Читать книгу Blood Of The Mountain Man - William W. Johnstone - Страница 9

Three

Smoke had a long ride ahead of him, but it was one he was looking forward to. He had wanted to provision up at the town that was now miles behind him, but felt it best to move on. There might be more like Jake Bonner in town.

He shot a rabbit and had that for lunch, then caught several fish and had them for his dinner. The next day he rode up to an old trading post and after looking it over from a distance, decided to provision there. He stepped inside and knew immediately he had walked into some sort of disagreement. There were six men besides the owner in the dark and smoky room that served as a bar — cowboys, from the look of them. Three stood facing three, and their faces were dark with anger. The owner or manager or whatever the hell he was stood behind the rough plank bar.

“Beans and bacon and flour and coffee,” Smoke said, walking up to the bar.

“Mister, this ain’t a real good time for doin’ no grocery shoppin’,” the man told him.

“It’s as good a time as any,” Smoke replied. “Fill the order.”

“I reckon Dupree hired you, too, mister,” a cowboy said to Smoke.

Smoke looked at him. “Nobody hired me to do anything. And I never heard of any Dupree. Just passin’ through is all. You boys carry on with your business and let me do mine.” His gaze returned to the man behind the bar. “And toss in a box of .44s while you’re at it.”

One of the cowboys had looked out the window at Smoke’s horse. “I never seen that brand before.”

“Now you have,” Smoke replied. “A can of peaches, too,” he added to his order. “You have any food cooked?”

“Beans and beef,” the man said. “Mister, ride on. This ain’t no time for …”

“Dish me up a plate of it. A big plate. I’m hungry.”

“Are you hard of hearin’?” a cowboy asked. “You was told to ride on.”

All in all, Smoke thought, this trip is turning out to be a disaster from the git-go. “Buddy, I don’t know what your problem is. But I do have a suggestion. Leave me the hell alone and stick to your own knittin’!”

The cowboys, obviously working on opposite sides of the fence, and probably arguing over range or strayed beef or water rights, looked at one another and silently decided to band together against this stranger who it appeared was not taking either side very seriously.

The bartender shoved a plate of food at the tall stranger and Smoke stood at the bar and went to eating, ignoring the cowboys.

“Well, if that don’t beat all!” one said. “Just turns his back to us and starts feedin’ his face.”

“Fill the order,” Smoke told the man behind the bar.

The man sighed.

“You fill that order, Smith,” a puncher said, “and you’ll get no more business from the Lazy J.”

“And none from the Three Star,” the other side warned.

“Fill the order,” Smoke told him.

“Man,” the bartender said. “You have put me in one hell of a bind. You know that?”

“It’s a free country,” Smoke told him. “If you don’t want to sell me the goods, then do so of your own choosing. Not because of threats from this bunch of saddlebums.”

“Saddlebums!” one of the men shouted.

Another walked to the bar and leaned against it, staring hard at Smoke. He took a closer look at the man nonchalantly eating his meal. Feller sure was big. He looked at the man’s wrists. Bigger than most men’s forearms. But he figured the six of them could handle him without much trouble.

“Mister, I think we’ll just clean your clock.”

Smoke turned and hit him with a left that seemed to come out of nowhere. The impact sounded like a melon hit with the flat side of an ax. The man’s boots flew out from under him and he was slammed to the floor, flat on his back. He did not move.

“Now leave me the hell alone and let me finish my meal,” Smoke said, without looking at the remaining five.

They looked back at him, then at the motionless puncher on the floor. One side of the man’s face was rapidly swelling and they knew his jaw was broken.

One punch. One broken jaw. No one among them seemed especially eager to step up to the bar.

“Close your mouth and fill my order,” Smoke told the man behind the bar.

“Yes, sir,” the man said softly.

“You as good with that gun as you are with your fists, mister?” a cowboy from the Lazy J asked.

“Better,” Smoke told him.

“You just might have to prove it,” he said.

“Then that makes you short of sense,” Smoke replied. “I’m passing through, nothing more. You boys are on the prod, not me. You pushed me, not the other way around. Think about it.”

The man on the floor still had not moved, except for his swelling jaw.

“You got a name?”

Smoke put down his fork and turned, facing the five. It was then that several of them noticed the hammer thong had been slipped from the big stranger’s six-gun. No one had seen him do it, so that meant it was done when his boots left the stirrups and hit the ground. All of them noticed that he was facing five-to-one odds and showing no fear, no excitement, nothing except dead calm.

“Smoke Jensen.”

The bartender slowly sank to the floor, behind a beer barrel. Somewhere within the confines of the trading post, a clock ticked loudly.

Of the five punchers, one found his voice. “Feller down the way claims to have killed Jensen in Mexico.”

