Code of the Mountain Man

Book 8: Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns; Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Lee Slater and his gang of lowlife desperadoes didn't know that Smoke Jensen had given up his gunslinger status to become a family man. Stirring up a motherlode of trouble was their first mistake. Shooting Smoke's wife Sally was their second. Chances are, they're not going to live to make a third.

Contains mature themes.

Release date: August 29, 2014

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

No one knew why the outlaws chose to attack the town of Big Rock. It was a very stupid thing for outlaws to attack any western town. For those who inhabited the towns of the West were veterans of the War Between the States, veterans of Indian wars, buffalo hunters—men who had lived with guns all their lives. But Big Rock, located in the high-up country of northern Colorado, was known to be off-limits to anyone who sought trouble.

And most trouble-hunters were as careful to avoid Big Rock as they were to keep from sticking their hands into a nest of rattlers.

Perhaps the outlaws who struck Big Rock that day hit it because the West was taming somewhat. The bad old days were not gone entirely, but they were calming down. Maybe the outlaws felt they could pull it off. They would have fared much better had they pulled off their boots and stuck their bare feet into a bucket filled with scorpions.

“Good morning, Abigal,” Sally Jensen spoke to the woman behind the counter.

“Good morning, Sally,” the shopkeeper’s wife said. “And how are things out at the Sugarloaf?”

The Sugarloaf was the name of their ranch. ‘They’ being Smoke and Sally Jensen.

Both women turned at the sounds of hooves pounding the earth. A lot of horses. Sounded like fifty or more.

“What on earth? . . .” Sally said.

A bullet busted a window of the store and tore through cans of peaches. A second bullet hit Sally on the arm and knocked her down. A child and her dog were trampled under the steel-shod hooves of the galloping horses.

It didn’t take the rampaging outlaws long to discover they’d struck the wrong town as men reached for their pistols and rifles and emptied a few saddles. They raced out of town, whooping and hollering and shooting. But the damage had been done.

“Four people dead,” Judge Proctor said grimly. “Including a little girl. Half a dozen more wounded. Couple of them seriously. Somebody ride for the Sugarloaf and fetch Smoke. Sally’s been hit.”

“Lord God Amighty!” a citizen breathed. “Them outlaws don’t know it, but they just opened the gates to Hell!”

He waited until he was absolutely certain that Sally was not seriously injured. A neighbor lady would stay with her, tending to her. The hands who worked the Sugarloaf range would make damn sure no one tried to attack the ranch.

“Now you be careful,” Sally told her husband. “And don’t you worry about me. I’m just fine.”

He bent down and kissed her lips. “I’ll see you when I get back.” He walked out of the house and stepped into the saddle.

Sally made no attempt to dissuade her husband. This was the West, and a man had to do what a man had to do. They were bound by unwritten yet strictly obeyed codes. Especially a man like Smoke Jensen.

He rode a big buckskin that he’d caught wild in the mountains and gentled. Because of the way he’d worked with the horse, and the bond that had been established between horse and rider, Smoke was the only human the buckskin would allow on its back.

Smoke was tall, with wide shoulders, heavily muscled arms, and lean hipped. His wrists were huge, and his big hands were as powerful as they could be gentle. His hair was ash-blond, cut short, and his eyes were a cold, unforgiving brown that rarely showed any emotion except when with his wife and children.

He wore two guns, the left-hand gun worn butt-forward, the right-hand gun low and tied down. He was just as fast with one gun as he was with the other. Some said he was the fastest man with a gun who ever lived, but he never sought out or bragged that he was a gunfighter. He was just a man one did not push. He carried a long-bladed knife that he usually shaved with on the trail. Or fought with, whichever was the most important at the time. He’d been raised among old mountain men and some called him the last mountain man. His clothing was earth-tones, his hat brown and flat-brimmed. A Winchester rifle was in the saddle boot.

Leadville was behind him and the Gunnison River just a few hours ahead. He would make the small town just about dark. There was a hotel there, and there he would bed down for the night.

He was in no hurry. He knew he would find the outlaws that had ridden into Big Rock and shot it up, killing and wounding innocent people. If their intentions had been to rob the bank, they had failed miserably. But they had left behind them a bloody main street and sorrow in the hearts of those who had to bury their dead and watch the suffering of those wounded by the indiscriminate bullets.

The sheriff of Big Rock, Monte Carson, had been wounded during the bloody battle, and could not lead the posse that went after the outlaws. Went after them, but finally had to return empty-handed.

