Vengeance of the Mountain Man Page 3

  Laughing, Smoke set his cup down and pulled his tobacco pouch out. As was the Western way, he offered it first to Carson, who declined and began to fix his pipe. Smoke sprinkled tobacco on the paper, tamped both ends with his fingers, and rolled the cigarette into a tube. As he licked the paper, he glanced up at Carson. “Heard anything interesting lately, Monte?”

  They had been friends long enough for Carson to catch the change in Smoke’s tone and he looked up from his pipe with raised eyebrows. “No, why? Something going on I ought to know about?”

  Smoke scratched a match into flame with his thumbnail, lit his cigarette, and handed the match to Carson. “Well, something strange happened the other day up on the Sugarloaf. Four men came gunning for me and shot up Pearlie a little bit.”

  Carson narrowed his eyes. “Oh? Well, men gunning for Smoke Jensen, now there’s a novel thought. Did you bother to bury ’em or do I have to send someone from town to go and cart the carcasses back down here to Boot Hill?”

  Smoke shook his head, “Now, there’s no need to be sarcastic, Monte. These men were different from the usual type that are just after making a name for themselves. Cal and I let the hammer down on three of them, but I let one of the men live. He said a gunhawk down Texas way, on the Rio Grande, hired them to kill me to pay me back for something I did to him a while back.”

  “Oh, well then. That narrows the field of men who want to kill you down from a thousand to maybe only a hundred or so.”

  “Yeah, those were my thoughts, too.” Smoke flipped his butt out into the dusty street and drank the last of his coffee. “Well, guess I’ll amble on over to the saloon and see if there’s been any newcomers to town who might have heard something.”

  Carson looked up from under his hat-brim. “You want some company?”

  Smoke put on an innocent expression. “Naw, you know me. I’m a peaceable rancher, not looking for any trouble, just going to have a sociable drink at the neighborhood dog hole.”

  “Yeah, and I’m my aunt Bertha. Smoke, you know if things get out of hand, you’ve always got help right here.” He patted his pistol. “I may be old and half civilized, but I haven’t forgotten how to use this peashooter if the need ever arises.”

  Smoke put his hand on Carson’s shoulder. “Thanks, Monte, but you know out here a man saddles his own horse and kills his own snakes.”

  Just then a small boy of about seven years old ran up to Smoke and Carson. “Sheriff Carson, there’s a feller down at the saloon who’s plumb alkalied. He’s dressed up like a sore toe and tellin’ everyone he’s gonna kill Smoke Jensen.”

  “Oh shit. Thanks, Jerome. You run along home now and get off the street, and get your friends off the street, too.” He turned to Smoke. “I don’t guess you’d ride on out of town and let me handle this, would you?”

  Smoke gave a smile that didn’t go to his eyes. “Monte, that sounds like one of those snakes we were just talking about.”

  Carson drew his pistol and opened the loading gate to check his loads. “Well, if you’ve only got five beans in the wheel, you’d better load up six and six; no telling if he’s got friends to back his play or if he’s alone.”

  Smoke loaded his Colt, spun the cylinder for luck, then holstered the big gun. “You got my back, Monte?”

  Carson grinned like a schoolboy about to bust some noses out in the yard. “Don’t I always?”

  They walked down the center of the street, womenfolk and children scattering at the serious expressions on their faces and at their purposeful strides. In the mysterious way of Western towns, faster than any telegraph, word spread that there was going to be trouble, meaning gunplay, and that Smoke Jensen was involved. The streets and boardwalks emptied, and the townspeople gathered behind windows and doors to watch some other poor fool try his hand against Smoke Jensen.

  Smoke pushed through the batwings of the saloon and immediately stepped to the side, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the dusky light of the place. Through the cigar smoke and beer smell, he could see a young tough leaning on the bar, waving his hands in drunken hyperbole, talking loud and being whiskey-brave.

  “Yeah, tha’s right. I’m gonna kill me a Smoke Jensen, tha’s for sure. Soon’s that yellow sonofabuck gits here, he’s a dead man.”

  Smoke took in the stranger’s garb with a glance. Shiny black leather vest over a boiled-white shirt, string tie, and a double-rig holster of fancy tooled leather with rawhide strings hanging from the belt. Two brand-new Colt Peacemaker. 45s were in the holsters, conspicuous notches cut in both handles so new that fresh wood showed at the bottom of the cuts.

