Blood of the Mountain Man (6 page)

“Smoke Jensen!” a man shouted. “I knowed I’d seen him afore.”

“Oh, my God!” Sheriff Bowers said. “That’s Janey’s brother.”

It was all out in the open now, so Smoke registered at the hotel using his real name. The desk clerk stood goggle-eyed as he wrote his name.

“I want the best room you have,” Smoke told the man.

“Certainly, sir! I’ll give you the Eldorado Suite. And may I say it’s a pleasure having you here? We’ll do everything we can to make your stay as relaxing as possible.”

“Fine. While I have a cup of coffee in the restaurant, you make sure the sheets are changed on the bed and a tub of hot water drawn. I want lots of towels and a fresh bar of soap.”

“Oh, absolutely, sir. Right now.”

Smoke turned to look at the bulk of the sheriff, standing in the door. “Have some coffee with me, Sheriff?”

Sheriff Bowers nodded. Damned if he knew just what to do about this situation. Jensen guns down one of his deputies, then calmly turns and walks ofi without even so much as a fare-thee-well.

Club Bowers opened his mouth to speak, but Smoke was already walking into the dining room. Getting more irritated by the second, Club followed along behind and flopped down in a chair when Jensen finally chose a table in a corner of the room and called for coffee.

“Do you understand that you just killed one of my deputies?” Club blurted.

“
He
was trying to kill
me
,” Smoke replied. “Is there a law in this town against defending yourself?” 

“Patton was an officer of the law!”

Smoke said a very ugly word and smiled sarcastically at the sheriff. “But not much of one.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The way I get it, Bowers, is that you and your men are in the pocket of Jack Biggers and a Major Cosgrove.”

“That’s a damn lie!”

Smoke smiled up at the waiter. “I’d like some pie, too, please. Apple, if you have it. Sheriff?”

“No. I don’t want any damn pie! Who told you that crap, Jensen?”

“A fellow I met along the trail. He wasn’t very complimentary toward you and your department. Or Cosgrove and Biggers, for that matter.”

“Who was he?”

“I didn’t ask his name. Who’s the attorney handling my sister’s estate?”

“Dunham. His office is over the assayer’s place.” He leaned back in his chair. “I didn’t know Janey had a brother.”

“Where is her daughter?”

“Jenny? Out at the ranch, I suppose. When you see her, tell her to sell. She’s bucking a stacked deck.”

“Biggers want the spread?”

“It butts up against his. Hell, Jensen, Jenny’s just a kid. She can’t run the place.”

Smoke ate his pie, conscious of the sheriffs eyes on him.

“You worn a badge from time to time, Jensen?” 

“I’ve worn one before.”

“I should remind you that you’re way out of your jurisdiction here.”

Smoke smiled at him and pushed his pie plate to one side. “I have a lifetime U.S. Marshall’s commission, Bowers. And Judge Francis Morrison knows I’m here and why I’m here. Don’t crowd me. Don’t crowd my niece. And above all, don’t interfere in my business. You got all that?”

Never in his life had Bowers been talked to in the manner in which he was now being addressed. For a few moments he could but sit and stare at the man across the table from him. He was under no illusions about Smoke Jensen. He knew all about the man, or thought he did. Jensen operated under his own strict code of ethics. And no matter how the law read, he did not deviate from them. Less than ten minutes had passed since Jensen had shot one of his deputies right between the eyes, and now the man sat calmly, finishing up his apple pie. Incredible.

Bowers would be the first to admit he was no match for Jensen when it came to gunplay. The thought of facing Jensen eyeball to eyeball and dragging iron had not even entered his mind. He did not think there was a man alive that could match Jensen’s speed and unbelievable accuracy with pistol or rifle. Few men were as strong as Jensen. And Bowers also knew that Smoke Jensen’s courage was matched by few, if any.

Bowers knew all the stories about the legendary gunfighter. He’d heard them for years, no matter where in the West he happened to be. He’d been raised by mountain men, killed his first man when no more than a towheaded boy. Had faced alone up to twenty men and emerged victorious. His exploits were known worldwide. Books had been written about him. Songs had been sung. Plays had been staged. But he didn’t know how much was true and how much was pure balderdash.

He suspected it was all true.

