Code of the Mountain Man (9 page)

“No bet. But he's a pretty straightforward type of fellow. If they're about me, he'll tell me.”

They watched as Mills showed the documents to Winston and Moss. The men read the letters and shook their heads. Mills folded the letters and tucked them in an inside pocket of his jacket. The three of them then walked across the street and entered the office.

Mills came right to the point. “Smoke, we need to talk.”

“You look like you just swallowed a green persimmon, Mills. What's the matter?”

“It isn't good news, Smoke.” He poured a cup of coffee and sat down. “A federal judge in Washington is just about to put his signature to warrants. They're murder warrants, Smoke. On you. Three of them.”

“The names of the men I'm supposed to have killed?”

“Potter, Richards, and Stratton.”

“I killed them, for a fact. Over in Idaho, years ago. But it was a stand up and fair fight. Me against the three of them.”

“Tell me about it, Smoke.”

Smoke's mind went spinning back through the long years.

“All right, you bastards!” Smoke yelled to Richards, Potter, and Stratton. “Holster your guns and step out into the street, if you've got the nerve.”

The sharp odor of sweat was all mingled with the smell of blood and gunsmoke, filling the summer air as four men stepped out into the bloody, dusty street. All around the old town were the sprawled bodies of gunhands that had been on the payroll of the three men. They had taken on Smoke Jensen. They had died. Nineteen men had tried to kill Smoke in the ruin of an old ghost town out from Bury. Only three of them were still standing.

Richards, Potter, and Stratton stood at one end of the block. A tall bloody figure stood at the other. All their guns were in leather.

“You son of a bitch!” Stratton screamed, his voice as high-pitched as an hysterical woman. “You've ruined it all!” He clawed at his .44.

Smoke drew and fired before Stratton could clear leather. The man fell back on his butt, a startled expression on his face. He closed his eyes and toppled over.

Potter grabbed for his gun. Smoke shot him twice in the chest and holstered his gun before the man had stopped twitching in the dust.

Richards had not moved. He stood with a faint smile on his lips, staring at Smoke.

“You ready to die, Richards?” Smoke called.

“As ready as any man ever is,” Richards replied. There was no sign of fear in his voice. His hands were steady by the butts of his guns. “Your sister, Janey, gone?”

“Yep. She took your money and hauled her ashes out.”

“Trash, that's what she is.”

“You'll get no argument from me on that.”

“It's been a long run, hasn't it, Jensen?”

“It's just about over.”

“What happens to all our holdings around here?”

“I don't care what happens to the mines. The miners can have them. I'm giving all your stock to the decent, honest punchers and homesteaders.”

A puzzled look spread over Richards' face. “I don't understand. You did ... all this!” He waved a hand. “For nothing?”

Someone moaned, the sound painfully inching up the street.

“I did it for my pa, my brother, my wife, and my baby son.”

“It won't bring them back.”

“I know.”

“Good God Almighty. I wish I had never heard the name Jensen.”

“You won't ever hear it again, Richards. Not after this day.”

Richards smiled and drew. He was snake-quick, but hurried his shot, the slug digging up dirt at Smoke's boots.

Smoke shot the man in the shoulder, spinning him around. Richards grabbed for his left-hand gun, and Smoke fired again, the slug taking the man in the chest. Richards cursed Smoke and tried to lift his Colt. He managed to cock it before Smoke's third shot took him in the belly and knocked him down to the dirt. He pulled the trigger, blowing dust into his face and eyes. He tried to crawl to his knees but succeeded only in rolling over onto his back, staring at the blue of the sky.

Smoke walked up to the man.

Richards opened his mouth to speak. He tasted blood on his tongue. The light began to fade around him. “You'll ... you'll meet . . .”

Smoke never found out who he was supposed to meet. Richards' head lolled to one side, and he died.

Smoke holstered his guns and walked away.

* * *

“His brother,” Mills said. “Has to be. The judge's name is Richards.”

“Well, then, he's just as sorry as his damn brother was,” Smoke said. “And I'll tell you this, Mills: no man will ever put handcuffs on me. No man.”

“Smoke ...”

“No man, Mills. That was a fair fight, and Judge Richards can go right straight to hell and take his warrants with him.”

Mills wore a crestfallen expression. “What if I'm ordered to arrest you?”

“Tell them you can't find me. Ignore it. Quit your job. But don't try to put cuffs on me. The warrants are bogus, Mills. It's a made-up charge. There were dozens of people who witnessed that fight from the hillsides around the town. Don't force my hand, Mills. It's not worth your life, or any other lawman's life.”

“You'd draw on me, Smoke?” the U.S. Marshal asked in a soft tone.

