War of the Mountain Man (22 page)

Smoke walked back to his horse, booted the rifle, and mounted up, riding down to see if any of the outlaws on the ground were still alive. Two of them were, and one of them was not going to make it. The second man had only a flesh wound.

Smoke jerked the hoods from them and glared down at the men. “You'll live,” he told the man with the flesh wound. He cut his eyes to the other man. “You won't. You got anything you'd like to say before you die?”

Brown and his family had gathered around. The sound of the galloping horses of the farmer's neighbors coming to their aid grew loud. Soon the men of the entire complex had gathered around the fallen raiders.

“How'd you know?” the dying man gasped out the question, his eyes bright with pain, his hands holding his .56-caliber-punctured belly.

“I didn't,” Smoke told him. “I was having lunch on the ridges when you crud came riding along.”

“What'd you gonna do with me?” the other outlaw whined.

“Shut up,” Smoke said. “You get on my nerves and I might just decide to hang you.”

“That ain't legal!” the man hollered. “I got a right to a fair trial.”

Cooter snorted. “Ain't that something now? They come up here attackin' us, and damned if he ain't hollerin' about his right to a fair trial. I swear I don't know where our system of justice is takin' us.”

“Wait a few years,” Smoke told him. “I guarantee you it'll get worse.”

“I need a doctor!” the gut-shot outlaw hollered.

“Not in ten minutes you won't,” Gatewood told him.

“What'd you mean, you hog-slop?” the outlaw groaned the words.

“'Cause in ten minutes, you gonna be dead.”

He was right.

Smoke helped gather up the weapons from the dead raiders. Brown and the others in the farming complex now had enough weapons and ammo to stand off any type of attack, major or minor.

“They got their nerve comin' back here,” Cooter said as they dug shallow graves for the outlaws.

“And we'll keep comin' back,” the outlaw trussed up on the ground said. “Until all you hog-farmers are dead.” He had regained his courage, certain he was facing death and determined to face it tough.

“You're wrong,” Smoke told him, stepping out of the hole and letting one of Cooter's boys finish the digging. “Take a look at these men around you, hombre. Even without my guns, they'd have stopped the attack. I don't know whose idea this was, but I doubt if it was Max's.”

The young man on the ground glared at him but kept his mouth closed.

Smoke had an idea. “Can you read and write, punk?”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. Can you read and write?”

“Naw. I never learned how. What business is that of yours?”

Smoke walked to his horse, dug in the saddlebags, and found a scrap of paper and the stub of a pencil. He wrote a short note and returned to the outlaw. Folding the paper, he tucked it into the raider's shirt pocket and buttoned it tight.

“That's a note for Big Max. You give it to him, and to him alone. I'll know if you've showed it to anyone else. ”That was a lie, but Smoke figured the outlaw wouldn't. “You understand?”

“You turnin' me loose?”

“Yeah. With a piece of advice. And here it is: Get gone from this country. Give the note to Max and then saddle you a fresh horse, get your kit together, and haul your ashes out of Hell's Creek. We know Max and Red are going to attack the town. That is, if the old arrest warrants on his head don't catch up with him first. And they might.” Another lie. “The town is ready for the attack, hombre. Ready and waiting twenty-four hours a day. We know the bank is tempting. But don't try it; don't ride in there with them. The townspeople will shoot you into bloody rags. There's nigh on to six hundred people in and around Barlow now. Six hundred.” That was also a slight exaggeration. “And there are guards standing watch around the clock, ready to give the call. It's a death trap waiting for you.”

“You say!” the outlaw sneered, but there was genuine fear in his voice that all around him could detect.

Smoke jerked the man to his feet, untied his hands, and shoved him toward his horse, who had wandered back toward its master after running for a time. Pistols and rifle and all his ammo had been taken from the raider.

“Ride,” Smoke told him. “And give that note to Max.”

The man climbed into the saddle and looked down at Smoke. “I might take your advice. I just might. I got to think on it some.”

“You'd be wise to take it. I'm giving you a break by letting you go.”

“And I appreciate it.” He tapped the pocket where Smoke had put the message. “All right, Smoke. I'll give this to Big Max, and I'm gone. You'll not see me again unless you come around a ranch. That's where you'll find me . . . punchin' cows.”

“Are there any kids in Hell's Creek? Any decent women?”

The man shook his head. “None at all. There ain't nothin' there 'ceptin' the bottom of the barrel—if you know what I mean.”

“Good luck to you.”