The man on the mean-eyed buckskin didn’t need a posse. Didn’t want to be hampered by one. He knew the difference between right and wrong, and he sure as hell didn’t need some fancy-talking lawyer to explain it. As far as he was concerned, lawyers should stick to writing wills and drawing up deeds and such. Keep their noses out of a man’s private business. That was part of the problems facing the world today: too damn many lawyers.

He had kissed his wife goodbye, provisioned up, and ridden out from their ranch in the high lonesome of northern Colorado. Alone.

Nobody attacked Big Rock. Nobody. Not and got away with it. Smoke didn’t believe in cowboys hoorahing a town. People got hurt doing that. A gun was not a toy, and when a man grew up, he put boyhood behind him and accepted the responsibilities of being a man.

Smoke had helped found Big Rock; his blood and sweat and time and effort were ingrained in the streets and buildings. And those outlaws had shot his wife. Nobody shot his wife. Ever. Not and lived to brag about it.

One lawyer, straight from the East and new to Big Rock, had said the outlaws probably had a poor childhood, and that was what caused them to behave in such a barbarous manner. They really shouldn’t be blamed for their actions.

Smoke had slapped him down in the street, jerked him up by the seat of his britches and his shirt collar and dumped him in a horse trough.

Preacher Morrow had tried to talk him out of tracking the outlaws. So had Dr. Colton Spalding and some of the others in the town.

“It’s the 1880s, Smoke,” Judge Proctor said. “You just can’t take the law into your own hands anymore.”

The big man who stood by the big buckskin looked at the judge. Judge Proctor backed up, away from those terribly hard eyes.

“I’ll be back,” Smoke said, then swung into the saddle.

He swung down from the saddle in front of the livery stable in the small town by the Gunnison River and led the buckskin inside, stripping the saddle and bridle from him and stabling the animal.

“Feed him good,” he told the boy who had appeared out of the gloom of the cavernous building. “Rub him down. Give him a bag of grain.” He looked at the boy. “You sleep in this place?”

“Yes, sir. I got me a room back yonder.” He pointed. The man looked familiar, but the boy just couldn’t place him. He took the coin the man offered him. It was a silver dollar.

“Don’t you have a home, boy?”

“Yes, sir. But my ma lets me stay here during the night so’s I can earn extra money to help out.”

“I’ll leave my saddle here. You look after my gear.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Any strangers in town?”

“Three men rode in late this afternoon. They was too cheap to use the livery. They picketed their horses down by the river. They looked like hardcases. Guns tied down low. They just looked mean to me.”

“How’d they smell?”

“Sir?”

“Did you get close enough to them to smell them?”

“Yes, sir. I did, come to think of it. They sure did smell bad.”

“That’s not the only thing that’s really bad about them. Did they bathe?”

The boy looked at the tall man with the wide shoulders and the massive arms that bulged his shirt with muscles. “Bathe? Ah . . . no, sir.”

“So they still stink?”

“Ah ... yes, sir. I reckon so, sir.”

“I feel sorry for the undertaker.”

The tall man with the two guns walked out of the livery stable, moving like a great hunting cat, his spurs jingling as he moved. He carried his rifle with him as he crossed the wide street and walked toward the hotel.

The boy hung a nose-bag on the buckskin and began currying the horse as he ate a bait of grain. The boy suddenly stopped his brushing as a coldness washed over him. “Oh, my God!” he whispered, finally placing the big man with the cold eyes. “Oh, my God!”

“Good evening, sir!” the desk clerk called. “It certainly is a quiet evening in our town.”

It won’t be for long, Smoke thought, as he signed the register.

The desk clerk looked at the name on the register and gripped the edge of the counter. His mouth dropped open and worked up and down like a fish. “Ah, bah, bah, bah ...” He cleared his throat. “The dining room just closed, sir. But I can get you a plate of food sent up to your room if you wish.”

“I wish. Thank you.”

“We’re a very modern hostelry, sir. We have the finest in up to date water closets.”

“Good. Give me the key to my room, have the tub in the facilities filled with hot water, and put a fresh bar of soap in there. Lots of towels. I like lots of clean towels.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir. And I’m sure that room I assigned you has fresh sheets. As a matter of fact, I know it does. It’s such a pleasure having you here with . . .”

Those cold eyes stopped his chatter. It was like looking into a frozen Hell.

The tall man turned and walked up the stairs.

The desk clerk beat on the bell until a man appeared. “Get the marshal—right now! Tell him to deputize the boys. We got big trouble.” Or somebody has, he thought, recalling those three hardcases who rode into town that day.

