Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) (23 page)

Slobbering as usual, Farlee Huntoon rushed through the bat-wings of the Watering Hole. “I gotcha, Jensen, by God, I do,” he chortled.

Smoke had barely started to turn when Huntoon raised his Merwin and Hulbert .44 to make a back-shot. Even with this head start, Smoke beat Huntoon to the first round fired. The fat .45 slug sped from the muzzle of Smoke’s Colt and slammed into the protruding gut of the hillbilly outlaw. Huntoon’s mouth and eyes went wide and round. Enormous pain erupted among his organs. In spite of that, he managed to trigger his weapon.

Huntoon’s bullet entered the side of Smoke’s whipcord jacket and bit into flesh, to form a short tunnel right below the skin. Fire radiated through the body of Smoke Jensen and he took a single, staggered step before he eared back the hammer again and put another deadly projectile into Farlee Huntoon. This time the hot lead destroyed the lower lobe of Farlee’s right lung. Choking on his own blood, the West Virginia trash triggered yet a third cartridge.

With a shower of splinters, the slug buried itself in the boardwalk, between the widespread boots of Smoke Jensen. A black scrim, harbinger of things to come, settled over Farlee’s vision. He worked numb lips and tried to gulp back a fountain of sanguine fluid that threatened to erupt out of his mouth. He partly succeeded and panted out a few words from a body rapidly weakening.

“I…think…I’ve…died.”

Smoke Jensen watched the Merwin and Hulbert drop from fingers no longer able to hold it, stepped in close and spoke with whimsical assurance. “Not yet, but you will.”

A flurry of shots from the general mercantile drew Smoke’s attention. Leaving the dying Huntoon behind, he headed that way. Six Sugarloaf hands had some of Spectre’s minions pinned down inside the store. Before Smoke could reach the establishment and size up how to drive them out, Stumpy Granger let out a yowl and began to hop on one foot, holding the other in a gnarled hand.

“Bastit in there shot off a couple of my toes,” he yelped to anyone who wanted to hear. Then he dropped the injured foot to the ground, took aim and fired at a wisp of dark shadow that crossed behind the shot-out display window. The heavy crash of a body striking the floor told the result. Stumpy cackled and reloaded his shotgun.

Smoke made a quick assessment and spoke to his hands. “There’s seven of us now. Three of you take the alley. Go this way, there’s no windows along that side, and head around back. Stumpy can stay here and lay down covering fire on the front. Perk, Buford, Handy, when you’ve had time to get in place, fire a shot and we’ll charge them together.”

“I like it, Mr. Jensen,” Handy Barker spoke up.

Five minutes went by, during which Smoke wondered if the hands had run into a silent ambush, when he heard a muffled shot from the back of the building. Stumpy opened up with his shotgun, alternated with rounds from a six-gun, while Smoke Jensen, Jules Thibedeaux, and Mort Oliver rushed the storefront.

It became a mad scramble for the outlaws inside. Nine hard cases tripped over one another, fired blind shots into ceiling and floor and tried to force their way out the rear. Hot lead from the Sugarloaf hands met them. They recoiled and sought the wider, sliding door entrance on the loading dock. That only served to expose them more. Then Smoke and the two men with him entered the front with six-guns blazing.

Three of the trapped thugs tried to resist. They died before the eyes of their comrades in a swift, deadly duel. One gunhawk, smarter than most of them, laid his Colt on a counter and raised his hands. He spoke sage advice.

“There ain’t gonna be any big pay-off for us. Me, I’m quittin’ right now. Don’t shoot, I give up.”

In three minutes it had ended. Stumpy Granger took charge of the prisoners while Smoke had a look around the unnaturally quiet town. He soon discovered that all of the gunmen had either been killed, captured, or had fled. Except for a few, Smoke reasoned, who would hang close to Spectre, Tinsdale, and Buckner. That left Smoke Jensen with only one thing to do: hunt down the three responsible for all this destruction, misery, and death.

Their attention centered on the Watering Hole Saloon. While Smoke Jensen made preparations to storm the building from its blind side entrance and the rear, using his Indian allies to pour a withering fire into the front, a stout, florid-faced man with a shock of white hair and thin mustache, and a large shotgun, approached in a dignified manner.

“Mr. Jensen. You remember me, don’t you?” At Smoke’s hesitation, he went on, “I’m Issac Spaun, the banker. I helped you the last time you had to do this.”

“Oh, yes. You did well, as I recall. It looks like you put in a hand this time, too.”

Beaming, Spaun nodded vigorously. “That I did. And I came to offer more help if needed. I have fifteen men from town, all well-armed, who want to be in on putting an end to this terrible affair.”

“There’s not much to do, Mr. Spaun. We’re going after the three responsible right now. They and a handful of gunmen are in the saloon over there.”

“Well, we came to help. I suppose we could keep an eye on the second floor windows. And there’s a door up there on the side.”

Smoke gave him a warm smile. “Thank you, I appreciate you doing this. Pick your spots and we’ll get started.”

