Journey of the Mountain Man (5 page)

At the far end of the street, Parnell stepped back from the open doorway and fanned himself vigorously.
“Heavens!”
he said.

“Almost come a showdown in town this morning, Boss,” Dooley Hanks's foreman said.

Hanks eyeballed the man. “Between who?”

Gage told his boss what a hand had relayed to him only moments earlier.

Hanks slumped back in his chair. “Smoke Jensen,” he whispered the word. “I never even thought about Fae and Parnell bein' related to him. And the Moab Kid and Lujan sided with him?”

“Or vicey-versy.”

“This ain't good. That damn Lujan is poison enough. But add Smoke Jensen to the pot ... might as well be lookin' the devil in the eyeballs. I don't know nothin' about Ring, except he's unbeatable in a fight. And the Moab Gunfighter has made a name for hisself in half a dozen states. All right, Gage. We got to get us a backshooter in here. Send a rider to Helena. Wire Danny Rouge; he's over in Missoula. Tell him to come a-foggin'.”

“Yes. sir.”

“Where's them damn boys of mine?”

“Pushin' cattle up to new pasture.”

“You mean they actually doin' some work?”

Gage grinned. “Yes, sir.”

Hanks shook his head in disbelief. “Thank you, Gage.”

Gage left, hollering for a rider to saddle up. Hanks walked to a window in his office. He had swore he would be kingpin of this area, and he intended to be just that. Even if he bankrupted himself doing it. Even if he had to kill half the people in the area attaining it.

Cord McCorkle had ridden out of town shortly after his facedown with Smoke and Lujan and the others. He did not feel that he had backed down. It was simply a matter of survival. Nobody but a fool willingly steps into his own coffin.

His hands would have killed Smoke and Lujan and the others, for a fact. But it was also hard fact that Cord would have gone down in the first volley ... and what the hell would that have proved?

Nothing. Except to get dead.

Cord knew that men like Smoke and Lujan could soak up lead and still stay on their feet, pulling the trigger. He had personally witnessed a gunfighter get hit nine times with .45 slugs and before he died still kill several of the men he was facing.

Cord sat on the front porch of his ranch house and looked around him. He wanted for nothing. He had everything a man could want. It had sickened him when Dooley had OK'd the dragging of that young Box T puncher. Scattering someone's cattle was one thing. Murder was another. He was glad that Jensen had come along. But he didn't believe anyone could ever talk sense into Hanks.

 

 

Smoke, Ring, and Beans sat their horses on the knoll overlooking the ranch house of Fae and Parnell Jensen. Fae might well be a bad-mouthed woman with a double-edged tongue, but she kept a neat place. Flowers surrounded the house, the lawn was freshly cut, and the place itself was attractive.

Even at this distance, a good mile off, Smoke could see two men, with what he guessed was rifles in their hands, take up positions around the bunkhouse and barn. A woman—he guessed it was a woman, she was dressed in britches—came out onto the porch. She also carried a rifle. Smoke waved at her and waited for her to give them some signal to ride on in.

Finally the woman stepped off the porch and motioned for them to come on.

The men walked their horses down to the house, stopping at the hitchrail but not dismounting. The woman looked at Smoke. Finally she smiled.

“I saw a tintype of your daddy once. You look like him. You'd be Kirby Jensen.”

“And you'd be Cousin Fae. I got your letter. I picked up these galoots along the way.” He introduced Beans and Ring.

“Put your horses in the barn, boys, and come on into the house. It's about dinnertime. I got fresh doughnuts; ‘bear-sign' as you call them out here.”

Fae Jensen was more than a comely lass; she was really quite pretty and shapely. But unlike most women of the time, her face and arms were tanned from hours in the sun, doing a man's work. And her hands were calloused.

Smoke had met Fae's two remaining ranch hands, Spring and Pat. Both men in their early sixties, he guessed. But still leather-tough. They both gave him a good eyeballing, passed him through inspection, and returned to their jobs.

Over dinner—Salty called it lunch—Smoke began asking his questions while Beans skipped the regular food and began attacking a platter of bear-sign, washed down with hot strong western coffee.

How many head of cattle?

Started out with a thousand. Probably down to less than five hundred now, due to Hanks and McCorkle's boys running them off.

Would she have any objections to Smoke getting her cattle back?

She looked hard at him. Finally shook her head. No objections at all.

“Ring will stay here at the ranch and start doing some much needed repair work,” Smoke told her. “Beans and me will start working the cattle, moving them closer in. Then we'll get your other beeves back. Tell me the boundaries of this spread.”