“He lied. Jake Bonner is dead. I killed him night before last. I didn’t want to. But he crowded me. Just like you’re doing.”

“I ain’t crowdin’ you,” a Three Star rider said. “I’m sittin’ down and stayin’ out of this.”

“Me, too,” a Lazy J man said.

“That makes three of us,” another one said.

The men moved out of the line of fire and sat down and very carefully put their hands on the rough tabletop. It was by no means an act of cowardice. It was just showing exceptionally good sense.

“Sit down, Luke,” one of the three said. “You, too, Shorty. This is stupid. The man ain’t done us no harm. I’m big enough to admit we was out of line and pushy.”

“I ain’t takin’ water from no killer,” Luke said stubbornly.

“Me, neither,” Shorty said. “And I ain’t real sure this is Smoke Jensen. I think he’s a tinhorn.”

“I’ll turn around and finish my meal,” Smoke offered an honorable way out of a bad situation. “You boys sit down and have a beer on me. How about that?”

“I say you go right straight to hell,” Shorty said, his voice thick.

“It won’t be me who takes that trip today, boys,” Smoke told them. “Think about it.”

“You can’t take both of us,” Luke bragged.

“Yes, I can,” Smoke said quietly and surely. “But I don’t want to.”

“Now I know he ain’t Smoke Jensen,” Shorty said. “He’s yeller.”

The front door opened and two men stepped in. Both quickly sized up the situation.

“Shorty,” one said. “Sit down.”

“Luke,” the second man said. “You do the same. Right now.”

“This tinhorn braced me, Boss,” Luke said.

“No, he didn’t,” one of the men seated said. “We all started this. Dixie there,” he looked at the man on the floor, “he stuck his face in the stranger’s and got stretched out with one punch.”

“This hombre says he’s Smoke Jensen, Boss,” Shorty said.

The men, obviously the owners of the Lazy J and the Three Star, stepped between Smoke and the two riders. One faced the punchers, the other faced Smoke.

“Is that right?” Smoke was asked.

“That’s right. I came in here for a meal and supplies. Nothing more. And I’ll ride if given the chance. But no more mouth from your boys.”

“We pay the men for work. What they do or say on their own time is their business.”

“Then I hope you have room in your cemetery for two more.” Smoke was blunt.

The bartender had stood up. “Jensen’s tellin’ the truth. He didn’t do nothin’ ’cept come in here and ask for supplies.”

“I think you better ride,” the rancher facing Smoke said.

“Is that an order?”

The rancher’s smile was thin. “Just a suggestion, Mister Jensen.”

Smoke nodded his head. “Sack up my supplies,” he told the man behind the bar. “And total up my bill. I’ll be moving along.”

“Just like I said,” Shorty popped off. “Yeller.”

The ranchers stepped out of the way. That was the final straw and they both knew it. No man would stand for that.

Luke sat down.

Smoke looked at Shorty. The man was scared and sweating. He had worked himself into a corner and didn’t know how to get out of it. Shorty was probably a pretty decent sort; it was not a crime to be young. Smoke took a chance and took a step toward the puncher.

Shorty looked confused and stood a step back, bumping into a table. Smoke kept walking toward him.

“Are you crazy?” Shorty said, a shrill sound to his words. “Hold up, man.”

Smoke kept walking.

The others in the room wondered what in hell Jensen was up to.

Smoke walked right up to Shorty and jerked his six-shooter from leather. He tossed the gun to a puncher seated at a table. The puncher caught the .45 and held it like he was holding a lighted stick of dynamite.

“Sit down, Shorty,” Smoke said. “And I’ll buy you a drink. The trouble is over.”

Shorty sat, then looked up at the man. “That took guts, Mister Jensen. I acted the fool.”

“We all do from time to time. You sure don’t hold a corner on the market.”

Smoke walked the room, introducing himself and shaking hands with all the men. Whatever friction might have been between the punchers had vanished. The men had gotten Dixie to his boots and the man wobbled over to the table and sat down. Turned out his jaw wasn’t broken, but it damn sure was badly bent.

“I had a mule kick me one time wasn’t that hard,” Dixie mush-mouthed.

The ranchers sent their men back to home range and they sat and had coffee with Smoke.

“So Jake Bonner finally got himself six feet,” Three Star said. “It’s overdue.”

Lazy J said, “You lookin’ for land up this way, Smoke?”

“No. I’m heading for a place called Red Light. Can you tell me anything about it?”

“It’s a damn good place to stay away from,” Three Star replied. “It’s a den of snakes and they’re all poison.”

“It’s a hard four-day ride from here,” the other rancher said. “Figure on six unless you want to wear your horse out. But,” he added with a smile, “if that’s your buckskin out yonder, it don’t look like he ever gets tired.”

“He’s a good one,” Smoke acknowledged. “And the best bodyguard I ever had.”

