War Of The Mountain Man

Smoke chuckled and rose from the table, picking up Sally’s cup as well as his own. He walked to the stove, a big man, well over six feet, with broad shoulders, huge, heavily muscled arms, and a lean waist. He walked like a cat. His presence in a room, any room, usually brought the crowd to silence. His eyes were brown and could turn as cold as the Arctic. He was a ruggedly handsome man, turning the heads of ladies wherever he traveled.

He was Smoke Jensen. The man some called the last mountain man.

Smoke was the hero in dozens of dime novels. Plays had been written and were still being performed about his exploits. Smoke, himself, had never seen one. He was, without dispute, the fastest gun in the West. He had never wanted the title of gunfighter; but he had it.

There was no accurate count of how many would-be toughs, punks, thugs, thieves, and killers had fallen under the .44’s of Smoke Jensen. Some say fifty; others said it was closer to two hundred. Smoke didn’t know. As a young man, scarcely out of his teens, he had ridden into a mining camp taken over by the men who had killed his wife and baby son and had wiped it out to the last man.

His reputation had then been carved in solid granite. Smoke had become a living legend.

He had met Sally, who was working as a schoolteacher, and they had fallen in love. Together, working side by side—even though she was enormously wealthy, something Smoke didn’t find out until well after they were married—they carved out a ranch in Colorado and named it the Sugarloaf.

For three years Smoke dropped out of sight, living a normal, peaceful life. Then he had to surface and once more strap on his guns in a fight for survival. He stayed surfaced. He would not hunt out a fight, but God help those who came to him trouble-hunting. As the western saying goes: Smoke could point out dozens of his graveyards.

Their coffee mugs refilled, Smoke sat back down at the table and they both sugared and stirred. Sally laid her hand on his. “Roundup is all over and the cattle sold, right, honey?”

“Yes. And it was a good one. We made money. Now we’re rebuilding the herds, introducing a stronger breed, mixing in some Herefords. What’d you have on your mind, Sally?”

“I’d like to go with the children....” She put a finger on his lips to stop his protests before they got started. “But I’m not. I know what the doctors said. And I’m never going to set foot on a ship again. But if we stay here, rattling around in this house, well both go crazy with worry. Let’s wait until we receive the wire that the ship has steamed out, and then take a trip. Just the two of us.”

“That’s a good idea. The boys can run the spread; no worries there. You got some special place in mind?”

“Yes. It’s a friend I went to college with. She and her husband just moved to Montana. They live near a small town about thirty miles from Kalispell. She’s married to a doctor and they have a small ranch. I’d like to see her. She was my best friend.”

“Suits me. We’ll take a trip up there. It’ll do us both good to get away, see some country, and meet new people. We’ll take the train as far as it goes and then catch a stage.”

“No,” Sally shook her head. “Let’s put the horses in a car and ride in, Smoke. lt’ll be worth it to see the expressions on their faces when we ride in.”

“Sidesaddle?” he kidded her, knowing better.

“You have to be kidding!”

Smoke was with her. “All right, honey. But we’re going to be heading into some rough country. I’ve been there. Cousin Fae lives not too far from there. We can take the train probably to Butte. That’s wild country, Sally. Some ol’ boys up there still have the bark on. And that’s Big Max Huggins’s country.”

She smiled, but the curving of her pretty lips held no humor. “That’s one of the reasons we’re going, Smoke.”

He laughed. “I was wondering if you were going to get around to leveling with me.”

“You know this Max Huggins?”

“Only by name. We’ve never crossed trails.”

She stared into her coffee cup.

“Sally, this town your friends have settled near ... it wouldn’t be Hell’s Creek, would it?”

“Yes.”

Smoke sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Then they didn’t show a lot of sense. Hell’s Creek is owned—lock, stock, and outhouse—by Big Max Huggins. It’s filled with gunfighters, whores, gamblers, killers.... You name it bad, and you’ll find it there. Why did they settle there?”

“Robert—that’s Vicky’s husband—befriended an old man who took sick while visiting back east. Robert was just setting up his practice. Years later, he got a letter from an attorney telling him the old man had died and left him his ranch.”

“And Big Max wanted the ranch?”

“Yes. But mostly he wants Victoria.”

The next morning, Smoke rode into town and checked with Sheriff Monte Carson.

“What can you get me on Hell’s Creek and a man named Big Max Huggins?”

Monte snorted. “I can tell you all about Big Max, Smoke. We got lead in each other about ten years ago.”

“Over near the Bitterroot?”

Monte nodded his head.