Code of the Mountain Man (4 page)

“You're a saint, mister,” the woman said. “There must be several hundred dollars there.”

“Probably. I didn't count it. And I'm no saint, ma'am. Was I you folks, I'd pack me some food and bedding and take off for the deep timber until the trouble is over. Get those kids out of harm's way.”

“We'll do that, mister. You the law?”

“No. I've been tracking these outlaws since they rode into a town near where I live and shot it up. One of the people they shot was my wife.”

“What's your name?” the woman asked.

“Jensen, ma'am. Smoke Jensen.”

They were still standing with their mouths hanging open when Smoke rode away.

* * *

Smoke made the settlement by late afternoon and stabled his horse at the livery.

“They got rooms for let over the saloon,” the liveryman told him. “They ain't much, but they're better than nothin'. Bonnie's Cafe serves right good food if the cook ain't drunk.” He peered at Smoke. “Don't I know you?”

“I doubt it. First time I've ever been here. This town have a name?”

“It's had three or four. Right now we're 'twixt and 'tween.”

“You got a marshal?”

“Nope. Had one but he left 'cause we couldn't pay him . . . among other reasons. Had a bank but it closed. Got one stage a week comes through. Heads north. You wanna go south, you're in trouble. Starts out in Monte Vista and makes a big circle. Alamosa, Conejos, through here, and back up the grade.”

“You ever heard of the Lee Slater gang?”

“Nope.”

“You will.” Smoke gathered his gear and walked to the saloon, dumping his saddlebags on the bar.

“Got a room for a few days?” he asked the barkeep.

“Take your choice. They're all empty. The best in the house will cost you a dollar a night. Dollar and a half for clean sheets.”

Smoke tossed some coins on the bar. “Change the sheets. I want a room facing the street.”

“You got it. Number one. Top of the stairs and turn right. You cain't miss it,” he added drily.

“Tubs inside?” Smoke asked hopefully.

“You got to be kidding! Tubs behind the barber shop. Want me to have one filled up?”

“Please.”

“Fifty cents.”

Smoke paid him and stowed his gear in the room. He walked over to the barber shop and bathed, then had the barber shave him and cut his hair.

“Lilac water?” the barber asked. “Two bits and you'll smell so good the ladies'll be knockin' on your door tonight.”

Smoke handed him a quarter. “How many people in this town?”

“Sixty-five, at last count. We're a growin' little community, for sure. Got us the bes' general store within fifty miles. Freight wagons jus' run yesterday, and she's stocked to the overflowin'.”

Perfect for Slater and his bunch, Smoke thought. They might not get much money out of this place, but they could take enough provisions to last them a month or better while they raided towns, then disappeared back into the mountains.

“Any strangers been riding through?”

“Yeah, they has been, come to think of it. Yesterday, as a matter of fact. Some real hard-lookin' ol' boys. Stopped over to the saloon and had them a taste, then looked the town over real careful-like. Made me kind of edgy.”

“Who runs this town?”

“Mayor and town council. Why?”

“ 'Cause you got a big bunch of outlaws probably planning to hit this place within the next few days. I've been on their trail for several weeks. Lee Slater's bunch out of California. They hit my town up north of here and killed several people.”

“Lord have mercy! And us without no marshal.”

“You want a lawman?”

“Sure. But we can't pay no decent wage.”

“You go get the mayor and the town council. Tell them I'll work as marshal for a time—free.”

“You got any qualifications to do the job?”

“I think so.”

“You sit right there. Here's a paper from Denver. It ain't but three weeks old. I'll be right back.”

The mayor was the owner of the general store, and the town council was the blacksmith, the saloonkeeper, and the liveryman.

They listened to Smoke and shook their heads, the mayor saying, “That many outlaws would destroy this town. You figure that you'd do any good stoppin' them, mister?”

“I think so.”

“You ain't but one man,” the saloonkeeper said. “Hell, we don't even know your name.”

“Smoke Jensen.”

