17
After Smoke left Aunt Bea's dining room, he ambled over to the Cattleman's Saloon. He figured Slaughter and his men would show up there sooner or later, and he wanted to know what they had planned. He knew Slaughter was short of men and the Cattleman's was the logical place for him to go and try to hire new men for his mission of revenge.
When he entered the batwings, he stood for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. He let his gaze roam the room, and it didn't take him long to see the Durango Kid sitting at a table with some other men, probably also on the payroll of Big Jim Slaughter. The Kid'd evidently stopped off at the doc's office, since he had a piece of white plaster stuck to his cheek where Smoke'd slashed it with his pistol. Most of the blood had been cleaned off his vest and shirt, too.
When Smoke walked to the bar, the Kid stopped whatever he was saying and stared at Smoke with hard eyes, as if he might scare him with the ferocity of his look.
Smoke grinned and nonchalantly tipped his hat at the Kid as he sidled up to the bar. He stood so he could see the men in the room, not wanting to present his back to anyone who might want to put a bullet in it.
“What'll ya have?” the barkeep asked as he wiped down the bar with a dirty rag.
“Shot of whiskey with a beer chaser,” Smoke said. He rarely drank whiskey and never this early in the day, but he had an image to project and had to stay in character.
As Smoke downed the whiskey and followed it with a drink of beer, the Kid leaned over and said something in a low voice to the men at the table with him, causing them to stare at Smoke with hate-filled eyes.
He could see the Kid's face getting redder by the minute, and knew it wouldn't be long before the young man who fancied himself a gun hawk would try his hand. There was just no way he could allow Smoke to pistol-whip him and keep his self-image as a gun slick intact.
Jim Slaughter and the albino and Swede walked through the batwings, striding to the center of the room as if they owned the place.
Slaughter nodded at Smoke, then turned to face the many tables where men were sitting and drinking their breakfast. He held up his hands for attention.
“Gentlemen, my name is Jim Slaughter an' I'm hirin' men who aren't afraid of usin' their guns. If anybody's interested, see me at my table and I'll tell you what the job is and what it pays.”
When he was finished speaking, he walked over to a table in the corner where two men were sitting. He stood there, looking down at them for a moment until they hurriedly got to their feet and went to another table across the room. Slaughter and Whitey and Swede took their seats, and Slaughter motioned for the bartender to bring him a bottle of whiskey and some glasses.
While he was filling the glasses, the Kid got to his feet and hurried over to his boss's table. He stood there, talking animatedly for a moment, looking over his shoulder at Smoke as he spoke.
Slaughter got a pained look on his face and shook his head. The Kid kept talking, gesturing wildly with his arms. Finally, Slaughter lost his patience and pointed toward the table where the Kid had been sitting, as if he were sending an unruly child to bed without his supper.
The Kid hung his head and slouched back to his table, glaring at Smoke from under the brim of his hat.
In the next fifteen minutes, over twenty cowboys approached Slaughter's table to ask about the job he was offering. Smoke had no way of knowing how many took the outlaw up on his offer, but he supposed with the wages Slaughter was willing to pay, quite a few of them did. He briefly wondered where Slaughter was getting that kind of money, because the fifty thousand he expected to get from Monte wouldn't go far if split among twenty or thirty men.
After the last of the men in the saloon had finished talking with Slaughter, he got to his feet and began to walk toward Smoke, a half grin on his face.
Over his shoulder, Smoke saw the Durango Kid get to his feet, his face a mask of hate and humiliation. When Slaughter was no more than ten feet from Smoke, the Kid made his move, crouching and going for his pistol. As he aimed it at the back of Slaughter's head, Smoke drew in one lightning-fast motion and fired, his bullet passing only inches from Slaughter's ear.
Slaughter whirled and ducked, reaching for his own pistol just as Smoke's slug hit the Kid at the base of his throat, blowing out the back of his neck and almost severing his head from his body. The Kid was catapulted back onto his table, and one of the men there also grabbed iron.
