War Of The Mountain Man

“Deer don’t shoot back,” Sal said, then walked off.

Robert looked around him. The people standing around them were all friendly-looking and he had shook a lot of hands. He also had noticed that every man was armed. Every man. Including the editor of the Bugle. No doubt about it, the doctor thought. This town is braced for trouble.

“Mrs. Jensen told us what you were doing yesterday, Smoke,” Tom Johnson said. “We fixed up an office for Dr. Turner. It’s right next to his house.”

Smoke grasped the doctor by the shoulder. “You and Victoria get settled in, Robert. Big doings come Saturday night.” He smiled. “The town is throwing a party.”

Forty-eight hours before the dance and box supper, Smoke met the northbound stage and knew he’d hit pay dirt when two nattily-dressed men stepped off to stretch their legs. They were the only two passengers on the stage. Northbound business had dwindled since Smoke had arrived in Barlow and pinned on a badge. The two men were dressed like dandies but their eyes, cold and emotionless, gave them away.

Henri Dubois and Paul Mittermaier.

Smoke had talked with the driver several days before, setting things up, and the driver nodded his head at Smoke’s glance. “It’s gonna be about an hour ’fore we pull out, boys,” he called. “I got to change this cracked brake lever and one of the pads. Yonder’s the saloon. I’ll give a hoot and a holler when I’m ready to go.”

The team was led away, team and coach heading for the barn.

Henri and Paul headed for the saloon. One of the Circle W hands, Wesson, had agreed to his part in the action. He walked toward the men and slammed a shoulder into the big German.

“Watch were you’re goin’, stupid!” Wesson said.

“Get out of my way, you ignorant lout!” the German replied.

“What the hell did you call me?” the hand faced him.

“Back off, Paul,” Henri said softly.

“What’s the matter?” Wesson said with a sneer. “Your buddy have to do your fightin’ for you?”

Paul drew back a fist and Wesson popped him on the nose. Henri gave Wesson a blow to the jaw just as the saloon cleared, all of Joe’s hands pouring out. The Circle W crew then proceeded to kick the snot out of the pair of assassins, leaving them unconscious on the street.

“Clear out,” Smoke told them. “I’ll see you all come Saturday night. Thanks, boys.”

“Our pleasure, Smoke,” Curly grinned around the words. He looked down at the unconscious and badly battered men. “Them ol’ boys won’t be doin’ much of anything for a week or two. Maybe longer.”

The Circle We crew rode out of town.

“Now what?” Jim asked.

Smoke grinned and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a bottle of opium-based elixir. “I bought a full case of this from a drummer last week. By the time these two wake up, they’re going to be on a train, heading back east. Come on, help me drag them off the street.”

They dragged the unconscious men into an alley and stripped them of their duded-up clothes, dressing them in filthy, ragged shirts and jeans. Henri moaned and tried to sit up. Smoke popped him on the noggin with a cosh he’d taken to carrying and the Frenchman laid back down.

With the two men now dressed like bums, Smoke poured a half bottle of knock-out medicine down each of their throats and placed then in the back of a freight wagon.

“Keep them unconscious,” Smoke told the grinning freighters who had been more than willing to participate in the game. Anything to get rid of Max Huggins and his gang of outlaws. “When you get down to Helena, pour a bottle of the elixer down them and toss them in an empty eastbound railcar. They’ll be somewhere in Nebraska when they wake up.”

“Will do, Smoke,” the freighter told him. “Don’t worry about a thing. Man, this is more fun than I thought it’d be. We was lookin’ forward to seeing a shoot-out; but, hell, this is better.” Laughing, the freighters pulled out, joining other empty freight wagons on the pull back south.

“Now what do you have in the back of that devious mind of yourn?” Sal asked, unable to wipe the grin off his face.

“Let’s go inspect their luggage. I want to see these fancy guns that were going to be used to kill me.”

Sal whistled when Smoke opened the gun cases. Both men had seen rifles of this type before, but neither had seen one so duded-up. They were Winchester high-wall, falling block rifles. Single shot.

Smoke hefted one. The rifle had been reworked and the balance was perfect. The telescope was about two feet long, and the shells looked like either the German or the Frenchman or both had carefully and painstakingly loaded their own.

“That bullet would travel about three miles before it knocked you down,” Sal said, inspecting one cartridge.

“You know,” Smoke said, “most guns are tools. A man uses one snake-killing, or varmint-killing, or to protect himself or his loved ones. I’ve driven tacks and nails in horseshoes with the butt of my pistols. But these rifles are meant for only one thing.”

“Yeah,” Sal agreed, closing the lid to the gun case. “Man-killin’.”

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