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Synopsis
Smoke Jensen never would have come back to the gold-mining town of Red Light, Montana, if it hadn't been for his sister Janey's estate. That isn't the only thing the Last Mountain Man has to settle, however. There's also the score between him and Major Cosgrove, the man who owns Red Light and who is trying to lay claim to Janey's land. All that stands between Cosgrove and the land is an avenging gunslinger with a blazing .44—and a good reason to use it.
Contains mature themes.
Release date: October 1, 2014
Publisher: Pinnacle Books
Print pages: 256
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Blood Of The Mountain Man
William W. Johnstone
Sheriff Monte Carson swung down in front of the mountain home and petted several of the many dogs that lived around the place. Properly stroked, they scampered off to resume their playing. Monte looked up as the front door opened. The sheriff had never gotten used to how big the man was who stood in the door-way. The man was inches over six feet, and with the weight to go with it. His shoulders were door-wide and hard-packed with muscle. His hips were lean and the muscles in his legs strained his denim jeans.
“Smoke,” Monte said.
“Monte,” the West’s most famous gunfighter said. “You’re just in time for breakfast and coffee. Come in.”
Monte took off his hat and stepped into the lovely home of Smoke and Sally Jensen. He howdied and smiled at Sally, just as beautiful as ever, and took a seat at the kitchen table. Sally turned to the stove and cracked three more eggs and added another thick slice of ham to the other skillet.
“What’s up, Monte?” Smoke Jensen asked, pouring the sheriff a cup of coffee.
“Smoke, how long’s it been since you heard from your sister Janey?”
The question took Smoke by surprise. “Why … years. I thought she was dead.”
“She is,” Monte said bluntly, as was the Western way. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a telegraph. “This came in early today. It’s from the marshal of a little town up in Montana. Right smack in the middle of the Rockies. A mining town called Red Light.”
Smoke looked at the man and Sally turned from the stove, arching an eyebrow at that.
Monte smiled. “I know. Strange name for a town. You’d better read the wire, Smoke.”
Sally put the sheriff’s ham and eggs and home-fried potatoes in front of him and Monte took knife and fork to hand and fell to eating, after buttering a hot biscuit.
The telegraph read: JANEY JENSEN, DIED RECENTLY OF NATURAL CAUSES AND LEFT EVERYTHING TO HER BROTHER. IMPORTANT THAT MR. K. JENSEN COME TO RED LIGHT AS SOON AS POSSIBLE TO LAY CLAIM TO ESTATE, WHICH INCLUDES BUSINESS IN TOWN AND RANCH IN VALLEY.
It was signed, CLUB BOWERS, SHERIFF, RED LIGHT, MONTANA.
“I knew a Club Bowers,” Smoke said. “He was an outlaw.”
“Same one,” Monte said. “I know him, too. That might give you an idea what kind of town it is.”
“Just where is Red Light?” Sally asked.
“In the middle of nowhere,” Monte said. “It’s a mining town, and it is isolated. Nearest town of any size is a good hundred miles away. There’s talk of changing the name from Red Light to something else, but so far it’s just talk.”
Smoke sipped his coffee and stared at the sheriff. “Monte, you’re walking around something. Come on — what is it?”
“This is one of those freak strikes, Smoke. It’s in a place where gold and silver shouldn’t be. But they were found, and it’s a good vein. It’s slowing down some, but it’ll probably be producing for a good many years to come. I know about Red Light. I had a friend killed up there a couple of years ago. The town is set up in the mountains, above one of the prettiest valleys you ever put your eyes on. Valley runs for miles and miles. River runs right through the entire length of the valley. The ranchers down there supply the beef for the miners. Tell you the truth, in a situation like that, I’d rather have a ranch than a gold mine. You’d best get up there. If you tarry long, you just might not have a ranch left.”
“The other ranchers might take it?”
“You betcha. And you’ll notice the wire read ‘K. Jensen.’ That tells me your sis never let on about your nickname. You bet those other ranchers will try to horn in. They’ll be fightin’ like coyotes over a scrap of meat.”
“I wonder what the business in town is?”
Monte shrugged.
“Janey,” Smoke said. “All these years I thought she was dead. I would have sworn she was dead. I heard she was.” Smoke snapped his fingers. “I know she’s dead. Then …”
“Her daughter, honey?” Sally said, putting his plate in front of him and sitting down with a biscuit and a cup of coffee.
