Code of the Mountain Man (7 page)

“He's never going to change.”

“I know that,” Mills said. “It's a dreadful time we live in, Smoke.”

“It's going to get worse, Mills. Count on it. Now, then, what about Luttie?”

“We can't move against him on just the word of a common hoodlum. We've got to have some proof that he is, indeed, a part of this conspiracy. How about Greeny and Lebert and Augie? Have they agreed to talk?”

“You have to be kidding. Those are hardened criminals. They'll go to the grave with their mouths closed. They're not going to assist the hangman in their own executions.”

“When will the deputies and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police come for them?”

“They said as soon as possible. Probably in a week or so.”

“I've got to move the kid out of here and up to Sheriff Silva's jail. For safekeeping.”

“All right. Why not do that now and as soon as the kid is gone, I'll pull those three scumbags in from the tree.”

“I would hate for a supervisor to ride by and see them chained out there,” Winston said.

Smoke shook his head. “I'll be sure to take them some tea and cookies the first chance I get.”

* * *

At Smoke's insistence Mills sent four of his men out early the next morning, taking the kid to the county seat and to a better and more secure jail. They would be gone at least three days and possibly four.

Smoke took down all the sawed off double-barreled shotguns from the rack and passed them around. “Clean them up, boys, and load them up. Don't ever be too far away from one.”

“Are you expecting trouble?” Mills asked. “From whom and why?”

“Yes, I'm expecting trouble. From whom? Either Lee Slater or his brother ...”

“His assumed brother,” Mills corrected. “Yes. I see. They could not want the three we have here talking and implicating either of them. Now I see why you insisted on sending more men than I thought necessary to the county seat with Parsons. I thank you for your insistence, Smoke. Parsons would be the more likely of the four to crack – as he did.”

Smoke nodded his agreement as he loaded up the sawed-off with buckshot.

Winston hefted the shotgun shells in his hands. “These are heavy, too heavy for factory loads.”

“I had the gunsmith across the street load them for me. They're filled with broken nails and ball-bearings and whatever else he had on hand.” He looked first at Mills, then at Winston and Moss. “Any of you ever shot a man with a Greener?”

They shook their heads.

“Close in they'll cut a man in two. Makes a real mess. Fastest man in the world won't buck the odds of a sawed-off pointed at his belly.”

“You've shot men with these types of weapons?” Moss asked.

“I've shot men with muzzle-loaders, cap and ball, Sharps .52, .Navy .36 and Colt and Remington and Starr .44s and .45s. I've shot them with a Remington .41 over and under. I've used knives, tomahawks and chopping axes more than a time or two. If somebody was trying to kill me or mine, I'd drop him with a hot horseshoe if that was all I could find at the moment. Gentlemen, I just have to ask a question. You all have sidestepped it before, but level with me this time. Why in the hell did your superiors send you men out here?”

Mills cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable, and both Winston and Moss blushed.

Smoke waited.

“Truth time,” Winston muttered.

“Yes,” Mills said. “Quite. Smoke, we are all new to the West, and to its customs. Tenderfeet, as I've read. We've worked the cities and smaller Eastern towns, but never west of the Mississippi. The United States Marshal's office is being upgraded in manpower, and, well, while we are not amateurs in this business, we, ah ...”

Smoke held up a hand. “Let me finish it: you were sent out here to get bloodied?”

“That, ah, is a reasonably accurate assessment, yes.”

“Well, you might get that chance sooner than you think. Here comes Luttie with his whole damn crew!”

“Maybe they're coming in to put flowers on Don's grave?” Winston said.

Smoke turned to look at him. The man had a twinkle in his eye. Mills and Moss were both smiling. The U.S. Marshals were new to the West, and perhaps had not yet been bloodied in killing combat, but they had plenty of sand and gravel in them, and a sense of humor.

“I'm sure,” Smoke said, picking up the sawed-off shotgun. “Shall we step outside and greet the gentlemen?”

Luttie and Jake rode at the head of the column, and they both gave Smoke and the federal marshals curt nods, then turned toward the hitchrails at the saloon. They dismounted, looped the reins and walked into the barroom.

“I don't think they liked the sight of these shotguns,” Winston said.

“I'm sure they didn't,” Smoke said. He sat down on the bench in front of the office. Mills sat down beside him, Moss and Winston stood nearby.

“I wonder what they're up to,” Moss said.

“A show of force?” Mills questioned. “If so, what is the purpose? We rode right up into their lair the other day. They must know that we're not going to be intimidated.”

“I don't know whether any of them is that smart,” Smoke replied. “If I had to take a guess, I'd guess that this move is a diversion of some sorts.”

Mills was thoughtful for a moment. “Yes. I agree. Luttie and his Seven Slash bunch keeps our attention here, while the Slater gang strikes somewhere in the county. But where?”

“No where close, you can bet on that. Around Silver Mountain, maybe.” He shook his head. “And it could be that Slater's gang is going to hit the marshals escorting the kid ... maybe to shut the kid's mouth. Or they're coming in here to try to break their friends out of jail.”

“If that bunch hits my men in force, my people won't have a chance,” Mills said softly.

