War Of The Mountain Man

“I remember that shoot-out. Is there any kind of law in Hell’s Creek?”

“Only what Big Max says. Oh, there’s a sheriff up there. But he’s crooked as a snake’s track and so are his deputies. I hear the governor keeps threatening to send men in to clean up the town, but he hasn’t done it yet. Why the interest in Hell’s Creek?”

“Sally has some friends who live near there. We’re going to visit them. I’d sort of like to know what I’m riding into.”

“You’re riding into trouble, Smoke. Hell’s Creek is a haven for outlaw gangs. In addition to Big Max’s gang—and he’s got forty or fifty men who ride for him—there’s Alex Bell and his boys. Dave Poe, Warner Frigo, and Val Singer all run outlaw gangs out of Hell’s Creek. The only way that town is ever going to be cleaned up is for the Army to go in and do it.”

“Damn, Monte, it’s 1883. The wild West is supposed to be calming down.”

Monte shifted his chaw. “But you and me, Smoke, we know better, don’t we?”

Smoke nodded his head. “Yeah. There’ll be pockets of crud in the West for years to come, I reckon.”

“Any way you can talk your missus out of takin’this trip?”

Smoke just looked at him.

“I do know the feelin’,” Monte said. “Women get a notion in their heads, and a man’s in trouble, for a fact. When are you and Sally pullin’ out?”

“Probably in about a week. Who else do you know for sure is up there?”

“Ben Webster, Nelson Barlow, Vic Young, Dave Hall, Frank Norton, Lew Brooks, Sid Yorke, Pete Akins, and Larry Gayle. Is that enough?”

“Good God!” Smoke said, standing up. “You just named some of the randiest ol’boys in the country.”

“Yeah. And believe you me, Smoke, they’ll be plenty more up there just as good as them boys I just named. You’re gonna be steppin’ into a rattler’s den.”

“They do sell .44’s up there, don’t they?” Smoke asked dryly.

“Probably not to you.” Monte’s reply was just as dry.

2

That night, lying in bed, Sally said, “We don’t have to go up there, Smoke. I don’t want you to think I’m pressuring you in any way. Because I’m not.”

“You think a lot of this friend of yours, don’t you?”

“Like a sister, Smoke. She’s had a lot of grief in her life and I’d like for her to have some happiness. She’s overdue.”

“Want to explain that?”

“She lost two brothers in the Civil War. Her mother died when she was in high school. Then in her second year of college, her father died. She worked terribly hard to finish school. Took in ironing, mended clothes, worked as a maid; anything to put food in her mouth and clothes on her back. I’d help whenever I could, but Vicky is an awfully proud girl. She and Robert had one child ... that lived. Two others died. She can’t have any more. Their daughter Lisa is ten.”

Smoke waited for a moment, his eyes on the dark ceiling. “Finish it, honey. Tell it all.”

“This Max Huggins trash has threatened Lisa several times, to get to Vicky.”

Smoke thought about that. For about five seconds. He turned his head, his gaze meeting Sally’s eyes. “We’ll start packing up some things in the morning.”

On the day they received the telegram from Sally’s father, informing them of the steamer’s departure, Smoke rode around their ranch, checking things out and speaking to the hands. His crew was a well-paid and tough bunch, who to a man would die for the brand. Some of them had been outlaws, riding the hoot-owl trail for a time. Some were gunfighters who sought relative peace and found it at the Sugarloaf. All were cowboys, hardworking and loyal.

“I still think you ought to take some of the boys with you, Smoke,” his foreman grumbled. “Them’s a hard bunch up yonder.”

Smoke rolled a cigarette and handed the makings to his foreman. “You boys are needed here. There are still lots of folks who would just love to burn me out if they got the chance.”

“They won’t,” the foreman said quietly.

“You boys take care of the place. You know where I’ll be and how to reach me. We’ll see you when we get back.”

Smoke and Sally pulled out the next morning, Smoke riding a midnight-black gelding he called Star, and Sally on a fancy-stepping mountain-bred mare who could go all day and still have bottom left. Smoke led a packhorse with their few pieces of luggage and supplies.

They headed east, toward Denver, where they would catch the train. Sally had much experience with trains; Smoke had ridden only a few of them, preferring to travel in the saddle.

The beautiful woman and the handsome man turned heads when they boarded in Denver. And the whisper went from car to car: “That’s Smoke Jensen! See them guns? He’s killed a thousand men.”

Smoke signed a half-dozen books about him and patiently answered the many questions that were asked of him, mostly by newcomers to the West, men and women making their first trip from the East.

One mouthy preacher lipped off one time too many about violent men who lived by the gun. Smoke finally told him to shut his mouth and mind his own business. The preacher’s mouth opened and closed silently a few times, like a fish out of water. Then he sat back down and shut up.