Blood of the Mountain Man (16 page)

“Well, why in the hell did you say it was Jensen, then, Parker?” Fat hollered.

“ ’Cause he was the one the boys was after, that’s why. I was out working cattle with Dud. I don’t know where in the hell Luddy is. I seen the smoke from the fires come a-foggin’. Willie was there with a bullet in his leg, and Chookie’s arm is busted.”

“Then nobody saw Jensen do anything?” Club questioned, waves of relief washing over him. It was not fear of the man—just plain ol’ common sense.

“I reckon not,” Parker said, slipping in and walking to the end of the bar. He then got his first good look at Smoke Jensen. Lord, the man looked awesome.

Major removed his tie and collar and dramatically rolled up his sleeves.

Smoke stood up and took off his gunbelt.

Major did a couple of deep kneebends and fired some lefts and rights into the air. He held his arms out and shook them a time or two.

Smoke waited.

“Nobody gives me orders in this town, Jensen,” Major said. “I run Red Light.”

“Not after today,” Smoke replied.

Major stopped his jumping around and shadow boxing. “I’m not Mule Jackson.”

“You’re going to resemble him when I’m through with you.”

Fat Fosburn eased himself to the edge of the bar and stood beside Parker. He signaled to Jeff for a beer.

“Get it yourself,” Jeff told him.

“No one will interfere in this,” Major said, his voice firm. “You hear me, Club?” “I hear you.”

“Fat?”

“I hear you, Major.”

He returned his eyes to Smoke. “Are we going to fight like gentlemen, Smoke?”

“Nope.”

“I suppose it was foolish of me to expect that from someone of your caliber.”

“You’re not going to make me mad, either, Major. But if I were you, I wouldn’t brag too much about how high-class you are. I’ve never made war against young girls.”

Major flushed deeply, but he held any comments. This was a fight he had to have, and a fight he had to win. He had humiliated himself in front of several hundred people by shouting that he’d sue Smoke if the man struck him. That had been a foolish thing to do, since Major felt he was a much better boxer than Jensen, and infinitely more intelligent.

He was wrong on both counts.

Deputy Reed stepped in and quickly sized up the situation.

“Stand over here by me, Reed,” Club said. “And don’t interfere. Them’s Mister Cosgrove’s orders.”

Smoke stood a step toward Major, pulling on riding gloves as he walked.

Major smiled. “No need for that if you soak your hands in brine, and I did back East when I was a young prizefighter. And I was a very good prizefighter.”

“You fight your way, I’ll fight mine,” Smoke told him. “But your hands look mighty soft to me.”

“You’ll soon find out they are not.” Major Cosgrove lifted his fists and assumed the stance.

“Then come on, Major. Show me. Prove it.

You’re about to put me to sleep with all this talk. That’s about the only way you could win it. Talk me to death.”

Major tucked his chin down toward his shoulder and advanced. Smoke thought he looked ridiculous, one arm all stuck out and the other pulled back. And with his head jerked down like that, he looked all cockeyed.

Smoke laughed at the man. “You’re about the sil-liest-looking thing I believe I ever did see.”

Major lunged at him and tried to fake him out. Smoke didn’t fall for it. Major snapped a left at him and Smoke flicked it away. Still he did not attempt to land a blow against Cosgrove.

The two big men circled each other. Smoke said, “I win, you call off the boycott against this saloon.”

“Agreed,” Major said, then swung a wicked right that just missed. “I win, you leave town.”

“Agreed,” Smoke said. “But don’t get your hopes up too high.” Then he knocked the living hell out of Major.

The blow seemed to come out of nowhere and staggered the big man backward. It was not unlike being kicked by a horse. The blow had caught him flush on the mouth and bloodied his lips, sending pain coursing through his head. Before he could get set, Smoke pressed and hit him four times, two lefts and two rights to the head that hurt.

Major Cosgrove felt his jaw beginning to swell and knew one eye would soon be closing from the terrible blow. He backed up, shaking his head. The blood flew with the effort.

Outside the saloon, a huge crowd had gathered, threatening to collapse the boardwalk. About fifty men had /un around to the rear and entered through the back door of the saloon, lining the walls, most of them thinking that this was much better than a gunfight. It lasted longer.

Major Cosgrove knew now that he was in for the fight of his life. Smoke Jensen was no common brawler. The man had studied boxing and knew the moves.

