War Of The Mountain Man

“Men,” Jim corrected. “I count six of them.”

Smoke straightened up and, with a grin on his face, said, “Hell, Jim, don’t look so glum. We got them outnumbered.”

“If that’s the way you count,” Jim said soberly, “I shore am glad you don’t count out my payroll!”

17

The men took the leather thongs off their guns and stepped up onto the rough porch. With Smoke in the lead, they entered the dimly lit old trading post. The smell of twist tobacco all mixed in with that of candy, whiskey, beer, and ancient sweat odors that clung to the walls and ceiling hit them. They walked past bolts of brightly colored cloth, stacks of men’s britches and shirts, and a table piled high with boots of all sizes. They passed the notions counter, filled with elixirs and nostrums that were guaranteed to cure any and all illnesses. Most of them were based with alcohol or an opiate of some type, which killed the pain for a while.

Smoke and Jim stopped at the gun case to look at the new double-action revolvers.

“Pretty,” Jim said.

“I don’t like them,” Smoke said. “The trigger pull is so hard it throws your aim off. And if you have to cock it, what’s the point of having one of those things?”

“Good question,” his deputy agreed. “They look awkward to me.” Something on the nostrum table caught his eye and he picked up a bottle of Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound. He read the label, blushed, and put the bottle down. “The things they put on labels. I declare.”

“Sally swears by it. Says it works wonders.”

“You ever tasted it?”

“Hell, no! I did taste some Kickapoo Indian Sagwa a couple of years ago, back east.”

“Did it work?”

“It tasted so bad I forgot what I took it for.”

Smiling, the men stepped into the bar part of the trading post and walked up to the counter, in this case, several rough-hewn boards atop empty beer barrels.

Smith flicked his eyes to Jim and they narrowed in recognition. But he said only, “Howdy, boys. What might your poison be on this day?”

“Beer,” Smoke said. “For both of us.”

Both Smoke and Jim had quickly inspected the heavily armed men sitting at two pulled-together tables near a dirty window at the front of the barroom.

“Hadn’t been up here in a long time,”Jim said after taking a pull from his mug. “I’d forgot how purty this country is. And how chilly the nights get.”

“It do get airish at times,” Smith agreed. “I got fresh venison stew on the stove and my squaw just baked some bread.”

“Sounds good,” Smoke said. “Jim?”

“I could do with a taste. Them cold fish we had for breakfast didn’t nearabouts fill me up.”

Smoke and Jim took their beers to a table across the room from the arsonists and began whispering to each other, knowing that would arouse some suspicion from the men who had torched the farmhouses and barns.

It didn’t take long.

“What are you two a-whisperin’ about over there?” one burly man called across the room.

Smoke looked at him just as the stew and bread was being placed on the table. “None of your damn business.”

The man flushed and started to get up. One of his buddies pulled him back into the chair. “Let it alone, Sonny. They ain’t worth our time.”

“I ain’t so sure about that,” Sonny said, giving Smoke a good once-over. “I seen that face afore.”

“That’s Murtaugh talkin’,” Smith whispered. “Watch your step, Jim. They’re all bad ones.”

“Now the damn barkeep’s whisperin’!” Sonny yelled.

Smith turned and faced him. “It’s my goddamn store, lunkhead. I’ll whisper anytime I take a notion to.”

“Who you callin’ a lunkhead, you old goat?” Sonny hollered.

“You, you big-mouth ninny!” Smith fired back, moving toward the bar. There, he reached behind him and came around with a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. He eared back both hammers and pointed it at Sonny. “Now, then, mule-mouth, you got anything else you’d like to say to me?”

Sonny’s complexion, not too good to begin with, lightened appreciably as he looked at the twin barrels of the express gun, pointing straight at him. Those around him took on the expression of a very sad basset hound, knowing that if Smith pulled the triggers, someone would be picking them up with a shovel and a spoon.

“I reckon not,” Sonny finally managed to say.

“Good.” Smith eased down the hammers and laid the shotgun on the bar. “That’s just dandy. Use your mouth to eat and drink, and stop flappin’ that thing at me.”

With a scowl on his ugly face, Sonny turned away, but not before giving Smoke another dirty look.

The stew smelled good and tasted even better. The bread was lavishly buttered, and Smoke and Jim fell to eating.

“Bring us some of that stew,” Murtaugh called.

“Dollar a bowl,” Smith told him.

“A dollar a bowl! Hell, man, that’s plumb unreasonable.”

“Then go hungry.”

“I’ll take another bowl,” Jim said. “That’s fine eatin’.”

“You better see the color of his money afore you dish up anymore grub to him,” Murtaugh said. “He don’t look like he’s very flush to me.”

“You worry about your own self,” Jim verbally fired across the room. “I got money, and I earned it decent.”

“What’d you mean by that?” the arsonist asked.