Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) (29 page)

In the next second, Smoke Jensen roughly shoved Lester Norton to the floor, and the air rocked to the roar of eight blazing six-guns. Smoke shot one of the trash at the bar and dived into a roll that took him halfway across the room. He came up with bullets cutting the air to both sides and over his head. Another quick shot and a would-be ambusher went down screaming, his kneecap shattered. Smoke raised his six-gun and fired again.

A fifth saddle tramp groaned and left the fight, shot through the right side an inch above his hip bone. Smoke dived behind an overturned table and expended his last two rounds. Another man in the back of the room sprang backward and collided discordantly with the upright piano. Smoke’s final slug destroyed half of the top octave. The strings pinged musically as the lead snapped them.

Smoke holstered his right-hand revolver and reached for his second Peacemaker, worn high on his left side, butt forward and slanted across his hard, flat stomach. A slug from one of the hard cases at the bar clipped the hat from his head. He returned the favor with a bullet that struck the face of the cylinder in the offending six-gun.

Hot needles of pain shot through the shooter’s hand, and he let go of his damaged weapon. Another tried to work his way around to Smoke’s blind side. He made three side steps along the bar and stopped suddenly when Aaron Turner rapped him smartly on the top of his head with a bung starter. The gunhawk crashed to the floor with a meteor shower behind his eyes.

Alone in a reign of such fury, the remaining hard case chose wisdom over pain. He reversed the revolver and offered it to Smoke butt first. Far too wise in the ways of gunhandling, Smoke did not fall for that one. Instead he gestured toward the green baize top of a poker table.

“Lay it down there. Do it or I’ll shoot you anyway.” Smoke turned to where the mayor remained sprawled on the floor. “Now, Mr. Mayor, if you’d be so kind as to help me take this garbage out of here and lock them up.”

“What’s the charge?” complained the one with the red, swollen, throbbing hand.

“Assaulting a peace officer, for a start. Maybe the territorial attorney can make attempted murder stick.”

Fear loosened the brigand’s tongue. “No, man, I swear, no. We didn’t intend to kill you, just bust you up a little and run you out of town. Nobody said a thing about killing. I swear it.”

Coolly, Aaron Turner put in his contribution. “He lies.” He nodded to the one Smoke had killed. “That one stood right here and said they would bury you come tomorrow. They all thought it a good idea. The mouthy one there said something about drilling you tonight and planting you in the morning.”

Smoke Jensen stopped in his roundup of the casualties. “Say, I wanted to thank you for your timely assistance. You’re pretty handy with that thing.”

Turner looked down at the bung starter in his hand and back at Smoke. He smiled shyly, and his ears colored. “Oh, this. I get a lot of practice.”

Smoke nodded. “Might be you won’t have near as much for some while.” With that he and the mayor started off with their prisoners.

Before making his last rounds of the business district of Muddy Gap, Smoke Jensen returned to the small house owned by Ginny Parkins. He found it dark.
Odd,
he thought.
She said we’d have pie when I returned.
He raised one hand and rapped knuckles lightly on the front door. Silence answered him. He knocked again, a bit louder.

A floor board creaked behind the closed portal and Smoke heard a rustling. “Ginny, is that you? Did I disturb you?”

“Go away.”

“What? I thought…”

“I heard the gunshots. I heard it all. I know what that means for you to be here now. Someone else didn’t survive. I’m sorry, Smoke. But violence, and those who cause it, are not a part of my life. Now, goodbye.”

“Uh—yeah. I—ah—goodbye, Ginny. Thank you for a delicious supper.”

Smoke trudged away, thinking gloomy thoughts about schoolteachers. His own dear Sally had had similar opinions when first they had met. At least this time, he had no one to woo and win.

Reno Jim Yurian and his gang sat around a large table in the office of what had once been a prosperous, if short-lived, mine. A good twenty years earlier, Arapaho warriors, angered at seeing the belly of their Earth Mother plundered, had attacked and killed the six men working the claim. Because the mine shaft was accessed from a small shed attached to the office, the Indians did not burn it down out of religious awe. Now a new wealth visited the abandoned structure. Each of the outlaws had a stack of coins and currency in front of him.