The barber sat down in his chair, his mouth open in shock. The liveryman cackled with glee.

“Here's the badge and raise your right hand, sir,” the mayor said, after he found his voice.

Smoke was leaning up against an awning post in front of the saloon when Mills Walsdorf and his men rode slowly into town. Three very boring and totally uneventful days had passed with no sign of any of the Slater gang. Mills gave Smoke a very disgusted look as he noticed the star pinned to Smoke's chest. He turned his horse and stopped at the hitchrail.

He dismounted and sighed as his boots touched the ground. The horse looked as tired as he did.

“Have a good ride, Mills?” Smoke asked.

“Very funny, Jensen,” the federal man said. “Did you kill those two men we found off the side of the road a few miles back?”

“Yes. I did. They accosted me on the trail, and I was forced to defend myself.”

“My God, man! You could have at least given them a decent burial.”

“They weren't decent people.”

“You're disgusting, Jensen. The vultures had picked at them.”

“They probably flew off somewhere and died.”

Mills ignored that. “Did you really think you could lose us?”

“Only if I wanted to. You may be city boys, but you probably know how to use a compass.”

“To be sure. I'm curious about that badge you're wearing.”

“I think it's made of tin.”

A pained look passed Mills' face. He sighed. “You are a very difficult man to speak with, Jensen. I meant ...”

“I know what you meant. I believe the Slater gang is heading this way. The town didn't have a marshal. I volunteered and they accepted my unpaid services.”

“Well, we're here now, so you can feel free to resign.”

“Oh, well, hell, Mills. That makes me feel so much better. What are you going to do when the Slater gang hits town, talk them to death?”

A flash of irritation passed the federal marshal's face. He cleared his throat and said, “I intend to arrest them, Jensen. Then we'll try them and see that they get long prison sentences.”

“How about a rope?”

“I don't believe in capital punishment.”

“Oh, Lord!” Smoke said, looking heavenward. “What have I done for you to send this down on me?”

Mills laughed at Smoke. “Oh, come now, man! You're obviously a fellow of some intelligence. You surely know that the death penalty doesn't work . . .”

“The hell it doesn't!” Smoke said. “They'll damn sure not come back from the grave to commit more crimes.”

“That's not what I mean. It isn't a deterrent for others not to commit the same acts of mayhem.”

“Now, what bright fellow thought up that crap?”

“Very learned people in some of our finest Eastern universities.”

Smoke said a few very ugly words, which summed up his opinion of very learned people back East. He turned and walked toward the batwings, pausing for a moment and calling over his shoulder. “There're rooms upstairs here, Mills. Take your baths across the street behind the barber shop. Don't try supper at Bonnie's Cafe this evening. The cook's drunk. That apple, turnip, and carrot stew he fixed for lunch was rough.”

* * *

Mills and his marshals were sitting at one table in the saloon, Smoke sitting alone at another playing solitaire when the batwings shoved open and half a dozen men crowded into the saloon, heading for the bar. They eyeballed the U.S. Marshals and grinned at their hightop lace-up boots, their trousers tucked in.

Mills cut his eyes to Smoke. The gunfighter had merely looked up from his game, given the newcomers the briefest of glances, and apparently dismissed them.

The men lined up at the bar and ordered whiskey. “Hear you got some law in this town, now,” a big cowboy shot off his mouth. “I reckon me and the boys will have to mind our P's and Q's. We sure wouldn't want to run afoul of the law.”

The cowboys laughed, but it was not a good-natured laugh. More like a sarcastic, go-to-hell braying of men who looked for trouble and did not give a damn about the rights of anyone else. Smoke didn't know if they were outlaws or not. But they damn sure were hardcases. Standing very close to the outlaw line.

“Evenin', Luttie,” the barkeep said.

Smoke had been briefed on the men. The one with the biggest mouth was Luttie Charles, owner of the Seven Slash Ranch. The foreman was named Jake. Neither man was very likeable, and both were bullies, as were the dozen or so hands the ranch kept on the payroll.

