Ambush of the Mountain Man Read online

  “Well, my friend, from what you’ve told me,” Louis observed dryly, “it’s your own fault she feels like she has to lose weight.”

  “I know, I know,” Smoke said. “Why couldn’t I keep my big mouth shut?” He looked around, seeking support. “I was just teasing. Hell, Sally isn’t fat. In fact, she’s trim compared to most other women her age.”

  Louis laughed and shook his head while holding up his hand. “Now hold on, Smoke boy. Don’t tread on that snake.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A woman is even more concerned with age than with weight, so don’t ever say “a woman of your age’ to Sally.”

  The men at the table all laughed at this, realizing Louis was correct. “In fact,” Louis added, “were you to make such a grievous mistake, I predict you’d not only not be eating, you’d not be doing anything else with Sally for quite some time, if you get my drift.”

  Smoke nodded. “Yeah, I know. Sleeping in the bunkhouse. Wouldn’t be the first time either.

  Andre interrupted the banter. “Monsieur Smoke, I will gladly make up a series of box lunches for you and the boys. You can send Cal or Pearlie into town every few days, and they can take them out to the Sugarloaf where you can sneak into the bunkhouse for a snack whenever you get to feeling weak from lack of sustenance.”

  Smoke was about to reply when he noticed a tall, heavyset man at the bar watching him while trying not to show it. Years of living as a fugitive from some untrue wanted posters had taught Smoke to listen to his instincts, and they were screaming at him to be careful of this man.

  While the others at the table gave Andre their orders, Smoke leaned back in his chair, extended his right leg under the table, and unhooked the rawhide hammer thong on his right-hand Colt.

  Whenever he glanced in the cowboy’s direction, he noticed the man was sweating up a storm, though the temperature in the saloon was mild and cool.

  Uh-huh, Smoke thought to himself, he’s definitely up to something. Probably trying to get up the nerve to come over here and call me out. He’d seen this kind of behavior before, mainly when some young buck had bragged to his friends that he could take the famous gunfighter Smoke Jensen and then they’d had the effrontery to call him on it.

  They usually sweated like a pig until they finally either got up the nerve to actually try their hand, or ran out in the alley and puked their guts out. He hoped this man was a puker instead of a caller. He had no desire to kill anyone today, especially someone he didn’t even know.

  While Cal and Pearlie and Louis reminisced over some of their adventures of the previous six months in Canada, Smoke kept his attention riveted on the man at the bar, but he did it so the man didn’t know he’d been seen.

  The other thing Smoke noticed that made him even more certain the cowhand was up to something was the fact that the man nursed one beer for almost thirty minutes, not ordering another but not leaving the bar either. In Smoke’s experience, men at a bar either drank continually or they left. They didn’t stand around sneaking looks while they sipped a beer until it was warm and flat.

  Once the meal was served, Louis, who was almost as experienced in the ways of the gun as Smoke was, leaned over and said in a low voice, “What is going on, my friend?”

  Smoke raised his eyebrows as he cut into the incredibly juicy and tender steak Andre had prepared. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice innocent.

  Louis smiled, though there wasn’t a lot of mirth in it. “I’ve been watching the man at the bar, and he seems inordinately interested in you and what you’re doing. Do you recognize him—perhaps someone you’ve come across before or someone who perhaps has a grudge against you for some reason or other?”

  Smoke shook his head. “No, not that that means much. He could be a relative of someone I’ve had trouble with, or he could be a young gun looking to get a reputation the quick way. I just don’t know.”

  Louis shook his head. “No, I don’t think he’s a gunny. He has the look of a working cowboy to me, not someone who’s riding the owlhoot trail.” Louis reached across the table to get the silver coffeepot, and used the act of refilling his coffee cup to observe the man better.

  “In fact,” Louis said as he took a drink of his coffee, “his gun is old and worn and his boots are dirty. This man is no gunslick out to make a name for himself. He doesn’t dress well enough.”

  “Yeah, I know. I agree,” Smoke said, “but he’s sure as hell on the prod for me, for whatever reason.”