To the casual observer, they could have been preparing for a poker game. In fact, Reno Jim had only seconds before finished the distribution of each man’s share of their most recent forays into the criminal life. It came to quite a tidy amount. As one, they began to count the total. Reno Jim waited until they had finished and he had their full attention.

“That’s only a start, boys. We’ll move the cattle and horses at the same time.”

“Won’t that cost a lot to feed the cattle so long, boss?” Prine Gephart asked.

Reno Jim bit the tip from a skinny, black cigar and lighted it before answering. “Not really. They’re on graze and there’s plenty of it. When we have the horses, we’ll move them at once. First, though, there is the problem of this fast gun running the horse herd. If he wasn’t bullin’ Colin here.” He clapped the wounded brigand on the shoulder, and Colin Fike winced. “We have a serious obstacle in our way. And his name is Smoke Jensen.”

Early the next morning, Smoke Jensen left the sheriff’s office and paid a brief breakfast call on the town marshal. Inside the Iron Kettle, Grover Larsen glared across the red-checked tablecloth at the badge adorning Smoke Jensen’s chest. Somehow he could not manage to meet the amber-flecked eyes. His voice was surly, uncertain.

“What did you drag me down here for?”

“I need your cooperation, Marshal Larsen.”

Suspicion and unease briefly lighted Larsen’s flat, gray eyes. “‘Cooperation’? What kind?”

“The Harbinsons have a printing press over at the general store, don’t they?”

“Yes, they do. Why?”

“I want you to come over there with me. I intend to post guns out of town. It would help if I had your name and signature on the flyers also.”

Grover Larsen considered this while he chewed a bite of ham. “That doesn’t sound like too much to ask.”

“Then you’ll do it?” Smoke watched as Larsen shrugged slightly and speared another piece of ham.

Another shrug and the jaws worked methodically. Grover Larsen swallowed and spoke softly. “You bought me breakfast. I suppose it’s the least I can do. Besides, it’s my duty. Mind, though, I’m opposed to interfering with a man’s right to carry a gun.”

Smoke smiled, satisfied that there might be some grit left in the man after all. “So am I. I intend only to post against nonresidents. The citizens of Muddy Gap, and those known to be local folks, will not be affected by it.” Then Smoke dropped the other boot that Larsen had been waiting for. “That’s why I need your help in enforcing it. You know who belongs and who don’t. Will you do it, Marshal?”

Larsen’s worried frown turned to a deep scowl. “I didn’t count on that. There’s some rough characters out there.”

“That’s why I’ll see you have someone to back your play. While you relieve any strangers of their guns, they can cover them.”

Cocking his head to one side, Larsen mopped at an egg yolk with a fluffy biscuit. “Might work after all. Yep. Let’s finish up and we’ll go see young Eb Harbinson.”

A black mourning band showed prominently on the sleeve of Eb Harbinson’s shirt. He seemed reluctant to dig into the cast type and dirty the press to print so small a run. He listened to what Smoke wanted, nodded to show the ability of his equipment to do the job, and rubbed the palms of his hands on his trouser legs.

“We planned to start a newspaper. But there aren’t enough people in town yet to justify the expense.” He came to his feet from the chair in front of a rolltop desk. “I suppose printing these flyers is a better use of the press than gathering dust. But, if you want signatures, you’ll either have to sign each one separately, or I’ll have you do it on a blank plate and etch around them.”

“How long will that take?” Smoke asked.

Eb rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “I’d say you could have them late tomorrow.

“Not soon enough. We’ll sign them.”

“How many do you want, Sheriff?”

Smoke calculated aloud. “I want one in each business in town, on the church and school, also. And two for each end of town. A few spares in case someone takes exception to them. Say twenty-five, thirty.”

Eb nodded his understanding. “Fine, I can have them ready by ten o’clock this morning.”

After leaving the general mercantile, Smoke Jensen started his rounds of the saloons, to hustle the unwanted element out of town. The first of the unsavory milieu he encountered were Bert Toller, Quint Cress, and Big Sam Peiper. The trio of fair-to-middling gunfighters stood at the bar in the Golden Boot tormenting the swamper. The gray-haired, older man toiled to put down fresh sawdust after the previous night’s cleanup and mopping.

“Hey,
boy,
yer hand’s shakin’ so much you got sawdust on my boots,” Quint Cress complained.