“That all you’re eating?” Smoke asked with a frown.
“I’m on a diet. Her daughter?” she repeated.
“Maybe. She did have a daughter by that gambling man she took off with back in Missouri. She pulled out in ’64 and I heard she had the child in ’67. She wouldn’t be out of her teens.”
“She had a daughter, Smoke,” Sally said. “I remember some of the women talking about it back in Idaho Territory — before I met you. Jenny was her name.”
“Monte, can you wire back and see if this is Janey or Jenny who died?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll be in town this afternoon and stop by your office.”
Monte finished his breakfast and headed back to town. Over a second cup of coffee, Sally said, “This is bringing back bad memories for you, isn’t it, Smoke?”
“Some.” He smiled at her. “But I’ll survive them.”
“This girl, if it is Jenny, would be no more than a child. Seventeen at most.”
“What do you remember about her?”
“Nothing. I never saw her. The ladies of the town said that she was at school back East.”
“We’ll know more after I go into town.”
“Saddle my pony for me. I’m riding in with you.”
“Sidesaddle, of course,” Smoke said with a straight face.
Her reply would not have been printable in those times.
“Here’s the whole story, Smoke,” Monte said, handing Smoke several pages of telegraph paper. “I wired a sheriff I know up in Montana Territory. He knew all about it.”
Smoke opened the envelope. MISS JANEY JENSEN DIED OF FEVER TWO YEARS AGO. WAS PROMINENT BUSINESSWOMAN IN TOWN. OWNED BUSINESSES AND RANCH IN VALLEY. IS BURIED IN RED LIGHT, MONTANA CEMETERY. HAD ONE DAUGHTER, JENNY. JENNY RETURNED TO RED LIGHT AND IS LIVING ON RANCH. ENTIRE ESTATE LEFT TO JENNY. NO ONE KNEW WHERE TO FIND JANEY’S BROTHER, A MISTER K. JENSEN. UNDERSTAND HE WAS FINALLY LOCATED IN COLORADO AND NOTIFIED. TELL HIM TO BE CAREFUL. DON’T TRUST ANY LAW OFFICER IN COUNTY. K. JENSEN IS RIDING INTO A DEN OF SNAKES. ANY RELATION TO SMOKE? IF SO, TAKE HIM ALONG. JUST KIDDING. TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF, MONTE.
“Man lays it right on the line, doesn’t he?” Smoke said.
“Tom’s a good man,” Monte replied. “Is Sally going up there with you?”
“No. Not initially. I might send for her later on. Jenny vanished. I don’t like the sound of that. Damn it, Monte, she’s my only kin. Except for some folks in Iowa that I have never seen and who fought against my father in the war. I understand they harbored such bad feeling toward those Jensens who fought for the south that they changed their name to Jenson.”
“That war tore up a lot of families, Smoke. Mine included. When are you pulling out?”
“Tomorrow, probably. I’ll ride the trains as far as possible. It’s been awhile since ol’ Buck and I hit the trail. We’ll both look forward to it.”
“Not taking one of your appaloosas?”
“Not this time. Buck’s a mountain horse and better than any watchdog in the world. And meaner, too. I want him to see some more country before I retire him. Lord knows, we have seen some trails together.”
“You really love animals, don’t you, Smoke?”
“Yes. And I respect them. I don’t trust a man who doesn’t like animals. There’s a flaw in his character …” He smiled. “Although some of Sally’s highly educated friends say that is not true.”
“They called you a liar to your face?”
“Only once.”
Buck was a mountain-bred buckskin that was just about too big and too much horse for the average man. But Smoke was not an average man. He had gentle-broken the animal and was the only one who could ride it. Truth be known, he was about the only one who wanted to ride the mean-eyed animal.
“Now, you change into your suit when you reach the rails,” Sally told him, handing him a sack of food for the trail.
“Yes, dear,” the most famous gunfighter in all the West replied.
“And you button your collar and fix your tie properly.”
“Yes, dear.”
“And if your suit is rumpled, you have it brushed and ironed at the nearest town.”
“Yes, dear.”
“And as soon as you are settled up there, send for me.”
“Yes, dear.”
“And you will not let anyone know that you are Smoke Jensen unless it becomes absolutely necessary.”
