Blood of the Mountain Man (10 page)

“I’m afraid,” Major said, “I have been cast in a bad light by some people. As a businessman, I must make a profit to stay in business. But not at the expense of innocent people. Jenny, you have had some trouble out here on your ranch, but none of that trouble came from me. You may believe that, or not believe it, but it is the truth. It is no secret that I wish to buy your ranch. But only at a fair price, both to you, and to me.”

Smoke had ridden the ranch and knew approximately how many cattle were on the spread. He knew the price of beef and the price of land this lush. And so did Sally. They both listened to the offer Cosgrove made, and both knew it was a fair one.

Mule waited outside, squatting like a great ape by the buggy. Hands came and went and his eyes took them all in. There was not a man among them who would last a minute with him in a fight. Not even Smoke Jensen.

But Major Cosgrove, no stranger to toe-to-toe fighting, thought differently. Jensen was quite another matter. Major had seen eyes like that before, but not often. They were the eyes of a man who walked through life with supreme confidence. A man who took no water from any man. Mule was bigger and stronger than Jensen, but in a fight, Mule would lose because Jensen was smarter and would play on Mule’s stupidity.

Major wondered if he could take Jensen in a fight. It would be interesting, at best. At worst, he would get his brains kicked out by the gunfighter many called the last mountain man.

“That certainly is a fair offer, Major,” Smoke said. “And I assure you that Jenny will give it some thought. But I must tell you that at the present time, she is not interested in selling the ranch.”

Major Cosgrove smiled. Thinly. He had been sure they would jump at the offer. He kept his anger under control, but it was with an effort. He was a man accustomed to getting his own way. All the time. Failure was not a part of his plans.

Too much money, Sally thought. I’ve gone over the books carefully and know what this place is worth. He’s offering too much money. Why? She cut her eyes at Smoke and he nodded in understanding and agreement.

“Well,” Major said, carefully placing his cup and saucer on a table. “It’s been an enjoyable first meeting and I hope a mutually profitable one. Will you two be staying long?” He directed the question at Sally.

“Just as long as it takes,” she replied.

And that didn’t set well with Major Cosgrove either. This Sally Jensen was an uppity woman who needed to be slapped down into her place. This was a man’s world, and women didn’t belong in business. Before this was all over, he felt he just might have to show Sally Jensen a thing or two.

After Cosgrove had left, Sally said, “His offer was far too high. He offered nearly twice what the place is worth.”

“Yes,” Smoke said. “But Van Horn tells me there is no gold on the spread.” He got up and walked to the window and stared out at the mountains to the west. “It’s up there,” he said softly. “Bet on it. Just like back on the Sugarloaf. The veins are spotty but run deep.” He went to the desk and got out the deed to the ranch, going over it carefully. “No question about it, Jenny. You not only own those mountains to the west, you own the mineral rights as well.”

“You mean there is gold there?” the girl questioned.

“Yes. Probably a lot of it. But up there, it would take a lot of capital to get set up. Cosgrove has that capital. One person, working alone, could probably dig out enough to make a fair living. No more than that. That’s just my opinion.”

“So what do we do, Uncle Smoke?”

“Sit back and wait. But while we wait, we round up some cattle and sell them to get some money to operate on.”

“Not that we don’t have ample funds,” Sally added. “And that’s something you can bet Cosgrove knows.” “True. Which is why he won’t wait too long before making his next move.”

“And that will be?” Jenny questioned. “Unpleasant,” Smoke said flatly. “And soon.”

* * *

“Are you certain you want to do this?” Smoke asked Sally.

The morning after Major Cosgrove had visited the ranch and made his offer, Sally was putting the finishing touches to her dressing, tying a bandanna around her throat.

“Positive.”

“I wish I could talk you out of it.”

“No way, husband dear.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“With all my heart. I just don’t trust those chippies at the Golden Cherry.” She shook her head. “What a name for a place like that.”

Smoke turned his head to hide his smile. But Sally caught it.

“You find something amusing, dear?”

“Not a thing, dear.”

“Who runs this . . . establishment?” Sally asked. “Van Horn tells me the madam is a lady called Clementine Feathers.”

Sally muttered something under her breath. Smoke did not ask her to repeat it. He really was not looking forward to meeting his . . . employees, so to speak. “Jenny wants to ride into town with us.”