Smoke certainly was no common brawler, although he could brawl with the best of them. He knew kick-and-gouge, boxing, rough-and-tumble, and Indian wrestling. And he was going to show Major Cosgrove a little bit of all of it.

Smoke pushed in and took a right to his head. The blow had power behind it and it hurt, splitting the skin. But it didn’t slow him down. Ignoring a hastily thrown left from Cosgrove, Smoke plowed in, hooking a half dozen blows to the wind of the big man, bringing gasps of pain and backing him up. Major dropped his guard for just a second and Smoke seized the moment. He reared back and busted Major flush in the chops, scoring the first clear knockdown of the fight.

Major landed heavily on the floor and lay there for a moment, looking dazed and disbelieving that something like this could happen to him.

“Stay down and catch your wind!” Fat hollered.

Smoke backed up and gave the man a chance to climb to his boots.

Major glared balefully at the man. “I thought you weren’t going to fight like a gentleman,” he panted, blood dripping from his busted lips.

Smoke shrugged his shoulders and waited, letting his hands hang to his sides.

Major struggled to his boots. The entire front of his white shirt was now stained with blood. One eye was closing and his face was bruised.

Club picked up a pitcher of water from the bar and walked to Cosgrove, pouring it on his head. Major shook his head and bloody water flew in all directions. The men lining the saloon walls were silent.

“Thanks, Club,” Cosgrove said. “That helped.” He wiped his eyes on his sleeves of his shirt and lifted his fists. “I’m ready, Jensen.”

“I’ll call it off and we’ll shake hands, Major,” Smoke replied. “Then you leave Jenny alone and everybody will be friends. How about it?”

“I haven’t even got my first wind yet, gunfighter,” Major replied.

“Then that makes you a fool,” Smoke flatly told him. “I’ll not give you another break.”

“I know how you fight now,” Cosgrove said. Smoke smiled and lifted his fists. “Then come on, bigshot. Take your lickin’ like a man.”

With a curse and a roar, Major Cosgrove charged Smoke, both big fists windmilling.

Smoke was forced to back up under the savage, almost mindless onslaught. He caught two blows from the windmilling Major. One big fist struck him on the side of the head and knocked him back. Another slammed into his side and brought a grunt of pain from his lips. Smoke quickly recovered and ducked and sidestepped the wildly charging man, still shouting curses and dumping dire verbal threats on Smoke’s head.

Smoke smacked Major on the jaw with a left and stopped him in his tracks with a right to the mouth that further pulped the man’s lips and brought a dazed look to his eyes. Seizing the opportunity while it was available, Smoke set himself and hammered at Major’s face. The blows drove the man back, his backward movement knocking over chairs and shoving tables aside.

Smoke pursued the man, relentless in his attack, while Cosgrove’s supporters stood by and watched their boss get the crap kicked out of him, all of them well aware of the rifles and shotguns ready to crack and boom should they make any attempt to interfere.

Many of the miners in the town stood in the street and listened to the smacking of fists against flesh and the cracking of chair legs and made no attempt to hide their smiles. Most had no love for Major Cosgrove.

Major grabbed up a chair and splintered it over Smoke’s shoulders. Smoke had turned just in time to prevent the chair from taking him in the face. So much for Major conducting himself as a gentleman. The chair had torn Smoke’s shirt and bruised and cut the flesh on his shoulders and upper back.

Smoke backed up, picked up a chair, and hurled it at Cosgrove, the chair striking the man in the face and chest and knocking him off his feet. He hit the floor with a mighty crash that shook the walls and windows. Smoke backed off and let the man get up. Major was much slower getting to his feet this time. Blood dripped from his nose and mouth. His breathing was ragged. Each time he exhaled, he sprayed blood.

“Give it up, man,” Smoke urged.

“To hell with you, gunfighter!” Major spat the words mixed with blood.

Smoke stepped in close and drove a big right fist through Major’s guard that connected solidly with the man’s jaw. Major swayed on his feet for a second and then called on his deep reserves of strength and recovered. He pressed in, stumbling as he came.

Smoke hit the man in the belly and drove a savage left hook into his ribs. Major cried out and turned. Smoke pounded his kidneys and Major crawfished back, his bloody face a mask of hurt.

