Heart of the Mountain Man (5 page)

“Goddamn, boys, it's that old mountain man!” One-Eye Jackson yelled as he drew his pistol.

All six men crouched and began firing wildly, frightened by the sheer gall of a lone horseman charging right at them.

Puma's pistols exploded, spitting fire, smoke, and death ahead of him. Two of the gun slicks went down immediately,. 44 slugs in their chests.

Another jumped into the saddle and turned tail and rode like hell to get away from this madman who was bent on killing all of them.

One-Eye took careful aim and fired, his bullet tearing through Puma's left shoulder muscle, twisting his body and almost unseating him.

Puma straightened, gritting his teeth on the leather reins while he continued firing with his right-hand gun, his left arm hanging useless at his side. His next two shots hit their targets, taking one gunny in the face and the other in the stomach, doubling him over to leak guts and shit and blood in the dirt as he fell.

One-Eye's sixth and final bullet in his pistol entered Puma's horse's forehead and exited out the back of its skull to plow into Puma's chest. The horse somersaulted as it died, throwing Puma spinning to the ground. He rolled three times, tried to push himself to his knees, then fell facedown in the dirt, his blood pooling around him.

One-Eye Jackson looked around at the three dead men lying next to him and muttered a curse under his breath. “Jesus, that old fool had a lot'a hair to charge us like that.” He shook his head as he walked over to Puma's body and aimed his pistol at the back of the mountain man's head. He eared back the hammer and let it drop. His gun clicked . . . all chambers empty.

One-Eye leaned down and rolled Puma over to make sure he was dead. Puma's left shoulder was canted at an angle where the bullet had broken it, and on his right chest was a spreading scarlet stain.

Puma moaned and rolled to the side. One-Eye Jackson chuckled. “You're a tough old bird, but soon's I reload I'll put one in your eye.”

Puma's eyes flicked open and he grinned, exposing bloodstained teeth. “Not in this lifetime, sonny,” and he swung his right arm out from beneath his body. In it was his buffalo-skinning knife.

One-Eye grunted in shock and surprise as he looked down at the hilt of Puma's long knife sticking out of his chest. “Son of a . . .” he rasped, then he died.

Puma lay there for a moment. Then with great effort he pushed himself over so he faced his beloved mountains. “Boys,” he whispered to all the mountain men who had gone before him, “git the
cafecito
hot, I'm comin' to meet 'cha.”
³

* * *

Bear Tooth, instead of looking sad, smiled as he nodded his head. “That's the way a mountain man ought'a go out, with his guns blazin' and spittin' death and destruction all round him.”

Smoke smiled, too. “You're right, Bear Tooth. Old Puma wouldn't've wanted to die in bed, that's for sure.”

Bear Tooth inclined his head at Cal and Pearlie. “You gonna introduce me to yore
compadres,
Smoke?”

Smoke introduced the boys, who both stood to shake hands with Bear Tooth.

“What you boys doin' up here on the slopes, Smoke? Teachin' the young beavers some'a the lessons 'bout mountain life ole Preacher taught you?”

Smoke hesitated a moment, then looked directly at the mountain man. “No, actually, we came up here to see you, Bear Tooth.”

Bear Tooth pursed his lips, making his beard move as if it were home to tiny animals. “Ya came all the way up here to see me? Pardon me fer sayin' so, Smoke, but the idee of that kind'a makes the skin on my back crawl.”

Smoke smiled. “Oh, there's nothing to worry about, Bear Tooth. I just need some information about a place you used to trap a few years back.”

Bear Tooth pulled a long rope of tobacco from his shirt pocket, bit off a sizable portion, and began to chew. “You talkin' 'bout Wyomin'?”

Smoke nodded. “A friend of mine's wife was taken by some hard cases and word is they're camping at the hole-in-the-wall near Jackson Hole.”

Bear Tooth narrowed his eyes. “An' I reckon you want to know if 'n there's some back way into the hole so's you can go in and get the woman out?”

Smoke nodded.

Bear Tooth scratched his beard, his eyes far off as he thought about it. “There's only one way in where they won't see ya comin'. On the back side of the second-highest peak there's a cave. It'll be kind'a hard to find this time of year 'cause of the snow, but the cave goes all the way through the mountain and comes out on the other side in a group of boulders. I'm bettin' those flatlanders won't know 'bout it.”