  Smoke and Carson looked at each other and laughed. Smoke whispered, “He’s so booze-blind he couldn’t hit the ground with his hat in three tries.”

  Carson grinned and sat down at a table while Smoke walked to the bar and stood next to the man doing all the talking. When the man looked up at him, Smoke grinned a huge grin and said, “Hi there, Pilgrim. Can I buy you a drink?”

  The man swayed as if he might fall, before nodding and saying, “Sure, then someday you kin tell your kids you bought a drink for the man that kilt Smoke Jensen.”

  Smoke’s eyes opened wide and he let his mouth drop open. “You mean you’re going to go up against the famous shootist Smoke Jensen?”

  “Yep. Gonna kill him, too.”

  “Well let me shake your hand, pardner.” After they shook hands, Smoke opened his shirt and showed the man an old bullet wound scar. “See this here scar? That’s where Smoke Jensen shot me through the arm.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “You mean you faced Jensen in a gunfight and he didn’t kill ya?”

  Smoke shook his head. “Wasn’t no need. Hell, I didn’t even clear leather ’fore he shot me and my partner both.”

  “Ya mean there was two of you and he got you both?”

  “Yep. The bastard gut-shot my partner and winged me without even breaking a sweat. Left us both on the trail to die. Took my partner three days to die, and he died hard, let me tell you.”

  The man leaned his head back and tried to focus on Smoke. “You a gunfighter?”

  “Naw, I’m just a rancher and cowhand. I’m much too slow on the draw to be a gunfighter. Hell, half the men in town can outdraw me. Here, I’ll show you.” Smoke stepped away from the man and in the blink of an eye his Colt was drawn, cocked, and pointing at the man’s face. “See, I couldn’t touch Smoke Jensen. The only reason we tried was his back was turned and we thought we had the drop on him.”

  Frowning, the man asked. “You mean his back was to you and he still beat you to the draw?”

  “Sure.” Smoke leaned close to the man and whispered, “Jensen said he heard our guns leaving our holsters and knew he had to draw.”

  “Jesus!” the man whispered back. “That’s mighty fast.”

  “Yeah, my partner and I thought so, too. But I’ve been practicing since then. I think maybe I can surprise him if I use my left hand.” No sooner had Smoke finished his sentence than his lefthand gun appeared in the man’s face, the draw so quick it was just a blur. “Course,” Smoke continued as he holstered his pistol, “since you’re obviously a gunman, you’re probably not too impressed with my draw.”

  Smoke put an anxious expression on his face. “Say, do you think maybe you could show me how fast a real gunslinger is? Maybe even give me some pointers?”

  Sweat beaded the man’s forehead and he turned back to his whiskey, drinking it down in one quick draught. “No, I think you’d better leave gunfighting to us experts.” He pulled his hat down and threw two bits on the bar. “Well, it don’t look like Smoke Jensen is gonna come to town today, so I guess I’ll just mosey on down the road a ways.”

  Smoke put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Hey, I could get one of the guys here in town to ride out to his ranch and bring him in, if you want.”

  “No, no, not today. I think I’ll just let him live another day and come back some other time.” With that, the sweating man bolted from t
he saloon to the raucous laughter of the other patrons, got on his horse, and got out of town in a hurry.

  Carson walked to the bar and clapped Smoke on the back. “Smoke, it’s a shame old Erastus Beadle wasn’t here to see that show you put on. He’d have you in one of his dime novels going up against Deadwood Dick, sure as shootin’.”

  Smoke grinned. “Yeah, and maybe I’d win the fair hand of Hurricane Nell, if’n she didn’t shoot me first.”

  From a dark corner of the saloon came the sound of someone clapping their hands very slowly, then a gravelly voice growled, “Yeah, that was some show, Jensen. You sure impressed that tinhorn. Too bad he didn’t have the sand to go against you anyway, since I think you’re all blow and no do.”

  Smoke looked at Carson and sighed, before turning and facing the man in the corner. He narrowed his eyes as he recognized Joe Bob Dunkirk, a man who had made his name in the Lincoln County wars a few years back. He hired his gun to the highest bidder and wasn’t above back-shooting to earn his money.

