War Of The Mountain Man

He knew the end of the line, at that time, was near Gold Creek. They would change trains before then. Smoke plugged a running outlaw and knocked him sprawling; but it wasn’t a killing shot. The man jumped up and limped off. “Why in the hell doesn’t the railroad put guards on these payroll shipments?”

“Beats me, Smoke. But I’m damn sure glad you decided to ride my train for this trip.”

The pounding of horses’ hooves punctuated the night. The outlaws had decided to give it up.

“Let’s see what we got,” Smoke said, shoving out empties and reloading as he walked over to the man he’d knocked off the water tower.

The man was dead. He’d landed on his head and broken his neck. He walked over to the man the engineer had shot. He was also dead. The third man Smoke had dropped was gut-shot and in bad shape, the slug blowing out his left side, taking part of the kidney with it. He looked up at Smoke.

“You played hell, mister. What’s your name? I’d like to know who done me in.”

“Smoke Jensen.”

The man cussed. “Val sure picked the wrong train this time.”

“Val Singer?” Smoke asked.

“Yeah. You know him?”

“I know him. Me and him ...” Smoke broke it off as he looked down at the man. He was dead, his eyes wide open, staring at the cloudy sky. He looked over at the brakeman. “I winged another. Let’s see if we can find him.”

But he was gone. Smoke tracked a blood trail to where the outlaws had tied their horses. “He made the saddle. But as bad as he’s bleeding, he won’t last long. I must have hit the big vein in his leg.”

The fireman walked up, his face all dark with soot. “Lem, you wanna toss them bodies in the baggage car and keep on haulin’?”

“I ain’t having that crud in with me,” the guard to the gold shipment said, walking up. He had not taken part in the fight because in case of an attempted robbery, he was under orders not to open the doors to anyone. “Toss ‘em in with the wood and tote ’em that way.”

Smoke shrugged his shoulders and helped wrap the men in blankets and carry them to the wood car. Back in his seat, Sally asked, “You suppose well have any more trouble?”

Smoke pulled his hat brim down over his eyes and settled down for a nap. “Not from that bunch,” he said.

They changed trains in southern Idaho, staying with the Union Pacific line. This run would head straight north. End of track would put them about a hundred and fifty miles south of their destination.

The news had spread up and down the line that Smoke Jensen was on the train, and crowds gathered at every stop, hoping to get a glimpse of the West’s most famous gunfighter. Smoke stayed in the car while the train was in station. He had never sought publicity and didn’t want it now.

No more attempts were made to rob the train during the long pull north.

At end of track, Smoke off-loaded their horses while Sally changed from dress to jeans.

Packhorse loaded, they rode into the small town and purchased a side of bacon and some bread, a gaggle of kids and dogs right at their heels all the way.

“Right pleased to have you in town,” the shopkeeper told them. “Sorry you can’t stay longer. Things liven up quite a bit when you’re around, I’d guess, Mr. Jensen. Be good for business.”

“It usually is for the undertaker,” Smoke told him, and that shut him up.

Smoke signed his name to a half-dozen penny dreadfuls, then he and Sally hit the trail, pointing their horses’ noses north.

A young would-be tough, two guns tied down low, stepped out of the saloon and watched the Jensens ride out of town. He pulled his hat brim low, hitched at his guns, and said, “Huh! He don’t look so tough to me. It’s a good thing he didn’t get in my way. I’d a called him out and left him in the street.”

The town marshal looked at the kid, disgust in his eyes, then shoved the punk into a horse trough, guns and all, and walked away, leaving the big-mouth sputtering and cussing.

Smoke and Sally made their first camp alongside a fast-running and very clear and cold little creek. It didn’t take either one of them very long to bathe. They knew it was time to exit the creek when they began turning blue.

They were up before dawn. After bacon and bread and coffee, Sally strapped on her short-barreled .44, and then they were in the saddle and heading north.

They were both ready for a hot bath and food they didn’t have to cook over a campfire when they topped a ridge and looked down on a little town just south of Flathead Lake.

“Well,” Sally said, straightening her back. “It has a hotel.”

“Yeah,” Smoke said with a grin. “And I’ll bet they change the sheets at least once a month.”

She smiled sweetly at him. “I’ll bet they change them for me.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am!” the desk clerk said, paling slightly as he checked the names on the register. “The feather ticks was just aired out and we’ll get fresh linen on your bed pronto. You bet we will, Mrs. Jensen.”

“And make sure the facilities are clean,” Sally told him.

“Oh, yes, ma’am. I sure will.”