“That's just what we're looking for. Can you tell me how to find it?”

Bear Tooth shook his head. “Nope, but an ole friend of mine, Muskrat Calhoon, can. I hear tell he's still trappin' up in those peaks round Jackson Hole.”

“How can I find him?”

“He comes into town 'bout ever' two, three weeks to get his tobaccy and a little hair of the dog. Usually buys it at Schultz's General Store as I recall. You ask round town an' they'll let him know yo're lookin' fer him. Feel free to tell him yo're a friend of mine.”

Cal cleared his throat. “Mr. Bear Tooth, how come they call him Muskrat? Is it because he traps 'em?”

Bear Tooth leaned his head back and laughed, showing a row of yellow-stained teeth ground down almost to the gums. “No, son, he don't trap 'em, he smells like 'em.”

Smoke laughed along with Cal and Pearlie as he got up and walked to Joker. He pulled a paper bag out of his saddlebags and brought it over to the fire. “Bear Tooth, thanks for your help,” he said, setting the bag in front of the mountain man. “My wife, Sally, made these bear sign before we left our ranch, and I'd be honored if you'd share them with us.”

“Bear sign?” Bear Tooth asked, his eyes lighting up. He reached into the sack, pulled out a large, homemade doughnut, and stared at it for a moment before dunking it in his coffee, then popping the whole thing in his mouth.

Pearlie licked his lips and turned imploring eyes on Smoke. “Uh, Smoke, do you think there's enough bear sign there for all of us to share?”

Smoke nodded. “I guess so, Pearlie, long as you let Cal and me take one or two before you attack that bag.”

“That's for danged sure,” Cal said. “Otherwise won't none of us get a chance at any if'n Pearlie digs in first.”

7

On the way back to Sugarloaf, Smoke decided to stop by Big Rock and see if the wounded man Monte had shot had any more information for them before heading up to Wyoming.

Pearlie slowed Cold as they pulled next to Longmont's Saloon. “You think we might have time to get a bite or two to eat at Longmont's 'fore we head back to the Sugarloaf?” he asked, a hopeful expression on his face.

“That hollow leg of your's beginning to feel empty, Pearlie?” Smoke asked, winking at Cal.

“Yes, sir. I'm so hungry my stomach thinks my throat's been cut.”

Smoke glanced at the sun, nearing the middle of the sky but not giving off much heat as cold autumn air flowed down from the mountain passes and chilled the day.

“Well, it has been a few hours since you cleaned us out of fatback and sinkers, so I guess it won't hurt any if we stop and have a meal before bracing that gunny over at Doc's.”

They tied their horses to the rail in front of Longmont's and got down out of the saddle. Smoke stood and looked at a trio of horses already tied there, noting the trail dust covering the animals and the strange brands on their flanks.

“Looks like we've got some strangers in town,” he said, as they walked through the batwings.

By force of long habit, Smoke stepped to the side as he entered the saloon and diner and let his eyes adjust to the darkened room while he studied the men inside. When he'd lived by his guns, it'd been a trait that had saved his life on more than one occasion. Saloons were the most dangerous places in the West, accounting for more than three-quarters of the deaths in most towns.

Cal and Pearlie, trained by Smoke, stepped to the other side of the door and also waited, checking out the customers to see if any appeared dangerous. They both knew there were many men in the country who would like nothing better than to get a reputation for being the one who planted Smoke Jensen forked end up.

Smoke noticed his gambler friend of many years, Louis Longmont, sitting at his usual table in the saloon he owned, where he plied his trade, which he called teaching amateurs the laws of chance.

Louis was a lean, hawk-faced man, with strong, slender hands and long fingers, nails carefully manicured, hands clean. He had jet-black hair and a black pencil-thin mustache. He was, as usual, dressed in a black suit, with white shirt and dark ascot—something he'd picked up on a trip to England some years back. He wore low-heeled boots, and a pistol hung in tied-down leather on his right side. It was not for show, for Louis was snake-quick with a short gun and was a feared, deadly gun hand when pushed.

Louis was not an evil man. He had never hired his gun out for money. And while he could make a deck of cards do almost anything, he did not cheat at poker. He did not have to cheat. He was possessed of a phenomenal memory and could tell you the odds of filling any type of poker hand, and was one of the first to use the new method of card counting.