When the tall man walked down the stairs, four of the men the marshal had deputized took one look at him and exited the lobby, fading into the night. They wanted no part of this hombre. They weren’t cowards; they were all good, solid men who had used a gun on more than one occasion against outlaws or Indians. But they were intelligent men.

“You got business in this town, mister?” the marshal asked.

“Oh, yes,” Smoke replied. “But it’s my business.”

“Maybe I’ll make it mine,” the marshal stood his ground.

“That’s your job. But I have a better suggestion.”

“I’m listening.”

“Go home. Make yourself a fresh pot of coffee. Talk to your wife and family. Tell your men to go home and gather their families around them. Get the citizens off the street.”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“I didn’t give you any orders.”

The marshal nodded his head. That was a fact. What Jensen was doing was giving him an out, to save face. The desk clerk was all ears, hanging on every word. Whatever happened here would be all over town in ten minutes. “I’m not afraid of you, Jensen.”

The desk clerk gasped.

“I can see that. You’re a good man, Marshal. The town should be proud to have you behind that star, and the city council should give you a raise.”

The marshal cut his eyes. He was alone. His newly deputized men had gone. “Come to think of it, my wife just baked a fresh apple pie. It’d still be warm.”

“Man shouldn’t pass that up,” Smoke said. “Might insult his wife. My wife was insulted the other day when the gang those punks in the saloon was ridin’ with shot her.”

The marshal’s eyes narrowed. No man harmed a woman in the West. Just to jostle one on the street was grounds for a good butt-whipping. “She bad hurt?”

“Caught her in the arm. They killed a little girl.”

“You have a good evening, Mr. Jensen.”

“Thank you, Marshal. I plan to.”

The marshal left the hotel lobby. The palms of his hands were sweaty. He wiped them on his britches. He was a good, tough lawman, having gunned down Bad Jack Summers on the main street of this very town only a few months back. But Bad Jack couldn’t shine Smoke Jensen’s boots. The marshal sighed. Come to think of it, a wedge of pie would taste mighty good.

Smoke stepped out of the lobby and moved to the shadows, standing for a moment. He worked his guns in and out of leather a few times. The grips of the .44s seemed to leap into his big hands. He stepped off the boardwalk and into the street, walking to the saloon. He stood for a moment at the batwings, looking in, allowing his eyes to adjust to the lantern light of the interior. He pushed open the batwings, stepped inside, and walked to the end of the bar.

“Whiskey,” he told the pale-faced barkeep. “Out of the good bottle. I don’t like snake heads.”

“Yes, sir.”

Some people who made their own whiskey would drop snake heads into the barrel for added flavor.

Smoke was not much for strong drink, but he did enjoy a sip every now and then. The saloon was empty except for Smoke, the barkeep, and three unshaven and dirty men seated around a table next to a wall.

The barkeep poured a shot glass full. “That’s the best in the house, sir.”

“Thank you.” Smoke did not touch his liquor. “Where’s all your business this evening?”

“Everybody left sort of sudden-like a few minutes ago.”

“Is that right. Well, I can sure understand why.”

“Oh?” The barkeep was getting jumpy.

“Stinks in here. Smells like a bunch of damn sorry punks whose mothers didn’t teach them to bathe regularly. Like that stinking bunch of crap over there at the table.”

That made the barkeep real nervous. He moved farther away from the tall, well-built man with the cold eyes and the big hands with flat knuckles. Fighter’s hands.

“What’s that?” one of the men at the table said.

“You heard me, punk. I said you stink.”

The man pushed back his chair and walked toward the bar, the big California spurs jangling. “You’re pushin’, mister. You ain’t got no call to say somethin’ like that.”

“I’ve been around skunks that smell better than you three,” Smoke told him. He lifted the shot glass with his left hand and took a small sip. It was good whiskey.

One of the men at the table laughed. “Take him, Bob.”

Smoke chuckled, but the sound was void of humor. “Yeah, Bob. Why don’t you take me?”

Bob looked back at his buddies. This wasn’t going like it usually did. He’d been a bully all his life, and folks usually backed up and took water when he prodded them. This tall man just laughed at him. Funny kind of laugh. Guy looked familiar, too. He’d seen that face somewheres before.

The tall man turned to face Bob. Dirty, unshaven, and smelly. Smoke grimaced at the body odor. “It wouldn’t be right for you to meet your Maker smelling like an over-used outhouse. Why don’t you boys find a horse trough and take a bath?”