She produced a map and pointed out her spread, and it was not a little one. It had good graze and excellent water. The brand was the Box T; she had not changed it since taking over several years back.

“If you'll pack us some food,” Smoke said, “me and Beans will head out right now; get the lay of the land. We'll stay out a couple of days—maybe longer. This situation is shaping up to be a bad one. The lid could blow off at any moment. Beans, shake out your rope and pick us out a couple of fresh horses. Let's give ours a few days' rest. They've earned it.”

“I'll start putting together some food,” Fae said. She looked at Smoke. “I appreciate this. More than you know.”

“Sorry family that don't stick together.”

They rode out an hour later, Smoke on a buckskin a good seventeen hands high that looked as though it could go all day and all night and still want to travel.

The old man who had given the spread to Fae had known his business—Smoke still wondered about how she'd gotten it. He decided to pursue that further when he had the time.

About ten miles from the ranch, they crossed the Smith and rode up to several men working Box T cattle toward the northwest.

They wheeled around at Smoke's approach.

“Right nice of you boys to take such an interest in our cattle,” Smoke told a hard-eyed puncher. “But you're pushing them the wrong way. Now move them back across the river.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” the man challenged him.

“Jensen.”

The man spat on the ground. “I like the direction we're movin' them better.” He grabbed iron.

Smoke drew, cocked, and fired in one blindingly fast move. The .44 slug took the man in the center of his chest and knocked him out of the saddle. He tried to rise up but did not have the strength. With a groan, he fell back on the ground, dead. Beans held a pistol on the other McCorkle riders; they were all looking a little white around the mouth.

“Jack Waters,” Smoke said. “He's wanted for murder in two states. I've seen the flyers in Monte's office.”

“Yeah,” Beans said glumly. “And he's got three brothers just as bad as he is. Waco, Hatley, and Collis.”

“You won't last a week on this range, Jensen,” a mouthy McCorkle rider said.

Smoke moved closer to him and backhanded the rider out of his saddle. He hit the ground and opened his mouth to cuss. Then he closed his mouth as the truth came home. Jensen.
Smoke
Jensen.

“All of you shuck outta them gun belts,” Beans ordered. “When you've done that, start movin' them cattle back across the river.”

“Then we're going to take a ride,” Smoke added. “To see Cord.”

While the Circle Double C boys pushed the cattle back across the river, Smoke lashed the body of Jack Waters across his saddle and Beans picked up the guns, stuffing guns, belts, and all into a gunny sack and tying it on his saddle horn. The riders returned, a sullen lot, and Smoke told them to head out for the ranch.

A hand hollered for Cord to come out long before Smoke and Beans entered the front yard. “Stay in the house,” Cord told his wife and daughter. “I don't want any of you to see this.”

Beans stayed in the saddle, a Winchester .44 across his saddle horn. Smoke untied the ropes and slung Jack Waters over his shoulder, and Jack was not a small man. He walked across the lawn and dumped the body on the ground, by Cord's feet.

Cord was livid, his face flushed and the veins in his neck standing out like ropes. He was breathing like an enraged bull.

“We caught Jack and these other hands on Box T Range, rustling cattle. Now you know the law out here, Cord: we were within our rights to hang every one of them. But I gave them a chance to ride on. Waters decided to drag iron.”

Cord nodded his head, not trusting his voice to speak. and

“Now, Cord,” Smoke told him, “I don't care if you and Hanks fight until you kill each other. I don't think either of you remember what it is you're fighting about. But the war against the Box T is over. Fae and Parnell Jensen have no interest in your war, and nothing to do with it.
Leave ... them
...
alone!”

Smoke's last three words cracked like whips; several hardnosed punchers winced at the sound.

“You all through flappin' your mouth, Jensen?” Cord asked.

“No. I want all the cattle belonging to Fae and Parnell Jensen rounded up and returned. I m not saying that your hands ran them all off. I'm sure Hanks and his boys had a hand in it, too. And I'll be paying him a visit shortly. Get them rounded up and back on Box T Range.”

“And if I don't—not saying I have them, mind you?”

Smoke's smile was not pretty. “You ever heard of Louis Longmont, McCorkle?”

“Of course, I have! What's he have to do with any of this?”

“He's an old friend of mine, Cord. We stood shoulder to shoulder several years back and cleaned up Fontana. Then last year, he rode with me to New Hampshire ... you probably read about that.”

Cord nodded his head curtly.

“He's one of the wealthiest men west of the Mississippi, Cord. And he loves a good fight. He wouldn't blink an eye to spend a couple of hundred thousand putting together an army to come in here and wipe your nose on a porcupine's backside.”