“Yes, dear,” he said with a smile, towering above her outside the house. He closed his big hands around her arms and gently picked her up with all the ease of picking up a pillow. He kissed her lips and set her back down, then chuckled.
“What is so funny?” she demanded.
“Knowing my sister, what if it turns out the business she owned in town is a whorehouse?”
Sally narrowed her eyes. “If that is the case, Mister Jensen, you are in a world of trouble.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
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 . . .
“Smoke,” Monte said.
“Monte,” the West’s most famous gunfighter said. “You’re just in time for breakfast and coffee. Come in.”
Monte took off his hat and stepped into the lovely home of Smoke and Sally Jensen. He howdied and smiled at Sally, just as beautiful as ever, and took a seat at the kitchen table. Sally turned to the stove and cracked three more eggs and added another thick slice of ham to the other skillet.
“What’s up, Monte?” Smoke Jensen asked, pouring the sheriff a cup of coffee.
“Smoke, how long’s it been since you heard from your sister Janey?”
The question took Smoke by surprise. “Why … years. I thought she was dead.”
“She is,” Monte said bluntly, as was the Western way. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a telegraph. “This came in early today. It’s from the marshal of a little town up in Montana. Right smack in the middle of the Rockies. A mining town called Red Light.”
Smoke looked at the man and Sally turned from the stove, arching an eyebrow at that.
Monte smiled. “I know. Strange name for a town. You’d better read the wire, Smoke.”
Sally put the sheriff’s ham and eggs and home-fried potatoes in front of him and Monte took knife and fork to hand and fell to eating, after buttering a hot biscuit.
The telegraph read: JANEY JENSEN, DIED RECENTLY OF NATURAL CAUSES AND LEFT EVERYTHING TO HER BROTHER. IMPORTANT THAT MR. K. JENSEN COME TO RED LIGHT AS SOON AS POSSIBLE TO LAY CLAIM TO ESTATE, WHICH INCLUDES BUSINESS IN TOWN AND RANCH IN VALLEY.
It was signed, CLUB BOWERS, SHERIFF, RED LIGHT, MONTANA.
“I knew a Club Bowers,” Smoke said. “He was an outlaw.”
“Same one,” Monte said. “I know him, too. That might give you an idea what kind of town it is.”
“Just where is Red Light?” Sally asked.
“In the middle of nowhere,” Monte said. “It’s a mining town, and it is isolated. Nearest town of any size is a good hundred miles away. There’s talk of changing the name from Red Light to something else, but so far it’s just talk.”
Smoke sipped his coffee and stared at the sheriff. “Monte, you’re walking around something. Come on — what is it?”
“This is one of those freak strikes, Smoke. It’s in a place where gold and silver shouldn’t be. But they were found, and it’s a good vein. It’s slowing down some, but it’ll probably be producing for a good many years to come. I know about Red Light. I had a friend killed up there a couple of years ago. The town is set up in the mountains, above one of the prettiest valleys you ever put your eyes on. Valley runs for miles and miles. River runs right through the entire length of the valley. The ranchers down there supply the beef for the miners. Tell you the truth, in a situation like that, I’d rather have a ranch than a gold mine. You’d best get up there. If you tarry long, you just might not have a ranch left.”
“The other ranchers might take it?”
“You betcha. And you’ll notice the wire read ‘K. Jensen.’ That tells me your sis never let on about your nickname. You bet those other ranchers will try to horn in. They’ll be fightin’ like coyotes over a scrap of meat.”
“I wonder what the business in town is?”
Monte shrugged.
“Janey,” Smoke said. “All these years I thought she was dead. I would have sworn she was dead. I heard she was.” Smoke snapped his fingers. “I know she’s dead. Then …”
“Her daughter, honey?” Sally said, putting his plate in front of him and sitting down with a biscuit and a cup of coffee.
“That all you’re eating?” Smoke asked with a frown.
“I’m on a diet. Her daughter?” she repeated.
“Maybe. She did have a daughter by that gambling man she took off with back in Missouri. She pulled out in ’64 and I heard she had the child in ’67. She wouldn’t be out of her teens.”
“She had a daughter, Smoke,” Sally said. “I remember some of the women talking about it back in Idaho Territory — before I met you. Jenny was her name.”
