War Of The Mountain Man

Red Malone had recovered from his beating at the hands—or fists—of Smoke Jensen. He stared hard and long at the invitation. He laid it on his desk and stared at it some more.

Was it a trap? He didn’t think so. But he had a week to nose around and find out for sure. “We goin’, ain’t we, Daddy?” Tessie asked, looking and reading over his shoulder.

Red turned his head and stared at his daughter, all blond and pretty and pouty and as worthless as her brother, Melvin. He loved them both—as much as Red Malone could love anything—but realized he had sired a whore and a nut.

“I don’t know,” he told her.

She pouted.

“Stop that, girl. You look like a fish suckin’ in air.”

Tessie plopped down in a chair and glared at him. “I got me a brand-new dress I got outta that catalog from New York, and I ain’t had no chance to wear it. Now I got a chance to wear it and you tell me we might not go.”

Red sighed. “Where’s Melvin?”

“Same place he always is: shootin’ at targets.”

The boy was good with a gun, Red thought. Fast as a snake. But was he as fast as Jensen? Maybe. Just maybe the boy might do one thing in his life that was worthwhile: killing Smoke Jensen.

“Come on, Daddy!” Tessie said. “Let’s go to the dance and have some fun.”

Red stared at her, wondering whom she was bedding down with this time around.

The girl had more beaus than a dog had fleas.

“Pooh!” Tessie said. “I never get to do anything.”

Except sneak out at night and behave like a trollop, Red thought. “I said I’d think about it,” he told her. “Now go tell the cook to get dinner on the table. I’m hungry.”

She sat in her chair and pouted.

“Move!” Red yelled.

She got up and left the room, shaking her butt like a hurdy-gurdy girl.

Red sighed and shook his big head. The only thing he regretted about his wife leaving him was that she didn’t take those damn kids with her.

“Max has accepted,” Sally told Smoke, holding out the note from Hell’s Creek. “This came on the southbound stage a few minutes ago.”

Smoke read the note and smiled. “One down and one to go. No word from Red yet?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Smoke!” Jim’s sharp call came from the outside. “Melvin Malone ridin’ in. You watch yourself around this one. He’s crazy as a skunk.”

Smoke walked to the door and stepped out, after removing the hammer thongs from his .44’s. He’d heard too much about Melvin to be careless around him. He watched the young man swing down from the saddle, being careful to keep the horse between himself and Smoke.

Smart, Smoke thought. He’s no amateur.

Melvin stepped up on the boardwalk, studying Smoke as hard as Smoke was studying him. Melvin was about six feet tall and well built, heavily muscled. He was handsome in a cruel sort of way. He wore two guns, the holsters tied down. The spurs he wore were big roweled ones, the kind that would hurt a horse, and Melvin looked the type who would enjoy doing that.

“Jensen,” the young man said, stopping a few feet away. “I’m Mel Malone.”

“Nice to see you, Mel. What’s on your mind?”

Killing you, was the thought in Mel’s head. He kept it silent. Big bastard, Mel thought. Big as them books made him out to be. “My pa said to give you a message. We’ll be coming to the dance and box supper.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that, Mel. Yes, sir. Sure am. You be sure and tell Red I’m looking forward to seeing him again. He is feeling all right, now, isn’t he?”

The young man stared at Smoke for a moment. Was Jensen trying to be smart-mouthed? He couldn’t tell. “Uh, yeah. He feels just fine.”

“That’s good. Your sister Tessie makes a pretty good box supper, does she?”

“My sister couldn’t fry an egg if the hen told her how,” Mel replied. “But the cook can fry chicken that’ll make you wanna slap your granny.” Why the hell was he standing here talking about fried chicken with a man he was going to kill? He stared hard at Smoke. Fella seemed sort of likable.

Smoke chuckled. “Well, some women just never get the knack of cooking, Mel. Tell Red to take it easy now.” Smoke turned and walked across the street, leaving Melvin alone on the boardwalk.

Feeling sort of stupid standing on the boardwalk all by himself, the young man wandered over to the saloon for a drink.

Sally watched it all from the window and she smiled.

“Smoke handled that just right,” Jim said. “There wasn’t nothing else to be said, so he just walked off leavin’ Melvin standing there lookin’ stupid. Which ain’t hard to do, ’cause he is.”

“But good with a gun,” Sally remarked, watching the young man push open the batwings to the saloon. “I can tell by the way he carries himself. He walks a lot like Smoke.”

“He’s almost as fast as Smoke, ma’am. But not quite as good. But he’s a dead shot, I’ll give him that.”

Sally felt just a twinge of worry that she quickly pushed aside. She had known what Smoke was when she met and later married him. She had long ago accepted that wherever he went, there would be men who would call him out. The West was slowly changing, but it would be years before gunfighting was finally banned.