Code of the Mountain Man tlmm-8 Read online

  “Empty a lot of saddles.”

  “And be killed doing it?”

  “Not likely. I’m no Viking berserker. Anyway, I don’t think he’s going to attack this town.”

  “Oh? When did you change your mind?”

  “During the course of the day.”

  “And what do you think he’s going to do?”

  “I have an idea. But it’s just a thought. I’ll let you know when I have it all worked out. And I will let you in on it, Mills. You have my word.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Are some of you going to be in town tomorrow?”

  “Yes. We’re waiting on word from the home office. We sent word where we’d be from that little settlement on the Rio Grande. The stage runs in a couple of days.”

  “I appreciate you staying close. I’ll pull out early in the morning to do some snooping. Be back late tomorrow night.”

  Smoke could tell the man had a dozen questions he would like to ask. But he held them in check. “I’ll see you then.”

  Smoke pulled out several hours before dawn, pointing Buck’s nose toward the east, staying on the south side of the Alamosa River. Luttie’s Seven Slash Ranch lay about twenty miles south of the town.

  Luttie was up to something besides ranching. Those hands of his were more than cowboys; Smoke had a hunch they were drawing fighting wages. If that was true, who were they fighting, and why?

  At the first coloring of dawn, Smoke was on a hill overlooking Luttie’s ranchhouse. He studied the men as they exited the bunkhouse heading for chow in a building next to it. He counted fifteen men. Say three or four were not in yet from nightherding; that was a hell of a lot of cowboys for a spread this size.

  So what was Luttie up to?

  Smoke stayed on the ridges as long as he dared, looking things over through field glasses. For a working ranch, there didn’t seem to be much going on. And he found that odd. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen any cattle on his way in. What he had seen were a lot of signs proclaiming this area to be “posted” and “no trespassing allowed.” Odd. Too many odd things cropping up about the Seven Slash Ranch.

  It was time to move on; his position on the ridge was just too vulnerable. He tightened the cinch and swung into the saddle. He hadn’t learned much, but he had learned that something very odd was going on at the Seven Slash Ranch. And Smoke didn’t think it had a damn thing to do with cattle.

  “So what is going on?” Mills asked.

  The men were sitting on the boardwalk in front of the saloon, enjoying the night air. Mills was contentedly puffing on his pipe, and Smoke had rolled a cigarette.

  “I don’t know. Luttie could say he stripped his range during roundup, and a range detective would probably accept that. But he hasn’t run any cattle in several years on the ground that I covered today. Any cattleman could see that. So why does he have the big crew, all of them fighting men?” Smoke smiled. “Maybe I know.”

  “Share it with me?”

  “It’s just a guess.”

  “A lot of good police work starts right there.”

  “It might be that he’s hit a silver strike and wants it all for himself, mining it out in secret. But a better guess is that he’s running a front for stolen goods.”

  “I like the second one. But I have some questions about that theory. Why? is one. He’s a rancher who has done very well, from all indications. He is a reasonably monied man. I suppose we could chalk it up to greed; however, I think, assuming you’re correct, there must be other reasons.”

  “Why, after all the years of outlawing on the west coast, would Lee Slater put together a gang and come to Colorado?" Smoke questioned. “The west coast is where all his contacts and hiding places would be.” '

  “Where are you going with this, Smoke?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just trying to put all the pieces together. I may be completely off-base and accusing an innocent man of a crime. All I’ve got is gut hunches. Can you do some background work?”

  “Certainly. But on whom?”

  “Luttie Charles and Lee Slater.”

  That got Mills’ attention. He took the pipe out of his mouth and stared at Smoke. “How could they be connected?”

  “Maybe by blood.”

  The Lee Slater gang seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth. Five days went by with no word of any outlaw activity in the area.

  The sheriff of the county and two of his deputies rode into town, and Sheriff Silva almost had a heart attack when he learned that Smoke Jensen was the new town marshal.

  “By God, it is you!” he said, standing in the door to the town marshal’s small office. He frowned. “But why here, of all places?”