He was just past forty years of age. He had come to the West as a very small boy, with his parents, arriving from Louisiana. His parents had died in a shantytown fire, leaving the boy to cope as best he could.

He had coped quite well, plying his innate intelligence and willingness to take a chance into a fortune. He owned a large ranch up in Wyoming Territory, several businesses in San Francisco, and a hefty chunk of a railroad.

Though it was a mystery to many why Longmont stayed with the hard life he had chosen, Smoke thought he understood. Once, Louis had said to him, “Smoke, I would miss my life every bit as much as you would miss the dry-mouthed moment before the draw, the challenge of facing and besting those miscreants who would kill you or others, and the so-called loneliness of the owl-hoot trail.”

Sometimes Louis joked that he would like to draw against Smoke someday, just to see who was faster. Smoke always allowed as how it would be close, but that he would win. “You see, Louis, you're just too civilized,” he had told him on many occasions. “Your mind is distracted by visions of operas, fine foods and wines, and the odds of your winning the match. Also, your fatal flaw is that you can almost always see the good in the lowest creatures God ever made, and you refuse to believe that anyone is pure evil and without hope of redemption.”

When Louis laughed at this description of himself, Smoke would continue. “Me, on the other hand, when some snake-scum draws down on me and wants to dance, the only thing I have on my mind is teaching him that when you dance, someone has to pay the band. My mind is clear and focused on only one problem, how to put that stump-sucker across his horse toes-down.”

Today, Louis was, as usual, sitting at his personal table, playing solitaire and drinking coffee, a long, black cheroot in the corner of his mouth. Louis looked up and saw Smoke, but he didn't smile as he usually did when Smoke paid him a visit. Instead, he cut his eyes toward the bar and gave his head a slight toss.

Smoke followed his gaze, letting his right hand unhook the hammer-thong on his Colt .44. There were three men standing at the bar, leaning on elbows and drinking whiskey with beer chasers. They looked like hard men, and all had their guns tied down low on their legs, showing they weren't typical cowboys.

Smoke spoke low, out of the side of his mouth. “Watch those three, boys, and keep your guns loose. Something tells me they ride for Slaughter.”

Smoke and Cal and Pearlie joined Louis at his table, all three adjusting their chairs so they could watch the men at the bar.

“Howdy, Louis,” Smoke said.

“Good afternoon, Smoke,” Louis replied, his eyes too on the strangers.

“I notice you got some new customers. Anyone I might know?”

Louis tilted smoke out of his nostrils toward the ceiling and shook his head. “I don't believe so. But these men are very curious about the whereabouts of our sheriff, Monte Carson. They've asked just about everyone who's come in where he might be.”

Smoke had filled Louis in on the happenings at Monte's, and had asked him to spread the word that Monte was away on a trip, letting his deputy Jimmy cover things for him in his absence. “Did they believe the story about Monte gone fishing?”

“Not for a moment.”

Smoke leaned back in his chair and pushed his hat back on his head. “Do you think you could get Andre to fix us up some lunch? Pearlie's about to starve to death.”

Louis grinned for the first time since they entered. “And when is he not?”

He motioned for the young black man who was the waiter to come to his table. “Bobby, would you ask Andre to fix three steaks, not too well done, and to fry some potatoes for Mr. Jensen and his friends?”

“Shore, Boss, and I'll bring some fresh coffee right over too.”

While waiting for their food, Smoke got to his feet. “I think I'll mosey on over to the bar and say hello to our friends there,” he said.

Longmont sighed. “I'll tell Bobby to keep the mop handy. I have a feeling he'll be having a mess to clean up before long.”

Smoke smiled, but there was no mirth in his eyes as he walked to the bar. He leaned on it next to the three men.

Smoke, who stood a few inches over six feet in height and had shoulders as wide as an ax handle, dwarfed the men next to him. The closest turned his head and looked up at Smoke's face.

“Howdy, boys,” Smoke said, leaning his left elbow on the bar, keeping his right hand free hanging next to his pistol.

“You want somethin', mister?” a short, dark-haired man with a scraggly mustache growled out of the side of his mouth.

Smoke stared into the man's eyes, his gaze as hard as flint. “I hear you've been asking a lot of questions about our sheriff, Monte Carson.”

“What's it to you, feller?” the man asked, a sneer turning up the corners of his lips.