“If you forced me to do it. Lord knows I don't want to drag iron against you, or any lawman, for that matter. But I won't be arrested for something I didn't do.”

“Smoke, the Marshal's Service knows you're here! If Judge Richards signs those warrants, I will have no choice but to place you under arrest.”

“We all have choices, Mills. We all come to crossroads sometime in our lives. Many times the legal road is not the right road.”

Mills looked at Earl Sutcliffe. “And you, sir?”

“I stand by Smoke. I've talked to too many people who were at that fight in the ghost town. It was exactly as Smoke called it. I can have a dozen of the West's most famed gunslicks in here in a week ... all to stand by Smoke Jensen. If you want a bloodbath, just try to arrest Jensen.”

Mills shook his head. “I don't know what to do,” he admitted. He and his men left the office.

“Goddamn a bunch of political appointees,” Earl swore, which was something he did rarely. “Your government is becoming like the one I left across the waters: out of control.”

“Can you imagine what it will be like a hundred years from now?” Smoke asked, sitting down and picking up the little puppy from its bed by his desk.

Earl grimaced. “That, my friend, is something that boggles the mind. But let's concentrate on the present. What are you going to do if the judge signs those warrants?”

“I damn sure won't be placed under arrest.” Smoke took paper from his desk and dabbed pen into the ink well. “I'll write a friend of mine up in Denver. He's a federal judge. I'll ask him to look into the matter. I'll ask him to block those warrants until a complete investigation is done into the matter. I'll take the legal course until the road ends.”

Earl did not have to ask what Smoke would do once, or if, that legal road came to a blockade. He knew only that if any man tried to arrest Smoke Jensen for something he was innocent of, the streets would run red with blood. And Earl Sutcliffe knew this, too: he would do the same thing.

There comes a time when legal proceedings came into direct conflict with a law-abiding person's basic human rights.

And this was damn sure one of those times.

Earl walked outside, leaving Smoke's pen-scratching behind him. He looked up and down the wide street of the tiny village. “Don't send good men in here to do a bad thing,” he muttered. “Because if you do, you'll force another good man to turn bad. And I'll be standing by his side,” he concluded.

The stagecoach ran and Smoke had mail. He tore open the letter and quickly scanned the contents. Sheriff Monte Carson of Big Rock wrote that he now had flyers from the United States government proclaiming Smoke Jensen to be an outlaw and a murderer. There was a ten thousand dollar price on his head. Events were moving very fast, and he advised Smoke to haul his ashes out of there until this matter could be resolved.

Smoke showed the letter to Earl.

“I'll go with you,” the Englishman said.

Smoke nixed that. “I'd appreciate it if you'd stay on here as marshal and deputy sheriff. Mills is going to need help with the outlaws.”

The man met his eyes. “The system is turning against you, yet you still have law and order in your heart. I don't know that I could feel so magnanimous toward such a system.”

“Without some form of law, the country would revert to anarchy, Earl. I'll head for the high country and wait until things straighten out. I've got some good people working in my behalf.”

“I'll go purchase a few things for you at the store and arrange for a pack horse. I'll have things ready to go in a hour. Did Mills receive any mail this run?”

Smoke smiled and handed Earl a letter from the U.S. Marshal's office in Washington, D.C. “I told the driver I'd see that Mills got this. Next time the stage runs, give this to him.”

Earl chuckled. “I don't believe that delay will disappoint Mr. Walsdorf one bit.”

Smoke grinned. “I may be on the run, but I'm going to see if I can't harass Luttie Charles and the Slater gang while I'm dodging the law.”

“One-man wrecking crew?”

“I've done it before.”

“You'll stay in this area?”

“Oh, yes. I'll check back with you from time to time. If the town fills with U.S. Marshals, tie a piece of black cloth on the bridge railing north of town. I'll be warned then.”

“Will do.”

“Take care of my little dog for me, will you, Earl?”

“I certainly shall.”

“I anticipated this, so I moved my gear out of the hotel yesterday and stowed it in the shed out back.”

“I'll go get you provisioned.”

Smoke sat down behind the desk and cleaned his. 44s and his rifle. He filled a pouch full of shotgun shells and cleaned a Greener. He put on a fresh pot of coffee to boil and then went out back to the shed. There he checked on the bag of dynamite he'd bought along the trail coming here and carefully inspected his fuses and caps, then replaced them in a waterproof pouch and rewrapped the bag in canvas.

He checked his clothing in his saddle bags and found they had not been disturbed; the same with his bedroll and ground sheet. He went back into the office and picked up the little dog, petting it.

“You behave yourself now,” he said softly. “Mind Earl. You hear?”

The little dog wriggled and squirmed and licked his hand, and Smoke smiled at its antics.