“What you need is a drink, old-timer,” Big Sam told him through a nasty chuckle.

Harvey Gates looked up with the eyes of a cornered animal. “No, sir. I done gave up drinkin’.”

Cress twisted his face into a mean sneer. “Oh, yeah? When? After they invented the funnel?”

“Please, fellers, I’ve—I’ve got work to do.”

Quint Cress crossed to the cowed man and yanked the bucket of sawdust from his grasp. “You get sawdust on my boots again an’ they’ll be plantin’ you before sundown.”

A steel-hard voice came from the doorway. “That’s the last time you do that.”

Cress whirled, a shower of yellowish wood chips flying from the rim of the bucket. “Oh, yeah? Who says so?”

“I do. Sheriff Jensen. Now, return the bucket to the man and let him get on with his work.”

From farther down the bar, Big Sam spoke hesitantly. “Uh—Quint, I think that might be a good idea. This be Smoke Jensen.”

A crazed glint shone in the eyes of Quint Cress. “You think I don’t know? I don’t care a damn, either. I say he’s not as hot as he’s put up to be.” He dropped the bucket to the floor and started for the door. “I’ll be waitin’ for you outside, Jensen.”

Smoke let him go. He turned to the remaining pair and addressed Big Sam. “You seem to have more sense than your friend. This town is off limits to you and your kind. So, I’ll ask you politely. Gather up whatever you brought with you, mount up and ride out. You have fifteen minutes.”

Big Sam Peiper made a show of considering that for a moment; then his voice rang with new strength. “I don’t mind you raggin’ Quint some. He needs tooken down a notch. But, you jist asked something we can’t do. Why, we’d be the laughing stock of the whole territory. No, sir, we ain’t gonna go.”

With that, he and Bert Toller, who had said nothing so far, dropped hands to the grips of their six-guns. Smoke let Sam Peiper, whom he figured more for a mouth than a shootist, get his long-barreled .44 Colt clear of leather, choosing instead to take on Toller first.

A good choice, he soon discovered as Toller moved with a blur, his six-gun snaked out and on the rise by the time Smoke snapped his elbow to his right side and leveled the .45 Peacemaker in his fist. The hammer fell, and a puff of cloth and dust flew from the front of Toller’s shirt. A dark hole appeared some three inches above the belt Toller wore. A second hole popped into place directly above it a fraction of a second later, to form a perfect figure eight.

Immediately, Smoke swung the smoking barrel of his Colt to Big Sam Peiper. Big Sam stared at his partner and watched him die. Bert Toller had barely hit the floor when Sam let out a despairing shout and bolted for the door.

“No!” he screamed. “I ain’t gonna die.” Wildly he threw a shot at Smoke over his shoulder.

Smoke had dropped to a crouch when Big Sam started his direction, so the shot went high, to spang off the stovepipe and crack the plaster behind. Smoke fired his third round as Big Sam hit the batwing doors. Sam Peiper crashed through the swinging partitions and onto the boardwalk, as blood streamed down his thigh. Smoke Jensen came right behind him.

Limping, Big Sam Peiper headed toward Quint Cress. “Ga’damn, he shot me, Quint. It hurts real bad.”

Cress looked surprised. “You ain’t never been shot before? What kinda gunfighter are you?”

“Naw. Ain’t been shot. I always was faster.”

Quint Cress shook his head. “Sam, Sam, get out of the way, let me finish this amateur.”

Big Sam staggered in a tight circle, raising his Smith American. “No. I’m gonna do it. Nobody puts a hole in Big Sam Peiper.”

He faced Smoke Jensen now, who much to the consternation of Big Sam had an amused expression on his face. With careful deliberation, his own visage screwed into a grimace of pain, Big Sam raised his revolver. To his dying instant, he knew he had never seen Smoke Jensen draw his Colt. Yet, all of a sudden he saw the yellow-orange bloom and a thin trail of smoke start from its muzzle.

Then a bright white light dazzled him, and immense pain erupted inside his head. All feeling left his hands and feet. The alabaster radiance swelled and enveloped him. For a fraction of a second, Big Sam Peiper saw a tiny black dot form at the center of the sphere. Unfeeling, he toppled to the ground, the back of his head blown away, and in a twinkling, the blackness overwhelmed him.