“I just hope I've impressed upon your people to shoot first and ask questions later,” Smoke said.

“You know they won't do that.”

“Then if Slater and his bunch hits them, they're at best wounded and at worst dead meat, Mills. I tried to impress upon you all that this is the West. I don't seem to be a very good teacher.”

He stood up and stepped off the boardwalk. Mills' voice stopped him. “Where are you going?”

“It's a warm day. A mug of cool beer would taste good right about now.”

“Step right into the lion's den, huh?”

“Might as well. We did pretty well in there the last time, didn't we?”

Mills smiled. “I should be ashamed of myself for saying this, but we damn sure did!”

“We miss all the fun,” Winston said glumly.

“Don't count on that continuing,” Smoke told him, as they stepped up to the batwings of the saloon. “Once inside, Mills and I will stay together. Moss, take the right end of the bar. Winston, you take the left. Don't turn your back completely on these ol' boys. We'll see how smart Luttie is. If he tries to brace us, we'll put what's left of the bunch in jail and keep them there.”

“What will we do with the rest of them?” Moss asked innocently.

Smoke looked at him. “Somebody will bury them.”

He pushed open the doors and stepped inside, walking to the bar, the others right behind him.

Luttie and his crew had spread out all over the table area of the saloon, and that told Smoke a lot. None of it good.

“Setup,” Mills mumbled.

“Yeah,” Smoke returned the whisper. “Glad you picked up on it.”

“What are you two love-birds a-whisperin' about?” a Seven Slash hand yelled.

“You reckon they're sweet on each other, Paul?” another said with a laugh.

“That'd be a sight to see, wouldn't it – them a-smoochin'.”

“Maybe we ought to see if they'd give us an advance showin'?”

“Now that there's a right good idea,” another said.

“Now, boys,” Luttie said, a strange smile on his lips. “You know I can't allow nothin' like that to take place. Them fellows is lawmen. They's to be respected. Besides, that's the famous Smoke Jensen yonder. He's supposed to be the fastest gun in all the West. You boys wouldn't want to brace the likes of him, now, would you?”

His crew – and the table area filled with them – all burst out laughing.

“I won't have no more of this, now, boys,” Luttie said. “Although I'm not too sure about me givin' you orders when you're on your own time. Might be some law agin that. What do you say about it, Mr. Fancy-Pants U.S. Marshal?”

“I would say that you don't have any authority to give orders when your hirelings are off the job,” he said stiffly.

“Hireling?” a cowboy said. “Ain't it a fancy title, though?”

“Not really,” Mills told him, a tight smile on his lips. “It means anyone who will follow another's orders for money – such as a thug or a mercenary.”

Smoke was half turned, his left side facing the crowded table area. “When he gets up, Mills,” he whispered, his lips just barely moving, “kill him.”

Mills shook his head minutely. “I can't do that, Smoke.”

The cowboy pushed back his chair. “Are you callin' me a thug, Whisde-Britches?”

“Get ready,” Smoke whispered. “Cock that Greener, Mills.”

“Actually, no,” Mills raised his voice. “I was merely explaining to you the dictionary definition of a hireling. If you take exception to my remark, then you must have a low opinion of yourself.”

“Huh?” the cowboy said.

“Charlie,” another hand said. “I think he done insulted you. But I ain't real sure.”

Luttie and Jake were staying out of it. Luttie had voiced his objections about his hands' needling any further, so in a court of law, he would be clear of any wrongdoing. But courts of law didn't impress Smoke Jensen. Six-gun action was much more to his liking.

“That remark of mine would only be taken as a blot on one's escutcheon if the party to whom it was directed was in actuality, a thug or mercenary,” Mills further confused the cowboy and most of his buddies, including his boss and the foreman.

“What'd he say?” Jake whispered to Luttie.

“Hell, don't ask me. Sounded dirty.”

“Gawddam, boy!” another Seven Slash hand said. “Cain't you talk English?”

“I was,” Mills responded.

“A blot on one's escutcheon comes from medieval times,” a man spoke from a corner table. Smoke cut his eyes. The man wore a dark suit with a white shirt and string tie. He'd seen him get off the stage earlier. “An escutcheon is a shield, upon which a coat of arms was painted. In other words, it means a stain on one's honor.”

“Who the hell are you?” Charlie demanded.

“No one who would associate with the likes of you,” the stranger said.

“Damn, Charlie,” a hand said. “I think the stranger done insulted you, too.”

“Now, look here,” Charlie said. “I'm gettin' tarred of being in-sulted.”

“You could always leave,” Smoke offered him an option.

“And you could always shut your trap,” Charlie told him.

“I'm right here, Charlie,” Smoke told him. “Anytime you think you have the
cojones
to brace me without all your buddies to back you up.”

Nice way of making him stand alone whether he fishes or cuts bait, Moss thought. I'll keep that in mind.

The cowboy looked hard at Smoke and then sat down without another word.

“You just saved your own life, cowboy,” the stranger said, rifling a deck of cards.

Charlie mumbled something and concentrated on his beer.