  Smoke laid it out for the man, but said nothing of his suspicions of Luttie Charles.

  The sheriff nodded his head. “We heard he was in this area. If he is, he's found him a dandy hidey hole.”

  Smoke had him an idea just where that might be. But he kept that to himself. “Can you make me a deputy sheriff of this county?”

  “Sure can. It’d be a honor. Stand up and raise your right hand.”

  After being sworn in, Smoke and Sheriff Dick Silva sat in the office and drank coffee and chatted. Mills and his men were out of town, roaming around, looking for signs of the Slater gang.

  “It could be,” the sheriff said, “that Slater learned about the new silver strikes to the north and east of here. The big one’s up around Creede, but we’ve got some dandy smaller ones in this area.”

  “Any gold?”

  “A few producing mines, yeah. The stage line is putting on more people, and they’ll be running through here every other day commencin’ shortly. This town’ll boom for awhile. But you know how that goes.”

  Smoke nodded his head. The rotting ruins of former boom towns dotted the landscape of the West. They flourished for a few months or a few years, until the gold or silver ran out, and then died or were reduced to only a few hangers-on, scratching in the earth for the precious metals.

  “I’ve seen a few boom towns in my life.”

  “You rode with Ol’ Preacher, didn’t you, Smoke?”

  “Yes. He raised me after my dad was killed. I knew all the old mountain men. Beartooth, Dupree, Greybull, Nighthawk, Tenneysee, Pugh, Audie, Matt, Deadlead. Hell of a breed of men, they were. I hated to see them vanish.”

  One left, the sheriff thought, taking in the awesome size of the man seated before him. Smoke’s wrists were as large as some men’s arms. If he hit you with everything he had, the blow would do some terrible damage to a man’s face.

  “Tell me everything that’s on your mind, son," the sheriff urged in a quiet tone. “You’ve been steppin’ around something for an hour.”

  Dick Silva was no fool, Smoke thought. He’s a good lawman who can read between the lines. But what if he’s a friend of Luttie’s, or on his payroll? How to phrase this?

  “I had a little run-in with Luttie Charles the other night,” he said, figuring that was the best way to open up.

  The sheriff spat and clanged the cuspidor. “I don’t have much use for Luttie. When he first come into this country, years back, he was a hard-workin’ man. I didn’t approve of the way he built up his ranch—he was one of them homesteader burners, if they got in his way—but the sheriff back then was easy bought and in his pocket. I ain’t,” he said flatly. “Luttie steps cautious-like around me.”

  “I took a ride over to his place the other day. He appears to be a man who don’t like visitors.”

  “All them posted signs?”

  Smoke nodded.

  “They went up about five years ago. ’Bout the same time the bottom dropped out of the beef market—for a while—and Luttie took to hirin’ hardcases to ride for him. I’ve run off or jailed a few of his hands. But he’s got some bad ones workin’ for him.”

  “And no cattle,” Smoke dropped that in.

  “You noticed too,” the sheriff said with a smile.

  “Of c
ourse, there is no law that says a man has to run cattle on his ranch if he doesn’t want to.”

  “Exactly. But it sure makes me awful curious about just how he’s earnin’ a livin’.” He shook his head. “I know where you’re goin’ with this, Smoke. But I have no authority to go bustin’ up onto his property demandin’ to know how he earns his livelihood. And a judge would throw me out of his chambers if l tried to get a search warrant based on our gut hunches.”

  “Oh, I know.”

  “Say it all, Smoke.” Sheriff Silva smiled. “You’re one of my deputies now. You can’t hold back from the boss.”

  “I’ve got a hunch there is some connection between Slater and Luttie. I’ve asked a U.S. Marshal to check their backgrounds. He’s doing that now. Probably be a week or more before anything comes back in.”

  “You’d make a good lawman, Smoke.”

  “I’ve toted a badge more than once,” he replied with a smile. “County, state, and federal. Mills Walsdorf doesn’t know that, though.”

  “What do you think of the man?”