Smoke's second shot took the Kid's friend in the forehead, blowing brains and blood and hair all across the room.
Slaughter came out of his crouch pointing his gun toward Smoke, until Whitey yelled, “Boss, no! He wasn't shootin' at you!”
Slaughter and Smoke stood there for a moment, pistols pointed at each other, until Smoke's lips curled in a grin. “You want to make it three, Slaughter?” he growled.
Slaughter glanced back over his shoulder at the bodies sprawled spread-eagled on the table and floor. “What happened?” he asked, still holding his gun at waist level.
Smoke shrugged. “Evidently the Kid didn't take kindly to you dressing him down in front of the other men. Looked to me like he was going to plug you in the back.”
Whitey and Swede rushed up to stand next to Slaughter. “He's right, Boss,” Swede said. “The Kid already had his pistol out and was aimin' at the back of your head.”
Slaughter relaxed and holstered his Colt. “And why didn't you do something about it?” he asked his two henchmen, scorn on his face. “Isn't coverin' my back what I pay you for?”
Whitey ducked his head, his eyes unable to meet Slaughter's. “It all happened so fast, Jim. How'd we know the Kid was gonna do somethin' crazy like that?”
Slaughter gave Smoke an appraising glance. “You mean the Kid had his gun out and pointed at me and West was able to draw and fire before he could pull the trigger?”
Swede nodded, his eyes on Smoke. “That's right, Boss. I ain't never seen nothin' like it. One second the Kid was set to shoot you in the back, and the next West's gun was in his hand blowin' the Kid to hell and back.”
As they talked, Smoke broke open the loading gate on his Colt and punched out his empties, letting them fall on the floor. He reloaded his pistol and stuck it in his holster.
Slaughter walked up and stuck out his hand. “I guess I owe you my thanks, West,” he said with a smile.
Smoke took his hand. “Don't take it personal, Slaughter. I couldn't care less if one of your men shoots you. It's just that I can't abide a back shooter.”
Slaughter's eyes narrowed, then he smiled again. “Well, that's still one I owe you.”
Smoke shrugged and turned back to his drink on the bar.
Slaughter leaned on the bar next to him and ordered a whiskey. When he picked up his glass, Smoke noticed his hand had a fine tremor. Evidently, the outlaw didn't like having someone try to gun him down.
After he finished his drink, Slaughter said, “I've decided to hire you on, West. I have need of someone who's as good with a gun as you are.”
Smoke leaned back, sipping his beer, and stared at Slaughter. “Just where are you planning on going in Colorado?” he asked.
“A little town named Big Rock. There's a man there owes me fifty thousand dollars an' I aim to collect every dollar of it.”
Smoke raised his eyebrows. “Big Rock, Colorado?”
“Yeah.”
Smoke pursed his lips. “The gent owes you this money wouldn't happen to be Smoke Jensen, would it?”
Slaughter shook his head. “No, but I hear Jensen has thrown in with the man that I'm goin' after.”
Smoke shook his head. “Then I'm not interested.”
Whitey, who was standing next to his boss, leaned toward Smoke. “You mean you're afraid of that old gunman?”
Smoke smiled. “You might say that. I had a run-in with Jensen a few years back. I made the mistake of drawing down on him.”
Slaughter smiled. “Well, what of it? I see you're still alive.”
“Only 'cause Jensen was so fast he had the drop on me 'fore I cleared leather. He didn't need to shoot me 'cause I never got my gun out of my holster.”
Swede looked as if he couldn't believe it. “That can't be! I ain't never seen nobody as fast as you are, West.”
Smoke shrugged. “Jensen is. And you don't have enough money to cause me to go up against him a second time.”
Whitey's face burned red. “Then you're tellin' us you're yellow?”