Smoke did not let up. He pressed hard, driving both fists into Major’s face, smashing his nose and further pulping his lips.

“Go down, Major!” Fat called out.

But Cosgrove only shook his battered head and stayed on his boots.

But not for long.

Smoke stepped up and swung a wicked right, the fist colliding against Major’s jaw. Part of a tooth flew out of the man’s mouth and he cried out as he went to his knees. Club Bowers winced at just the sound of the blow. The sheriff knew that after this fight, no one in his right mind would challenge Smoke Jensen to toe the line with fists. Mule Jackson still lay battered and broken in bed, and within moments, Major Cosgrove would probably be in the bed next to his foreman.

Major Cosgrove gripped the side of a sturdy table and slowly pulled himself to his feet. The man cannot be faulted for lack of courage, Smoke thought. On his boots, Major lifted his fists and advanced. His face was bruised and torn, and one eye was closed. The man’s expensive shirt was in bloody tatters, his suspenders hanging down, ripped and flopping. His britches were torn and dusty from the floor of the saloon. Still he pressed on.

Smoke feigned and Major bought it. That was all Smoke needed. He smashed at the man with wicked blows to the face, driving Cosgrove back, stumbling and staggering. Smoke hit the man in the belly with everything he could put behind a punch, and Major doubled over, his face white with sickness. Smoke gave him a savage uppercut that straightened Major up to his toes. Smoke stepped in and hooked to the side of the jaw, and Major went down. This time, he did not move.

Smoke stepped to the bar and picked up a pitcher of water, pouring it on his head. Jeff handed him a bar towel and Smoke dried his face. “Club, tell the men outside to come in and have a drink on me. This place is now open for business to all who want to come in.”

* * *

Major Cosgrove did not show his face on the streets of Red Light until one week after the fight in the Golden Plum. Even then, his face was still mottled with fading bruises and marked with healing cuts. He walked slowly because of several still badly bruised ribs. His anger had now been replaced with a savage hatred for Smoke Jensen and everything and everybody connected with him. Which came as no surprise to Smoke when he was informed of it. He was well aware that men of Cosgrove’s ilk are not rational people. He had given Cosgrove the opportunity to shake hands and live and let live. The man had refused it. Smoke knew now that the killing fields were fertile and would soon blossom blood-red with the flowers of death.

“You two do not leave the ranch,” he told Sally and Jenny. “Cosgrove has got to make a move against us here. His long-distance shooter, Hankins, has been in this area for several days. Right now he’s up on the ridges mapping out the best places to shoot from. Indians have spotted him and told Bad Dog. It’s all down to the wire now.”

Smoke walked the grounds of the ranch complex. All fire barrels were full. The area had been cleared of excess brush and anything else that might burn. Smoke had worked along the others, cutting the tall grass for several hundred yards all around the complex and then burning what was left down to the roots, leaving the area void of hiding places. Sneak-ing up on the ranch would be nearly impossible.

One week after the fight in the Golden Plum, Sally told Smoke they had to have supplies.

Smoke nodded his agreement. “I’ll take Wolf, Bad Dog, and Barrie with me. We’ll take two wagons. The rest of the men will stay here.”

She stared up at him. “It’s close to the end now, isn’t it?”

“A few more weeks and it’ll be over. Surely no more than a month. You know I’ve never held back from you, Sally. There’ll be an all-out effort to kill me now.”

“That’s been tried before, honey.”

“I seem to recall a few times, yes.” Smoke kissed her. “You better see to bandages and alcohol and ointments and so forth. I have a hunch we’re all going to get bloodied before this fight is over.”

“Then why don’t they come on out here and try to run me off?” Jenny said, considerable heat in her young voice.

Smoke and Sally turned. The youngster stood with a .45 belted around her waist and a rifle in her hands.

“Now you just calm down,” Sally told her, walking to the girl’s side.

“No, Aunt Sally. I won’t calm down. My mother left this ranch to me. And the ... businesses in town. I have a
right
to live here and be safe. I won’t let Fosburn and Biggers and Cosgrove and their hoodlums interfere with my life another time. But I have no right to ask somebody else to fight and die for me.” She walked to an open window. “Mister Van Horn!” she hollered.

Van Horn was standing just outside the window and nearly jumped out of his boots. “Yes, ma’am, Miss Jenny?”