War Of The Mountain Man

“I’ve worn a U.S. Marshal’s badge a time or two, Brown.”

Smoke had worn a marshal’s badge before, but that didn’t mean the government owed him any favors. He hoped Brown wouldn’t push the matter, and the farmer didn’t.

“If we got to go clean out that bunch at Hell’s Creek, or if we got to ride agin’ Malone and his bunch of trash, you can count me and all my neighbors in, Smoke.”

Smoke smiled. “The word I got is that you farmers won’t fight. That you’re scared.”

“You believe that?”

“Not for one second, Brown. I got a hunch you’re all Civil War veterans.”

“We are. Gatewood and Cooter fought on the side of the South, rest of us wore blue. But that’s behind us now. We seldom ever talk about it no more. And when we do, it ain’t with no rancor. Funny thing is, we never knowed each other during the war. We just met up on the trail and become friends. But don’t never think we won’t fight, Smoke. Some hoodlums along the trail thought that. We buried them.”

They chatted for a while longer and then Smoke pulled out, heading back to Barlow. He had him a hunch that Max Huggins had already sounded out Brown and Cooter and the other farmers in that area. Max was no fool, far from it, and he had guessed—and guessed accurately—that tackling that bunch would be foolhardy. Like most men of his ilk, Max preferred the easy way over the hard.

He pulled up in front of his office and swung down, curious about the horses tied to the hitchrail. He did not recognize the brand.

He looped the reins around the rail and stepped up on the boardwalk. The door to his office opened and several men filed out, one of them wearing the badge of sheriff of the county.

“You Jensen?” the man asked, a hard edge to his voice.

“That’s right.”

The man held out his hand. “I’ll take your badge, Jensen. I name my deputies.”

“This badge is legal, partner. Judge Garrison swore me in and he has the power to do it. So that means that you can go right straight to hell.”

The sheriff shook a finger in Smoke’s face. “Now let me tell you something....”

Smoke slapped the finger away and his hand returned a lot harder. He backhanded the crooked sheriff a blow that jarred the man and stepped him to one side.

“Don’t you ever stick your finger in my face again,” Smoke warned him. “The next time you do it, I’ll break it off at the elbow and put it in a place that’ll have you riding sidesaddle for a long time.”

Sal and Jim had stepped out of the office, both of them carrying sawed-off shotguns. It made the sleazebag sheriffs deputies awfully nervous.

“Come on, Cart,” one of his men said. “I told you this wouldn’t work.”

Smoke laughed. “You have to be Paul Cartwright. Sure. I remember reading about you. You served time in California for stealing while you were a lawman out there. Get out of this town, Cartwright.”

“Come on, Cart,” one of his men pulled at his sleeve.

“I’ll be damned if I will!”Cart blustered. “I’m the sheriff of this county. And no two-bit gunslinger tells me what to do.”

He took a swing at Smoke, who in turn grabbed him by the arm and tossed him off the boardwalk and into the street. Smoke jumped down just as Cart was grabbing for his gun. He kicked the .45 out of his hand and jerked the man to his boots.

Then he proceeded to beat the hell out of him.

Every time Cart would get up, Smoke would knock him down again. The editor of the paper had grabbed his brand-new, up-to-date camera and rushed out of his office in time to see Smoke knock Cart down for the second time. He quickly set up and began taking action shots.

Cart was out of shape, and Smoke really didn’t want to inflict any permanent injuries on the man. He just wanted to leave a lasting impression as to who was running things in Barlow and the south end of the county.

The editor, Henry Draper, got some great shots of Cart being busted in the mouth and landing in the dirt on his butt. Jim and Sal thought it very amusing. Cart’s deputies failed to see the humor in it. But they stayed out of it mainly because of Jim and Sal and the express guns they carried.

Joe Walsh and several of his hands rode into town just as Smoke was knocking Cart down for about the seventh time. The rancher sat his saddle and watched, amusement on his face and in his eyes.

The county sheriff staggered to his boots, lifted his fists, and Smoke decked him for the final count. Cart hit the dirt and didn’t move.

Smoke washed his face and hands in a horse trough, picked up his hat, and settled it on his head. He looked up at Cart’s deputies and pointed to the sheriff. “Get that trash off the streets and out of this town. And don’t come back. You understand all that?”

“Yes, sir,” they echoed.

Smoke jerked a thumb. “Move!”

The deputies grunted Cart across his saddle, tied him in place, and rode out.

“You do have a way of making friends, Smoke,” Joe said, walking his horse over to the hitchrail and dismounting.

“Let’s just say I leave lasting impressions,” Smoke smiled the reply, shaking the rancher’s hand.