From in the house, Smoke heard a young woman's laughter and an older woman telling her to shush!

The truth was, Louis was in Europe on an extended vacation and Smoke knew it. But sometimes a good bluff wins the pot.

Cord had money, but nothing to compare with Louis Longmont ... and he also knew that Smoke had married into a a great deal of money and was wealthy in his own right. He sighed heavily.

“I can't speak for Hanks, Jensen. You'll have to face him yourself. But as for me and mine ... OK, we'll leave the Box T alone. I don't have their cattle. I'm not a rustler. My boys just scattered them. But I'm damned if I'll help you round them up. You can come on my range and look; any wearing the Box T brand, take them.”

Smoke nodded and stuck out his hand. Cord looked startled for a few seconds, then a very grudging smile cut his face. He took the hand and gripped it briefly.

Smoke turned and mounted up. “See you.”

Beans and Smoke swung around and rode slowly away from the ranch house.

“My back is itchy,” Beans said.

“So is mine. But I think he's a man of his word. I don't think he'll go back on his word. Least I'm a poor judge of character if he does.”

They rode on. Beans said, “My goodness me. I plumb forgot to give them boys their guns back.”

“Well, shame on you, Beans. I hate to see them go to waste. We'll just take them back to Fae and she can keep them in reserve. Never know when she might need them. You can swap them for some bear-sign.”

“What about hands?”

“We got to hire some, that's for sure. Fae's got to sell off some cattle for working capital. She told me so. So we've got to hire some boys.”

“Durned if I know where. And there's still the matter of Dooley Hanks.”

Fae would hire some hands, sooner than Smoke thought. But they would be about fifty years from boyhood.

They made camp early that day, after rounding up about fifty head of BoxT cattle they found on Cord's place. They put them in a coulee and blocked the entrance with brush. They would push them closer to home in the morning.

They suppered on the food Fae had fixed for them and were rolled up in their blankets just after dark.

Smoke was the first one up, several hours before dawn. He coaxed life back into the coals by adding dry grass and twigs, and Beans sat up when the smell of coffee got too much for him to take. Beans threw off his blankets, put on his hat, pulled on his boots, and buckled on his gun belt. He squatted by the fire beside Smoke, warming his hands and waiting for the cowboy coffee to boil.

“Town life's done spoiled me,” Beans griped. “Man gets used to shavin' and bathin' every day, and puttin' on clean clothes every mornin'. It ain't natural.”

Smoke grinned and handed him a small sack.

“What's in here?”

“Bear-sign I hid from you yesterday.”

Beans quit his grousing and went to eating while Smoke sliced the bacon and cut up some potatoes, adding a bit of wild onion for flavor.

“The problem of hands has got me worried,” Beans admitted, slurping on a cup of coffee. “Ain't no cowboy in his right mind gonna go to work for the Box T with all this trouble starin' him in the face.”

“I know.” Smoke ladled out the food onto tin plates. “But I think I know one who just might do it, for thirty and found, just for the pure hell of it. I'll talk to him this afternoon if I can. First we have to see Hanks.”

 

 

“You got a lot of damn nerve, Jensen,” the foreman of the D-H spread told him. “Mister Hanks don't wanna see you.”

“You tell him I'm here and I'll wait just as long as it takes.”

Gage stared into the cold eyes of the most respected and feared gunfighter in all the West. He sighed, shook his head, and finally said, “All right, mister. I'll tell him you insist on seein' him. But I ain't givin' no guarantees.”

Hanks and McCorkle could pass for brothers, Smoke thought, as he squatted under the shade of a tree and watched as Dooley left the house and walked toward him. Both of them square-built men. Solid. Both of them in their early to mid forties.

Dooley did not offer to shake hands. “Speak your piece, Jensen.”

Smoke repeated what he'd told Cord, almost word for word, including the bit about Louis Longmont. Grim-faced, Hanks stood and took it. He didn't like it, but he took it.

“Maybe I'll just wait you out, Jensen.”

“Maybe. But I doubt it. You're paying fighting wages, Dooley. To a lot of people. You're like most cattlemen, Dooley: you're worth a lot of money, but most of it is standing on four hooves. Ready scratch is hard to come up with.”

Dooley grunted. Man knew what he was talking about, all right. “You won't get between me and McCorkle?”

“I don't care what you two do to each other. The area would probably be better off if you'd kill each other.”

“Plain-spoken man, ain't you?”

“I see no reason to dance around it, Dooley. What'd you say?”

Something evil moved behind Dooley Hanks's eyes. And Smoke didn't miss it. He did not trust this man; there was no honor to be found in Dooley Hanks.

