Читать книгу Blood Of The Mountain Man - William W. Johnstone - Страница 8

Two

Smoke Jensen was a known gunfighter, though not by choice. Dozens of books — penny dreadfuls — had been written about him, ninety-nine percent of them pure crap and nonsense. Songs had been sung about him, and at least one play was still being performed about the life and times of Smoke Jensen. Smoke had read some of the books, or as much of them as he could stand, and he usually used them afterward to light fires in the stove or fireplace. The songs were terrible and the play was worse. But for all his fame and notoriety, relatively few people knew what he looked like. He seldom left his horse ranch, called the Sugarloaf, in the mountains of Colorado, and when he did venture out, it usually was not for long. So many would-be toughs and gunslingers had taken to wearing their guns as Smoke wore his, that trademark was no longer a giveaway.

Smoke rarely buckled on two guns anymore, doing so only when he knew he was riding into trouble. He was content to wear one gun, right side, low and tied down.

He was a ruggedly handsome man, but not in the pretty-boy way. His face was strong, his jaw firm, and his eyes cold as winter-locked fjords. He loved children and animals, and attended church on a regular basis, even though the preacher at the town of Big Rock, Colorado, knew Smoke would never pay much attention to the New Testament, since he was strictly an Old Testament man.

He raised appaloosas on his ranch, running only a few head of cattle now.

His wife, Sally, was of the New England Rey-noldses, and enormously wealthy. She was a strong-willed woman, not one to mince words and certainly not someone to ride over. Sally was a strong supporter of women’s rights, was very outspoken on the subject, and would not back down from a grizzly. She had strapped on pistol and picked up rifle and sent more than one thug to Hell in her time. She was also a loving mother and a faithful companion to her husband and a sweet person … just as long as you didn’t mess with her man.

Smoke rode to the rails and boarded the train. At rail’s end, he signed the hotel registry as K. Jensen and no one paid any special attention to him, except for the men commenting on his size and the ladies on how handsome and how well mannered he was.

Smoke had stabled Buck, curried him, and told the boy to grain him and not mess with him. It was doubtful Buck would hurt a child; he never had, but one never knew. The horse was a killer, and he bonded only with Smoke.

Smoke carefully bathed and shaved, and dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and black string tie. He belted his gun around him and tied it down, slipping the hammer thong free of the hammer. It was something he did from habit, like breathing.

The large hotel, fairly fancy for the time, had a separate bar and dining room, connected by a door that was guarded on the saloon side by a man who looked like he ate wagons for lunch. Smoke entered the bar and ordered a whiskey. Not much of a drinking man, he did occasionally enjoy a drink before dinner, sometimes a brandy after dinner, and a beer after a hard day’s ride.

Saloons were a meeting place, where a man — women were not yet allowed — could find out road conditions, trouble spots where highwaymen lurked, the best place to buy horses or cattle, what range was closed, and where good water could be found. Smoke leaned against the bar, sipped his whiskey, and listened.

“I heard Smoke Jensen got killed down in Mexico,” a man said. “Gunfighter name of Jake Bonner got him.”

Smoke hid his smile.

“What’d he do, back-shoot him?”

“Outdrew him.”

Smoke tuned them out. Jake Bonner was a two-bit punk who had been making brags for several years that if he ever came upon Smoke Jensen, he was going to kill him.

“Bonner’s in town.” That remark brought Smoke back to paying attention to the gabby citizens.

“And he’s sayin’ he killed Jensen?”

“He’s talkin’ big about it.”

“Well, by God. I knew he’d been gone for several months. I heard he hired out his gun. Say, now, this is news.”

“Says he’s got proof. Says he’s got Jensen’s boots, just jerked off his dead body. Fancy, engraved boots. Got the initials SJ right on the front of each one.”

“You don’t say?”

By this time, twenty men had gathered around and were listening to the bull-tossing.

“Say, stranger.”

Smoke realized the citizen was talking to him, and he turned slightly. “Yes?”

“Didn’t you come in on the 4:18 train?”

“That’s right.”

“Thought so. Did you hear anything about Jake Bonner killing Smoke Jensen?”

“No. I haven’t heard anything about that.”

“Funny. Seems like the news would be all over.”

“If it’s true,” Smoke replied, sipping a bit of whiskey.

“Mister, you’re a big’un, but I’d not call Jake Bonner a liar if I was you. Jake’s a bad one.”

“Every town has one.”

“Not as bad as Jake. The man’s cat-quick with a gun. Why, he’s got five notches carved in his gun handle.”

“Tinhorn trick,” Smoke said.

