Guns of the Mountain Man Read online

  “Why, uh, we was lookin’ fer Smoke Jensen.”

  Smoke sighed, shaking his head. “I am Smoke Jensen, you fool. Now you found me, what do you want?”

  Hampton’s eyes shifted rapidly back and forth from Cal to Smoke. “You can’t hardly be Smoke Jensen. You’re too danged young. Jensen’s been out here in the mountains killing people for nigh on ten, fifteen years.”

  “I started young.” He drew his .44 and eared the hammer back, the sear notches making a loud click. “And I’m not used to asking questions more than once.”

  Hampton held up his hands. “Uh, look Mr. Jensen, it was all Larry’s idea. He said some gunhawk gave him two hundred dollars to come up here and kill you.” He started speaking faster at the look on Smoke’s face. “He said he’d share it with we’uns if we’d back his play.”

  “What was this gunhawk’s name?”

  Hampton shook his head. “I don’t know. Larry never told us.”

  Smoke looked at Hampton over the sights of his .44. “You sold your life cheap, mister.”

  Cal cried out, “Smoke! No!”

  Smoke lowered his gun, sighing. “Cal’s right. I’ve gone this long without ever killing an unarmed man. No need to change now, even though you sorely need it.” He stopped talking, an odd expression on his face. He sniffed a couple of times, then looked at Hampton through narrowed eyes. “That smell coming from you, mister?”

  Hampton’s face flared red and he looked down. “Uh, yes sir. My bowels kinda let loose when you cocked that big pistol of yours.”

  Pearlie let out a guffaw. “Hell, Smoke. You don’t want to kill this ‘un. Let him go, and if he’s any kind of man he’ll die of shame ’fore the day’s over.”

  Smoke holstered his gun and turned to walk away. Cal nodded at Hampton. “Get out of here while the gettin’s good.”

  As Hampton stepped in his saddle and took off looking for a hole, Pearlie called out, “And you can tell your kids you once looked over the barrel of a gun at Smoke Jensen and lived to tell about it. Damn few men can say that!”

  Later that afternoon, Smoke was halfway to Big Rock when Horse began to act up. First the horse snorted, pricked his ears and looked back toward Smoke with eyes wide. Smoke had been lost in thought about who might be gunning for him, letting Horse find his own way to town. He came fully awake and alert when the animal began to nicker softly.

  Leaning forward in the saddle, he patted Horse’s neck and whispered, “Thanks, old friend. I hear you.” Mountain-bred ponies were better than guard dogs when it came to sensing danger. Smoke shook his head, thinking Preacher would be disgusted with him. If there was one thing the old mountain man had stressed it was that the mountains were a dangerous world, and not to be taken lightly. Riding around with your head in the clouds, especially when you knew someone was trying to nail your hide to the wall, was downright stupid, if not suicidal.

  Smoke slipped the hammer thongs from his Colts, then put his hand on the butt of the Henry rifle in the scabbard next to his saddle and shook it a little to make sure it was loose and ready to be pulled.

  He tugged gently on the reins to slow Horse from a trot to a walk and settled back in the saddle, hands hanging next to his pistols.

  Even with his precautions, he was surprised when a man jumped out of the brush into the middle of the trail in front of him. It was George Hampton, and he was pointing a Colt Navy pistol at Smoke.

  “Get down off that horse, you bastard.”

  Smoke spread his hands wide and swung his leg over the cantle and dropped, cat-like, to the ground. “Hampton, I thought you’d be halfway home by now.”

  “I ain’t gonna go home ’til I’ve put a bullet between the eyes of the famous Smoke Jensen.”

  Smoke glanced at the revolver Hampton was holding, smiled, and shook his head. “Hampton, I really don’t want to kill you. Why don’t you just put that gun down and head on home?” He spread his hands wider, stepping closer to him. “And just where is your home, anyway? You never got around to telling me yesterday.”

  Hampton licked his lips, the gun trembling a little in his hand. “Just keep yore distance, Jensen. I’ll admit I ain’t no expert with the six-gun like you are, but I can’t hardly miss at this distance.”

  Smoke kept his hands in front of him. “Okay, okay, don’t get nervous. I’ll stay back. But it seems to me a man ought’a know just why he’s bein’ killed.”