Smoke glanced at the albino, making his face suddenly pale. “There's a difference between being yellow and knowing when someone's faster'n you are. I feel a man ought'a know his limitations if he's gonna make his living with a gun.”
Whitey opened his mouth to speak, but Smoke interrupted him. “Just like you should know yours, sonny. You say one more word, an' Slaughter here's gonna have to hire someone to replace you, 'cause you're gonna have an extra hole in your head.”
Whitey's mouth clamped shut with an audible snap.
Slaughter nodded. “All right, West. But what you say don't change my mind. I still aim to get my money.”
Smoke shrugged. “Well, good luck to you, Mr. Slaughter. But I'd advise you to take plenty of shovels with you to Colorado, 'cause if you go up against Smoke Jensen you're gonna have a lot of graves to dig.”
Slaughter grinned. “I guess that won't be all bad. It just means there'll be fewer men to split the money with after I've put Jensen and his friends in the ground.”
18
After supper that night, Smoke met with his friends in his room to plan their next move. They'd just settled down when a knock came at the door.
Four pistols were drawn and aimed as Smoke stepped to the door. “Who is it?” he called, standing to the side so a bullet fired through the wood wouldn't hit him.
“It's me, Muskrat Calhoon.”
Smoke pulled the door open and stepped back to let the mountain man enter. Muskrat took off his coonskin hat and grinned. “Howdy, boys.”
Smoke peered out in the corridor to make sure no one had followed the old man up the stairs, then closed and locked the door.
After everyone told Muskrat hello, he glanced around the room. “What kind'a meetin' is this? I don't see no nectar around.”
Louis smiled, pulled a bottle of whiskey from the bureau drawer, and flipped it to the mountaineer.
Muskrat pulled the cork and took a deep swig. “Ah, that'll git the chill of winter outta my bones,” he groaned with pleasure.
Smoke sat on the bed and leaned back against the headboard, motioning for Muskrat to take his chair. “What can we do for you, Muskrat? I thought you were headed up into the high lonesome for your wintering.”
As the old man took his seat, Pearlie moved quietly to the window and opened it a crack, hoping the night breeze would remove some of the smell.
“Well,” Muskrat said, taking another sip of whiskey and smacking his lips, “I was on my way up the mountain when I got to thinkin' 'bout our little fracas the other night.” He glanced around at the men watching him. “I ain't had so much fun since back in '42 when Preacher and Bear Tooth an' me blowed hell outta some Injuns down in Arizona.”
His eyes opened wide. “I plumb forgot how good it feels to put some lead in folks that sorely need it. Hell,” he continued, “it made me feel like I'se a young buck again 'stead of an old fart waitin' round to die.”
Smoke nodded. “I know the feeling, Muskrat. Combat surely does get the juices flowing.”
Muskrat shook his head. “No, Smoke, 'twas more'n that. It was that I'se doin' somethin' useful agin.”
Louis spoke up. “Well, we certainly couldn't've done it without your help, Muskrat. We never could have found our way up to the hole-in-the-wall without your showing us the way.”
Muskrat nodded. “That's why I decided to circle around and take me 'nother look at the hole-in-the-wall.”
Smoke leaned forward, suddenly interested in what the mountain man had seen. After the battle the other night, they'd left so quickly they hadn't had time to fully assess the damage they'd done.
“What'd you see, Muskrat?”
“The place was a mess. All of the cabins was pret' near destroyed. A couple'a walls was still standin', but they ain't in no shape to keep nobody warm in the winter.”
“What about the outlaws?” Pearlie asked.
“They had a pile of bodies all stacked up over near one corner of the valley, an' some of the men were diggin' a big hole.” He shrugged. “I guess they gonna pile 'em all in there together 'fore they start to stink.”
“How many men were left?” Smoke asked.
“I counted ten or twelve that was motivatin' on they own, an' four or five that was laid out on the ground blankets with bandages an' such like they was wounded pretty bad.”