“You callin’ me a tinhorn?” the voice came from the boardwalk batwings to the saloon.

Smoke turned slowly. The man facing him from about thirty feet away was young, no more than twenty-two or -three. He wore two guns, pearl-handled, in a fancy rig. His coat was swept back, his hands by his side.

“Anybody who carves notches in his gun-handles is a tinhorn,” Smoke said, placing his shot glass on the bar. “If that fits you, wear it.”

“I’m Jake Bonner. The man who killed Smoke Jensen. And you’ll take back that remark, mister. Or you’ll drag iron.”

“What if I decide to do neither?”

“Then you’re a yeller dog.”

“I’ve known some nice dogs in my time. As a matter of fact, I’ve known a lot more nice dogs than nice humans.”

Back in a corner of the big room, a faro dealer sat with a smile on his lips. Of all the men in the room, he alone knew who the big man in the black suit was. He’d seen him several times, once in action. And he knew that if Jake Bonner didn’t close his mouth and do it real quick, he was either dead on the floor or stomped into a cripple.

Jake walked closer to the bar, his fancy spurs jingling. “Mister, I think you’re a liar and a coward. What do you have to say about that?”

“I think you’d better go home before I decide to change your diapers.”

The bar cleared, the men leaving as of one mind. Only the faro dealer remained in the direct line of fire. He knew that if Bonner was dumb enough to draw — or attempt to draw — he’d never get a shot off. The faro dealer figured he was in the safest spot in the saloon.

“Before you what?” Jake’s words were almost a scream.

Smoke was getting angry, but his was never a hot anger. It was a cold fury. “Are you deaf as well as stupid?” He knew he was pushing, but punks infuriated Smoke. Especially one who walked around making the claim that he’d killed him.

Jake walked closer, and Smoke knew then that Bonner was no gunfighter. No gunfighter wanted action this close up. The odds were too great that both men would take lead.

“You’re a dead man, mister,” Jake hissed the words.

“No,” Smoke said slowly. “But you’re sure a hurt one.” He backhanded Jake with a hard right that knocked the man spinning. Jake fell against a table, the table collapsed, and Jake landed on his butt on the floor in a state of confusion.

Things weren’t supposed to work out this way. Every time he’d try to get up, the big stranger would knock him back down. Jake felt his lips pulp and knew he’d lost a couple of teeth. The big man hauled back a huge fist and busted Jake right on the nose. Jake screamed in pain as his beak busted and the blood poured. In a fog of hurt, Jake felt himself being jerked to his feet and hurled through the air. He crashed against a wall and the air left him.

When Jake could catch his breath, he reached for his guns, but his holsters were empty. He blinked a couple of times and saw his guns, on the bar, in front of the big stranger. The stranger was calmly sipping at his whiskey.

Smoke unloaded the matched .45s and lined up the cartridges on the bar. “Children shouldn’t play with guns,” he said. “You might hurt yourself, Booper.”

“The name is Bonner,” Jake gasped.

Smoke nodded gravely and finished his drink. “You all through trying to play tough boy, Bone-head?”

Jake struggled to his feet and stood swaying for a moment. Then, with a curse, he reached behind him and jerked out a knife.

“I really wish you hadn’t done that,” Smoke said.

“Jake!” the faro dealer shouted. “Don’t do it, boy. You don’t know who you’re messin’ with.”

Jake sneered at the dealer. Smoke stood facing the bar, both hands on the polished mahogany.

“I’m gonna gut you like a fish, mister,” Jake panted, the blood dripping down from his busted nose and smashed lips.

The batwings flipped open and a man wearing a star stood there. “Put it down, Jake,” he ordered. “Do it now, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

Jake slowly lowered the knife. The Marshal walked around to face the young would-be tough. “What the hell ran over you, Jake? A beer wagon?”

Jake refused to answer.

“Put the knife up, Jake. Right now.”

Jake sheathed the big blade and with something that sounded like a sob, abruptly turned and lurched from the saloon.

“These are his guns, Marshal,” Smoke said. “I took the precaution of unloading them.”

The marshal walked up to Smoke and the counterman placed a cup of coffee in front of him. “Jake’s a pretty salty type, mister. Not many men around here would have tried to disarm him.”

“He’s a two-bit loudmouth,” Smoke replied. “Nothing more.”

“You got a name?”

“Doesn’t everybody?” Smoke turned and walked out of the bar and into the dining area. He was seated and a menu was placed in front of him.

