War Of The Mountain Man

“Yes, I am. Is your name Aggie?”

“How’d you know that?”

“I nooned over at the Brown farm. Thought I’d come over and say hello to you and your ma. Is she home?”

“I’ll fetch her for you.”

Smoke waited by the gate. A very pretty woman stepped out onto the porch and smiled at him. “Mr. Jensen?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m Martha Feckles. You wanted to see me?”

“If I may, yes.”

“Please come in. I’ve just made a fresh pot of coffee.”

The sitting room was small but neat, the furniture old and worn, but clean.

“You go look after your brother, Aggie,” Martha said. “And don’t stray from the house.”

“Yes, Momma.”

When the girl had closed the door behind her, Smoke said, “Are you expecting Vic Young?”

That shook the woman. Her hands trembled as she poured the coffee. “Brown spoke out of turn, sir.”

“I don’t think so. I think they spoke because they’re worried about you. You’re in a bad situation—not of your doing—and they’d like to see you clear of it.”

“I’ll never be free of Vic,” she said with bitterness in her voice.

“Oh, you’ll be free of him, Martha. You can write that down in your diary. When do you expect him again?”

“This evening.”

Smoke sipped his coffee—mostly chicory—and studied the woman. She was under a strain; he could see that in her eyes and on her face. And he could also see the remnants of a bruise on her jaw. “Did Vic strike you, Martha?”

Her laugh held no humor. “Many times. He likes to beat up women.”

Smoke waited.

With a sigh, she said, “Vic’s killed women before, Mr. Jensen. He brags about it. I have to protect Aggie. I have to do his bidding for her sake.”

“No longer, Martha. You’ll not see Vic Young again. That’s a promise.”

“If you put him in jail, he’ll come back when he gets out and really make it difficult for us.”

“I don’t intend to put him in jail, Martha. I intend to kill him.”

His words did not shock her. She lifted her eyes to his. “I’m no shrinking summer rose, Mr. Jensen. I was born in the West. I don’t hold with eastern views about crime and punishment. Some peopte—men and women—are just no good. They were born bad. I’ll be much beholden to you if you saw to it that Vic did not come around here again. I can mend your shirts, and I do washing and ironing. I—”

Smoke held up a hand. “Enough, Martha. Do you have friends who would take you in for the night?”

“Why ... certainly.”

“I’ll hitch up your buggy, and you take the children and go to your friends for the night. You come back in the morning. All right?”

“If you say so, Mr. Jensen.”

After they had gone, Smoke put his horse up in the small barn, closed the door securely, and walked the grounds, getting the feel of the place. Back in the house, he read for a time. He dozed off and slept for half an hour, waking up refreshed. He made a pot of strong coffee and waited.

Just as dusk was settling around the high country, Smoke heard a horse approaching at a canter. He stood up and slipped the hammer-thong from his .44’s. He worked the guns in and out of leather and walked softly to the front door.

“Git ready, baby,” a man called from the outside. “And git that sweet little baby of yourn ready, too. It’s time for her to git bred.”

Smoke’s face tightened. He felt rage well up inside him. He mentally calmed himself. Only his eyes showed what was boiling inside him.

“You hear me, you ...” Vic spewed profanity, the filth rolling from his mouth like sewerage.

Smoke opened the door and stepped out onto the small porch. Vic crouched like a rabid animal when he spotted him.

“No more, Vic,” Smoke told him. “You won’t terrorize this good woman anymore.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“The name is Jensen. Smoke Jensen.”

Vic spat on the ground. “You rode a long ways to die, Jensen.”

“You’re trash, Vic. Pure crud. Just like the man you work for.”

“No man calls me that and lives!”

“I just did, Vic. And I’m still living.”

“Where’s Martha and Aggie?”

“Safe. And I intend to see they remain safe.”

“You got no call to come meddlin’ in a man’s personal business.”

“I do when the man is trash like you.”

“I’m tarred of all this jibber-jabber, Jensen. You tell me where my woman is at and then you hit the trail.”

“You got any kin you want me to notify, Vic?”

“Notify about what?”

“Your death.”

“Huh!” Vic looked puzzled for a moment. Then he laughed. “You may be a big shot where you come from, Jensen, but you don’t spell horse crap to me.”

“Then make your move, punk.”

Vic was suddenly unsure of himself. He looked around him. “You alone, Jensen?”

“I don’t need any help in dealing with scum like you, Vic.”

“I’m warnin’ you, Jensen, don’t call me that no more.”

“Or you’ll do what, Vic? I’ll tell you what you’ll do. Nothing. You woman beaters are all alike. Cowards. Punks. Come on, Vic. Make your play.”

All the bluster and brag left the man. His eyes began to jerk and the right side of his face developed a nervous tic. “I’ll just ride on, Jensen.”

“No, Vic. I won’t allow that. You’d just find some other poor woman to terrorize. Some child to molest. It’s over, Vic. You’ll kill no more women.”