  “Well, Monte, look who’s here. Old Joe Bob himself.” Smoke took a sip of his whiskey with his left hand, unhooking the hammer-thong of his Colt with the right. “Guess I’m lucky you were sitting there next to the door or I’d probably have been back-shot, like the others he’s killed.”

  Dunkirk jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over and pointing his finger at Smoke. “Shut up, you bastard! I don’t need to back-shoot you, I can kill you face-to-face.”

  Smoke smiled a slow, contemptuous smile. “That’s not the way I hear it, Joe Bob. I hear unless a man’s blind in one eye and can’t see out of the other, you tend to wait until he’s facing the other way ’fore you gun him down.”

  Dunkirk’s hand quivered as he held it out from his side, while Smoke continued to sip his whiskey, seemingly unconcerned.

  Carson held out his left hand and the bartender placed a Greener sawed-off double-barrelled 12 gauge shotgun in it. Carson pulled both hammers back with a loud click and said, “Okay, Joe Bob, you want to commit suicide, it’s okay with me. But you’re gonna do it outside so the bartender don’t have to spend all day cleaning your guts off the floor.”

  Dunkirk flicked his eyes over at Carson. “What do you mean, commit suicide? I’m gonna kill Mr. Smoke Jensen here.”

  Carson sighed loudly. “Like I said, Joe Bob, it’s your funeral.” He waved the barrel of the shotgun and both Joe Bob and Smoke walked out onto the street. As they faced off, Carson called, “Speaking of funerals, Joe Bob, what do you want carved on your cross after Smoke curls you up—other than here lies a man who died of a case of the slow?”

  “Shut up Carson, or you’ll be next!”

  “Say, Joe Bob,” Smoke said, “before I send you to meet Jesus, tell me how much he paid you.”

  Dunkirk’s forehead wrinkled and he cocked his head to the side. “Huh? What did you say?”

  Smoke spread his hands. “I just wanted to know what you thought your life was worth. I know you don’t never do nothing without being paid for it, so . . . how much did you get paid to die today?”

  “Uh . . . a hundred dollars, in advance, and another five hundred after you’re in the ground.”

  “Want to tell me who it was who bought you so cheap?”

  “Naw, let’s just get it on.”

  “Okay, back-shooter. Fill your hand.”

  Dunkirk grabbed at his pistol and actually had it halfway out of his holster when a piece of molten lead in a. 44 caliber slammed into his chest and knocked him off his boots. He lay there in the dirt, eyes blinking, legs quivering, still trying to clear leather.

  Smoke walked over and squatted next to him, casting his shadow over the dying man’s face to shield it from the sun. “Tell me Joe Bob, did that gunhawk pay you enough for this?”

  “Jensen,” he croaked, his voice filled with pain.

  “Yeah.”

  “You know he’s comin’ for you . . .”

  “Yeah, Joe Bob, I know.” But he was talking to a man staring the long stare into nothing.

  “Monte,” Smoke said softly, “give whatever money he’s got left of the hundred to the preacher’s wife for her fund for widows and orphans. She can always use a donation.”

  “Sure, Smoke, and I’ll keep my eyes open for any more trash like this that blows into town. What are you gonna do?”

  Smoke shrugged as he punched out his casings and reloaded. “Guess I’ll go back up to Sugarloaf and wait. Not much else I can do.”

  As Smoke stepped in his saddle, a man came running up to him waving a piece of paper in the air. “Mr. Jensen, this telegram just came over the wire for your wife, Miss Sally. The telegraph operator asked me to give it to you.”

  Smoke reached down and took the paper from his hand. “Thanks, Mr. Hanson. I’ll see that she gets it.”

  Hanson’s brow furrowed. “Sure hope it’s not bad news.”

  Smoke smirked. “You ever know anybody to telegraph good news?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Silver Spur Saloon in Laredo, Texas, was over half full even though it was only ten o’clock in the morning. Since the outbreak of Mexican Fever in local cattle herds two months before, a great many area cowhands had been out of work. Those who hadn’t left town were spending what little money they had getting and staying drunk.

