Heart of the Mountain Man (7 page)

“Is Max on his way back here?” Whitey asked.

Slaughter glanced at the telegram. “I don't think so. His last line says he wishes us luck, but he didn't figure on having to face Smoke Jensen for his share and he doesn't think it's worth it.”

“That yellow-bellied bastard!” Swede said. “I told you he was the wrong man to send to Big Rock.”

Slaughter looked over at him. “Like I said, Swede, any time you think you're good enough to take over leadership of this gang, you're welcome to give it a try.”

Swede's eyes dropped. “It's not that. You're still the boss, Jim, but I don't like the idea of some gun-slick friend of Carson's joinin' up with him. It complicates matters.”

“Don't worry. There ain't no way they can get into the hole-in-the-wall without us knowing about it first, and we've still got Mary Carson as our ace in the hole. Monte's got to come through with the money. He doesn't have any other choice in the matter, whether he's got some old geezer ex-gunman to ride with him or not.”

Whitey caressed the butt of the Greener ten-gauge in his cut-down holster on his hip. “I wouldn't mind mixin' it up with this old Jensen feller. Might be fun to see what he's made of... see if all those stories 'bout him are true or not.”

Swede cleared his throat. “Uh, he ain't all that old, Whitey.”

The albino turned to look at his friend. “You know this galoot?”

Swede shook his head. “No, but when I was just a kid, my daddy and I were livin' in this old mining town just west of the Needle Mountains, place called Rico. It wasn't much more than a camp, and was filled with more gunfighters than miners.”

“What's that got to do with Smoke Jensen?” Whitey asked impatiently.

“I'm gettin' to it,” Swede answered. “Anyway, I was in the tradin' post there one morning, gettin' supplies for my dad and me, and I saw these two men ride up from the window. One wasn't more'n a boy in his teens, an' the other was this old mountain man went by the name Preacher. Seems somebody had told Smoke Jensen the men who'd killed his father were in town . . .”

* * *

Smoke and Preacher dismounted in front of the combination trading post and saloon. As was his custom, Smoke slipped the thongs from the hammers of his Colts as soon as his boots hit dirt.

They bought their supplies, and had turned to leave when the hum of conversation suddenly died. Two rough-dressed and unshaven men, both wearing guns, blocked the door.

“Who owns that horse out there?” one demanded, a snarl in his voice, trouble in his manner. “The one with the SJ brand?”

Smoke laid his purchases on the counter. “I do,” he said quietly.

“Which way'd you ride in from?”

Preacher had slipped to his right, his left hand covering the hammer of his Henry, concealing the click as he thumbed it back.

Smoke faced the men, his right hand hanging loose by his side. His left hand was just inches from his left-hand gun. “Who wants to know—and why?”

No one in the dusty building moved or spoke.

“Pike's my name,” the bigger and uglier of the pair said. “And I say you came through my diggin's yesterday and stole my dust.”

“And I say you're a liar,” Smoke told him.

Pike grinned nastily, his right hand hovering near the butt of his pistol. “Why . . . you little pup. I think I'll shoot your ears off.”

“Why don't you try? I'm tired of hearing you shoot your mouth off.”

Pike looked puzzled for a few seconds; bewilderment crossed his features. No one had ever talked to him in this manner. Pike was big, strong, and a bully. “I think I'll just kill you for that.”

Pike and his partner reached for their guns.

Four shots boomed in the low-ceilinged room, four shots so closely spaced they seemed as one thunderous roar. Dust and birds' droppings fell from the ceiling. Pike and his friend were slammed out the open doorway. One fell off the rough porch, dying in the dirt street. Pike, with two holes in his chest, died with his back against a support pole, his eyes still open, unbelieving. Neither had managed to pull a pistol more than halfway out of leather.

All eyes in the powder-filled and dusty, smoky room moved to the young man standing by the bar, a Colt in each hand. “Good God!” a man whispered in awe. “I never even seen him draw.”

Preacher moved the muzzle of his Henry to cover the men at the tables. The bartender put his hands slowly on the bar, indicating he wanted no trouble.

“We'll be leaving now,” Smoke said, holstering his Colts and picking up his purchases from the counter. He walked out the door slowly.

Smoke stepped over the sprawled, dead legs of Pike and walked past his dead partner in the shooting.

“What are we 'posed to do with the bodies?” a man asked Preacher.