“I didn't rustle no Box T cattle, Jensen. We just scattered them all to hell and gone. You're free to work my range. You find any Box T cattle, take them. You won't be bothered, and neither will Miss Fae or any punchers she hires.” He grinned, and it was not a pleasant curving of the lips. He also had bad breath.
“If
she can find anyone stupid enough to work for her. Now get out of my face. I'm sick of lookin at you.”

“The feeling is quite mutual, Hanks.” Smoke mounted up and rode away.

“I don't trust that hombre,” Beans said. “He's got more twists and turns than a snake.”

“I got the same feeling. See if you can find some of Fae's beef and start pushing them toward Box T graze. I'm going into Gibson.”

 

 

“You're serious?”

“Oh, yes,” Smoke told him. “Thirty and found, and you'll work just like any other cowboy.”

The man threw back his head and laughed; his teeth were very white against his deeply tanned face. He tossed his hat onto the table in Hans's cafe.

“All right,” he said suddenly. “All right, Smoke, you have a deal. I was a vaquero before I turned to the gun. I will ride for the Box T.”

Smoke and Lujan shook hands. Smoke had always heard how unpredictable the man was, but once he gave his word, he would die keeping it.

Lujan packed up his gear and pulled out moments later, riding for the BoxT. Smoke chatted with Hans and Olga and Hilda for a few moments—Hilda, as it turned out, was quite taken with Ring—and then he decided he'd like a beer. Smoke was not much of a drinker, but did enjoy a beer or a drink of whiskey every now and then.

Which saloon to enter? He stood in front of the cafe and pondered that for a moment. Both of the saloons were filled up with gunhands. “Foolish of me,” he muttered. But a cool beer sounded good. He slipped the leather thongs from the hammers of his guns and walked over to the Pussycat and pushed open the batwings, stepping into the semi-gloom of the beery-smelling saloon.

All conversation stopped.

Smoke walked to the bar and ordered a beer. The barkeep suddenly got very nervous. Smoke sipped his beer and it was good, hitting the spot.

“Jack Waters was a friend of mine,” a man spoke, the voice coming from the gloom of the far end of the saloon.

Smoke turned, his beer mug in his left hand.

His right thumb was hooked behind his big silver belt buckle, his fingers only a few inches from his cross-draw .44.

He stood saying nothing, sipping at his beer. He paid for the brew, damned if he wasn't going to try to finish as much of it as possible before he had to deal with this loudmouth.

“Ever'body talks about how bad you are, Jensen,” the bigmouth cranked his tongue up again. “But I ain't never seen none of your graveyards.”

“I have,” the voice came quietly from Smoke's left. He did not know the voice and did not turn his head to put a face to it.

“Far as I'm concerned,” the bigmouth stuck it in gear again, “I think Smoke Jensen is about as bad as a dried-up cow pile.”

“You know my name,” Smoke's words were softly offered. “What's your name?”

“What's s it to you?”

“Wouldn't be right to put a man in the ground without his name on his grave marker.”

The loudmouth cursed Smoke.

Smoke took a swallow of beer and waited. He watched as the man pushed his chair back and stood up. Men on both sides of him stood up and backed away, getting out of the line of fire.

“My name's John Cheave, Jensen. I been lookin' for you for nearabouts two years.”

“Why?” Smoke was almost to the bottom of his beer mug.

“My brother was killed at Fontana. By you.”

“Too bad. He should have picked better company to run with. But I don't recall any Cheave. What was he, some two-bit thief who had to change his name?”

John Cheave again cursed Smoke.

Smoke finished his beer and set the mug down on the edge of the bar. He slipped his thumb from behind his belt buckle and let his right hand dangle by the butt of his .44.

John Cheave called Smoke a son of a bitch.

Smoke's eyes narrowed. “You could have cussed me all day and not said that. Make your grab, Cheave.”

Cheave's hands dipped and touched the butts of his guns. Two shots thundered, the reports so close together they sounded as one. Smoke had drawn both guns and fired, rolling his left hand .44. It was a move that many tried, but few ever perfected; and more than a few ended up shooting themselves in the belly trying.

John Cheave had not cleared leather. He sat down in the chair he had just stood up out of and leaned his head back, his wide, staring eyes looking up at the ceiling of the saloon. There were two bloody holes in the center of his chest. Cheave opened his mouth a couple of times, but no words came out.

His boots drummed on the floor for a few seconds and then he died, his eyes wide open, staring at and meeting death.