  Hampton nodded. “Well, yore right. I can see the justice in that, ’cept I don’t rightly know. Larry, the man you kilt, he made me and the other boys the offer down on the Rio Bravo in Texas. Seems that gunhawk met him in a saloon in Laredo, and told him he wanted you dead in the worst way . . . somethin’ about how you had humiliated him a while back, and he wanted you in the ground because of it.”

  Smoke’s eyes narrowed and turned slate gray. “So you and the other boys decided to pick up some easy money on the owlhoot trail, huh?”

  Sweat was beading on Hampton’s forehead in spite of the cool mountain air. “Naw, it wasn’t like that. We’re just cowboys, not gunslicks. There’s an outbreak of Mexican fever in the cattle down Texas way, and there ain’t much work for wranglers, leastways not unless you’re hooked up with one of the big spreads.” He shook his head, gun barrel dropping a little. “Hell, it was this or learn to eat dirt.”

  Smoke relaxed, his muscles loosening. “I’ll tell you what, Hampton. There’s always work for an honest cowboy in the high country. If you’re willing to give an honest day’s labor, you’ll get an honest day’s pay.”

  The pistol came back up and Hampton scowled. “Yore just sayin’ that cause I got the drop on you.”

  Smoke smiled. Then, quick as a rattlesnake’s strike he reached out and grabbed Hampton’s gun while drawing his own Colt .44 and sticking the barrel under Hampton’s nose. “No, George, you’re wrong. You never had the drop on me.” He nodded at Hampton’s pistol. “That there is a Colt Navy model, a single action revolver. You have to cock the hammer ’fore it’ll shoot, and I can draw and fire twice before you can cock that pistol.”

  Hampton’s shoulders slumped and he let go of his gun and raised his hands. “Okay, Jensen, it’s yore play.”

  Smoke holstered his Colt and handed the other one back to Hampton. “I told you, George, you got two choices. You can get on that pony there and head on back to Texas, or I can give you a note and send you up to one of the spreads hereabouts and you can start working and feeling like a man again. It’s all up to you.”

  Hampton looked down at his worn and shabby boots and britches, then back to Smoke. “That’s no choice, Mr. Jensen. You give me that note and I promise I’ll not make you sorry you trusted me.”

  Smoke walked to Horse and took a scrap of paper and a pencil stub out of his saddlebags. After a moment, he handed the paper to Hampton. “Take this note to the next place you see up to the north of mine. It belongs to the Norths. They can always use an extra hand, and Johnny pays fair wages.”

  Hampton held out his hand. “I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Jensen, but . . . thanks.”

  Smoke grinned, knowing Hampton was a friend for life. In the rough-hewn country of the West, favors, or slights, were not soon forgotten. Help a man who was down on his luck, and he was honor-bound to repay you, even at the cost of his life if it came to that . . .5

  9

  Smoke and Pearlie found Johnny North just where Belle said he would be. He was bending over a tied-down calf with a branding iron in his hand while two of his men held the struggling animal down.

  After the red-hot iron seared the North brand into the calf, sending smoke smelling of burned flesh into the air, Johnny stepped back and sleeved sweat off his forehead.

  One of his men pointed over his shoulder and he looked, smiling widely when he saw Smoke and Pearlie approaching.

  “You boys keep on workin’. I’m gonna take a short break an’ talk to Smoke,” he said, handing the still smoking iron to his foreman.

  He wal
ked over to the campfire nearby and squatted, pouring three mugs of coffee as Smoke and Pearlie got down off their horses.

  “You men look like you could use some cafécito,” Johnny said.

  “Thanks, Johnny,” Smoke said, taking a cup.

  “Much obliged,” Pearlie said, nodding his hello.

  Johnny took a sack of Bull Durham out of his shirt pocket and began to build a cigarette. “What brings you boys way out here on a workday?”

  “Cal was shot a couple of weeks back while working on the Sugarloaf,” Smoke said.

  “Damn!” Johnny exclaimed. “Is he gonna be all right?”

  “Looks like he’s going to make it.”

  “Who did it? Somebody local?”

  Smoke shook his head. “No. Cal says there were about twenty men, give or take. He shot two before they got him. I was wondering if you or any of your hands had seen anything of a bunch like that lately.”