“Bury 'em.”

“What's the kid's name?”

“Smoke.”
⁴

* * *

Whitey raised his eyebrows. “He was that fast, huh?”

Swede smiled. “Faster'n a rattlesnake strikin'. If you do go up against him, Whitey, you'd better get him with your first shot, 'cause you sure as hell won't get more'n one.”

Tired of all this talk about Smoke Jensen, Big Jim Slaughter threw a handful of coins on the table and stood up. “Let's get back to the hole-in-the-wall, boys. If Carson's got some help, we need to make sure we're gonna be ready for 'em when they ride in.”

“I'm ready for 'em right now,” Whitey said, a sneer on his face.

Swede just smiled. “I'll remember you said that, Whitey.”

9

When Slaughter got back to his hideout in the hole-in-the-wall, he called all of his men together.

“Boys, we may be facing a little trouble. Seems Monte Carson has gotten some other men to ride with him and he's on his way out here.”

Johnny Tupelow, who called himself the Durango Kid, leaned over and spat on the ground. He was a young man, barely out of his teens, and dressed in what he thought a soon-to-be-famous gun hawk should wear—black pants and shirt with a vest festooned with silver conchos and a hat slung low over his forehead. He wore a brace of pearl-handled Colt .45 Peacemakers on his hips and highly polished black boots that rose to his knees. “That mean he ain't gonna give us the money, Boss?”

Slaughter's lips curled in a nasty smile. “Oh, he'll give us the money, all right, or he'll be gettin' pieces of his wife in the mail for months to come.” He hesitated. “I don't rightly know if he plans on puttin' up a fight or if he's just bringing some extra guns to make sure we keep our end of the bargain. In any case, until we find out just what his intentions are, I want two men at each sentry post around the clock. One to keep anybody who tries to get in here pinned down and the other to ride here to let us know we got company.”

The Durango Kid looked around at the others, then asked, “Any idea who he's got ridin' with him?”

Slaughter hesitated. “Max said it was Smoke Jensen.”

“Jensen?” the kid asked. “I thought he was dead.”

“Evidently not, according to Max,” Slaughter said.

“Any others?” the kid asked.

Slaughter shrugged. “Don't have any idea, but if the thought of goin' up against Jensen worries you, Kid, you're welcome to ride outta here anytime.”

The kid leaned over and spat again, a smirk on his face. “Not likely, Mr. Slaughter. I reckon my share of fifty thousand is worth killing a couple of old men past their prime.”

Slaughter didn't bother telling the Kid that if he went up against Monte Carson alone, Carson would in all probability plant him six feet under without getting his hair mussed. “Good. Whitey will make out a new schedule for standing watch. I figure it'll be a couple of weeks 'fore we see anybody, but it won't hurt to keep a sharp lookout just the same.”

* * *

Smoke and his men were making good time toward Jackson Hole, Wyoming. The weather had been unusually mild for this time of year and they'd only had to contend with a few short-lived snowstorms. They made their final camp when Smoke figured they were less than a day's ride from Jackson Hole.

As they sat around the campfire, eating the last of the rations Sally had packed for the trip, Louis put down his empty plate. “I'll tell you something, Smoke. If Sally ever feels the need to leave you for someone who will really appreciate her, she's welcome to come to my place and cook for me anytime.”

Smoke grinned. “I'll bet you won't say that in front of Andre,” he said, referring to the French chef who'd been preparing meals for Louis for as long as Smoke could remember.

Louis shook his head. “Don't even think such a thing, my friend. Andre would gut me like a fish if he even thought I was contemplating letting anyone else cook for me.”

Pearlie grunted. “Hell, if Miss Sally ever left the Sugarloaf, Smoke wouldn't have any hands left to tend the stock. They'd all be off following her to wherever she was going. Most of 'em would travel ten mile just for one of her bear sign.”

Cal laughed. “They'd have to leave awful early to beat you to 'em, or there wouldn't be any left for 'em to eat.”

Smoke held up his hands to quiet the banter. “All right, men. We need to form a plan of action for when we get to Jackson Hole. Slaughter will have gotten my message by now, and if he's as smart as Monte says he is, then he's going to have men in town watching for us to arrive.”

“You can bet on that, Smoke,” Monte said. “Slaughter hasn't survived this long by not watching his back.”