“Huh! What are you talkin’ about, mister. I ain’t a-goin’ to meet my Maker.”

“Oh, yes, you are.” Smoke set the shot glass on the bar. “All three of you.”

“You seem right sure of that,” one of the men seated at the table said.

“I’m positive of it.”

The men at the table smiled. “Three of us and one of you. You’re either drunk or crazy.”

“I’m neither. But I’ll tell you boys that you made a bad mistake getting tied up with Lee Slater and that pack of rabid hyenas that run with him. You made the next to the worst mistake of your lives when you attacked Big Rock the other day and shot those women and kids.”

The third man cleared his throat and asked, “You the law, mister?”

“I don’t need the law to take care of scummy punks like you three.”

The man flushed deeply. But he kept his mouth shut. There was something about this tall man that worried at him. He and most of Slater’s men were west coast outlaws, working from the Canadian border down to Mexico. He didn’t know a whole lot about Colorado and the men who lived there. This tall man with muscles bunching his shirt was just too damn confident. Too calm. He was cleanshaven and smelling like bath soap. Neatly dressed and his hair trimmed. But he was no dandy. The outlaw could sense that. Those guns of his’n had seen a lot of use.

“We ain’t with Lee Slater now,” the second man said.

“You were.”

“You said ‘next’ to the worst mistake,” the punk standing in front of him said. “So that means we made a worser one.”

“You certainly did.”

The three waited. The tall man stood by the bar, half turned, smiling coldly at them. The barkeep was poised, ready to hit the floor.

“Well, damnit!” the second man threw a greasy deck of cards to the table. “Are you going to tell us, or not?”

“One of the women you shot was my wife,” Smoke said.

The third man sighed.

“And who might you be, mister?” the punk facing Smoke asked, a nasty grin on his face.

“Smoke Jensen.” Smoke followed that with a hard left fist that smashed into the punk’s face. It sounded like someone swinging a nine-pound sledge against a side of freshly butchered beef. The punk’s nose exploded in a gush of blood, and the blow knocked him to the floor.

Smoke straightened up with his right hand full of. 44 just as the pair at the table jumped to their feet, dragging iron. He shot the two, cocking and firing so fast the twin shots sounded like one report. One was hit in the center of the chest, dead before he hit the sawdusted floor. The second was struck in the throat, the .44 slug making a terrible mess.

The punk he’d punched on the beak was moaning and crawling to his knees when Smoke jerked him up and threw him against a wall, next to the batwings. The punk screamed as ribs popped from the impact. His eyes were filled with fear as they watched the big man walk toward him, those brown eyes filled with revenge.

The punk staggered out the batwings and fell off the boardwalk, landing in the street. “Help!” he squalled. “Somebody come help me!”

The dark street remained as quiet as the grave he would soon be in.

Smoke had holstered his 44. He stood on the boardwalk and stared at the gunslick. “You think you’re bad, boy.” The words were chipped ice flying from his mouth. “Then draw, you sorry piece of crap!”

“You ain’t no badge-toter!” the punk slobbered the words. “I got a right to a trial and all that. You can’t take the law into your own hands.”

Smoke stared at him, his eyes burning with a glow that the young man on the street had never seen coming from any man. It was eerie and unnatural. A dark stain appeared on the front of the young man’s dirty jeans.

“You gonna let me git up, Jensen?” he yelled.

“Get up.”

The punk tried to fake Smoke out, drawing as he was getting to his boots. Smoke drew and shot him in the belly. His second shot shattered the punk’s sixgun. Smoke turned and walked back into the saloon, leaving the outlaw in the dirt, hollerin’ and bellerin’ for his mother.

“You got an undertaker in this town?” he asked the barkeep.

“Ye ... ye ... yes, sir!” the barkeep stammered. “Got us a right good one.”

“Get him.”

“Right now, Mr. Smoke. You bet. I’m gone.”

Smoke reloaded and finished his drink.

“Ain’t much to this bunch of trash,” the undertaker griped. “I’m gonna have to sell their gear to make any money.”

“You do that.”

“You know their names?”

“Nope.”

“Well, I got to have something to put on the markers.”

“You can carve on it, ‘they should have bathed more often.’ ”

The marshal walked into the hotel’s dining room early the next morning and over to Smoke’s table. He pointed to a chair, and Smoke pushed it out with the toe of his boot.

The marshal ordered breakfast—the same thing Smoke and everybody else in the dining room was having: beef, fried potatoes, and fried eggs—and laid several sheets of paper on the table. “These. . .