Blood of the Mountain Man (24 page)

Smoke walked into the Golden Plum, through the back door, and said, “Give me a beer, Jeff. I do believe I’ve worked up something of a thirst.”

Jeff looked at him. “You’re hit, Mister Jensen.” “Bullets burned my arm and scratched my side. Nothing serious.”

Wolf and Bad Dog stomped in from the back, followed by Van Horn, who was supporting the badly wounded Kit Silver.

“Slim and Shady’s dead,” the old gunfighter announced. “It’s down to us, now.”

“No, it isn’t,” the voice came from the rear of the saloon, which was getting quite a bit of traffic. Moses stood there holding a rifle, a pistol belted around his waist. Clemmie and her girls stood behind him, all of them armed with various types of weapons.

‘You put that ornery Silver on a pallet over here, Van Horn,” Clemmie said, looking at Kit. “Me and that rounder go ’way back together. He’s too damn mean to die.”

Kit grinned at the madam as he was placed on a hurriedly made pallet of blankets.

Chung and Wong were next, both of them armed with long-barreled, ten-gauge goose guns. Wong said, “So sorry I could not bring some good Chinese food.” He held up the shotgun. “Could not carry this and food at the same time.”

Chung said, “Battle lines have been drawn, Mister Smoke Jensen. We are now all on this side of street, enemies on other side.”

“Have drink of rye, Mister Jeff,” Wong said. “Like cowboys do.”

“You ain’t never had a drink of rye in all the time I’ve known you. And you sure ain’t gonna like it,” Jeff warned.

Wong broke over the goose gun and loaded it up. “Warm belly, though. Might not get another chance for some time.”

“He certainly has a point there,” Smoke agreed. Jeff smiled and set out shot glasses and bottles. “Serve yourselves, boys. I’ve got to get my guns!”

Above the town, on the slopes and ridges leading to the mine, the townspeople waited, watched, and listened. Most families had packed picnic lunches, and several of the saloon owners had transported barrels of beer and cases of whiskey and set up makeshift bars for the thirsty. No loving creature not directly involved in the fight had been left behind in the town. Pet cats were in boxes or crates, and dogs were on leashes. Chickens were in coops. Hens went right on laying eggs.

Across the narrow street, Cosgrove, Biggers, and Fosburn crouched behind the heavily barricaded front of the mayor’s office and tried to make some sense out of what had happened and what was happening. All three had finally gotten it through their heads that this day was going to be the turning point in their lives —one way or the other.

Fosburn sat with his back to a wall. He had two guns strapped around his tubby waist and a rifle across his knees. His hair was disheveled and his face was dirty. His eyes seemed to have lost their sparkle. Of the three, Fosburn had turned realist.

“We were too greedy,” the mayor spoke in quiet tones. “We had it all but wanted more. Now look where that’s got us.”

“Shut up,” Jack Biggers snarled at him.

“Oh, he’s right,” Major Cosgrove said. “I don’t have to like what he says, but I’m forced to agree with him. I do have to add this: none of us counted on Smoke Jensen.”

“Make a deal with him,” Fat said.

“I don’t think that is possible at this stage,” Major said. “The three of us have but two options left us —win or die.”

“Jesus Christ!” Biggers almost shouted the words. “There can’t be more than seven or eight of them over there. They’re all in the saloon. We’ve still got about thirty-five hardcases and we have them surrounded. Why are we talking about dying and making deals?”

Fosburn stood up and walked to the shattered front window. “Smoke Jensen?” he called.

“I hear you,” Smoke’s voice rang out.

“I’ll make a deal with you.”

“What kind of deal?”

“You let me ride out with my money from the bank. I’ll sell you my ranch at a fair price. You’ll never hear from me again.”

“You don’t have a ranch,” Smoke’s words were loud and clear. “None of you do.”

The Big Three exchanged glances. Fosburn shouted, “What the hell are you talking about, Jensen?”

“You men stole the land you’re running cattle on. You killed the original land owners or ran them off. But you never properly filed on the land you stole. The quit claim and other deeds were forged. And bad ones at that. My wife has had two dozen lawyers and Pinkertons seeking out survivors and relatives. She bought the land from them. It’s all legal. Your interests in the mine will go to the survivors and relatives of those you killed or ran out. Law suits are being filed now. U.S. Marshals are on the way here now with warrants and other legal papers. Neither you nor Biggers have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. You’re both dead broke. No deals.”