“Thanks.” The man rode north, toward Hell's Creek.

Smoke swung into the saddle. “Before you boys bury that crud, go through their pockets and take whatever money you find. You earned it.”

“Don't seem right, takin' money from the dead,” Bolen said.

“They won't need it,” Smoke assured the man. “Near as I can figure out from reading the Bible, there aren't any honky-tonks in hell.”

 

 

Big Max Huggins opened the folded piece of paper and read. He read it again and began cussing. He ripped the small note into shreds and did some more fancy cussing. All of the cussing leveled at and centered around Smoke Jensen.

The note read: MAX, YOU STUPID, HORSE-FACED PIECE OF HOG CRAP. MEET ME TOMORROW AT THE WEST SIDE OF THE SWAN RANGE BY THE CREEK. NO GUNS. I'M GOING TO STOMP YOUR FACE IN WITH FISTS AND BOOTS. COME ALONE IF YOU HAVE THE GUTS—WHICH YOU PROBABLY DO NOT HAVE, BEING THE COWARD THAT YOU ARE.

Max let his temper rage for a few moments, then began to calm himself. He sat back down behind his desk and smiled. Max had killed men with his fists and felt very confident that he would do the same with Smoke Jensen.

This is what you've been training for, isn't it? he thought. Yes, of course it is. How to play it? The fight will be rough and tumble, kick and gouge. That isn't what you meant and you know it! he mentally berated himself.

Jensen had slighted his courage, for a fact.

Max folded his hamlike hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. How to play it? Well, there was only one way: He would play it straight. He would go alone.

Jensen had tossed down the challenge; Jensen had implied that he did not have the courage to meet him alone. Well, he'd show that damn two-bit gunfighter a thing or two about courage.

Jensen had chosen well, Max thought. He knew exactly where Smoke would be: on the flats just above the creek. Good level place for a fight.

Max would go in alone, but he would be armed; to do otherwise would be foolish. Once there, both men would shuck their guns together, each in plain sight of the other. Then, Max smiled, ! I will beat Smoke Jensen to death with my fists.

 

 

Smoke camped on the flats. On the afternoon before the fight—if Max showed up, and Smoke felt confident he would—Smoke prowled the area, picking up and throwing away every stick and rock he could find. He walked the area a dozen times, looking for holes in the ground that might trip a man. He memorized the natural arena. Then, sure he had done everything humanly possible, he cooked his supper and made his coffee. He rolled into his blankets just after dark and went to sleep with a smile on his lips.

What he was doing he knew was foolish. It was male pride at its worst. But when two bulls are grazing in the same pasture, one is going to be dominant over the other; that was nature's way. And Smoke had been raised too close to the earth to attempt to alter nature's way.

The fight would really accomplish nothing of substance. Smoke knew it, and Max probably knew it, too. If he didn't, then the man was a fool.

Smoke knew that what he ought to do was to kill Max Huggins just as soon as the man stepped down from the saddle. But that wasn't his way, and Max probably realized it. If Max came, and came alone, then he was going to follow the same rules.

It promised to be a very interesting fight.

Smoke was up at dawn, boiling his coffee and frying his bacon. He ate lightly, for he knew the fight might take several hours until the end, and he did not want to fight on a full stomach.

At full light he looked out over the flats, and far in the distance he saw a lone rider approaching. From the size of the man, he knew it had to be Max Huggins. He lifted his field glasses and scanned the area all around Max, to the rear and both sides. He could pick up no sign of outriders. Big Max was coming in alone.

Max rode up to the flats and dismounted. He was wearing two guns, tied down. Smoke stood up from his squat and hooked his thumbs behind the buckle of his gunbelt.

“How do we play this, Max?”

“It's your show. You call it.”

“First we untie, then we unbuckle and put them over here, next to my bedroll.”

“That sounds good to me.”

The men untied, unbuckled, and laid their guns on the ground, next to Smoke's bedroll.

Smoke pointed to the battered coffeepot and two tin cups. “Help yourself. It's fresh made.”

“Thanks. That'll taste good.” Max squatted down and poured two cups. With a smile, he handed one cup to Smoke and said, “If it's poisoned or drugged, then we'll go out together.”

“It's neither,” Smoke said, and took a sip of coffee. “It's just hot.”

The men sipped and stared at each other in silence. Max broke the silence. “How'd you put it together about Robert?”

“Family resemblance is strong. Then I followed Robert one day and saw you together.”

“He's quite insane, you know.” It was not a question.

“Yes, I know. What are you going to do with him?”