Earl opened the door. “You're all set,” he said. “The food should last five or six days if you're careful. I put half a dozen boxes of .44s in the pack for you.”

“I'll pull out now, then. Leave the back way. Take care of yourself, Earl.”

The Englishman winked at him. “You take care of yourself, friend. I told the livery man to get lost for a few minutes. You should have no trouble.”

Smoke slipped out the back, picked up his gear from the shed, and made his way to the livery stable. Buck was about ready to kick in the walls of his stall. He was a horse that liked to ramble, and he'd been confined to a stall for just too damn long. He tried to step on Smoke's foot, and when that failed, tried to bite him.

“Settle down, damnit,” Smoke told him, smoothing out the blanket and tossing the saddle on him, cinching it down. For once, Buck didn't try to puff up on him. Smoke stowed his gear on the pack horse, one of the strongest and best-looking pack animals he'd ever seen, and led both horses out the back. He swung into the saddle and looked back at the town.

“You better hunt you a hole, Judge Richards,” he spoke softly. “ 'Cause when this is over, I'm coming after you and I'm going to stomp your guts into a greasy puddle. And that's a promise, you damn shyster.”

He touched his spurs to Buck's sides, and they moved out, heading into the wild country of southern Colorado.

Smoke made his first night's camp just off the Continental Divide Trail. As was his custom, he cooked his supper over a hat-sized fire, then erased all signs of it and moved several miles before bedding down for the night. It was a cold camp, but a safe one.

Up before dawn, he walked the area several times, stopping often to listen. The horses were relaxed, and Buck was better than a watch dog. Satisfied that he was alone, Smoke built a small fire against a rock wall and cooked his breakfast of bacon and potatoes and boiled his coffee.

After eating, he washed his dishes, packed them, and sat back down for a cigarette and some ruminating.

First of all, he wanted to find the Slater gang and start his little war with them. He could not get the picture of that man and woman and the girls he'd found along the trail out of his mind. Men who would do something like that were not to be considered human beings, and it would be very unfair to call them animals. Animals didn't do things like that. Animals killed for a reason, not for sport and fun. He had promised the dying woman that her grief and pain would be avenged. And Smoke always kept his promises.

He picketed the pack animal in the deep woods, near plenty of water and graze, and saddled Buck. “You ready to go headhunting, boy?”

Buck swung his big head and looked at Smoke through mean eyes. Buck was anything but a gentle animal. Smoke could handle him, and the horse had never harmed a child. But with adults whom he disliked, and that was most of them, the animal could be vicious.

“I thought so,” Smoke said, and swung into the saddle.

He climbed higher, staying in the thickest timber and brush he could find and letting Buck pick his way. Coming to a halt on a ridge that offered a spectacular view for miles around in all directions, Smoke dismounted and took field glasses from his saddlebags and began carefully scanning the area.

His sweep of the area paid off after only a few minutes. He knew where the mining camps were, and where the few homesteaders lived – this was not a country for much farming other than small gardens – and discounted them. With a smile on his lips, he put his binoculars back into the saddlebags and mounted up.

He figured it was time to be sociable and do some calling on folks.

Two hours later, he picketed Buck and hung his spurs on the saddle horn. Taking his rifle, he began making his way through the timber, carefully and silently working his way closer to what he figured was an outlaw camp. He bellied down in thick underbrush when he got within earshot of the mangy-looking bunch of hardcases.

“I'm a-gittin' tarred of this sittin' around doin' nothin',” a big, ugly-looking man said. “I say we go find us some homesteaders with kids and have our way with the girls.”

“Nice young tender girlies,” another man said with a nasty grin. “I like to hear 'em squall.” He pulled at his crotch. “I like to whup up on 'em, too. I like it when they fight.”

“Maybe we could find us a man to use as target practice,” another mused aloud. “Kill 'im slow. That's good fun.”

“Slater says we got to wait,” yet another outlaw said. “They gonna be shippin' out gold and silver in a few days, and we wait until then.”

“Let's hit the town,” a man suggested, leaning over and pouring a tin cup full of coffee from a big pot. “We're runnin' out of grub and besides, they's wimmin in that little town. I seen me a big fat one. I like fat wimmin. More to whup up on when they's fat.”

Smoke shot him in the belly.

The gut-shot outlaw screamed and threw the coffee pot, the contents splashing into another man's face. The scalded punk howled in pain and rolled on the ground, both hands covering his burned face.

The gunny who liked to rape little girls jumped to his boots, his hands filled with six-shooters. He looked wildly around him. Smoke took careful aim and shot a knee out from under the man, the .44 slug breaking the knee.

The man folded up and lay screaming on the ground, his broken knee bent awkwardly. He would be out of action for a long time.