Club Bowers was unable to find his voice. He shoved back his chair and stood up, still staring open-mouthed at Smoke. He knew he should say something, but he didn’t know what. He shook his head and walked out of the dining room. At the archway he stopped and turned, looking back at Smoke Jensen. The man was rolling a cigarette while the waiter filled his cup with coffee.

“Incredible,” Club muttered.

Smoke slept well that night and awakened refreshed and ready to face the day. He dressed in jeans and a black-and-white checkered shirt. Since his identity was known and there was no need for any charade, he’d shaved off his mustache and strapped on both pistols, the left hand pistol worn high and butt-forward. Sally made his shirts for him, since store-bought shirts were usually too tight across the shoulders and too small for his massive arms. He usually carried four or five extra shirts. He made sure all the loops in his gunbelt were filled with ,44s and then checked his big-bladed Bowie knife. It was razor-sharp. He stepped out to meet the day.

After breakfast, he strolled over to Lawyer Dunham’s office, the townspeople giving him a wide berth as he walked, his spurs jingling.

Smoke pegged Dunham as a shyster immediately. And he suspected that Dunham knew he had, for the lawyer attempted no tricky legal maneuvering when Smoke told him to produce the will.

“Since Jenny is young,” Dunham said, “Miss Janey left everything to you until the girl comes of age. I . . ."

“Where is my sister buried?”

“Just outside of town, sir. It was a lovely funeral. The headstone has just been set in place. Quite an elaborate monument, I might add. The local minister and some of the good ladies of the town were, ah, upset at the inscription, but Miss Janey was quite clear as to what she wanted on the stone.”

Smoke stood up. The lawyer was obviously in awe at the bulk of the man. “You get all the papers in order. I’ll be back after I pay my respects to my sister.”

“Certainly, sir. I shall have them ready.”

At the livery, Jimmy was decked out in new duds and boots. A nice-looking boy. He’d even had his hair trimmed. “I got money left, Mister Smoke,” Jimmy said.

“Keep it. As long as I’m in town I’ll pay you to look after my horse.”

Smoke saddled up and rode to the windswept and lonely graveyard. Janey’s monument was the largest in the cemetery. He was amused at the inscription, and could see why the local, so-called “good ladies” might be offended at the words.

Carved deep in the expensive stone, under Janey’s name and date of life and death, were the words, I PLAYED LIFE TO THE HILT AND ENJOYED EVERY GODDAMN MINUTE OF IT.

“There never was any love lost between us, Sis,” Smoke spoke the words softly. “But I understand you raised a good girl. I’ll see to it that she makes out all right.”

He put his hat back on his head and walked out of the graveyard. A time-weathered old cowboy was waiting at the entrance to the cemetery.

“I’m Van Horn,” the man said. Smoke guessed him to be in his late sixties or early seventies. But tough as wang-leather and no backup in him. “I worked for Miss Janey at the ranch. Miss Jenny is there now. She’s waitin’ to see if you’re gonna throw her off the place.”

“Why would I do something like that? I don’t want the ranch or any of my sister’s property. It all goes to Jenny when she comes of age. I intend to see that it does.”

Van Horn grunted. “I figured Miss Jenny was being fed a line by Biggers and Cosgrove and Dunham. I know your reputation for being fair and told Miss Jenny what them others was sayin’ was all a pack of lies.”

“Ride with me,” Smoke said. “Let’s go settle this at the lawyer’s office.”

Smoke read the documents carefully and then signed the papers. He then stared at Dunham so long the man began to squirm in his chair. “Did you tell my niece that I was going to throw her off the ranch and take all of the property?”

“Why, ah . . .”

“Do you represent Biggers and Cosgrove?”

“Why, ah . .

“Did you encourage her to sell to Biggers all the while knowing that she could not legally do so?” “Why, ah . . .”

Van Horn stood leaning against a wall, enjoying the lawyer’s discomfort. He didn’t know what Smoke Jensen was going to do, but whatever it was, he wasn’t going to miss a second of it.

“You are a lowlife shyster son-of-a-bitch lawyer,”

Smoke told the pale and shaken barrister. “Playing both sides against the middle and trying to cheat a young girl out of her inheritance.”

“You can’t talk to me like that!” Dunham protested.

“I just did.” Smoke reached across the desk and got a fistful of Dunham’s shirt. He hauled him over the desk and then proceeded to throw him out of the second-story window. Dunham went squalling and shrieking through the glass. He bounced off the awning and fell into the mud of the street, landing squarely in a big pile of horse droppings. He wasn’t badly hurt, except for his dignity, which was severely bruised.