Sally gave him a look that would wilt cactus.

“Ah, right!” he said brightly. “Not a good day for her to do that.”

“Van Horn and Barrie will be riding in with us,” Sally said, pulling on her gloves. “Barrie says he wants to look over the town. Get a taste of us, in his words.”

“That warhoss wants to check out any possible troublemakers and mark them down in his mind,” Smoke said. “But I sure wonder why, all of a sudden, he showed up here.”

“Van Horn is mysterious about that, too,” Sally said. Her slight anger was gone. “But I get the feeling that they both might be hiding something. And before you ask, no, I have no idea what it might be.” She smiled. “Ready to ride for town?”

Smoke always worried when that smile appeared, for Sally was not a woman bound by the dictates and constraints of the time. She did what she damn well wanted to do, whenever she damn well wanted to do it.

And Smoke had him a hunch that today she just might decide to do something.

To surprise him.

The town had a feel to it that they all sensed when riding in. The streets were deserted, with not so much as a dog nor a cat present. All the horses had been stabled, and the hitchrails were all vacant.

“Something’s up,” Van Horn said.

“We been watched,” Barrie said. “Those that want the ranch has got people constant on all sides. I was tempted to shoot one out of the saddle the other day. I resisted the temptation,” he added drily.

Since it was a miner’s boom town, there were as many saloons as other stores on both sides of the twisting street. And the four riders were very much aware of eyes on them as they rode up the street.

“I ain’t felt a friendly eye on me since we rode in,” Van Horn said. “I’m gettin’ the feelin’ I ain’t welcome in this place.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice. “I just can’t imagine why that would be.”

Smoke was riding Buck today, since the big horse had nearly torn down his stall in his irritation over Smoke daring to ride another horse.

The unknown voice, calling from concealment in a whisper, reached them. “It’s a setup, Smoke. Watch out.”

“Miss Sally,” Barrie spoke with hardly any lip movement. “I hate to say this, but the safest place for you just might be in the Golden Cherry. And we’re right here on it.”

“Go, Sally,” Smoke said firmly. Softening his tone, and with a smile, he added, “Just remember, what’s mine is half yours.”

Both Van Horn and Barrie struggled to suppress a chuckle at that. They couldn’t contain it.

Sally noticed the expression on the men’s faces and smiled. “Just for that, I might bar you men from entering this pleasure palace.”

Van Horn laughed. “Ma’am, at my age, that ain’t no threat at all.”

“Be careful,” Sally said, then turned her horse into the half-circle drive of the Golden Cherry.

A henna-haired woman stepped out onto the porch of the two-story home. “Honey, you get in here quick. Moses will take care of your horse. This damn town is about to explode.”

Sally stepped out of the saddle and handed the reins to the huge, heavily muscled black man with any easy smile on his lips.

“You go on up to the house, Mrs. Jensen,” he said. “You’ll be as safe here as in a church.”

“I’m Clementine Feathers,” the bottle-redhead said, taking Sally’s arm. “I run this joint. That husband of yours is some man, ain’t he?”

“He is that,” Sally said, looking around her. “My showing up here should give the good women of the town something to talk about, shouldn’t it?”

Clementine laughed. “Honey, when the lamps are turned down and the covers pulled back, there ain’t no such thing as a good woman.”

Sally smiled. “Would you by any chance have some tea?”

“Honey, I’ve got the best tea this side of ’Frisco. Come on in and meet the girls. We’ve all been wondering when you’d show up. Jenny is a fine little lady. We all like her.”

“That there’s a hell of a woman you got, Smoke,” Barrie said. “She’ll do to ride the river with.”

“Believe me, I know. Let’s head over to the Golden Plum and have us a beer. I need to look the place over.”

“You haven’t been there yet?” Barrie asked.

“No. But I think now is a dandy time to visit. I feel like there must be a hundred guns pointed at me.”

“Cosgrove didn’t wait long, did he?” Van Horn asked, as the men reined up in front of the saloon and swung down.

“I guess he figures it would be a lot easier to deal with Jenny than with me,” Smoke replied, stepping up onto the boardwalk.

About a dozen locals were seated around tables, and five men stood at the far end of the bar. Smoke knew only one of them, a hired gun out of Utah who called himself Stoner.

