War Of The Mountain Man

“You’re staying, Judge. You and me, we’re going to see to it that justice prevails in this part of the county. Tom has arranged for a man to come in and reopen the newspaper. He’s got people coming in that include a schoolteacher, a preacher, and some shopkeepers. Barlow is going to boom again, Judge. Nice and legal.”

“Young man,” the judge said, sitting down on the edge of the boardwalk, “have you given any thought as to what will happen when you decide to leave?”

“Oh, yes.”

They waited, but Smoke did not elaborate.

The judge sighed. “I must admit, it’s a good feeling to be free of Max Huggins.” He cut his eyes to Smoke. “For as long as it lasts, that is.”

“Trust me, Judge,”Smoke told him, putting a finger to the side of his head. “I’ve got it all worked out up here.” He pulled out his watch and clicked it open. “What times does the stage run?”

“It’ll be here in about an hour,” Tom told him.

“It turns around at Hell’s Creek?”

“That’s right.”

Smoke smiled. “Well, then, I’ll just make plans to meet the stage. Right now, I have to see about finding a deputy.”

“That’s not going to be easy, Smoke,” the judge said. “I don’t know of a single person who is qualified. Most of the ranches in this part of the county have only the hands they absolutely need to get by. There’s about a dozen farmers in this area. Good people, but not gunslingers.”

“Who is that prisoner in the jail? What’s he being held for?”

The judge rolled his eyes. “His name is Dagonne. Jim Dagonne. He’s not a bad sort; matter of fact, he’s rather a likable fellow. He just likes to fight. The problem is, he never can win one. He’s a good cowboy. Works hard. But when he starts drinking, he picks fights. And he always loses.”

Smoke nodded his head, a smile on his face. “All right, folks, let’s get to work. We’ve got a lot to do.”

6

Smoke unlocked the cell door and dragged the sleeping Jim Dagonne out of the bunk. He looked to be in his mid-twenties and in good shape, although not a big man.

“What the hell!” Dagonne hollered as Smoke dragged him across the floor and out the back door.

“Shut up, Jim,” Smoke told him. He shoved him in a tub of cold water and tossed him a bar of soap. “Strip and scrub pink. I’ll have your clothes washed and dried. Then well talk.”

“Who the hell are you?” Jim hollered. “You let me out of this tub and I’ll whup you all over this backyard.”

“Smoke Jensen.”

Jim sank into the tub and covered his head with water.

Twenty minutes later, sober and clean, wrapped in a blanket, Jim Dagonne sat in front of Smoke’s desk and waited. He did not have a clue as to what Smoke wanted of him.

Smoke stared at the young man. Maybe five feet seven. Not much meat on him, but wiry; rawhide tough. Hard to tell what he looked like, with his face all banged up and both eyes swollen nearly closed, but he appeared to be a rather nice-looking young man.

“You don’t have a job, Jim,” Smoke finally broke the silence. “The judge said you got fired from the Circle W.”

“I probably did. Joe got tired of bailing me out of jail, I reckon.”

“Joe who?”

“Joe Walsh. Owns the spread.”

“Good man?”

“One of the best. Arrow straight. Are you really Smoke Jensen?”

“Yes.” Smoke tapped the gunbelt on his desk. “This yours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you use it?”

“I’m not real fast, but I don’t hardly ever miss.”

“That’s the most important thing. You wanted anywhere, Jim?”

“No, sir! I ain’t never stole nothing in my life.”

Smoke reached down on the floor and picked up a bulky package. He tossed it to Jim. “New jeans, shirts, socks, and drawers in there. Go get dressed. You’re my new deputy.”

Jim stared at him. “I’m a what?”

“My deputy. Your drinking days are over, Jim. You’re now a full-fledged member of the temperance league. You take one drink, just one, and I’ll stomp your guts into a greasy puddle in the middle of that street out there, and then I’ll feed what’s left to the hogs. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Fine. Get dressed and go down to Judge Garrison’s office. He’ll swear you in as a deputy sheriff. Then you meet me back here.” He looked at the clock. “Right now, I’ve got to meet a stage.”

“Out,” Smoke told the passengers before the stage had stopped rocking. Two hurdy-gurdy girls, a tin-horn gambler, one drummer selling corsets and assorted ladies’ wear, and Al Martin, a gunfighter from down Utah way, stepped down.

“You stopping here or going on to Hell’s Creek?” Smoke asked the drummer.

“Hell’s Creek.”

“Get back in the stage. The rest of you come with me.”

“And if I don’t?” the gambler challenged him.

Smoke laid the barrel of a .44 against the man’s head, knocking him to the street. He handcuffed him to a hitchrail, then faced A1 Martin.

“You got trouble in you, A1?”

“Probably. I know you, but I can’t put a name to the face.”

“Smoke Jensen.”

Al eyeballed Smoke, his eyes flicking from the badge to his face. The hurdy-gurdy girls stood off to one side.

“Get moving,” Smoke told the driver.

“Yes, sir. I’m gone!”

He hollered at the fresh team and rattled up the street.