Smoke looked at the others. “Slaughter had four men with him in town today, and it looked like he managed to hire another fifteen or twenty.”
“That gives him close to thirty hard cases to take with him to Colorado when he goes after Monte,” Louis said, a worried look on his face.
“I noticed he had one of his men hangin' around the telegraph office,” Cal said. “I guess he don't want nobody to send a wire warnin' Monte he's comin'.”
“He knows at least some of the men who attacked his camp are still around,” Smoke said, a thoughtful look on his face.
“How are we gonna get word to Miss Sally about his plans?” Pearlie asked.
Smoke shook his head. “I don't think we need to worry about that. Monte knows what kind of man we're up against. He'll be ready for whatever Slaughter decides to do.”
“Do you think we ought to hightail it to Colorado and be waiting there for him when he shows up?” Louis asked Smoke.
Smoke shook his head. “No. I think a much better plan will be to see if we can slow him down along the way.”
Muskrat smiled. “You mean you want to do like the Comanches did when they was fightin' the cavalry?”
Smoke gave a slow smile. “Exactly.”
Cal gave Smoke a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”
“The Comanches were badly outnumbered by the Army, but they were much better horsemen and fighters. So, they'd hit and run, attacking at night and other times when the Army was least expecting it. They never stood their ground, but would ride in, kill a few men, and ride out again . . . over and over. Soon, the cavalry men couldn't get any sleep for worrying about when the next attack was coming.”
Pearlie grinned. “We gonna wear war paint an' such too?”
“No,” Smoke said, “but we're going to hit them fast and hard and ride away to fight another day. That'll serve two purposes. It'll slow them down and give Monte more time to get ready for them, and if we're lucky, we'll be able to cut their numbers down a mite before the final battle in Colorado.”
Louis grinned. “Not to mention what it will do to their morale.”
Smoke nodded. “Exactly.”
Muskrat took a deep drink from his bottle and sleeved his lips off with the back of his arm. “You fellers want some company on this little jaunt?”
“You think you're up to it, Muskrat? We're going to be riding fast and hard.”
Muskrat sat up straight in his chair and puffed out his chest. “Hell, sonny,” he said to Smoke, “I been sittin' a saddle for more years than you been walkin'. The day I can't outride some mangy ol' gun hawks is the day I lay down and die.”
“All right, here's what we're going to do,” Smoke said, sitting forward, his elbows on his knees. “Louis and Muskrat and I will take our pack animals and equipment out of town and camp a half day's ride toward Colorado. Cal, you and Pearlie will hang around and keep an eye on Slaughter and his men. As soon as they mass up for the ride, you'll hightail it on down the road and we'll be waiting for them when they make their first camp.”
“How'll we find your campsite?” Pearlie asked.
Muskrat laughed. “Don't you worry none, little beaver. You boys jest head on out the eastern trail toward Col-orad'a, an' we'll see ya comin'.”
* * *
In Big Rock, Monte and Sally Jensen were getting the town ready for whatever Slaughter had in mind. Mary had suffered no lasting ill effects from her abduction.
Monte called a town meeting, and he and Sally explained that Big Jim Slaughter was most probably on the way to seek vengeance for what Monte and Smoke and the others had done to him.
The townfolks, after hearing the story of the stolen Army payroll and how Monte had returned the money, were standing behind their popular sheriff and his wife. Not a single person in the entire town voted against helping the couple out.
Monte supervised getting the town fortified and ready for the anticipated onslaught. Barricades were erected at each end of the town, rifles were handed out, and men assigned to rooftops and high points as both lookouts and assault teams. Men were sent to station themselves miles from the town on the trails leading toward Wyoming, so they could return and give ample warning of Slaughter's approach, when and if it happened.
Sally took charge of the women in town, helping them cook large amounts of food to have ready in case there was an extended siege. The children were put to work helping build the barricades and fences at the entrances to the town. Everyone pitched in and worked as fast as they could to make Big Rock ready for the attack.