The interior of the saloon was as fancy as anything Smoke had ever seen, with heavy drapes and polished brass spittoons. The long bar was gleaming-Gambling tables of all descriptions were spaced across the floor. The place was unusually quiet for this time of day.

“Remember me, Barrie?” one of the five men at the bar asked. He had an ugly-looking knife scar running down one side of his face.

“Can’t say as I do,” the ex-town tamer replied. He looked at the barkeep. “Beer.”

Smoke ordered coffee and Van Horn asked for rye.

“You gunned down my brother in New Mexico Territory some years back,” Scarface said.

“Do tell. I don’t remember it, so he must not have been very hard to handle. Or very important,” he added.

Barrie was on the prod and Smoke wondered about that. Everything he had ever heard about the man added up to the picture of a careful man, not one to push or crowd.

There’s more here than I know, Smoke concluded.

“Hey, old man,” another of the five called to Van Horn. He was young, not more than twenty-four or -five, and very foolish if he was seeking trouble with Van Horn. Van Horn was as much a legend as any man who ever strapped on six-shooters.

“There’s one in every crowd,” Van Horn muttered.

“The famous Smoke Jensen,” Stoner said, sarcasm thick in the words.

“What’s your interest in this affair, Stoner?” Smoke asked. “Other than making war on seventeen-year-old girls, that is.”

“You ain’t no seventeen-year-old girl.”

‘You want to make war on me, Stoner?” Smoke lifted the coffee cup with his left hand and took a sip.

Stoner stepped away from the bar, both hands hovering over his guns. “I never did believe all that crap folks say about you, Jensen. You can die just like any other man.”

“But not this day,” Smoke said, then shot the man in the belly.

Stoner folded over and took a step backward. He straightened up, a terrible look on his face, and managed to pull one .45 from leather. Smoke gave him another .44 slug and the man sat down in a chair, the .45 clattering to the floor.

“Now, Barrie!” Scarface hollered.

Everybody pulled iron, the bartender hit the floor, the locals flattened out under tables, and the Golden Plum erupted in gunfire.

The loudmouth who just had to try Van Horn didn’t even clear leather before the old gunfighter’s Remingtons roared fire and smoke and lead. The kid took two in the heart and was dead before he stretched out in front of the bar, his eyes wide open in death.

Smoke put one in a tall, lanky gunhand and the man sat down hard, hollering in pain.

Van Horn and Barrie finished off the remaining two and the saloon began- quieting down.

Outside, somebody began beating on a bass drum and another person started tooting on a trumpet.

“The local temperance league,” Van Horn explained, reloading. “Led by Preacher Lester Laymon and his wife, Violet. But she ain’t no violet. She’s got her a mouth that’d put a champion hog caller to shame.”

“Forward into the fray, brothers and sisters!” a woman shrieked. “Into the den of sin and perversion we shall march.”

“That’s her,” Van Horn said.

“Hell, I’d rather put up with another gunfight than have to listen to her,” the barkeep said, standing up and brushing off his apron.

"I need a doctor,” one of the gunhands moaned.

The sounds of marching feet hammered on the boardwalk. The batwings were flung open and a crowd of men and women marched in. A tuba had joined the bass drum and the trumpet.

“Good God!” Smoke said.

Violet Laymon was slightly over six feet tall and rawboned. She looked like she could wrestle steers. She marched up to Smoke and damn near met him eyeball to eyeball. The man beside her was maybe five-feet-five and about as big around as he was tall.

“Help!” one of the gunmen on the floor hollered.

“Are you saved, you poor misguided wretch?” a woman hollered at the man. “Have you been washed in the blood?”

“Hell, he’s got it all over him,” Van Horn said.

“Shut up,” the woman told him

“Yes, ma’am.”

The tuba player oom-pahhed, the bugler tooted, and the drummer pounded the skins

Club Bowers and one of his deputies stepped into the saloon. “I’ll handle this!” the sheriff said.

“You shut up, too,” a woman told him.

Violet Laymon looked Smoke square in the eyes and thundered, “Are you the infamous Smoke Jensen, the man who has cold-bloodedly killed five thousand men and who had a place reserved in Hell by the time he was fifteen years old?”

“I really don’t know how to respond to that,” Smoke told the woman.