“Yeah,” Jake said, after tossing back his whiskey. “Where is this new marshal? I want to size him up and maybe have some fun.”

Smoke had also learned that the last marshal the town hired had not left because the town couldn't pay him, but because he'd been savagely beaten by men from the Seven Slash, although low pay had played a part in it.

“I hope it ain't one of these pretty boys,” a hand said, turning and sneering at Mills and his men. “That wouldn't be no contest a-tall.”

I wouldn't sell Mills and his men short, Smoke thought. I got a hunch those badge-toters have a hell of a lot more sand and gravel in them than appears. They've been dealing with big city punks and shoulder-strikers and foot-padders for a long time. You boys just might be in for a surprise if you crowd them. Especially Mills. He's no pansy.

Luttie turned to stare at Smoke, sitting close to the shadows in the room. “You, there!” he brayed. “What are you doing?”

“Minding my own business,” Smoke said in a quiet voice. “Why don't you do the same?”

To a man, the Seven Slash riders turned, looking at the partially obscured figure at the table.

“You got a smart mouth on you, mister,” Luttie Said. “Maybe you don't know who I am.”

“I don't particularly care who you are.”

The Seven Slash riders looked at one another, grinning. This might turn out to be a fun evening after all. It was always fun to beat hell out of someone.

“Git up!” Luttie gave the command to Smoke.

Smoke, in a quiet voice, told him where he could put his order—sideways.

Luttie shook his head. Nobody talked to him like that. Nobody. Ever. “Who in the hell do you think you are?” Luttie roared across the room.

“The new town marshal,” Smoke told him, shuffling the deck of cards.

“Maybe he's sittin' over there in the dark 'cause he's so ugly,” a hand suggested.

“Why don't we just drag him out in the light and have a look at him?” another said.

“And then we'll stomp him,” another laughed.

“That's Smoke Jensen,” the barkeep said.

The hands became very silent, and very still. They watched as Smoke stood up from the table. Seemed like he just kept on gettin' up. He laid the deck of cards down on the table and walked out of the shadows, his spurs softly jingling as he walked across the floor. He stopped in front of Luttie.

Luttie was no coward, but neither was he a fool. He knew Smoke Jensen's reputation, and knew it to be true. As he looked into those icy brown eyes, he felt a trickle of sweat slide down the center of his back.

“If there is any stomping to be done in this town,” Smoke told the rancher, “I'll do it. And I just might decide to start with you. I don't like bullies. And you're a bully. I don't like big-mouthed fatheads. And you're a big-mouthed fathead. And you're also packin' iron. Now use it, or shut your goddamn mouth!”

Luttie was good with a gun, better than most. He knew that. But he was facing the man who had killed some of the West's most notorious gunfighters. And also a man who was as good with his fists as he was with a six-shooter.

“I got no quarrel with you,” Luttie said sullenly. “The boys was just funnin' some.”

“No, they weren't,” Smoke told him. “And you know it. They're all bullies, just like you. I've heard all about how you and your crew comes into this town, intimidating and bullying other people. I've heard how you like to pick fights and hurt people. You want to fight me, Luttie? How about it? No guns. Just fists. You want that, Luttie?”

“I shall insure it is a fair fight,” Mills said quietly, opening his jacket to show his badge.

“Luttie,” Jake said. “Them Eastern dudes is U.S. Marshals.”

The rancher's sigh was audible. Something big was up, and he didn't know what. But he knew the odds were hard against him on his evening. “We'll be going, boys,” he said.

Luttie and his crew paid up and left the saloon, walking without swagger. The crew knew the boss was mad as hornets, but none blamed him for not tangling with Smoke Jensen. That would have been a very dumb move. There was always another day.

“What the hell's he doin' here?” Jake questioned, as they stood by their horses.

“I don't know,” Luttie said. “And what about them U.S. Marshals? You reckon they're on to us?”

“How could they be?” another hand asked, surprise and anger in his eyes. “Not even the sheriff suspects anything.”

“I don't like it,” Jake said.