“I can believe that. He gave me a look that caused me to give him a wide berth,” the rancher said. “Thanks for givin’ Shorty a break. He’s a good boy, but hot-headed. This might cool him down some.”

The men chatted for a time, the ranchers telling Smoke the best way up to the rip-roaring mining town of Red Light, and then Smoke packed his supplies and rode north.

“I always figured Smoke Jensen for a much older man,” one rancher said.

The other one bit off a chew and replied, “Killed his first man when he was about fourteen. Then he dropped out of sight for a few years. Raised by mountain men. Ol’ Preacher took him under his wing. When Jensen surfaced a few years later, he was pure hell on wheels with a gun. Nice feller once you get to know him.”

The West was being settled and tamed slowly, but it was getting there. Smoke avoided the many little towns and settlements that were cropping up all over the place. Most would be gone in a few years, some would prosper and grow.

At the end of the third day, Smoke was beginning to feel a little gamy and wanted a hot bath, a bed with clean sheets, and a meal that someone else had cooked. He topped a ridge and looked down at a small six-store town, about a dozen homes scattered around the short main street. He rode slowly down the rutted road. As he entered the town he was conscious of the eyes on him. He swung down in front of the livery and told the man he’d stall and curry Buck himself.

“I damn sure wouldn’t touch that hoss,” the liveryman said. “That beast has got a wicked look in his eyes.”

“Gentle as a kitten,” Smoke said.

“What kind of a kitten?” the man asked. “A puma?”

Smoke smiled and spent the next few minutes taking care of Buck while the big horse chomped away at grain.

Taking his kit and his rifle, Smoke walked across the street to the combination saloon, cafe, and hotel. It was mid-afternoon and the town was quiet. He registered as K. Jensen and went to his room. Taking fresh clothing, he walked to the barbershop and ordered hot water for the tub while he had himself a shave.

“Passin’ through?” the barber inquired.

“Yup,” Smoke told him. “Seeing the country. Thought I’d head up to Red Light and see what’s up there.”

“Trouble,” the barber was blunt. “That’s a bad place to head for, mister.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, sir. You’re a hard day and a half from Red Light. Over the mountains. Used to be a decent place. Lots of small miners. Then Major Cosgrove moved in with his pack of trouble-hunters and before you knew what had happened, he owned the whole kit and caboodle. Them that tried to hold on to their claims suddenly got seriously dead. They tried to get their dust out, and they was robbed. I ran a shop up there for a few years. I made good money, but man, it got chancy, so I pulled out and settled here. The money ain’t so good, but the peace is nice. Except when Red Lee and his boys come to town.”

“Red Lee?”

“Owns a ranch east of here. Likes to think he owns everybody around here, too. Know the type?”

“Sure.”

“A couple of his boys is over to the saloon now. You’d best walk light around them. They like to start trouble, and they fancy themselves gunslicks.”

“I’ll certainly take that under advisement,” Smoke said.

He bathed carefully and then ordered more hot water to rinse off in. Dressed in clean clothes, while his others were being laundered, Smoke walked back to the hotel and into the saloon for a whiskey to cut the trail dust. It was just a little early for supper.

He ignored the three men sitting at a table and walked to the bar. But he immediately pegged the men as rowdies and trouble-hunters. Nowhere had he seen any sign of a marshal or a marshal’s office in the small town.

Smoke was beginning to have bad feelings about this trip. All he’d set out to do was settle his dead sister’s affairs, and so far all he’d had was trouble. He really wished he was back on the Sugarloaf, with Sally.

“Whiskey,” he told the bartender. “From the good bottle.”

“Well, now,” one of the rowdies said. “Looks like we got us a dandy come to town, boys. From the good bottle,” he mimicked mockingly.

Smoke looked at the bartender as he poured the whiskey. There were warning signs in the man’s eyes, but Smoke ignored them. He was tired from the trail, wanting only a drink, a hot meal, and a warm bed. He was in no mood to be pushed around by the likes of those at the table.

He despised that type of man and always had. He’d helped Sheriff Monte Carson run more than one of ’em out of town, and he’d personally killed his share of ’em over the years. They were, as the good folks in the Deep South called them, white trash.

Smoke took a sip of his whiskey and carefully sat the glass down. He turned to face the men. “You have a problem with that, loudmouth?”

The men fell silent, their mocking smiles suddenly gone from their faces. The bartender moved back, away from the tall stranger. Two locals at a table looked at each other and wished they were somewhere else.

“Are you talkin’ to us, mister?” one of the trio said.

“I don’t see anyone else in the room who stuck his lip into my business.”

“You just bought yourself a whole mess of trouble, mister,” another of the three said.

“You got it to do,” Smoke told him. “Fists or guns. It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to me. Step up here and toe the mark.”