“I seen it, but I don't believe it,” a man said, standing up. He tossed a couple of dollars on the table. “Cheave come out of California. Some say he was as fast as John Wesley Hardin. Count me out of this game, boys. I'm ridin'.”

He walked out of the saloon, being very careful to avoid getting too close to Smoke.

The sounds of his horse's hooves faded before anyone else spoke.

“The barber doubles as the undertaker,” Pooch Matthews said.

Smoke nodded his head. “Fine.”

The bartender yelled for his swamper to fetch the undertaker.

“Impressive,” a gunhawk named Hazzard said. “I have to say it: you're about the best I've ever seen. Except for one.”

“Oh?”

Hazzard smiled. “Yeah. Me.”

Smoke returned the smile and turned his back to the man, knowing the move would infuriate the gunhawk.

“Another beer, Mister Smoke?” the barkeep asked.

“No.”

The barkeep did not push the issue.

Smoke studied the bottom of the empty beer mug, wondering how many more would fall under his guns. Although he knew this showdown would have come, sooner or later, one part of him said that he should not have come into the saloon, while another part of him said that he had a right to go wherever he damned well pleased. As long as it was a public place.

It was an old struggle within the man.

The barber came in and he and the swamper dragged the body out to the barber's wagon and chunked him in. The thud of the body falling against the bed of the wagon could be heard inside the saloon.

“I believe I will have that beer,” Smoke said. While the barkeep filled his mug, Smoke rolled one of his rare cigarettes and lit up.

The saloon remained very quiet.

The barkeep's hand trembled just slightly as he set the foamy mug in front of Smoke.

Several horses pulled up outside the place. McCorkle and Jason Bright and several of Cord's hands came in. They walked to a table and sat down, ordering beer.

“What happened?” Smoke heard Cord ask.

“Cheave started it with Jensen. He didn't even clear leather.”

“I thought you was going to stay out of this game, Jensen?” McCorkle directed the question to Smoke's back.

Smoke slowly turned, holding the beer mug in his left hand. “Cheave pushed me, Cord. I only came in here for a beer.”

“Man's got a right to have a drink,” Cord grudgingly conceded. “I seen some Box T cattle coming in, Jensen. They was grazin' on range 'bout five, six miles out of town. On the west side of the Smith.”

“Thanks.” And with a straight face, he added, “I'll have Lujan and a couple of others push them back to Box T Range.”

“Lujan!” Jason Bright almost hollered the word.

“Yes. He went to work for the Box T a couple of hours ago.”

A gunslick that Smoke knew from the old days, when he and Preacher were roaming the land, got up and walked toward the table where Cord was sitting. “I figure I got half a month's wages comin' to me, Mister McCorkle. If you've a mind to pay me now, I'd appreciate it.”

With a look of wry amusement on his face, Cord reached into his pocket and counted out fifty dollars, handing it to the man. “You ridin', Jim?”

“Yes, sir. I figure I can catch up with Red. He hauled his ashes a few minutes ago.”

Cord counted out another fifty. “Give this to Red. He earned it.”

“Yes, sir. Much obliged.” He looked around the saloon. “See you boys on another trail. This one's gettin' crowded.” He walked through the batwings.

“Yellow,” Hazzard said disgustedly, his eyes on the swinging and squeaking batwings. “Just plain yellow is all he is.”

Cord cut his eyes. “Jim Kay is anything but yellow, Hazzard. I've known him for ten years. There is a hell of a lot of difference between being yellow and bettin' your life on a busted flush.” He looked at Smoke. “There bad blood between you and Jim Kay?”

Smoke shook his head. “Not that I'm aware of. I've known him since I was just a kid. He's a friend of Preacher.”

Cord smiled. “Preacher pulled my bacon out of the fire long years back. Only time I ever met him. I owe him. I often wonder what happened to him.”

“He's alive. But getting on in years.”

Cord nodded his head, then his eyes swept the room. “I'll say it now, boys; we leave the Box T alone. Our fight is with Dooley Hanks. Box T riders can cross our range and be safe doin' it. They'll be comin' through lookin' for the cattle we scattered. You don't have to help them, just leave them alone.”

A few of the gunslicks exchanged furtive glances. Cord missed the eye movement. Smoke did not. The gunfighters that Smoke would have trusted had left the area, such as Jim Kay and Red and a few others. What was left was the dregs, and there was not an ounce of honor in the lot.

Smoke finished his beer. “See you, Cord.”

The rancher nodded his head and Smoke walked out the door. Riding toward the Box T, Smoke thought: You better be careful, McCorkle, 'cause you've surrounded yourself with a bunch of rattlesnakes, and I don't think you know just how dangerous they are.