  “I like him. I thought he was a pompous, stuffed-shirt windbag when I first met him. But he sort of grows on you. He sure has some funny ideas about enforcing the law. He doesn’t believe in the death penalty”

  The sheriff almost choked on his chew. “What?”

  “Says it’s barbaric and doesn’t accomplish anything. Says criminals aren’t really to blame for what they do.”

  “Say what?”

  “Says it’s home life and pressure from friends and so forth that cause criminals. Rejection and things like that. Says all sorts of real smart folks back in fine Eastern universities thought all this out.”

  Sheriff Silva shook his head‘ “I hope them thoughts of his don’t never catch on. In a hundred years, criminals would be runnin’ the country.”

  Chapter Five

  It was a very weary and dejected-looking band of U.S. Marshals that rode back into town late in the afternoon. After a bath and a shave, Mills walked over to Smoke’s office. He was almost dragging his boots in the dirt from exhaustion.

  “Cover a lot of ground, did you?” Smoke asked, pouring the man a cup of coffee from the battered pot on the stove.

  “More than I care to repeat anytime soon.” Mills sat down with a sigh and accepted the cup of coffee. “And didn’t accomplish a damned thing.”

  “No,” Smoke corrected. “Don’t look at it like that. You accomplished a great deal, in fact.”

  “I’d like to know what?”

  “You Saw the country, and if you’re just half as smart as I think you are, you committed it to memory. You know where good water is now. You found some box canyons and now know to stay out of them. You found good places to bed down for the night. You found where outlaws might hole up. You know where good river and stream crossings are located. And you saw some of the most beautiful country in all the world.”

  Slowly, a smile crinkled the marshal’s mouth.

  “Yes. You’re right on all counts, Smoke.” He peered over the rim of his coffee cup at the new gold badge on Smoke’s chest. “Say, now. Where did that come from?”

  Smoke told him of Sheriff Silva’s visit.

  “The sheriff checks out as a good, honest lawman. He’s a rancher that got caught up in the market bust years back and turned to police work. His ranch rebounded, but he was hooked on police work by that time, and the people of the county like him. He earns enough money from both vocations to insure he can’t be bought."

  “Find out anything about Luttie Charles?”

  “A few things. The people around here don’t like him and don’t trust him. He says he came here from Texas, but people doubt that. Oklahoma Territory seems to be the general consensus. Early on he let it slip that he’s fairly knowledgeable about that part of the country.”

  “So why would he lie about it?”

  “You know the answer to that as well as I do. He’s hiding something in his past. But he could be running away from a wife. It’s certainly happened to other men.”

  “With Luttie, it’s more like a rope he’s running from.”

  “Agreed. But proving it is another matter. I have feelers out. It’ll take some time.”

  “You’d better get some rest. You look like you’re all in.”

  “Yes. I'll see you in the morning.”

  Smoke did some paper work then locked up the office and stepped out into the gathering dusk of evening. He began his walking of the settlement’s streets. That didn’t take long, and he headed for Bonnie’s Cafe for a cup of coffee.

  Movement at the edge of town stopped him. Smoke stepped into a weed-grown space between the empty bank building and the general store and waited.

  There it was again. But at this distance, he couldn’t tell if the movement was human or animal. He removed his spurs and put them in his pocket while he waited and watched, not staring directly at the mysterious shape, for some people can sense being watched. The form began to take shape as it drew nearer, staying in the shadows. It was a man, no doubt about that, and moving slowly and furtively.

  The man ducked down the far side of Bonnie’s Cafe, and Smoke took that time to run silently across the street and into the alley that ran between the combination saddle shop/gunsmith building and the saloon.

  Staying close to the building, but not brushing against it, he pulled iron and eased the hammer back just as the man stepped into the rear of the alley.

  Smoke dropped down to one knee and said, “You looking for someone, partner?”

  The man fired, the muzzle blast stabbing the darkness with a lance of flame. The bullet slammed into the building, a foot above Smoke’s head.