Biggers and Fosburn were too astonished to speak. They stared at one another open mouthed.

“But I'm still rich, you bastard!” Major hollered. “You men working for me hear that? I’ve still got sacks and sacks of gold. And there’s gold on Jenny Jensen’s ranch. Up in the mountains. The richest vein in all of Montana. I’m giving it to you hired guns. You hear me? I’m writing out papers now. But you’ve got to kill the Jensens and all associated with them to get it. You’ll all be worth millions if you do that. Think about it. You’ll never have to work again. Never again have to sleep on the ground or worry about where your next meal or next dollar is coming from. You’ll have fancy food and the best drinks and the fanciest women. For the rest of your lives!” he screamed.

“That’s right, boys,” the calm voice of Van Horn drifted out of the Golden Plum. “And all you got to do to earn it is kill me, Pasco, Bad Dog, Wolf Parcel, Kit Silver, and Smoke Jensen. Then you got to kill all the men out at Miss Jenny’s ranch, and that includes Little Jimmy Hammon. Them’s some bad ol’ boys out yonder. And then you got to kill Miss Sally and Miss Jenny. And after that, you got to explain to the judges and the lawyers and the Pinkertons and the U.S. Marshals what happened to us all. Think about that.”

“That’s nothing!” Major yelled. “Without bodies, no one can prove a thing. Take the saloon, men. Take it, and be worth millions, or ride out with holes in your drawers and patches on your boots.” “They’s still the townspeople,” Patmos said to Whisperin’ Langley.

“Kill ’em all and dump their bodies down a mineshaft and blow it closed,” Whisperin’ whispered.

“Hell,” Bobby Jewel said. “They’s five hundred or so people in this town.”

“So what?” Jim Pell said. “We take the saloon, then the ranch, and have some fun with the women out there, then we kill Biggers, Fosburn, and Cosgrove, and we have it all!”

“Yeah,” Sam Jackson said. “Let’s do it.”

“Pass the word,” Whisperin’ said. “We take the saloon. Now!”

“They’re fools,” Wolf said from his position in the saloon. “There ain’t enough of them left to overpower us. We’ll stack them up like cordwood out yonder in the street and back there in the alley.” “But they’ll try,” Smoke said. “They’ve got big money in their eyes now.”

“Even if they should succeed,” Kit said from the pallet, his voice weak, but his guns were loaded up and by his side, “they’ll turn on Biggers and Fosburn and Cosgrove and kill them, too. All the real gunfighters has gone. Them with any honor at all has left or changed sides. That’s pure scum out there now. Half of those bums out yonder have killed their own mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters for one reason or another. A horse turd has more value than all them out there put together.”

Wong lifted his long-barreled goose gun, sighted in, and pulled the trigger. The charge blew the entire window out of its frame and tore the head off the rifleman who was getting set to snipe at the saloon. The headless body fell backward, bounced off a wall, and came catapulting out of the shattered frame, to crash through an awning and lie on the boardwalk.

Fosburn looked at the bloody, horrible sight about two feet from him and shuddered.

Wong picked himself up off the floor and reloaded the empty chamber.

Moses, Chung, Jeff, and the Soiled Doves from the Golden Cherry stationed themselves at the rear of the saloon, ready to repel any intruders. Clemmie stayed by the side of the wounded Kit Silver.

Stormclouds had been gathering all morning, and now a light rain began to fall. Lightning licked around the high peaks of the mountains that rimmed the mining town.

“That’ll keep them from burning us out,” Wolf remarked, chewing on a sandwich from the free lunch table.

Smoke nodded and lifted his rifle. A very small part of a leg was exposed across the street, the man behind a horse trough. Smoke sighted in and pulled the trigger and the man howled as the bullet shattered a shin. He staggered to his feet and turned to try to limp away, and Pasco nailed him from his position on the second floor of the saloon. The hired gun fell into the horse trough.

“Remind me to have that water changed,” Smoke said. “I wouldn’t want to poison a good horse.”

There was a lull in the fighting while both sides tended to wounded, caught their breath, and had a drink, and while those aligned with the Big Three plotted unspeakable evil against fellow human beings.

Those in the Golden Plum waited as the rain picked up.

“I don’t trust these men,” Fat whispered. “I think they’d as soon kill us as anybody else.”

“Where’s your foreman, Waco?” Major asked Biggers.