  Johnny stuck the cigarette in his mouth and lighted it, shaking his head. “Not that I’ve heard of. I’ll ask around to make sure, but I’m certain they’d’ve mentioned it if they’d seen a group of men that big.”

  Smoke finished his coffee and put the cup next to the fire. “Well, ride with your guns loose, partner. These are bad men, and they’re up to no good if they’re still around. Tell Belle to be careful too, all right?”

  “Sure thing, Smoke. I’ll keep an eye out. Thanks for the warning.”

  “Oh, and congratulations on George and Velvet’s engagement. We’re all mighty proud of her around here.”

  “Thanks, Smoke. I’ll tell her and George both you said hi.”

  Smoke and Pearlie got on their horses and rode toward the next ranch, hoping to find some sign Cain and his men had been spotted....

  * * *

  Back in Fontana, Lazarus turned to Walter Blackwell. “Walt, tell us what happened out there after Floyd was shot and you and Bloody Bill and the others rode off.”

  Walter nodded and leaned forward, his elbows on the table as he started to talk....

  * * *

  Four men sat huddled around a small fire, deep within a rock cavern with curious, glistening walls of solid alabaster. Bloody Bill Anderson was chewing a mouthful of jerky, washing it down with whiskey. Deeper into the cave, their horses and pack animals were hobbled and fed what little grain the gang had left in towsacks. Bags of money lay near the fire, and piles of currency, along with gleaming gold and silver coins, were stacked in neat rows. Bill watched Walter Blackwell count the money.

  “More’n forty thousand so far, Bill,” said Walter, a quiet, retiring man who was a remarkably good shot with a pistol.

  “We’re rich,” Bill said, cocking an ear toward the entrance where Buster, Billy Riley, and Cletus Miller were standing guard. “Best of all, we gave that sneaky bastard the slip, so our troubles’re over. He’ll never find us here. Hell, the cavalry an’ dozens of U.S. Marshals from Fort Smith’ve been ridin’ past these caves for years. Hardly nobody knows they’re here. We lay low for a little while, maybe five or six weeks, an’ then we ride out free as birds.” He gave Walter a stare. “Keep on countin’. You ain’t hardly more’n half done. There’s gonna be sixty thousand dollars, way I figure.”

  Tad Younger, the cousin of Cole and his famous outlaw bunch, was frowning. “Sure do hope whoever’s been behind us don’t show up. He’s made a habit out of showin’ up when he ain’t supposed to.”

  Bill wagged his head. “We lost him. Can’t no Indian or white man find a horse’s tracks where we just rode. Slabs of rock don’t leave no horse sign.”

  “Here’s ten thousand more,” Walter said, adding a stack of banknotes to the counted money.

  Bill grinned. “Maybe there’s gonna be seventy thousand, after all—” He abruptly ended his remark when a series of loud explosions came from the mouth of the cave.

  Bill leapt to his feet, clawing both six-guns out of his holsters, shattering the bottle of whiskey he’d been holding.

  A scream of agony came from the tunnel, followed by a much louder bellowing string of cusswords in Buster Young’s voice.

  Bill took off in a run for the entrance, leveling his pistols in front of him, almost tripping in the dark. Then two more heavy gun blasts sounded, and he recognized Cletus Miller’s cry of pain.

  Racing up to the opening, caught in a wild fury beyond his control when he knew the man who’d been tracking them had showed up at the cave in spite of all his precautions, he stopped when he saw three dark shapes lying behind a pile of boulders where his guards had been hiding. Big Buster Young was writhing and rocking back and forth, holding his belly, gasping for air, his face twisted in a grimace.

  Billy Riley lay facedown on the rocks in a pool of blood, and he wasn’t moving. Cletus sat against a big stone, a shotgun resting on his lap, arms dangling limply at his sides while his mouth hung open, drooling blood on his shirt.

  And when Bill saw this—all three of his men dead or dying from three, well-placed shots—he tasted fear for the first time in his life. Gazing out at the darkness, where only dim light from the stars showed any detail of his surroundings, something inside him stirred—a knot of terror forming in his chest that had never been there before. And he noticed that the hands holding his pistols were shaking so much he knew his aim would be way off target . . . if he could find anything to shoot at.

  “Come on out, Anderson!” a deep voice shouted. “Got you cornered! There ain’t gonna be no escape!”

