War Of The Mountain Man

“Sorry to hear you’re staying. You’ve never done me a harm. But if you stay, you’re my enemy. I just wanted you to know that, Pete.”

“You could pull out, Jensen.”

“Not likely. I never leave a job unfinished.”

“Me neither. Now get on out of here and leave me alone. I got winders to wash.”

Chuckling, Smoke walked on. He didn’t really dislike Pete Akins. But that wouldn’t prevent him from gunning Pete if push came to shove.

He crossed the wide street and stopped by the side of a young man probably still in his late teens. The boy still had a few pimples on his face.

“You better haul your ashes out of here, boy,”Smoke told him. “Straighten up while you’ve got the time.”

“I’ll see you in hell, Jensen,” the punk told him.

“You’ll be there long before I pass by, son,” Smoke replied, and walked on.

He stopped by Ben Webster, who had finished his windows and was sitting on the boardwalk, smoking a cigarette. “You hire your guns, Ben, but I never knew of you working for someone as low as Big Max Huggins.”

“He pays good, Smoke. ’Sides, the man who finally drops you can write his own ticket.”

“You intend to be that man?”

“Yep.”

“Make your will out. Ben. ’Cause when you pull iron on me, I’m gonna kill you.”

Ben looked up at him. “That’s a risk we take in this business, ain’t it, Smoke?”

Smoke stared at the man hard. Ben finally dropped his eyes. “I don’t hire my gun, Ben. Not for money.”

Ben looked up. “Why then, Smoke? Why do you do it?”

“Because I have a conscience, Ben. And I’ve got to live with myself.”

Ben spat in the street. “I don’t have a bit of trouble sleepin’ at night. Or in the daytime, for that matter.”

“That’ll make it easier when you decide to brace me, Ben.”

Ben tossed his cigarette into the street and looked away.

Smoke walked on. “Sid,” he spoke to Sid Yorke.

“Smoke. I ain’t gonna forget this damn winder-washin’.”

“Least it got your hands clean, Sid. That’s probably the first time they’ve been clean since your mother stopped takin’ a belt to your butt.”

“There’s always a day of reckonin‘, Jensen. My day’s comin’.”

Smoke crossed the street and sat on the bench beside Max. Now that he knew he’d live through this day, Max was beginning to see the humor in some of the toughest men in the territory washing windows and mopping up the boardwalk.

He saw Smoke watching him. “Yes, Jensen, I can see the humor in it. But have you thought about this: You’ve made some rough boys awfully angry at you. And they’re going to be sore about this for a long time.”

“They’ll either get over it or come hunting me. If they come hunting me, they’ll be over it permanently.”

Max stared at him. “You’re that sure of yourself, aren’t you, Jensen?”

“I’ve put more than a hundred men in their graves, Max. I’m still standing.”

“How many men have you killed, Jensen?”

“I honestly don’t know. I would be very happy if I never had to kill another human being.”

“Then quit.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because of people like you.”

That stung the big man. His face darkened with color. He took several deep breaths, calming himself. “I never thought of myself as a bad person, Jensen. And that’s the God’s truth.”

“You have any plans to change, Max?”

“No. And that’s the truth, too. Why should I? You won’t stay around here long. So I pull in my horns for a summer. So what? What have I lost? No, Jensen. Unless you kill me now, right now, in cold blood, I’ll survive. Because you’re going to have to come to my town to get me. And you won’t last two minutes in Hell’s Creek.”

“You got it all figured out, huh, Max?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“It promises to be an interesting summer, Max.”

Max threw his smoked-down cigar into the street and rose from the bench. “I hope I don’t see you again, Jensen,” he said, with his back to Smoke.

“Oh, you will, Max. You will.”

Smoke sat on the bench and watched as the sullen bunch of gunfighters rode slowly out of town, being very careful to kick up as little dust as possible. Only Pete Akins raised a hand in farewell.

With a grin on his face, he called, “See you around, Smoke.”

“Take it easy, Pete.”

The pimply-faced boy whose name Smoke had learned was Brewer, glared hate at him as he rode past.

“You bear in mind what I said, son,”Smoke called to him.

The young man gave Smoke an obscene gesture.

Bringing up the rear of the procession was a wagon, the two bone-broken deputies lying on hay in the bed, groaning as the wagon lurched along.

Tom Johnson crossed the street, leading a group of men and women, Judge Garrison among them.

“Tom, did you send those wires like I asked?” Smoke said.

“Yes, sir. Folks should start arriving in about a week. What about those people in town loyal to Huggins?”

“Tell them to hit the trail, Tom. You’re the newly elected mayor.”

“How about me?” Judge Garrison asked.