Sheriff Bowers stood on the boardwalk in front of his office and shook his head at the sight.

The hearse carrying the body of Deputy Patton rattled by, heading for the cemetery. Doc White had told Club that he didn’t know if Nick Norman was going to make it. That killer horse of Jensen’s had fractured the man’s skull. Jensen was going to have to be dealt with, but damned if Club knew how to go about it. Biggers and Cosgrove were due in town this morning. He’d lay it all in their laps.

Club watched as Smoke and Van Horn mounted up and rode out of the town, heading for the ranch out in the valley.

‘You own that, too,” Van Horn said, pointing to a two-story house on the edge of town. It was a fancy and well-kept place. The sign on the lawn proclaimed it to be The Golden Cherry.

“What is it?” Smoke asked.

“You don’t know?” the old cowboy asked.

“No.”

“It’s a whorehouse.”

Jenny Jensen was quite the young lady, very pretty and petite and well mannered. She seemed in awe of her Uncle Smoke.

Smoke put her at ease quickly and Van Horn left them alone in the house. As she made coffee and set a platter of doughnuts on the table, she smiled at Smoke shyly.

“I can’t do much,” the girl admitted. “But I can cook. That’s one of the things taught us at finishing school in Boston.”

The girl was lovely, with a heart-shaped face and a figure that would turn any man’s head. Smoke smiled at her. “How long have you been out here, Jenny?”

“About a year. I came out when I learned of my mother’s death.”

“How did she die, Jenny?”

“There was an outbreak of fever. Mother and her . . . girls nursed the sick miners. Mother caught the fever and died. It took Lawyer Dunham almost a year to find me.”

“He knew where you were, Jenny. He was just stalling for time. He and Biggers and Cosgrove couldn’t figure out a way to cheat you out of your inheritance, that’s all. Then I entered the picture and that really shook them up. What do you know about this ranch?”

“More than most men think I do. I really have a very good education and understand business. I’ve gone over the books and the ranch is paying its way. I don’t have many cowboys left, not nearly enough to efficiently run the ranch. And no one will come to work for me.”

“I’ll get you hands, Jenny. Don’t worry about that. Do you want to stay out here?”

“Oh, yes. I love it. I’ve had entirely enough of cities.”

“Then here is where you’ll stay. Do you object to my moving in here?”

“Oh, no! Not at all.”

“I’m going to send one of the hands to the nearest telegraph office and get my wife up here pronto.” Smoke smiled. “I’d better let her know that I now own a, ah, house of ill repute.”

Jenny laughed and it was a good laugh, full of life and good humor. “The Golden Cherry Yes. And the Golden Plum, too.”

“What is that? The will only stated that I owned all of Janey’s businesses in town and the ranch.”

“A saloon in town. A very profitable one. I’ve never been inside either establishment. Van Horn won’t let me. He’s the foreman. He’s really a nice man.”

“Do you ride?”

“Oh, yes. But when I came out here I swore I would never again ride sidesaddle. It’s not very comfortable. I’m afraid I shocked some of the so-called good women around here by wearing a split skirt and riding astride.”

‘You and my wife will hit it off, Jenny. You both think very much alike. Can you shoot?”

She shook her head. “I never fired a gun in my life until a few months ago. Van Horn is trying to teach me. But I’m afraid I’m not very good.”

“We’ll work on that.” Smoke rose from the table and walked through the house, and it was a nice home, the rooms large and airy. The place was a bit too feminine for his tastes, but since a woman had owned the ranch,' he didn’t find that unusual.

Smoke paused at a gun rack and took down a double-barreled twenty-gauge shotgun. He checked it and handed it to Jenny. “You practice with this, Jenny. My wife will be here in about a week, and the two of you can target shoot together. Can you trust all your hands?”

“Absolutely. Van Horn ran off those he felt were not loyal. Even the younger men are afraid of him.” Smoke nodded. “They should be. He was one of the very first gunfighters. I remember my mentor speaking of him. Can you get me some writing paper, please?”

He sat down at a desk and wrote: Sally, you’d better get up here fast. Among other things, I just inherited a whorehouse. See you soon.

Smoke called for Van Horn, handed him the note and some money and said, “Give this to your most trusted hand and have him ride for the nearest telegraph office. Wait for a reply.”