  Bill crouched down. In spite of the night chill, sweat poured from his hatband into his eyes. “You’re gonna have to kill us!” he yelled back. “You ain’t takin’ none of us alive!”

  “Suits the hell outta me!” the voice answered.

  Bill heard soft footsteps coming up behind him. He didn’t bother to turn around to see who it was. “Get your rifles,” he said in a whisper. “We’ll gather up the money an’ shoot our way out of here.”

  “He’ll kill us!” Walter Blackwell said.

  “Like hell he will,” Bill snapped. “Just do like I say, an’ get rifles ready. Tell the others to saddle our horses an’ put the money on them packsaddles.”

  Walter, always soft-spoken, said, “I’ve never disobeyed an order from you, Bill, but this is different. It’ll be like we killed ourselves if we try to ride out. Whoever that feller is, he don’t miss.”

  Bill’s fear turned to anger. “Shut the hell up, Walter, an’ do what I ordered!”

  “I won’t do it,” Walter said very quietly.

  Bill turned an angry glance over his shoulder, staring up at Walter’s dark shape standing right behind him. “You what?” he demanded.

  Bill heard a soft click while Walter spoke. “I won’t let you get the rest of us killed,” he whispered.

  The sudden realization of what Walter meant to do struck Bill Anderson a split second before the hammer fell on a Mason Colt .44/.40 conversion. A roar filled the cave mouth, and then Bill’s ears, when it felt as if a sledgehammer had hit him squarely in the middle of his forehead.

  He was slammed against a cavern wall, with his ears ringing, until the noise made by the gunshot died away. He stood there, leaning against the wall with blood streaming down his face and into his eyes for a moment. Then he slumped limply to the ground. . . .6

  * * *

  Lazarus leaned back in his chair, his eyes hard. “So, you shot Bill, huh?”

  “That’s right. He didn’t leave me no choice in the matter,” Walter said quietly.

  “What happened next?”

  Walter shrugged. “We gave ourselves up. Smoke Jensen took us and the money back to Dodge City and turned us over to Marshal Earp.”

  Lazarus looked skeptical. “You mean Jensen had the drop on you men, and there was over seventy thousand dollars on those packhorses?”

  “That’s right.”

  “A man’d have to be crazy to pass up a fortune like that when all he had to do was finish you boys off and no one would ever know he’d take
n it,” Lazarus said, staring at Walter.

  Walter shook his head, a small smile on his face. “Jensen ain’t like no ordinary man. Money don’t seem to mean nothin’ to him.”

  “I need to find out more about this man if we’re gonna go up against him,” Lazarus said.

  He glanced at the table where some of his men were sitting, drinking whiskey and playing poker.

  “Pig Iron, you and Curly Joe come on over here. I got a job for you to do.”

  When they got to his table, Lazarus said, “I want you two to ride on over to Big Rock an’ get the lay of the land. See what the people are sayin’ ’bout that runt we killed, and see if you can size up Smoke Jensen. I want to know if he’s got as much sand as Walter and Floyd here say he does.”

  10

  As they rode into Big Rock, Curly Joe gave a low whistle. “Damn, Pig Iron, we been holed up in that ghost town so long I’ve almost forgot what a real town looks like.”

  Pig Iron nodded. “Yes. It’s kind’a nice to see people on the street instead of tumbleweeds.”

  When they came to a buckboard parked in front of the general store with a man loading sacks of flour in it, Curly Joe reined his horse to a halt.

  “Say, mister, you happen to know Smoke Jensen?”

  The man looked up with a smile. “Sure, everybody in Big Rock knows Smoke. Why?”

  “You know where he might be found?”

  “Well, if he’s in town he’s usually over at the sheriff’s office or at Longmont’s saloon.”

  “Thank you kindly,” Curly Joe said, tipping his hat as they rode on down the street.

  As they passed the sheriff’s office a man in the doorway, leaning against the wall drinking a cup of coffee, gave them a long look.

  “Appears the sheriff don’t much cotton to havin’ a pair of strangers ridin’ into town,” Curly Joe said with a grin, as if to show he didn’t much care what any hick town sheriff thought.

  Pig Iron nodded, but he wasn’t as carefree about it as Curly Joe. He realized from what the citizen back there had said that the sheriff and Jensen were good friends, and that was going to make it that much harder to try to take Jensen out—now or later.