War Of The Mountain Man

He paused for a moment, listening. The old mountain man, Preacher, his mentor, had taught him many things, including patience. Smoke heard the faint jingle of spurs coming up the weed-grown alleyway. He pressed against the building. When the man drew close, Smoke hit him in the face with the butt of the rifle. The man dropped like a stone, faint moonlight glistening off his bloody and broken face.

Smoke walked on to a corral. He didn’t want to hurt any animal; they could not choose their owners. He silently slid open the bars. When the action started, the horses would find the opening and bolt. He did the same at two other corrals. He glanced at the huge livery stable and decided to leave it alone. Men were probably lying in wait for him in there.

He slipped around to the back of a saloon, dug in a pocket of his saddlebags, and came out with six sticks of dynamite, taped together, already capped with a long fuse.

He softly entered through the back door. Now he could hear voices and the tinkle of glasses and beer mugs. But the conversation was low and the drinking was probably light.

Smoke thumbnailed a match into flame and lit the long fuse, placing the charge against the storeroom wall. With a smile on his face, he slipped back into the night.

Smoke planted two more charges on that side of the street before he was spotted by a man who’d stepped out of a back door to relieve himself.

“Hey!” the man shouted, turning and still spewing water.

Smoke shot him about five inches below the belt buckle. The man fell to the earth, screaming in agony.

“You’ll not rape another girl,” Smoke muttered, then dashed across the street, at the far end of town.

The saloon charge blew. Smoke saw one man thrown from the building, crashing through glass. He hit the street and did not move. Another man fell through the floor and onto the dusty walkway in front as the rear part of the poorly constructed building collapsed under the heavy weight of the charge.

The second and third charges blew, and chaos reigned for a few minutes as men and women poured into the street.

Smoke emptied the Remingtons into a knot of men, knocking them sprawling. He lit another charge, tossed that through a side window of a building, and dashed away. He collided with a man, recovered first, and pointed a pistol at the man’s head.

“The body of the girl Aggie, where is it?” He jacked back the hammer. “And I’m only going to ask it one time.”

“Sid tossed it into a backwater just off the river yonder. I swear to you I ain’t lyin’.”

Smoke jerked him to his feet. “Show me, you weasel. And you’d better be right the first time.”

Keeping low, as the flames began licking at the dry timber of the destroyed buildings, the man led Smoke to a dry wash and from there to the slough. The naked body of Aggie was clearly visible.

“Get her, you crud,” Smoke ordered, the menace in his voice chilling the man.

The man waded into the dark waters and pulled the girl to the shore.

“Pick her up and walk toward the timber,” he ordered.

“But she ain’t got nothin’ on! That ain’t decent!”

One look from Smoke’s cold eyes convinced the man that he’d better shut his mouth and do as ordered.

“Where is the bastard?” Smoke heard the voice of Max Huggins plain in the night. “Find him, you fools. Find him and kill him!”

At his horse, Smoke had the man wrap Aggie’s body in a blanket.

“What are you gonna do with me?” the man asked.

“Did you take a part in raping this girl? And don’t lie to me.”

“Yeah, I did. Ever’body did.”

Smoke hit him with one big gloved fist. The man dropped like a rock.

The flames in the town were slowly being contained by a bucket brigade and one small pumper.

Smoke knew there was no point in taking the man back to Barlow for trial. Once away from Smoke Jensen’s gun, the man would lie, denying any part of the rape. If a deal could be worked out, everybody in Hell’s Creek would alibi for the other and nothing would be accomplished there.

Smoke left the man on the ground and picked up the slender, blanket-covered body of Aggie Feckles. Star didn’t like the idea of carrying the dead, but Smoke managed to get into the saddle. He headed back for Barlow, taking a route first west, then cutting south, to throw off any pursuers. He doubted there would be many; they were too busy fighting the fires.

At a farmer’s house, he borrowed a horse and tied Aggie across the saddle. He rode into Barlow just as dawn was breaking fair in the eastern skies. People began lining the streets, silently watching as he rode in, leading the horse with the body of Aggie across the saddle.

Dr. Turner came out of the hotel, where he had just given Martha a sedative, and walked over to Smoke. Smoke stepped wearily out of the saddle and gave the reins to Jim. The deputy led the animal to the stable.

A crowd began to slowly gather around.

“After they abused her,” Smoke said, his words soft, “Warner Frigo shot her in the head and dumped her body in a slough.”