Four minutes later the Arapaho and Shoshoni warriors began to whoop and caterwaul, while they sent a shower of arrows in through the shattered casements. Some of the outlaws showed themselves in the window of the upper story, only to be shot away from their vantage points by the townsmen. Smoke Jensen let the softening-up go on for a full ten minutes. Then he ordered the ranch hands forward as the outside firing dwindled to nothing. Smoke personally led the assault on the side door.

Hank Evans used his burly shoulder to smash through the thin, poorly secured portal. Smoke rushed in at once and skidded to a halt. He found himself face-to-face with Ralph Tinsdale, who held a shot-barreled ten-gauge shotgun, pointed directly at Smoke’s chest.

Smoke Jensen reacted automatically and instantly. He put a bullet between the eyes of Ralph Tinsdale. The shotgun in Tinsdale’s hands discharged into the pebbly, pressed tin ceiling as he went over backward. Smoke swung to his right to confront Gus Jaeger and felt a powerful blow in his lower right side. His shot went wide of the mark, only nicking the Prussian gunfighter in his left upper arm. A quick glance showed Victor Spectre on the landing, a smoking revolver in one hand.

At the present, Smoke had no time for Spectre, who had tried to shoot him in the back. He returned his attention to Jaeger, who unlimbered two shots at Smoke, both of which missed. On the floor, Tinsdale shuddered his last and expired in a welter of blood. Smoke fired again, aiming at the center of mass on the chest of Gus Jaeger. The bullet went home and shattered the breastbone of the gang foreman.

Gus Jaeger took two unsteady steps backward and abruptly sat in a sturdy oak captain’s chair. He looked down foolishly at his .44 Colt Frontier, as though he did not know its function. Then, remembering, he raised it to aim at Smoke Jensen. From the other parts of the saloon, Smoke heard scattered exchanges of gunfire. He had the position and time advantage over Jaeger and used it fully.

Smoke’s bullet slammed into the face of Gus Jaeger to make an exclamation point of the gunhawk’s long, patrician nose. The chair went over backward and Gus Jaeger sprawled in the clutches of Father Death. Sudden movement drew Smoke’s attention to the stairwell. Victor Spectre had disappeared onto the second floor.

Favoring the wound in his side, and the stinging from arm and back, Smoke limped slightly as he followed after Spectre.

Every nerve screamed caution as Smoke Jensen climbed the stairway. Near the top, he bent as low as his injuries would allow and presented the least silhouette possible when he edged over the second floor landing. When no bellow of gunfire challenged him, Smoke came upright and stepped into the hallway. To add to his irritation, he found every door closed to him. However he chose to proceed he had the sinking sensation that he would select the wrong one. A quick glance to the rear showed him a narrow, steep stairway now covered by hands from the Sugarloaf. That decided him.

Smoke turned to his right and went to the front of the building. There he began a game of cat-and-mouse, seeking the villainous man behind so much misery. The first door he opened yielded up only three corpses. At the second, the hinges squealed loudly when he flung back the panel. One dead man there. Smoke moved to the next.

He felt resistance. The lock had been set against him. He stepped to the side, raised his left foot and readied himself. With all the force he could put behind it, he drove his boot into the portal beside the cast-iron lock mechanism. Metal shrieked, wood splintered and the door flew inward. From the bed, a thoroughly frightened soiled dove stared at him while she clutched a sheet to her bosom and made little squeaking sounds.

Smoke tipped his hat. “Sorry, wrong room. Are there any more of you up here?”

Mute at first, the lady of the evening eventually found her voice. “Y-yes. Two or three…I think.”

“Thank you. I hope I don’t bother them as much.”

Banishing the vision of rounded silken shoulders, Smoke went on with his search. He found the next two rooms empty, then got a look at a pair of scarlet sisters in bloomers and shifts, who hugged each other in the middle of the room and wailed like banshees. Once again he apologized and moved on. Room after room proved to be empty. Smoke had taken only three strides past the last one he had inspected when the door to it silently swung open on well-oiled hinges.

His boots removed, Victor Spectre stepped out into the hallway on silent, stockinged feet. He held at the ready a Smith and Wesson .44, which he raised slightly to make a perfect back-shot on Smoke Jensen. How much he would have liked to make Jensen suffer, but everything was in a shambles and he believed it best to simply get it over and escape. Carefully he lined up the sights.

That flicker of motion, reflected in the glass chimney of a kerosene lamp, alerted Smoke Jensen to the danger. Instantly, Smoke dropped to one knee, his Colt Peacemaker on the rise as he turned toward his would-be assassin. His .45 bullet reached Victor Spectre before the latter’s left the barrel. Slammed into the wall, Spectre’s slug went wild down the hall. He fought back pain and cocked his weapon again.