  Louis leaned back and pulled a long, black cigar from his coat pocket. As he put a match to it, he looked over the glowing tip at Smoke. “Well, what are you going to do about this impasse we find ourselves in, partner? You’re not going to let him pick the time and place, are you?”

  Smoke smiled at Louis. “No, you’re right, Louis. That wouldn’t be very smart.”

  Since he didn’t know if the man had friends waiting outside, Smoke looked around the table until he had Cal and Pearlie’s attention. “Boys,” he said in a low voice while keeping his expression bland and innocent, “keep your gun hands empty and keep a watch on the door for me. There’s a gent over at the bar that’s been eyeing me and I’m going over to have a talk with him. Watch my back in case he’s got friends outside.”

  Cal and Pearlie nodded. “You got it, Boss,” Pearlie said, letting his hand drift down to release his hammer thong while he continued to stuff his face using his left hand.

  Smoke took a final sip of coffee and got up from the table. Before the man at the bar could move, Smoke turned and walked directly toward him.

  As he approached, Smoke noticed sweat dripping from under the man’s hat and running down the sides of his face. When he dropped his gaze to the man’s right hand, he saw it had a fine tremor in it. The man was definitely on edge, and Smoke knew such men, though rarely effective, were still extremely dangerous because one never knew what they were going to do.

  Smoke walked up and stood at the bar next to the man, facing forward with his elbows on the bar and his chin in his hand while he watched him in the mirror behind the bar.

  “What do you want?” the man asked, his voice hoarse and gruff, his legs fidgety as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and wiped sweat off his brow.

  “Well, now, that’s exactly the question I was fixing to ask you, friend,” Smoke said, keeping his voice friendly while turning slightly so he was facing the man.

  “Why . . . uh . . . what do you mean by that?”

  Smoke smiled gently, his eyes interested but showing no animosity or anger. “You’ve been watching me for the past half hour, and you’re sweating like a racehorse, so I thought I’d just end the suspense and come over here and introduce myself. I’m Smoke Jensen.”

  The man scowled. “I know who you are, Jensen,” he growled as he picked up his warm beer and drained the mug.

  “Do you have some business with me?” Smoke asked in a level voice, with no trace of challenge or fear.

  “I don’t do business with killers and murderers,” the man said.

  Smoke shrugged. “Well, I have to admit, I’ve killed some men in my day, though I’ve never murdered anyone, and those I’ve killed have all tried to kill me first.”

  “That’s a lie!”

  Smoke’s face flushed. He didn’t ordinarily let someone talk to him like this, but he wanted to find out what the man’s beef was.

  “Now ordinarily, friend, a man who spoke to me in that tone and with those words would either be flat on his back with a busted jaw, or he’d be bleeding all over the floor,” Smoke said evenly, trying to control his temper. “However, you’ve obviously got something weighing heavily on your mind that concerns me, so I’ll hold off on taking any offense for now. You want to tell me what you got stuck in your craw, Mister . . . uh . . . I didn’t get your name?”

  The man reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a couple of coins and threw them on the bar. “Not yet, Jensen, but when I’m ready, you’ll know
. And the name’s Macklin, Daniel Macklin.”

  Smoke sighed and stepped away from the bar. “Well, we can settle this right now, if that’s what you really want,” he said, his eyes flat and hard. His hands hung loose by his thighs, his expression expectant.

  Macklin’s eyes strayed to the table across the room, where Cal and Pearlie and Louis all sat watching the show.

  “Yeah, with your friends over there all set to gun me down if I make a play. No, thanks.”

  “My friends won’t interfere if it’s a fair fight,” Smoke said, his eyes never leaving Macklin’s.

  Macklin sneered. “That’s not the way I hear it, Jensen. In fact, I hear they usually take a hand and join right in when you kill someone.”

  Smoke frowned. He had no idea what this Macklin was talking about. “Mister, I don’t know what you’re getting at or where you get your information, but I’m telling you flat out that’s a lie, and I’m willing to back my words up any way you choose.” Smoke waited just a beat. “Are you?”