“Gone,” Biggers said sourly. “Pulled out last night. Said he didn’t sign on to fight girls and women and to associate with the likes of them I got on the payroll. Man turned Christian on me or something. Wouldn’t surprise me none to see him pop up over at Jenny’s ranch.”

Waco was at that moment riding toward Red Light, with a dozen of the area’s small ranchers and farmers who had had quite enough of Cosgrove, Fosburn, and Biggers. Now that someone had finally gotten the ball rolling, they were in the game, root hog or die. From the edge of town, the men reined up, staring at the several hundred men, women, kids, and animals all gathered together at the mine complex.

“Must be hell in the streets of Red Light,” Waco observed. “Let’s go down and even up the odds a little bit for them on the side of Jensen.”

Up on the mountain, the local Temperance League had gotten cranked up and there was preaching, singing, tooting, oom-pahing, and drumming.

Out at the Circle Cherry, Club and his deputies were playing poker with Sally and losing nearly every hand. “Ma’am,” Deputy Brandt asked. “Who taught you to play poker?”

“Louis Longmont,” Sally said sweetly. “The bet is five dollars to you.”

The sheriff and his deputies tossed their cards on the table. Louis Longmont was the most famous gambler in all of America, plus a noted gunfighter and a man worth millions and millions of dollars. “I believe we’ll just get a breath of fresh air, ma’am,” Club said.

Sally smiled and raked in her winnings. “Come here, Jenny,” she said. “I’ll teach you about cold-decking and palming.”

Club and his deputies shook their heads and walked outside, Club saying, “That there, boys, is one hell of a woman. Can you believe that Smoke Jensen actually dries the dishes?”

Modoc looked at him. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Riders coming into town, Smoke,” Pasco called from the second floor. “It’s Waco, and he’s bringin’ in a bunch of small ranchers and farmers.”

‘Waco’s all right,” Kit said. His voice seemed to be a little stronger. “I figured he’d get a gutful of Jack Biggers and leave.” He started chuckling, and the others looked at him strangely. “It just dawned on me what Highpockets and Biff and them others was doin’ that day at the ranch. Walkin’ around, stoppin’, then throwin’ their hands up into the air. We all thought it was a new dance step. Then, when I seen Whisperin’ and Val doin’ it in the bunkhouse, I thought they had changed sides and was in love with one another!”

Clemmie started giggling at the very thought of Val Davis and Whisperin’ dancing together, and it was highly infectious. Soon everybody in the saloon was roaring with laughter. Pasco had been sitting on the landing, looking out the window, and he almost fell down the steps, he was laughing so hard. Wolf Parcell was roaring with high mirth. The laughter reached those in the buildings directly across the street.

“What in billy-hell is so damn funny?” Jim Pell snarled the words.

“They must know something we don’t,” Al Jones said.

“Yeah,” Dusty Higgens said, entering from the back door. “Believe me, they do. Like Waco and about twelve or fifteen men just rode into town and took up positions all around us. We got Smoke and them others surrounded in the saloon, and now we’re surrounded in here!”

“Not with no twelve or fifteen men,” Chambers said.

Dick Whitten stood up to look out the window and a rancher drilled him clean between the eyes with a .30-.30.

“You wanna bet?” Dusty asked.

“I’ve had it,” a hired gun said to his buddy. They crouched behind the shattered windows on the second floor of a dry goods store. “I don’t know what them others plan on doin’, but I’m out of it.”

“Me, too, Les,” his friend replied. “I’m sorry I ever got into this awful situation.”

Les took off his bandanna and tied it around the muzzle of his rifle, just behind the front sight. He stuck the barrel out of the window and waved it back and forth. Then he left the rifle balanced on the sill. The men took off their belts and laid them beside their rifles, in plain sight of anyone on the second floor across the street.

“Two of them giving it up,” Pasco announced. “Second floor across the street and to our right.”

In the rear of the saloon, four gunhands covering the back talked it over and decided they’d had enough of this town. They darted from cover to cover while those in the rear of the saloon held their fire and watched them leave. The gunhands made their horses and rode off. None of them looked back.

Moses slipped to the storage room door and called, “The back is clear, Smoke. The gunnies gave it up and rode off.”

“The ones with any brains at all, and that ain’t many of them, have sensed it’s over,” Kit said. “I figure you give some others the chance to ride clear and they’ll go. That’ll leave about twenty at most.” “Waco?” Smoke yelled.