  The border punchers, rowdy and wild to begin with, were now surly, quarrelsome, and downright mean. Fights were a daily occurrence in town, and the doctor was kept busy sewing up knife wounds and trying to plug bullet holes as best he could.

  In a dim corner of the Silver Spur, a poker game was in progress that had been going on for three days straight. One man, sitting with his back to the wall, had a bandanna over his head, draping down to cover his ears and tied in the back, over which he wore his hat. If any of the other players thought this strange attire for a cowhand, they took one look at his eyes and didn’t mention it.

  The man was lean to the point of emaciation, with a scraggly moustache, yellowing, tobacco-stained teeth, and haunted eyes that continually swept the room as if for danger. Every time the batwings would swing open, his hand would slip under the table to wrap around the handle of a belly-gun he kept in his waistband.

  The man won a hand with two pair, beating a pair of aces and a king-high hand. As he raked in his winnings, one of the two Mexican vaqueros sitting at the table said, “Tha’s pretty good playin’, Mr. Morgan. You winnin’ most of our moneys.”

  Lester Morgan’s eyes flicked from his winnings to the man across the table who spoke. He growled, “I win because you don’t play poker any better than you speak English.”

  When the Mexican’s eyes narrowed, his friend put a hand on his shoulder, “Easy, amigo, we got plenty of time to win it back.”

  As Morgan leaned back and put a cigar in his mouth, the batwings swung open and a dust-covered cowboy ambled in. He stood just inside the door, letting his eyes adjust to the light, sleeving sweat off his forehead with his arm. When Morgan lit his cigar, the flaming of the match illuminated his face, drawing the man’s attention to it.

  The stranger took off his hat and dusted some of the trail dirt off his clothes with it, and set it back on his head. He slipped the hammer thong off his pistol, worn low and tied down, then walked over to stand in front of the table in the corner.

  At his approach, Morgan’s hand slipped out of sight. The newcomer nodded at him, “How’r ya doin’, Sundance?”

  Morgan’s eyes slitted and shifted quickly around the room to see if anyone else was listening. He took the cigar out of his mouth with his left hand and blew smoke at the ceiling. “You must be mistaken, mister. My name’s Lester Morgan.”

  “No, I’m not mistaken. I followed you here from Del Rio. You was calling yourself Sundance there—at least you was when you gunned down my kid brother by shootin’ him in the back.”

  “I never—”

  Before Morgan could finish, the stranger reached across the table and jerked the hat and bandanna off
his head, revealing a missing left ear. He grinned. “Maybe you should change your name to the One Ear Kid instead of Sundance.”

  Other men at the table began to pull their chairs back. One of them said, “Sundance? Isn’t that the name of the man who shot that old gunfighter, Luke Nations, just before Smoke Jensen shot his ear off?”

  The gunman standing at the table laughed. “Yeah, it is, only the bastard shot Nations in the back, too. Seems the only way this snake can make a reputation is to back-shoot someone.” He squared his shoulders and flexed the fingers of his right hand. “Well, Mr. One-Ear, I ain’t gonna turn my back on you, so if you ain’t completely yeller clear through, let’s get it on.”

  Morgan smiled, just before he fired his short-barreled. 44 Smith and Wesson belly-gun up through the table. The shot blew a hole in the tabletop, then traveled upward and hit the gunman under his chin, shattering it and taking the top of his skull off. He was dead before he hit the ground. Money, cards, and pieces of brain were scattered all over the floor.

  Morgan took a deep drag on his cigar, and with smoke trailing out of his nostrils, yelled, “Bartender, clean this mess up and bring us another table. This one seems to have a hole in it.”

  While two cowboys were dragging the dead man’s body out and the bartender was spreading sawdust on the pool of blood on the floor, the other men in the poker game quietly gathered up their money and began to leave.

  Morgan spread his hands. “Hey, boys, what’s the matter? My money not good enough for you?”

  One of the players stopped and said, “If we’d known you was Sundance, we’d never have sat at the table with you to begin with.” He pulled a pocketwatch out of his vest and snapped it open. He glanced at the time before looking up at Morgan, “The sheriff ’s due back from the county seat at sundown. I’d make myself scarce ’fore then if I was you.” He snapped the watch closed and walked over to the bar with the other players, turning his back on Morgan and ignoring him.