The marshal was irritated and his face showed it. He turned to follow Smoke and the faro dealer said, “Leave him alone, Jeff. He’s a good, decent man who was pushed, that’s all. Believe me when I say that is the last man in the world you want to crowd.”

“You know him, Sparks?”

“I’ve seen him a time or two, yes. He just wants to have a meal and a good night’s sleep, that’s all.”

Jeff thought for a moment, and then nodded. “All right, I’ll take your word for it. But you know Jake’s not gonna stand for this.”

“His funeral, Marshal.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

Smoke ate his meal and had coffee, then stepped out onto the porch for a cigarette and a breath of night air. He had not forgotten Jake Bonner. That would have been a very unwise thing to do. For the Jakes of this world, once humiliated, would never forgive or forget, and Smoke was careful of his back.

He looked across the street and saw the marshal sitting on the boardwalk, watching him.

The marshal knows Jake isn’t going to forget what happened in the saloon, he thought. And he’s thinking Jake just might decide to do something tonight.

Smoke sat down in a chair that was shrouded in darkness and finished his cigarette. He was tired, but not sleepy. He knew he should go on up to his room and lie down, but he didn’t want to do that. He was more irritated than restless. He would have liked to walk the main street of the town. But to do that would only bring him trouble. Hell, he thought, sitting here will probably bring me trouble.

In my own way, I am a prisoner.

Come on, Jake, he reasoned, his thoughts suddenly savage. Come on. If you’re going to do something foolish, do it now and get it over with.

The marshal stood up and walked to his office. He stood for a moment in the open door, then stepped inside and closed it behind him.

I’m a stranger here, Smoke thought. I’d better have witnesses.

He stood up and walked through the hotel lobby to the bar, a tall, well-dressed man in a tailored suit. In the saloon, he ordered coffee and stood by the bar, waiting for it to cool. The place was doing a brisk business. But when Smoke elected to stand at the bar, the long bar cleared, the men choosing tables instead.

That amused Smoke, in a sour sort of way. He was conscious of the faro dealer watching him. I’ve seen that man somewhere down the line, Smoke thought.

The batwings pushed open and Jake Bonner stood there, his bruised face swollen now. He’d found him more guns and his holsters were full.

“I’m callin’ your hand, mister,” Jake said, his voice husky with emotion. “Now turn around and face me.”

Smoke turned, brushing back his coat as he did. “Go home, Jake Bonner. There is no need for this.”

“Do what he says, Jake,” the faro dealer called. “He’s giving you a chance to live. Take it.”

“Shut up, gambler!” Jake yelled. “This ain’t none of your affair. I’m the man who killed Smoke Jensen. No two-bit stranger does to me what this one done.”

“You didn’t kill Smoke Jensen, Jake,” the dealer said. “Smoke Jensen is standing in front of you.”

The saloon became as hushed as a church. Jake’s face drained of blood and he stood pale and shaken.

“Go home, Jake,” Smoke told him. “Go home and live. Don’t crowd me.”

“Draw, damn you!” Jake screamed, and grabbed iron.

Smoke’s draw was perfection, deadly beauty. As Jake’s hands closed around the butts of his guns, he felt a hammer blow in the center of his chest. He stumbled backward and fell against the wall, then slowly slid down to sit on the floor. His guns were still in leather.

“No,” he said. “This ain’t … this ain’t right. This ain’t the way it’s suppose’ to be.”

“But it is,” the faro dealer said.

“You go to hell!” Jake Bonner screamed.

It was the last thing he said.

Smoke holstered his gun and stood by the bar. He picked up his coffee cup with his left hand and took a sip. Just right.

“Jesus God!” a man breathed. “I seen it but I don’t believe it. It was a blur. Hell, it wasn’t even that!”

The marshal stepped in, gun drawn. He looked at Jake, then at Smoke, and holstered his .45. “I knew it was going to happen,” he said. “I thought about lockin’ Jake up until mornin’. Now I wish I had.”

“Jake called him and drew first,” a man said. “Or tried to. That’s Smoke Jensen, Marshal.”

“The poor dumb fool,” the marshal said. “Not you,” he was quick to add, looking at Smoke.

“You have any questions for me?” Smoke asked.

“Only one. When are you leavin’ town?”

“First thing in the morning.”

“Good. Somebody get the undertaker and get Jake fitted for a box.” The marshal looked at Smoke. There were things he wanted to say, but he was wise enough not to say them. It wasn’t that he blamed Smoke, for he was sure that Smoke had been pushed into the fight. “Good night, Mister Jensen,” was all he had to say.

Smoke nodded and left the room.

He was gone before dawn the next morning.