“I would suggest that we split up on the outskirts of town,” Louis said as he pulled a long, black cheroot from his coat pocket and lit it off a burning twig from the fire. He tilted smoke from his nostrils and continued. “Slaughter will be waiting for Monte and an unknown number of men to arrive together. If we go in by ones and twos, his men won't know we're associated with Monte.”

Smoke nodded. “Good idea, Louis. I propose that Monte camp just outside town, while Cal and Pearlie circle around and go in from the west, Louis from the north, and I'll enter from the south. With any luck, there won't be anyone there who will know who I am. That should give us time to locate this Muskrat Calhoon Bear Tooth told us about and see if he's going to be willing to help us find a back way into the hole-in-the-wall.”

“Wait a minute, Smoke. I ain't gonna sit out here cooling my heels while you fellers do all the work,” Monte said.

Louis pointed his cigar at Monte as if it were a gun. “You don't have any choice, Monte. Slaughter's sure to have given your description to his men. If they see you in town, they'll know Smoke and whoever else has offered to ride with you is there, too.”

Smoke leaned toward Monte. “It's the only chance we have of getting close enough to free Mary without Slaughter getting wind of our presence, Monte.”

“Hell, I know you're right, Smoke. It just sticks in my craw having you fellers take risks for Mary and me.”

“That's what friends are for,” Pearlie said from across the fire. “We all knew what we were gettin' into when we offered to help out, Monte. Hell, you'd've done the same for any one of us.”

Monte nodded, accepting the wisdom of the plan Smoke laid out. “All right. I'll set up a camp and when you locate this Muskrat Calhoon you can bring him there.”

Pearlie stood up and dusted off the seat of his pants.

“Where you goin', Pearlie?” Cal asked.

“To see if there's any of that apple pie left Miss Sally made,” he said.

Louis stared at him in wonder. “Smoke, if you ever run short of money, you can hire Pearlie out to the circus. He could be billed as the man with the bottomless stomach.”

* * *

Cal and Pearlie slowed their mounts to a walk as they entered the town of Jackson Hole. The light covering of snow on the ground from the last snowfall did little to make the town look any more inviting. The buildings were mostly made of the ponderosa pine logs that were so plentiful on the surrounding mountain slopes, and the streets were dirt and mud, with only a few boardwalks on the main street. Every other building seemed to be a saloon or gambling parlor, though there were several rather seedy boardinghouses and hotels for the mostly transient population.

“Jimminy,” Cal said, his eyes wide as he glanced from side to side, noticing the hard-looking men who lounged along the streets, most with bottles of whiskey in their hands even though it was barely past breakfast time. “I can sure see why they call this area Robber's Roost.”

Pearlie nodded as he let his hand drift to his hip to loosen the hammer-thong on his Colt. “Yep. 'Bout the only citizens around here that don't make their livin' with a gun are the barkeeps and fallen doves in the whorehouses.”

As he spoke, a girl who looked to be no more than fifteen stumbled out of a doorway and grabbed a cowboy leaning against the wall by the shoulder. She wore a tawdry dress made of red silk with green overlay that was cut almost down to her navel. After a few moments talking to the gent, he grinned and followed her back through the doorway.

Cal shook his head. “Not much like Big Rock, is it, Pearlie?”

“Not enough so's you can tell it, Cal.” He swiveled his head, glancing to both sides of the street. “You figger there's any place we can rustle up some breakfast around here?”

Cal pursed his lips. After a moment, he pointed to the right side of the street. “There's a sign over that boardinghouse sayin' ‘Good Eats.' I reckon that's as good a place as any to look. We gotta find us a place to bed down anyway.”

They reined in before the building with the sign that read, “Aunt Bea's Boardinghouse, Clean Sheets and Good Eats.”

When they entered they saw an entrance to the dining area off to the left. Pearlie removed his hat and made a beeline for the room, holding his nose in the air. “I smell bacon fryin' an' eggs cookin', Cal, boy. Looks like we struck pay dirt.”

Cal just shook his head and followed his partner's nose. Pearlie was like a bloodhound when it came to food, and could smell out vittles as well as a hound could track a rabbit.

They sat at a table near the window, where they could watch the comings and goings along the main street, and put their hats on a chair.

After a moment, a rotund woman wearing a flour-stained apron approached the table.

“Howdy, boys. What can I git ya?” she asked.

She had gray hair done up in a bun and a face full of wrinkles, showing she'd spent considerable time in the sun. Her eyes were sky-blue and seemed to twinkle with good nature.

