Читать книгу Law Of The Mountain Man - William W. Johnstone - Страница 13

Smoke’s left-hand Colt roared and bucked as his cross-draw flashed.

The slugs hit Gus in the chest and belly, doubling him over. He stumbled back and grabbed onto a table’s edge for support. He finally managed to drag iron just as Smoke fired again, the .44 slug slamming into his chest. The light began to fade around him as the men in the barroom took on a ghostly appearance, drifting into double images as the sounds of the pale rider grew louder in his ears.

Gus looked down at his hands. What had happened to his guns? His hands were empty. But he had drawn them. He was sure of that.

Gus sat down heavily in a chair and the legs broke under the sudden weight, spilling him to the floor. The last thing he would hear was the sounds of the pale rider’s horse galloping closer. And finally, the feel of that cold and bony hand reaching down to touch his shoulder.

“Did anybody even see Jensen draw?” the drummer asked, his voice filled with awe. “Jesus God, I didn’t.”

The young man whom Cheyenne had bopped on the noggin with the barrel of his Colt finally sat up and moaned, both hands to his head. “What happened?” he asked.

“Gus finally saw the critter,” Blackjack told him.

The young man looked up into the cold eyes of Smoke Jensen. Right then, and unfortunately for him, only for a very brief moment, did the old homeplace farm back in Minnesota pull at him slightly.

The young man who had just recently taken to calling himself the Pecos Kid pushed those thoughts out of his head and began to think about how he could kill Smoke Jensen. Yeah ... the man who killed Smoke Jensen would be famous all over the world. He’d have fame and money and all the women anybody could ever want. So he very wrongly thought.

Smoke stared down at him from the bar. His words momentarily chilled the Pecos Kid. “Put it out of your head, kid. Don’t even think about it.”

Smoke turned and Walt and Cheyenne followed him out of the bar and into the general store.

When Smoke was well out of earshot, Pecos said, “I bet I could take him.”

Blackjack just shook his head in disgust.

It appeared that the bitterly cold and long winter had finally given way to spring as the warming winds began to blow. The syringa began to bloom, as did the balsam and lupine, and the marsh marigold and blue columbine lent their hues and fragrances to the cacophony of color. Harrison had ridden to the store by the lake and came back with bad news.

“That Clint Perkins done struck agin, Mr. Walt. This time he killed a man over on the Little Malad. Some big landowner over thataway.”

Walt kicked at a rock and cussed.

“And that ain’t all. Jud Vale—had to be him—done upped the ante on Smoke’s head. Five thousand dollars to the man who kills him.”

Smoke had walked up, listening. The news came as no surprise to him.

Walt looked at him. “Jud knows that with you out of the picture this whole operation would fold. Me and Cheyenne and Dolittle and Harrison could hold on for a time, but not for long. Maybe it’s time for me to sell out and move on; take Doreen and Mickey with me and the old woman and just get gone.”

“Is that what you want to do, Walt?”

“Hell, no!” There was considerable heat in the man’s voice.

“Then don’t. But here’s what we can do: round up the rest of your herds and sell off the older stuff. That would take some strain off the range. We could use the boys to drive them to the railhead at Preston. Me and Cheyenne would stay here on the place with you to make sure Jud’s men don’t burn the house down.”

Walt thought for a moment, then nodded his head. “All right, let’s do ’er.”

Leaving Cheyenne in charge of the roundup, Smoke saddled up and headed for the nearest telegraph office to find a buyer for the cattle. He did not take the normally traveled roads or trails, but instead cut across country, blazing his own trail.

Smoke wasn’t worried about the men Jud Vale had hired. Most of them were stand-up, look-you-in-eye gunfighters. They had a reputation to defend or to build, and back-shooters they were not. It was the bounty hunters that Smoke knew would be coming in who worried him.

That scum had no scruples or morals or anything that even remotely resembled those attributes.

And they would be coming in once that five thousand dollar ante on his head was spread about the country; that would not take long to accomplish.

He made the ride to the wire office with no trouble, and sent wires out until he found a buyer who knew him and was interested in the cattle. He made arrangements over the wires to meet the shipment at the railhead with a bankdraft.

He walked over to the hotel and checked in, then got himself a bath and a shave and changed clothes while his range clothing was being washed, dried, and ironed. Then he headed for a cafe for a meal.

Smoke was a handsome, striking-looking man, tall and muscular, and he turned many a female head as he strode up the boardwalk, spurs jingling. And he caused many a man to step back as he passed, for even though Smoke did not know it, and would have scoffed at it if someone had told him so, there was clear and present danger in those cold brown eyes. And by the way he wore his guns, there was no denying that he was very comfortable with those Colts, and knew how to use them. And more importantly, would use them.