  Macklin let his hand drop to his side, and before he could blink, Smoke’s Colt was in his hand, cocked, and pointing at his chest from a distance of two inches.

  Macklin’s face turned pale and he took a step back. He’d never seen anything like it. He hadn’t even seen Jensen’s hand move before it was holding a gun.

  Macklin slowly raised his hands. “You gonna shoot me down in cold blood too, Jensen?” he managed to croak through a throat that was suddenly very dry.

  Smoke shook his head and holstered his gun. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Macklin turned and walked away, saying over his shoulder, “Well, I’ll be sure and remind you next time we meet.”

  Smoke watched him leave the saloon, and then he went back to the table and took his seat.

  “You find out what he wanted?” Louis asked.

  Smoke shook his head. “No, but he’s got a powerful hate for me going on. Seems to think me and my friends shot someone close to him down in cold blood.”

  “Where’d he get that crazy idea?” Cal asked.

  Smoke shrugged. “He wouldn’t say.”

  “You don’t think it’s about that fracas we had up in Canada, do you?” Louis asked.

  Smoke shook his head. “No, I don’t see how anyone could think we were the aggressors in that fight.”

  “Well, like you say, he’s got a powerful hate on,” Pearlie said, glancing at the batwings. “I could see it in his eyes.”

  “Yeah,” Cal added, a worried look on his face as he stared at the batwings the man had just pushed through. “I’d sure watch my back if I was you, Smoke. A man as pissed off as that man is ain’t gonna think twice ‘bout shooting you in the back.”

  TEN

  Carl Jacoby, who was watching the doorway to Longmont’s Saloon from an alley down the street, was astonished when Dan Macklin walked hurriedly out of the batwings, jumped on his horse, and hightailed it around the far corner onto a back street leading to their hotel. His back was stiff and he didn’t even glance behind him as he rode away like his pants were on fire.

  Carl had been expecting some fireworks from Macklin, but he hadn’t heard any gunshots and there didn’t seem to be a crowd forming or anyone coming out of the door looking for Macklin. Couldn’t have been much of a gunfight with this little a reaction.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered to himself as he turned and walked quickly up the alley toward the hotel’s back entrance, hoping to find Macklin and find out what had gone on in the saloon. He could tell something had happened from the way Macklin looked as he rode down the street, but he couldn’t imagine what it could be.

  When he got to the rear of the hotel, he saw Macklin’s horse tied to a hitching rail there and the back door partially open.

  He went inside, and stopped as he passed the doorway to the hotel bar when he saw Macklin standing at the bar with a bottle of whiskey in front of him and a glass to his lips.

  Jacoby moved next to him at the bar, noticing his face was flushed and he was covered with sweat. His hand holding the glass was shaking so much that Jacoby was afraid Macklin would spill it all over himself if he tried to drink from it.

  Without speaking, Jacoby took the whiskey bottle, poured himself a small drink, and stood there as he sipped, waiting for Macklin to speak and wondering just what the hell had happened to shake his friend up so.

  After a moment, and after he’d slugged down another drink, without spilling too much, Macklin turned toward Jacoby and leaned his elbow on the bar. “Carl, you were right ‘bout Jensen.” He shook his head. “I ain’t seen nothin’ like it in all my born days.”

  “What happened in there, Mac?” Jacoby asked, wondering how Macklin had been able to see Jensen’s draw since he hadn’t heard any gunfire.

  Macklin poured himself another drink, but this time he sipped it instead of swallowing it down in one gulp. “I think the man must have eyes in the back of his head. I followed him and his friends into the saloon, and I took up a station at the bar and commenced to drink me a beer while I kept a look on him out of the corner of my eye. He must’ve noticed me watchin’ him or something, ‘cause he come over to the bar where I was standin’ and he braced me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He asked me what was it I wanted. When I didn’t exactly answer his question and I accidentally let my right hand move toward my gun, he drew his pistol.”

  Jacoby let his lips curl in a small smile, knowing what was coming next. “Pretty fast, huh?”