Pearlie considered her question for a minute, then said, “I'd like four hens' eggs, scrambled, a pound of bacon, not too crisp, and some flapjacks with syrup. And about a gallon of coffee,” he added.

“Are you Aunt Bea?” Cal asked.

“That's what most folks call me, sonny boy, leastways round here.”

“I'll have a couple of eggs and some bacon and flapjacks too,” Cal said.

Aunt Bea's eyes narrowed as she studied Cal and Pearlie. “You boys don't exactly look like the usual sort we get around here. You just passin' through?”

Cal and Pearlie glanced at each other. They hadn't had a chance yet to get their story straight about why they were in Jackson Hole.

Finally, Pearlie answered her. “Yes, ma'am. We're just up from Texas way. Had a little trouble crost the border with the Mexican Federales and we figgered it'd be better for our health if'n we moseyed on up north for a spell.”

The light seemed to go out of her eyes. “Oh, outlaws, huh?”

Cal, noticing her disappointment, quickly said, “Oh, no, ma'am. Leastways, not here in the States. It's just that the Rangers tend to take a dislike to anybody that causes trouble with the Mexican authorities, so we thought we'd leave Texas until they forgot about our . . . little problems.”

Aunt Bea nodded. “Well, I hope you don't plan on stayin' here too long, boys. Jackson Hole ain't exactly a healthy place to hang around 'less you're tougher 'n boot leather. Some of the men round here like to eat young fellers like you for breakfast, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Cal said, putting on his most innocent expression.

Aunt Bea dusted her hands on her apron, causing a cloud of flour dust to rise in the air. “Well, I'll be seein' to your food an' I'll have the boy bring you your coffee right out.”

After she left, Cal leaned across the table. “Why'd you tell her we was runnin' from the law?”

Pearlie shrugged. “We got to fit in, Cal, boy. You can't just come to a place full of footpads, thieves, and rustlers and pretend to be choirboys. It wouldn't look right.”

Cal leaned back. “I guess you're right, though I hate makin' her think we ride the owl-hoot trail.”

Pearlie glanced at the kitchen door through which Bea had disappeared. “Unless I miss my guess, that lady likes to gossip, Cal, an' it won't hurt nothin' to have her spread the word we're on the run.”

While Pearlie was talking, Cal looked out the window and saw Louis Longmont dismounting in front of the boardinghouse. Cal nudged Pearlie's shoulder and motioned at the window with his head.

Pearlie grinned and nodded, evidently glad to see a friendly face among the hard cases on the street.

Louis sauntered into the dining room, gave Cal and Pearlie a quick glance, but didn't acknowledge them in any other way. He sat at a table across the room and leaned back in his chair, pulling out his trademark long black cheroot and lighting it.

Aunt Bea brought them a large coffeepot and two mugs, said their food would be ready shortly, then walked over to Louis's table.

“Howdy, mister,” they heard her say. “I'm Aunt Bea. You want breakfast or lunch?”

“I believe I'll have lunch, Aunt Bea. How about a steak, cooked just long enough to keep it on the plate, some fried potatoes, and some tinned peaches if you have any?”

Bea nodded. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“Ah, a man with manners. Quite a rarity around here,” she said, as she walked back toward the kitchen.

A few minutes later a boy that looked to be no more than twelve or fourteen came out of the back room with two large platters in his arms. He placed the plates in front of Cal and Pearlie and walked back to the kitchen.

Pearlie wasted no time. He put his head down and began to eat as if he were starving. Cal glanced over at Louis, smiled, and also began to eat.

Just as Louis was being served, several groups of men entered and the tables in the dining room began to fill up, it being close to the noon hour. Minutes later, Smoke walked in and took a table by himself, sitting as was his custom with his back to a wall where he could keep watch on the entrance to the room.

Soon all the tables in the room were filled. Pearlie, finally finished with his food, poured himself another cup of coffee and leaned back in his chair, building himself a cigarette. “Aunt Bea must do all right, from the looks of the crowd,” he said, handing Cal his fixin's so he could make himself a cigarette also.

Just as Cal was lighting his cigarette, four men walked up to their table. The first one, a tall, skinny man with several days' growth of whiskers on his face, a tied-down Colt on one hip, and a large Bowie knife in a scabbard on the other, leaned over and put both his hands on their table.