Smoke hesitated for a moment, then backhanded the man across the mouth, slamming his face to the side and almost taking his head off. The man spun on his heels and fell facedown on the floor, his eyes crossed and vacant as blood spurted from his flattened nose and torn lips.

The gunny next to him reached for his gun, but before he could clear leather Smoke drew and slammed his .44 down on the man's head, driving him to his knees with blood spurting from his forehead.

Smoke turned the barrel of the Colt toward the third man, who was standing there with his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. “I live in this town,” Smoke said in a low voice ringed with steel, “and I don't like pond scum like you three smelling up the town.”

Sweat appeared on the man's forehead as he slowly moved his hand away from the butt of his pistol. “Uh . . . yes, sir,” he mumbled.

“Now, I'm going to ask you once more, why are you fellows so interested in the whereabouts of Monte Carson?”

The man on his knees glanced up, wiping blood off his face, but didn't answer. The third man, who hadn't moved a muscle, looked at Smoke, his eyes switching from the hole in the Colt's barrel to Smoke's face. “We had a message from an old friend of his, that's all. We were just supposed to tell him hello.” His face slowly drained of color as he spoke.

“And what was this friend's name?” Smoke asked, earing down the hammer on his .44 and putting it back in his holster.

The two men who were still conscious glanced at each other, sudden fear in their eyes. “I don't rightly remember,” the man on his knees said as he grabbed the bar and pulled himself to his feet, swaying slightly. He had a slight quaver in his voice and his eyes fixed on Smoke's pistol.

The man on the floor moaned and rolled on his back, sleeving blood off his mouth with his arm. Smoke reached down, grabbed a handful of his hair, and hauled him to his feet, the man squealing in pain.

Smoke smiled and dusted the man's clothes off. “Well, like I said, this is a nice town, but as you can see, it's not too healthy to go around asking a lot of questions about things that don't concern you.”

“Yes, sir, we can see that,” the third man said, relieved that Smoke's gun was back in his holster.

“Now, why don't you fellows head on back to Wyoming and learn to mind your own business?”

“How'd you know we was from Wyomin'?” the second man said, before the third slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Shut up, Max.”

Smoke leaned forward and whispered, “I know a whole lot more than you think I do, and I want you to take a message to your boss, Jim Slaughter.”

“We don't . . .” the third man started to say until a look from Smoke silenced him in mid-sentence.

“Tell Slaughter that Smoke Jensen is coming to have a talk with him, and that if Mary Carson has even one hair out of place when I get there, they'll be finding pieces of his carcass all over the territory before I'm done with him.”

“Smoke Jensen . . . THE Smoke Jensen?”

“There's only one I'm aware of,” Smoke said.

“Gawd Almighty, Joe, you done drawed down on Smoke Jensen,” the second man said to the one with blood all over his face.

Smoke looked at each man one at a time. “I'd suggest that after you give Slaughter my message, you boys look for a healthier climate, 'cause if I see you when I get there, I'll kill you deader'n a snake.”

“All right, Mr. Jensen,” Max said as he picked his hat up off the bar, ignoring the blood running down his face.

“Oh, and you can tell him Blackie Johnson and his friends send their regards from Hell.”

The three men's eyes widened and their faces paled as they threw some coins down on the bar and walked rapidly out of the room without looking back.

“Smoke, your steak is getting cold,” Louis called from his table.

Smoke glanced over and saw the gambler hooking his hammer-thong back on the pistol he wore on his right hip, and knew his friend had been backing his play.

Pearlie already had his head down and was stuffing his food into his mouth as if he hadn't eaten in days. Cal was smiling and watching the men leave the saloon.

“You shore know how to liven up a place, Smoke,” he said.

As Smoke cut into his steak, Louis leaned forward. “Do you mind telling me why you did that?”

Smoke swallowed, took a drink of coffee, and looked up. “I wanted Slaughter to know that Monte got his message. I also wanted him to know what would happen if he hurt Mary.”

“Do you think that's wise?”

Smoke shrugged. “Slaughter's not the kind of man to keep his word, so if he's planning to kill Monte when he gets his money, there wouldn't be any reason for him to keep Mary safe.”

Smoke cut another piece of steak. “Now there is, and he'll be wondering why I'm dealing myself into this hand. I hope it'll make him nervous, not knowing just what's going on, and a nervous man sometimes makes mistakes.”