  “Fast ain’t exactly the word I’d use, Carl. More like lightning, I think. One second I was looking in his eyes, as cold and black as a snake’s, an’ the next second his hand was full of iron and I was staring down the barrel of a Colt—and the thing is, I didn’t even see his hand move.” He took another sip of whiskey, his hand more stable now.

  “You know how when you’re facing somebody an’ they’re fixin’ to draw, you can usually see a twitch of their arm muscle or a shift in their eyes ‘fore they hook and draw?” he asked, his face pale.

  Jacoby nodded. He knew what Mac meant. There was almost always some telltale sign before a man committed himself in a gunfight. Knowing this and recognizing it was what gave professional gunfighters the edge in such contests.

  “Well,” Macklin continued, “there was nothing about Jensen that even hinted he was going for his gun. One minute he’s looking me in the eye, just talking as natural as you please, and the next he’s somehow got a gun in his hand stuck against my chest and his eyes are hard and black as flint.”

  Jacoby’s eyes narrowed. “And he didn’t threaten you or hit you or anything like that after he drew his pistol and had the drop on you?”

  Macklin shrugged, dropping his gaze to stare into his whiskey. “Who needs to threaten when you can draw a six-killer like that?”

  “But Mac,” Jacoby said earnestly, “can’t you see what I’ve been trying to tell you? Jensen ain’t no cold-blooded killer. He had the drop on you in front of his friends. If he was a showboat or looking to impress ‘em, he could’ve pistol-whipped you or even shot you down. Hell, this is his town. No one would’ve blamed him. But he didn’t.”

  Macklin’s expression became thoughtful. “No, he didn’t, an’ you’re right. There wasn’t nothin’ I could do to stop him from doing whatever he wanted to.”

  Jacoby turned back to the bar and downed the rest of the whiskey in his glass. “Maybe we’d better try and talk some sense into Sarah, or at least get her to hold off until we can figure out what we got to do.”

  Macklin smirked and drained his glass in one long swallow. “Hell, there ain’t no need in worryin’ ourselves over that, Carl, my friend. Old Man MacDougal wants Jensen dead, an’ so does his daughter Sarah. As far as them two are concerned, once they’ve made up their minds on something, it’s as good as gold.”

  “But maybe we can convince them they’re wrong about him,” Jacoby argued.

  Mackl
in laughed. “You ever try to tell Sarah anything she didn’t want to hear, boy?”

  Jacoby nodded. “Yeah, I see what you mean. She is a mite stubborn at times.”

  “No, Carl. A mule is a “mite’ stubborn. Sarah is full-on-all-the-time stubborn.”

  “So, what are we gonna do?”

  Macklin sighed. “I guess we got to do like you say and at least try to make her see reason.” He chuckled. “Hell, worst she can do is chew our ears off.”

  “Maybe if we get her to hold off for a while and to watch how Jensen operates around town. Maybe she’ll start to see that he ain’t exactly the monster she thinks he is.”

  “I still think we’re whistlin’ in our hats, but like you say, it won’t hurt to try and talk some reason into her, though the words reason and woman don’t ordinarily belong together.”

  Macklin headed on over to the café while Carl walked to the general store down the street. Once inside, he caught Sarah’s eye, mouthed the words “Sunset Café,” and then left, hoping she’d understand that he needed to talk to her.

  Sarah waited until Carl had been gone for a few minutes and then she went over to Peg Jackson, who was stocking a shelf in the rear of the store.

  “Peg,” she said, “I’m going to go over to the Sunset Café and get some coffee. I’m a little sleepy today and I need something to pick me up. Would you like for me to bring you back a cup?”

  “That would be delightful, Sarah, and could you also get me a piece of one of those sweet cakes they make so well over there?”

  “Certainly,” Sarah said, and she took off her apron and walked down the block and around the corner to the café.

  Carl and Dan were sitting in a corner booth toward the back away from any windows. Macklin didn’t want to be seen with Sarah now that he’d managed to arouse Jensen’s suspicions.