“Monte, can you wire back and see if this is Janey or Jenny who died?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll be in town this afternoon and stop by your office.”
Monte finished his breakfast and headed back to town. Over a second cup of coffee, Sally said, “This is bringing back bad memories for you, isn’t it, Smoke?”
“Some.” He smiled at her. “But I’ll survive them.”
“This girl, if it is Jenny, would be no more than a child. Seventeen at most.”
“What do you remember about her?”
“Nothing. I never saw her. The ladies of the town said that she was at school back East.”
“We’ll know more after I go into town.”
“Saddle my pony for me. I’m riding in with you.”
“Sidesaddle, of course,” Smoke said with a straight face.
Her reply would not have been printable in those times.
“Here’s the whole story, Smoke,” Monte said, handing Smoke several pages of telegraph paper. “I wired a sheriff I know up in Montana Territory. He knew all about it.”
Smoke opened the envelope. MISS JANEY JENSEN DIED OF FEVER TWO YEARS AGO. WAS PROMINENT BUSINESSWOMAN IN TOWN. OWNED BUSINESSES AND RANCH IN VALLEY. IS BURIED IN RED LIGHT, MONTANA CEMETERY. HAD ONE DAUGHTER, JENNY. JENNY RETURNED TO RED LIGHT AND IS LIVING ON RANCH. ENTIRE ESTATE LEFT TO JENNY. NO ONE KNEW WHERE TO FIND JANEY’S BROTHER, A MISTER K. JENSEN. UNDERSTAND HE WAS FINALLY LOCATED IN COLORADO AND NOTIFIED. TELL HIM TO BE CAREFUL. DON’T TRUST ANY LAW OFFICER IN COUNTY. K. JENSEN IS RIDING INTO A DEN OF SNAKES. ANY RELATION TO SMOKE? IF SO, TAKE HIM ALONG. JUST KIDDING. TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF, MONTE.
“Man lays it right on the line, doesn’t he?” Smoke said.
“Tom’s a good man,” Monte replied. “Is Sally going up there with you?”
“No. Not initially. I might send for her later on. Jenny vanished. I don’t like the sound of that. Damn it, Monte, she’s my only kin. Except for some folks in Iowa that I have never seen and who fought against my father in the war. I understand they harbored such bad feeling toward those Jensens who fought for the south that they changed their name to Jenson.”
“That war tore up a lot of families, Smoke. Mine included. When are you pulling out?”
“Tomorrow, probably. I’ll ride the trains as far as possible. It’s been awhile since ol’ Buck and I hit the trail. We’ll both look forward to it.”
“Not taking one of your appaloosas?”
“Not this time. Buck’s a mountain horse and better than any watchdog in the world. And meaner, too. I want him to see some more country before I retire him. Lord knows, we have seen some trails together.”
“You really love animals, don’t you, Smoke?”
“Yes. And I respect them. I don’t trust a man who doesn’t like animals. There’s a flaw in his character …” He smiled. “Although some of Sally’s highly educated friends say that is not true.”
“They called you a liar to your face?”
“Only once.”
Buck was a mountain-bred buckskin that was just about too big and too much horse for the average man. But Smoke was not an average man. He had gentle-broken the animal and was the only one who could ride it. Truth be known, he was about the only one who wanted to ride the mean-eyed animal.
“Now, you change into your suit when you reach the rails,” Sally told him, handing him a sack of food for the trail.
“Yes, dear,” the most famous gunfighter in all the West replied.
“And you button your collar and fix your tie properly.”
“Yes, dear.”
“And if your suit is rumpled, you have it brushed and ironed at the nearest town.”
“Yes, dear.”
“And as soon as you are settled up there, send for me.”
“Yes, dear.”
“And you will not let anyone know that you are Smoke Jensen unless it becomes absolutely necessary.”
“Yes, dear,” he said with a smile, towering above her outside the house. He closed his big hands around her arms and gently picked her up with all the ease of picking up a pillow. He kissed her lips and set her back down, then chuckled.
“What is so funny?” she demanded.
“Knowing my sister, what if it turns out the business she owned in town is a whorehouse?”
Sally narrowed her eyes. “If that is the case, Mister Jensen, you are in a world of trouble.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
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 . . .
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Blood Of The Mountain Man
William W. Johnstone
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