Smoke lined up a punk who'd grabbed up a rifle and put a round in the center of his chest. The man dropped like a rag doll and did not move. He had fallen into the campfire, and his clothing ignited in seconds. The stench of burning flesh began to foul the morning coolness.

Smoke shifted positions as the outlaws fell into cover and began slinging lead in his direction. He rolled for several yards and then belly-crawled a dozen more yards, coming up behind a huge old fallen log.

“Somebody pull Daily outta that far!” a man yelled. “He's a stinkin' up ever'thang.”

“You pull him out,” another suggested.

“You go to hell!” the first man told him. “I ramrod this outfit, and you do what I tell you to do.”

The second man told the ramrodder where he could ram his orders. Bluntly.

Smoke waited, his Winchester .44 ready. He caught a glimpse of a checkered shirt and lined it up. It was a man's arm. Smoke waited, let out some breath, took up the slack on the trigger and let the rifle fire. The man screamed and rolled on the ground, the bullet-shattered arm hanging painfully and uselessly. The .44 slug had hit the man's elbow. Another out of action.

A smile of grim satisfaction on his lips, Smoke began working his way back, not wanting to risk any further shots. If he waited much longer, the hunter would soon become the hunted.

Back with Buck, he stepped into the saddle and took off in search of a hole.

* * *

“Damnit, Earl!” Mills hollered, waving the letter. “This is tampering with the mail. That's against the law.”

“I didn't tamper with anything,” the Englishman said. “The driver handed Smoke the mail, and Smoke told me to give this to you. I gave it to you.”

“You assisted him in getting away!”

“As far as I knew, he was a free man. He could leave anytime he chose.” He shrugged. “He chose to leave.”

Mills stomped out of the office. The men who had escorted the prisoner up to the county seat had returned. Mills started hollering for them to saddle up, they had to find and arrest Smoke Jensen.

The marshals all looked at one another. Going after outlaws was one thing. Tangling with Smoke Jensen was quite another matter.

A trio of deputy sheriffs, come to fetch one of the prisoners in jail, exchanged glances. One asked, “You boys are gonna go do what?”

“We're going to arrest Smoke Jensen,” Albert said glumly.

“What the devil for?” a deputy asked.

“Federal warrants,” Mills told him, walking up to the group standing on the boardwalk in front of the saloon. “The prisoners can remain in jail. By the powers vested in me by the United States government, I am hereby deputizing you men as deputy U.S. Marshals. You will accompany us in the pursuit and arrest of Smoke Jensen.”

“You can go right straight to hell, too,” a deputy told him. “I ain't got nothing against Smoke Jensen.

“Me, neither,” another said.

The third deputy turned and started toward the alley.

“Where are you going?” Mills demanded.

“To the outhouse,” the man called over his shoulder. “And as full of it as you are, you best do the same.”

“You men do not seem to understand the gravity of this situation!”

“I understand this,” a deputy told him. “You go after Smoke Jensen, you're gonna come back – if you come back at all – acrost your saddle.”

“Yeah,” the second deputy said. “If I was you, I'd sit on that warrant for a time. Smoke is a respected rancher of some wealth. I'll wager than warrant ain't worth the paper it's written on. Besides, do you know what you'd get if you crossed a grizzly bear and a puma and a rattlesnake and a timber wolf and some monster outta Hell?”

“I have not the vaguest idea.”

“You'd get Smoke Jensen. You best leave him alone. That ol' boy was born with the bark on and was raised up by mountain men and Injuns. They's tribes all over the West sing songs about how feeroocious Jensen is. 'Sides, you ever heard of gunslingers name of Charlie Starr, Monte Carson, Louis Longmont, Johnny North, Cotton Pickens, and the like?”

“Of course, I've heard of them! What's that got to do with anything?”

“Man, how'd you like to see them ol' boys and thirty more just as randy come a-foggin' in here, reins in their teeth and hands full of Colts, all of 'em mad at you?”

“That . . . would not be a pleasant sight,” Mills admitted.

“Pleasant sight! You couldn't see nothin' like it this side of Hell! Now you just pull in your horns and give that warrant time to rest, Mr. U.S. Marshal. Things will work out. You keep your nose out of Smoke Jensen's business. That way, you'll stay alive.”

“I have a job to do, sir!”

“So do we,” the deputy said. “But sometimes you got to let common sense take over. Smoke's killed a lot of sorry ol' boys in his time, but he ain't no back-shootin' murderer. All them he put in the ground was either stand-up fair fights – and usually he's facin' two or three at a time – or punks that was after him and he waylaid 'em to shorten the odds. You think about that warrant, mister. You think a long time about it. The longer you think, the longer you got to live.”