  Smoke let the hammer down, and his slug brought a scream of pain and doubled the man over. A rifle barked from across the street, and that slug howled past Smoke’s head. Smoke flattened on the ground and rolled under the building, hoping a rattlesnake was not under there and irritated at being disturbed.

  The rifle barked again, just as lamps were turned up in the homes and businesses of the settlement.

  “Goddamnit, Jesse!” the man Smoke had shot screamed. “You done killed me!” He moaned once and said no more.

  Running footsteps reached Smoke, followed by the sounds of galloping hooves. He rolled out from under the building just as Mills and his men came running out of the saloon, in various stages of dress, or undress. Mills had jerked on his high—top boots, not laced up, and put on his hat. He was dressed in hat, boots, and long-handles.

  “Bring a lamp over here,” Smoke called. “One’s down in the alley.”

  “Don King,” the barber said, as the dead man was rolled over into his back. “Rides for Luttie Charles.”

  “He don’t no more,” Bonnie said, peering over the man’s shoulder.

  “I heard him yell that someone named Jesse shot him,” Mills said.

  “He put the second slug in him,” Smoke said. He looked at the barber. “You act as the undertaker?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Smoke. I do a right nice job, too, if I do say so myself.”

  “Leastwise, he ain’t never had no customers complain,” Bonnie said.

  “Stretch him out in your place, then,” Smoke told the man. “It’s cool enough so he’ll keep for a day.

  Mills, you and me will take a ride out to break the sad news to Luttie Charles first thing in the morning.”

  “I’ll be up at five.”

  They left before dawn and were on Seven Slash range as the sun was chasing away the last of the shadows of night. They stopped at a wooden, hand-painted sign nailed to a tree.

  TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT

  “Certainly gives a person a warm feeling of being wanted, doesn’t it?” Mills said drily.

  Smoke laughed. Despite their differences of opinion concerning law and order, he liked the federal marshal. He was looking forward to seeing the man get into action. He had a hunch Mills would be hard to handle if you made him mad.

  Mills
shifted his badge to the front of his coat. “So they’ll be sure to see it,” he said.

  “Makes a dandy target,” Smoke told him. “Might stop a bullet if it was fired from a far enough distance.”

  “You’re so full of good cheer early in the morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Just hold it right there, boys,” the voice came from behind them. “And keep them hands in sight.”

  “I’m a United States Marshal,” Mills said, without looking around. “And this is Deputy Jensen. I have six of my men fifteen minutes behind us . . ."

  Pretty good liar, Smoke thought. Quick, too.

  “. . . Cease and desist and come forward.”

  “Do what?”

  “Get your butt around here so’s we can see you,” Smoke made it plainer.

  “I don’t take orders from you.”

  “You think you can get both of us?” Smoke asked. “If you do, you’re a fool.”

  ‘just sit your saddles.” The man walked around to face them.

  “Now you’ve seen me,” Smoke told him. “If you ever again put iron on me, I’ll kill you. Now put that rifle away.”

  “Just pointing that weapon at me could mean prison for you,” Mills told him.

  “All right, all right!” the hardcase said, lowering the muzzle. “I’m just following orders from the boss. What do you want here?”

  “To see your boss,” Smoke told him. “Let’s go.”

  “He ain’t up yet. He don’t get up ’til eight. Likes to work at night.”

  Smoke smiled.

  ‘Jesus Christ!” Luttie hollered, as Smoke grabbed him by the ankle and dragged him out of bed. “What the hell’s goin’ on here?” Luttie’s butt bounced on the floor, and he came up in his long johns swinging both fists.

  Smoke staggered him with one punch, grabbed him by the neck and the back-flap and threw him down the stairs of the two story ranch house.

  “Your approach to law and order is quite novel, to say the least,” Mills observed.

  “It gets their attention,” Smoke told him, as they walked down the stairs to stand over a dazed and befuddled Luttie.

  Smoke tossed Don King’s personal effects to the floor. “Those belong to one of your hands. He tried to kill me last night. Somebody named Jesse shot him after I did. Get Jesse out here and do it now.”