Quint Cress stared in horror. No one could be that fast. Hell, Big Sam already had his six-gun cocked before this Smoke Jensen drew. For the first time, the bravado deserted Quint. Yet, he knew inexorably that the hand had to be played out to the end. He swallowed hard to remove the lump in his throat and dropped his hand to the grips of his Colt. Jensen, his head wreathed in powder smoke, could not possibly see him draw.

Wrong. Quint Cress had his Frontier Colt free of leather and on the way up when an invisible fist slammed into his stomach. He started to double over in reflex, only to be straightened up by another enormous pain in his chest. He wound up on his back, staring up at Smoke Jensen, who held his Peacemaker in a steady, level grasp.

Quint Cress used the last of his dying breath to ask his most pressing questions. “Wh-what are you, Jensen? Who are you?”

A tiny mocking smile lifted the corners of Smoke Jensen’s mouth. “Some people have called me the gunfighters’ gunfighter.”

And then, Quint Cress heard and saw only blackness.

Early that same morning Reno Jim Yurian and three of his men sat astride their mounts overlooking a long, narrow depression in the prairie, too shallow to be called a valley. A wide, deep ravine defined the western margin, with a large, round knob bordering the east. In its center ran the trail north through the Bighorn Mountains, and on toward Buffalo, Wyoming. From there, it led north into Montana and the Crow Reservation. Reno Jim tilted back the brim of his black, flat-crown Stetson and waved a gloved hand at the peaceful spread of terrain.

“There it is, boys. The perfect place to take that herd. I reckon it will be here in no more than a day, two at the most. Hub, I want you to set the boys up to preparing an ambush. Take your time and make it look natural. The last thing we want is them to get wise too soon. Also, make sure there’s enough mounted men on both sides, beyond the rise, to take quick control of the herd.

“Right, boss. You gonna be here with us?”

Reno Jim produced a thin-lipped smile. “I wouldn’t miss that for anything. For now, me and Smiling Dave are going to set up camp so you boys can have something hot to eat after you get done.”

What he meant, of course, was that Smiling Dave Winters would do the work while he sat under a tree and practiced his card-dealing tricks. Naturally, no one mentioned it to Reno Jim. Under Hub Volker’s direction, the men spread out to locate a good spot to establish a roadblock-style ambush. It took only a short while to accomplish that.

Garth Evans rode back from around a slight bend in the trail with a cheery smile. “Hey, Hub, I’ve got the ideal place. That bend there”—he pointed behind him—“will mask it, an’ there’s some cottonwoods to form a barricade.”

“Good work, Garth.”

At once, Hub put men on cutting down the trees. Using hand axes was a sure invitation to blisters and sore hands, yet the outlaws set at it with a will. The sound of their chopping rang across the prairie. One by one the thigh-thick cottonwood trees tottered and fell with a crash. Dragged into place by horses, the logs were trimmed and made ready. Sets of post augers appeared from a chuck wagon, and the outlaw rabble groaned.

Hairy Joe cut his eyes to Prine Gephart as he plied a clamshell post-hole digger. “Doin’ that corral for the cattle was bad enough. Now we gotta build a damn fort wall.” He slammed the device into the hard ground again.

Prine cranked the long handle on his screw-type digger. “It ain’t a fort, Joe. It’s a sorta fence, like we’re makin’ the whole valley into a corral.”

Hairy Joe groaned. “This is gonna take a week to close across the whole valley. From what I hear, we ain’t got that much time.”

“We’ll get it done,” Gephart assured him. “If Hub has to make us work all night.”

“Oh, great. I can hardly wait.”

Progress went quicker than Hairy Joe thought. By nightfall, all but a hundred yards at each side of the valley had been closed off. Tired far beyond their usual limits, they gathered quietly to eat plates of chili con carne Colorado, bowls of beans and corn bread with which to sop up both of them. Only four of them pulled bottles of whiskey from saddlebags to take long pulls before settling down like the rest into deep slumber.

Meanwhile, Smoke Jensen set about a quick, harsh cleanup of Muddy Gap. He picked up the posters at ten-fifteen. After putting one on the bulletin board outside the general store, he gave half to Marshal Larsen, and they set about posting the entire town. Their actions generated immediate reaction. Several merchants came onto the boardwalk to voice protest. It never failed to draw a crowd.