It isn't going to work, Luttie thought, staring at Smoke. The man is just too damn sure of himself and has the reputation to back it up. He's ... Luttie couldn't think of the word, right off.

“Intimidating” was what he was searching for.

And who in the devil was that stranger sitting over there? He didn't think Jensen knew who he was either.

Smoke could sense the steam going out of the hardcases seated around the saloon. Four double-barreled Greeners at this distance would take out about half the crowd, inflicting horrible wounds on those they didn't kill outright. He'd seen men soak up five .44 caliber slugs and still stay on their boots and keep on coming. He had never seen anybody take a close-up shotgun blast and keep going.

Smoke watched as Luttie and Jake exchanged glances. Both men knew that whatever momentum they might have had was gone.

“Drink your drinks, play cards, do some tobacco buying or whatever,” Smoke told them. “First one of you that makes trouble, I either put in jail or kill. Let's go, boys.”

Before he could leave the bar, a young man jumped to his boots. “They call me Sandy!” he yelled. “And I say without that shotgun, you ain't nothin', Jensen.”

“Don't be a fool, lad,” the stranger said. “You don't have a prayer. Sit down and shut up and live.”

“You don't show me nothin' either, mister!” Sandy said.

“Don't crowd me, lad,” the stranger said. “I came into town to do some gambling and some relaxing on my way to California. I have no quarrel with you. So don't crowd me.”

“Stand up, you funny talkin' dude!” Sandy yelled.

Smoke placed the man then. The accent had been worrying him. Earl Sutcliffe. And the Earl was not a first name. He really was an earl over in England. At least he had been until he killed a man after a game of chance (the man had been cheating); The man had been a duke, which was higher than an earl, and a man of considerable power. A murder warrant had been issued for Sutcliffe, and he had fled to America. Here he had made a name for himself as a very good and very honest gambler... and one hell of a gunfighter.

“That's Earl Sutcliffe, Sandy,” Smoke said. “Sit down and finish your beer, and there'll be no hard feelings.”

Earl Sutcliffe! Luttie thought. Now what in the hell was he doing in this jerkwater town?

“Stand up, Sutcliffe!” Sandy yelled the words that would start his dying on this day.

“Here now!” Mills said. “You men stop this immediately.”

“Shut up,” Smoke told him. “This is none of your affair.”

Mills gave him a dirty look. But he closed his mouth.

“I said stand up!” Sandy yelled.

Earl put down the deck of cards and pushed back from the table. He slowly stood up, brushing back his coat on the right side.

“Primitive rites of manhood,” Mills said in a whisper.

“Young man,” Earl said. “I do not wish to kill you.”

“You kill me?” Sandy snorted the words. “Dude, you the one that's gonna die.”

“I don't think so. But I suppose stranger things have happened.” Without taking his eyes off of Sandy, Earl spoke to Luttie. “You are his employer. You could order him to stop this madness.”

“Sorry, Earl. The kid's on his own time today. What's the matter, you afraid of him?”

Earl smiled. “One more time, lad: give this up.”

Sandy smiled, sure of himself, his youthfulness overriding caution. The young think of death only as something that happens to someone else, never themselves. “Anytime you're ready,” he told the Englishman.

Sutcliffe shot him. The draw was as fast as a striking rattler. The kid never had a chance to clear leather. The slug took him in high in the chest, driving through a lung and slamming him back, sitting him back down in the chair he should have stayed in ... with his mouth closed.

He opened his mouth and blood stained his lips as he struggled to speak. “You! ...” he managed to gasp.

“Sorry, lad,” Earl said, holstering his six-gun. “I tried to tell you.”

“Tell me! ...” Sandy said.

“It's too late, now,” Earl's words were softly offered.

“I'm cold,” Sandy said.

Mills shook his head as he watched the young man hover between life and death, with death racing to embrace him, rudely shoving life aside.

Luttie's hands sat silent, occasionally letting their eyes shift to the muzzles of those deadly sawed-off shotguns, all four of them pointed in their direction. To a man they wanted blood-revenge, but to a man they all knew that this was not the time or the place.

“I'll be damned!” Sandy suddenly blurted. “Would you just look at that!”

“What are you seein'?” Charlie asked him, his words just above a whisper.

“You hear that?” the kid said, as blood dripped from his mouth onto his shirt front.

“What are you hearin'?” Charlie asked him.

Sandy's head lolled to one side, and he closed his eyes.

“Nothing, now,” Mills said. “He just died.”

* * *

The Seven Slash men rode out shortly after Sandy died. They took the body with them, to be buried on Seven Slash range.

“They'll be back,” Smoke said. “Tomorrow, next week, next month. But they'll be back. And when they come back, they'll do their damnest to tear this town apart.”

“I concur,” Mills said.

“That was pushed on me,” Earl said. He had sat back down and was shuffling a deck of cards. “I really did not want to kill the lad.”

“I know it,” Smoke told him. “I've had a hundred pushed on me.”

“What's going on in this town?” the Englishman asked. “I stopped here because it seemed so peaceful.”

Smoke had the barkeep draw him a mug of beer and carried it over to Earl's table, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “How'd you like to be a deputy sheriff of this county?”