“Well, hell! How do you think I feel about it? Come on. Let's ride.”

“You push hard, Mr. Jensen,” Mills said. “There might have been a killing.”

“You figure his death would be a great crushing blow to humanity?”

Mills chuckled. “Sometimes your speech is so homey it's sickening. Other times it appears to come straight from the classics. I'm new to the West, Mr. Jensen . . .”

“Smoke. Just Smoke.”

“Very well. Smoke. I have much to learn about the West and its people.”

“We saddle our own horses and kill our own snakes.”

“And the law?”

“We obey it for the most part. Where there is law. But when you come up on people rustling your stock, a man don't usually have the time to ride fifty miles to get a sheriff. Things tend to get hot and heavy real quick. Someone starts shooting at you, you shoot back.”

“I can understand that,” Mills said. He smiled at Smoke's startled expression “I'm not the legal stickler you think I am, Smoke. There are times when a person must defend oneself. I understand that. But there are other times when men knowingly take the law into their own hands, and that's what I'm opposed to.”

“Like you think I'm doing?”

Mills smiled. “As you have been doing,” he corrected. “Now you are sworn in as an officer of the law. That makes all the difference.”

“And you really believe that?”

“In most cases, yes. In your case, no.”

Smoke laughed.

“You became legal—in a manner of speaking—simply as a means to achieve an end. The end of Lee Slater and his gang. What would you do should Lee and his men attack this town, right now?”

“Empty a lot of saddles.”

“And be killed doing it?”

“Not likely. I'm no Viking berserker. Anyway, I don't think he's going to attack this town.”

“Oh? When did you change your mind?”

“During the course of the day.”

“And what do you think he's going to do?”

“I have an idea. But it's just a thought. I'll let you know when I have it all worked out. And I will let you in on it, Mills. You have my word.”

“Fair enough.”

“Are some of you going to be in town tomorrow?”

“Yes. We're waiting on word from the home office. We sent word where we'd be from that little settlement on the Rio Grande. The stage runs in a couple of days.”

“I appreciate you staying close. I'll pull out early in the morning to do some snooping. Be back late tomorrow night.”

Smoke could tell the man had a dozen questions he would like to ask. But he held them in check. “I'll see you then.”

* * *

Smoke pulled out several hours before dawn, pointing Buck's nose toward the east, staying on the south side of the Alamosa River. Luttie's Seven Slash Ranch lay about twenty miles south of the town.

Luttie was up to something besides ranching. Those hands of his were more than cowboys; Smoke had a hunch they were drawing fighting wages. If that was true, who were they fighting, and why?

At the first coloring of dawn, Smoke was on a hill overlooking Luttie's ranchhouse. He studied the men as they exited the bunkhouse heading for chow in a building next to it. He counted fifteen men. Say three or four were not in yet from nightherding; that was a hell of a lot of cowboys for a spread this size.

So what was Luttie up to?

Smoke stayed on the ridges as long as he dared, looking things over through field glasses. For a working ranch, there didn't seem to be much going on. And he found that odd.

Come to think of it, he hadn't seen any cattle on his way in. What he had seen were a lot of signs proclaiming this area to be “posted” and “no trespassing allowed.” Odd. Too many odd things cropping up about the Seven Slash Ranch.

It was time to move on; his position on the ridge was just too vulnerable. He tightened the cinch and swung into the saddle. He hadn't learned much, but he had learned that something very odd was going on at the Seven Slash Ranch. And Smoke didn't think it had a damn thing to do with cattle.

* * *

“So what is going on?” Mills asked.

The men were sitting on the boardwalk in front of the saloon, enjoying the night air. Mills was contentedly puffing on his pipe, and Smoke had rolled a cigarette.

“I don't know. Luttie could say he stripped his range during roundup, and a range detective would probably accept that. But he hasn't run any cattle in several years on the ground that I covered today. Any cattleman could see that. So why does he have the big crew, all of them fighting men?” Smoke smiled. “Maybe I know.”