He had changed into dark pin-stripe trousers over his polished boots, a white shirt with black siring tie, and a leather vest.

He decided to have a beer before he ate his lunch and pushed open the batwings of the saloon, stepping inside.

The bounty hunters and the gunfighter locked eyes.

John Wills, Dave Bennett, Shorty Watson, and Lefty Cassett were sharing a bottle and playing poker.

Smoke told the barkeep he wanted a beer and walked over to their table, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “Deal me in, boys.”

“You got a lot of brass on your butt, Jensen,” Lefty told him. “Who the hell invited you?”

“You’re hurting my feelings, Lefty. Makes me think I smell bad. And to think I just spent good money to have a bath and a shave.”

“Very funny, Smoke,” Wills said. “Notice how we’re all laughing.”

“I can see that. You boys gonna deal me in or not?”

“Closed game, Jensen,” Shorty told him. “Just like you’re gonna be soon. Closed. Like in a box.”

They thought that was funny. Hysterically so. Smoke smiled with their laughter. They stopped laughing when they heard the almost inaudible click of a hammer being earred back.

“Is the joke over so soon?” Smoke asked, an innocent expression on his face. “Keep your hands where I can see them, boys.”

“You can’t shoot us like this, Jensen,” Wills said, a very hopeful note in his voice. “That’d be murder!”

“And you law-abiding boys certainly don’t hold with murder, now, do you?” Smoke’s voice was low-pitched and deadly.

Lefty softly cursed Smoke.

“Boys,” Smoke told them, as he tapped the barrel of his Colt on Shorty’s knee, that action bringing a sheen of sweat on the man’s face. “I’m going to have myself a nice quiet drink and then I’m going to the cafe for something to eat. While I’m having my drink, you boys finish yours. While I’m in the cafe, I’d better see you scum ride out of town and don’t come back while I’m here.”

“And if we don’t?” Dave Bennett challenged.

“I’ll come out of the cafe with both hands full of Colts and one thing on my mind: killing all four of you.”

Wills swallowed hard and said, “This ain’t like you, Smoke. You’ve usually had to be pushed into a gunfight.”

“I came out here for a vacation. Soon as I crossed over into Idaho Territory, folks started pushing me. Now I’m pushing back. Keep another thought in mind, boys: if you ride out of here heading east, I’ll know what side you’re on.”

“And ...?” Shorty asked.

“I will officially declare open season on bounty hunters.”

Smoke holstered his Colt, much to the relief of all lthe men around the table. He stood up, turned his back to the men, and walked to the bar, ordering a drink.

Lefty exhaled slowly. “We got some talkin’ to do, boys. We cross the Bear headin’ east. This here job ain’t gonna be no cakewalk.”

“I say we take him as a group, “Wills said. "Winner take it all.”

“Here and now?” Shorty asked, doubt in his voice. “Standin’ up and lookin’ at him?”

“Hell, no! We’ll ambush him. But we’re gonna wait. The ante is sure to go up as Jensen puts more and more punk gunslingers into the ground. We’ll just lay back and let them reputation-huntin’ gunhands get kilt. Then we’ll make our move.”

Smoke sat at a table by a window, eating his meal, and watched the bounty hunters ride out of town, heading west. The move was not unexpected and didn’t fool him one bit. He’d bet a sack of gold nuggets that Wills and his bunch would get a couple of miles out of town and then swing around and double back, try to get ahead of him and maybe set up an ambush. For sure they were going to head east where the trouble was, and the blood money was waiting for the man or men who killed Smoke Jensen.

Right then and there, over his apple pie and third cup of coffee—for Smoke was a coffee-drinking man—he made up his mind that he was in this fracus to stay, come Hell, Jud Vale, or that hot-eyed Doreen.

Smoke Jensen just did not like to be pushed.

Smoke left before dawn the following morning. He rode straight south out of town and did not turn east until he came to a canyon very close to the Utah line. He built a hat-sized fire and cooked his supper, then mounted up and rode until dusk before finding a place to bed down for the night. The bounty hunters might find him, but Smoke was going to make it as difficult as possible for them.

He was back in the saddle again before dawn, and did not stop to boil coffee until the sun had bubbled its way up into the sky and he’d found a place that was easily defended.

He crossed the Wasatch Range and pointed Dagger’s nose north, keeping on the west side of Bear Lake. He was on home range by late afternoon.

“Any trouble?” Cheyenne asked in the barn.

“None. But I did run into four bounty hunters.”

“More than that drifted in the last couple of days. And Jud Vale is hirin’ moreguns. I think the no-count is gonna hit the herd and to hell with whether the boys gits hurt.”

Smoke smiled. At the wire office he had sent and received more than one telegraph. He handed a copy to Cheyenne. The man read it and his leathery face crinkled in a smile.

