could make a good guess.

Every rowdy and punk and gun-handler in the town would have known that Vic was seeing Widow Feckles. And everyone would know that she was being forced into acts of passion with Vic. And since none of the sodbusters would have the nerve to face Vic—so the gunhandlers thought; whether that was true or not, only time would tell—it had to have been the Widow Feckles who did Vic in.

Smoke kneed Star forward, moving closer to the town. “Let's burn her out!” the shout reached Smoke's ears.

“Yeah,” another man yelled. “I'll get the kerosene.”

Smoke swung onto the main street of Hell's Creek and reined up. Staying in the shadows, he shucked his Winchester from the saddle boot and eared back the hammer. He called, “Martha Feckles had nothing to do with killing Vic. I killed him.”

“Well, who the hell are you?” came the shouted question.

“Smoke Jensen.”

“Jensen! Let's get him, boys.”

They came at a rush and it was like shooting clay ducks in a shooting gallery. Smoke leveled the Winchester and emptied it into the knot of men. A dozen of them fell to one side, hard hit and screaming. Smoke spun Star around and headed for the high country, leaving a trail a drunken city slicker could follow.

About five miles outside of town, Smoke found what he was looking for and reined up. He loosened the cinch strap and let the big horse blow. He took a drink of water from his canteen and filled up his hat, letting Star have a drink.

Smoke had reloaded his rifle on the run, and he took it and his saddlebags down to the rocks just below where he had tucked Star safely away in a narrow draw. He eared back the hammer when he heard the pounding of hooves. The men of Hell's Creek rounded a curve in the trail and Smoke knocked the first man out of the saddle. Shifting the muzzle, he got lead in two more before the scum started making a mad dash for safety.

Smoke deliberately held his fire, watching the men cautiously edge toward his position under a starry sky and moon-bright night. With a grin, he opened his saddlebags and took out a stick of dynamite. He had a dozen sticks in the bag. He capped the stick of giant powder and set a very short fuse. Striking a match, he lit the fuse and let it fly, sputtering and sparking through the air.

The dynamite blew and shook the ground as it exploded. Smoke saw one man blown away from behind a rock, half of an arm missing. Another man staggered to his boots and Smoke drilled him through the brisket. A third man tried to crawl away, dragging a broken leg. Smoke put him out of his misery.

Smoke put away the dynamite. Taking it along had been Sally's idea, and it had been a good one.

The trash below him cursed Smoke, calling him all sorts of names. But Smoke held his fire and eased away to a new position, which was some fifty feet higher than the old one. He now was able to see half-a-dozen men crouched behind whatever cover they could find in the night, some of that cover being mighty thin indeed.

Smoke dusted one man through and through. The man grunted once, then slowly rolled down the hill, dead. He shifted the muzzle and plugged another of Max's men through the throat. The man made a lot of horrible noises before he had the good grace to expire. Smoke had been aiming for the chest, but downhill shooting is tricky enough; couple that with night, and it gets doubly difficult.

The men of Hell's Creek decided they had had enough for this night. Smoke let them make their retreat, even though he could have easily dropped another two or three. He tightened the cinch sfrap, swung into the saddle, and headed south. He found a good place to camp and picketed Star. With his saddle for a pillow, he rolled into his blankets and went to sleep.

Two hours after dawn, he rode into the front yard of Martha Feckles. An idea had formed in his mind over coffee and bacon that morning, and he wanted to see how the widow received it.

“I think it's a grand idea!” she said.

Barlow had another resident.

 

 

Big Max Huggins sat in his office and stared at the wall. His thoughts were dark and violent. At this very moment, that drunken old preacher—he was all that passed for religion in Hell's Creek—was praying for the lost souls of three of those Jensen had shot in the main street of town last night. Those that had pursued him came back into town, dragging their butts in defeat. They had left six dead on the mountain. One of those had bled to death after the bomb Jensen had thrown tore off half of the man's arm.

“Goddamn you, Jensen!” Max cursed.

He leaned back in his chair—specially made due to his height and weight. He hated Smoke Jensen, but had to respect him—grudgingly—for his cold nerve. It would take either a crazy person or one with nerves of steel to ride smack into the middle of the enemy. And Smoke Jensen was no crazy person.

What to do about him?

Big Max didn't have the foggiest idea.

Smoke had put steel into the backbones of those in Barlow. A raid against the town now would be suicide. His men would be shot to pieces. There was no need to send for any outside gunfighters. He had some of the best guns in the West, either on his payroll or working out of the town on a percentage basis of their robberies.