“I honestly don't know, Smoke.”

“Judge Garrison has legal papers ordering him committed to the asylum.”

Max's face hardened. “Robert will never be confined in one of those places. They're treated worse than animals in there.”

“You better think of something to do with him after you're gone.”

“Oh? Am I going somewhere?”

“Yes. You're either going to leave this area voluntarily, go to prison, or I'm going to kill you.”

Max chuckled, then laughed out loud. “Damn, but you are a gutsy man, Smoke Jensen. If the circumstances were different, I could really like you.”

“There is nothing about you that I like, Max.”

Max chuckled again, and it was not in the least forced. “That's a shame. I'm going to both enjoy and regret beating you to death.”

“Don't flatter yourself. I've whipped bigger and better men than you in my time.”

Max cut his eyes, looking at Smoke. The man was all muscle and bone. Max upgraded his original estimate of Smoke's weight. His arms and shoulders and chest and hands were enormous. Max probably had a good sixty pounds on the man, but he guessed accurately that Smoke would be quicker and able to dance around with more grace than he.

“I'm not surprised that you came alone,” Smoke said.

“I do have some honor about me,” Max replied stiffly.

“Honorable men do not make war against women and children. Neither do they rape young girls.”

“Aggie was a mistake,” Max admitted. “But both Robert and I—we get it from our father—have hot blood when it comes to girls. It's a failing, I will admit.”

Smoke wondered how many young girls had suffered and died at the hands of the man he faced. And once again the thought came to him: I ought to just shoot him.

Smoke sipped his coffee, holding the cup in a gloved hand, and stared at Max Huggins from the other side of the fire.

“I guess it's about that time,” Smoke said.

Both rose as one and tossed the dregs of their coffee to the ground. They tossed the cups to the ground and walked away from the campsite. Max flexed his arms and wiggled his hands and did a little boxing shuffle with his feet.

“That's cute,” Smoke told him. “Where'd you learn that? From a hurdy-gurdy girl?”

“You're going to be easy, Jensen. That's one of Jem Mace's moves.”

“Somehow I think he did it better. You looked kind of stupid.”

Max stepped in quickly and tried a right at Smoke's head. Smoke sidestepped, but not to the side that Max anticipated, and the left that followed the right almost jerked him off his boots when it exploded against thin air.

“Damn, you're clumsy,” Smoke told him.

Max charged in and Smoke was forced to back up. Smoke knew that if Max connected solidly with that big right, it would hurt. Max drew first blood with a sneaky left that bloodied Smoke's mouth; but Smoke moved away too quickly for the right he threw to connect. Smoke's left did connect against Max's belly and it was like hitting a tree.

He danced back and let Max follow him. Neither man had as yet worked up a sweat or was even breathing hard. Both of them knew that this fight could last a long time. ,

Max snaked a right in that almost connected. Smoke smashed a left uppercut that jerked Max's head back and stopped him for a couple of seconds. Before he could fully recover, Smoke danced away.

Blood was leaking out of one side of Max's mouth as he followed Smoke around the flats. Smoke suspected the big man had bitten his tongue due to that uppercut.

Suddenly Max dropped his fists and charged, trying to catch Smoke in a bear hug. What Max got was a combination left and right to his face, followed by a boot to his knee that staggered him. Before he could catch his balance, Smoke had hit him twice more, both times on the face. Max felt blood running down from his nose and the sensation infuriated him. He stepped in and busted Smoke on the jaw with a hard right, and then a left to the belly that hurt the smaller man.

Smoke backed up, shaking his head, for Max had a punch like the kick of a mule.

Max sensed victory too soon, but with good reason. Never had he had to hit a man Smoke's size more than twice to put him down. He stepped closer to put the finishing touches to one Smoke Jensen, and Smoke knocked the crap out of Max Huggins.

The hard right fist connected flush on the side of Max's jaw and put the big man down on the grass. He was astonished! He wasn't hurt, just simply astounded that Jensen had actually knocked him down.

Max was further astonished when Smoke backed up, allowing the man to get to his feet. Smoke was fighting ring rules.

“Just as long as you do, Max,” Smoke said after correctly reading the man's expression.

Max nodded and stepped in, raising his fists. So it was boxing that Jensen wanted, hey! Well, he would sure oblige the man.

Both men were wary now, each of them knowing the other could do plenty of damage. They circled each other, Max with his fists held high, Smoke with his left fist held wide from his body and his right fist just in front of and to one side of his head.