Received your wire stop Would be delighted to accompany the boys on a cattle drive stop Expect me at the ranch in three days stop.

It was signed by the editor of the Montpelier paper.

“Tomorrow morning, I’ll ride over to the trading post and tack this to the wall.” Smoke said. “Jud will have it in his hands within hours. Then we’ll see how he reacts to this news.”

“Son of a bitch!” Jud shouted. Then he tore the wire to small bits, flinging the paper to the floor and kicking at the shreds. “Damn that Smoke Jensen to Hell!”

“This shore changes the plans,” Jason said.

With a long sigh, Jud nodded his head. “Tell the boys to relax. We can’t hit the herd with a damn newspaper man along. Public opinion would crucify me. The territorial governor would have this place swarming with U.S. Marshals if just one of those damn kids got hurt and it was reported.”

“But they might not have a ranch to come back to,” Jason said with a wicked smile.

“Yeah,” Jud said softly. “You damn right!”

“You boys take ’er easy,” Walt told the gathering in dawn’s first light. “Ten miles a day is fine with me.”

The editor of the newspaper had brought three men with him, a cub reporter from back East and two tough-looking men from his church. The men were heavily armed and ready for trouble.

Smoke knew there would be no trouble against the herd on this run. Jud was arrogant and perhaps crazy in the head, but he wasn’t stupid. Smoke expected the drive to make it through with only the normal mishaps that took place on any cattle drive.

But he was equally certain the ranch would be attacked.

They stood and watched as the men and boys began moving the cattle out, the cattle setting their own pace.

After the dust had settled, Smoke began his preparations for the attack he was sure was forthcoming.

Cheyenne would stay in and defend the bunkhouse. The old mountain man and gunfighter had loaded up several rifles and half a dozen pistols. He had plenty of food prepared by the ladies and a couple of barrels of water to use against fire should it come to that.

Before the drive began, Smoke had fortified the horses’ stalls with extra boards. The stalls were as safe from bullets as they could make them.

Both Alice and Doreen could handle a rifle or pistol as well, or better, than the average man. They would stay in the house with Walt and Micky.

Smoke would station himself in the loft of the barn. He had placed loaded rifles and shotguns at both ends of the building, and he had plenty of food and water to last out any siege.

Now all they had to do was wait, and sometimes that was harder than the actual battle.

The next move was up to Jud Vale and his men.

Probably forty or more men to wage war against an old rancher, his wife, a young woman, her eight-year-old son, three old men, a group of boys whose average age was twelve, and one gunfighter.

Smoke had to laugh and question the bravery of those who rode with Jud Vale.

Just before dark, Smoke did a once-around of the buildings, looking in first on those in the house.

“We’re set, Smoke,” the rancher told him. “We’ve got Micky in the basement, guardin’ the potatoes and the canned goods.”

Smoke grinned and nodded. “No bullet can reach him down there, for sure.” He noticed that both Alice and Doreen had changed into men’s britches, so they could get around faster. Doreen did things to those jeans that the manufacturer never dreamed of.

She noticed the direction his eyes were taking and smiled at him.

“I got to go,” Smoke muttered, and left the house.

In the bunkhouse, Cheyenne waved him toward the coffeepot. “I went over to the house about an hour ago,” the old mountain man said. “Both them wimmin was prancin’ around in men’s britches. I never seen the like. This goes on, wimmin’ll be votin’ ’fore long and that’ll be the ruination of the country.” He was reflective for a moment. "Not that I ever voted that much myself. Quit altogether about a year after I cast my vote for Millard Fillmore. But, hell, anybody can make a mistake. I was gonna vote for that Abe Lincoln. But by the time I made up my mind and got to where I could vote, somebody had done up and shot him. Plumb disheartenin’. Damn shore ruined Abe’s night out, too. You much on votin’. Smoke?”

“I wasn’t until I married Sally. Kind of hard to find a ballot box at Brown’s Hole.”

“For a fact. Fort Misery, we used to call it. But I ߣspect Preacher told you that.”

“Yes, he did.”

“OI Warhoss is still kickin’. He’s got to be eighty-five if he’s a day. But them Injuns is takin’ right good care of him. And I understand they’s some old gunslingers and mountain men got together and in the process of building a retirement home for us old coots.”

“That’s my understanding.”

“Won’t that be grand! I’ll have to go check that out—if I ever live to be old, that is.”

Smoke laughed at him and walked back to the barn.

It was full dark when he crawled into the loft and made himself comfortable at the east end of the barn. He figured that was the direction from which the attack would most likely come.

Before taking his position, he watched the lamps go out in both the house and the bunkhouse as the defenders made ready for war.

Smoke settled down and waited.