Fortune deserted Victor Spectre entirely then. Again, Smoke Jensen’s round reached its target before his could be discharged. Shoved back through the open door, Victor went to all fours, and struggled dimly to stay alive.
Smoke Jensen had to die!
He told himself that in a litany of desperation. Obligingly, Smoke presented himself again. Victor was waiting for him and fired a shot that cut meat from the muscular underside of Smoke’s left armpit. Then, suddenly, the world of Victor Spectre washed a brilliant red.

Scarlet changed to dazzling white, and then blackness. Shot through the head, Victor Spectre died without ever recognizing the error of his ways.

Not satisfied with the death of his enemy, Smoke Jensen continued to search the upper floor. Alarmed voices called to him from below. He recognized one as that of Monte Carson. Over his shoulder he called to his friend.

“Come on up, Monte. I just killed Victor Spectre. We have to find what else is up here.”

Footsteps pounded on the stairs as Smoke went to the next room. Monte joined him after he had checked it. They headed to the last room at the head of the hall. Smoke stood to one side of the door, .45 at the ready. Monte turned the knob and flung the panel inward. Smoke spun around the jamb and into the room. There, a feeble Olin Buckner tried to raise a Winchester and fire at Smoke Jensen. A Shoshoni arrow protruded from his left shoulder and hampered his effort. Smoke crossed the room to the bed and yanked the rifle out of Buckner’s weak grasp.

“I haven’t seen you for a while, Buckner,” Smoke gibed at the wounded man. “Can’t say you’re looking better than ever.”

“You bastard,” Buckner panted breathily.

Smoke examined the man. The local doctor had done a good job. Outside of the arrow, it appeared that the bullet wound Smoke had given him was healing well. It showed not a sign of angry red swelling that would indicate infection. That pleased Smoke Jensen mightily. He told Olin Buckner why.

“It looks like you will most likely live to meet the hangman, Buckner. If it’s any consolation, I won’t enjoy watching that. Public executions have never been my idea of having fun.”

“A lot of good that does me,” Buckner grumbled.

“I’m sure it doesn’t overjoy you. Now, where’s the loot your gang accumulated?”

“To hell with you. If that damned Indian had not shot me, I would have killed you the moment you came through the door.”

Smoke’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not good enough. Never mind, we’ll find it, and we’ll do it before bringing the doctor to deal with that arrow.”

Buckner paled. “You can’t do that! I’m your prisoner,” he squealed like a pinched pig. One look at the stern, unrelenting expression of Smoke Jensen, and his appeal died. “There’s a door on the—on the balcony. It’s locked. We put everything in there.”

“Whoo-eee! Lookie there,” Zeke Duncan howled gleefully when the door had been forced on the improvised strong room. “Must be a fortune here. Naw, three fortunes.”

A shaft of light through the doorway gave a soft glow to stacks of gold and silver ingots. Bags of coin, and neat rows of paper currency, filled tables jammed tightly together. Enough money to boggle the minds of nearly anyone.

Nursing his wounded shoulder, Ezra peered over the shoulder of his partner. “Ya ask me, I allow as how it’s all Smoke’s now.”

Smoke Jensen surprised and disappointed a number of people with his response. “No. It has to go back to the places they undoubtedly robbed on the way here. The banks, and stores, and stage lines can be identified and what remains divided among them. Which reminds me. Whatever money we find on these trash has to be the wages Spectre was paying them, so we can round that up and add it to this.”

Zeke looked genuinely pained. “Sure is a shame to get hands on so much gold and have to give it back,” he mourned.

At that moment, Sally joined the cluster on the balcony, accompanied by her bodyguard of Shoshoni warriors and ranch hands. She extended her hands to take one of each aged mountain man. “At least you got to rescue a lady in distress.” Then she impulsively came forward and kissed each of them on the forehead.

Crimson rose from the collarless necks of their shirts to the roots of their thinning gray hair. Zeke began to shuffle his moccasins, while beside him Ezra dragged out a huge, paisley kerchief and mopped at his face to hide his blush and rubbed the toe of one boot with the other.

“Awh, gosh, ma’am, we was only doin’ what’s right,” Zeke muttered softly.

Ezra shifted his cud of tobacco. “That’s right, ma’am. We was only helpin’ a friend. ’Twern’t anything special.”

“Well, I love you both for it,” Sally declared with a sunny smile.

Tension eased and Smoke Jensen took the opportunity to make an announcement. “We’ll rest up here a few days, then make ready to return to the Sugarloaf.”

“So soon?” Banker Spaun objected. “You’ve hardly gotten here. We have to celebrate this great victory.”

Smoke sighed, indicating his regret. “Sorry, but there’s the spring branding to tend to and the herd needs culling for sale. Horses don’t wait for people.”

Spaun looked hurt, then brightened. Nodding toward the heavily blood-stained clothing of Smoke Jensen, he spoke with renewed encouragement. “Shot up the way you are, you won’t be going anywhere for a while. We’ll still have a few days to whoop it up.”

Smoke Jensen cut his eyes to those of his wife. He saw the anticipatory gleam there and read it correctly. “Yes, I’m sure we will.”