War Of The Mountain Man

Smoke slammed the barrel of his .44 against Murtaugh’s head, and for the third time in about three minutes, the outlaw went to sleep on the floor.

“Gimme ten dollars for the winder and you give whatever else is in their pockets to them folks that was burnt out,” Smith said. “That fair?”

“Plenty fair,” Jim said. “The families will thank you.”

Smoke tied Murtaugh’s hands behind his back with rawhide and straightened up. “We’ll help you bury this trash, Smith. Then I’ll get a signed statement from you attesting to the fact that you heard that one”—he pointed to the man with a hole beween his eyes—“confessing as to who paid them. You won’t have to appear in court.”

“Good enough,” Smith said. “Shovel’s in the back. I’ll get my old woman to sing a death chant for them. She’s Flathead. Does a nice job of it, too. Right touchin’, some folks say.”

Smoke put all the guns in a sack and tied it to a saddle horn, while Jim readied the horses for travel back to Barlow. The guns and horses and saddles they would give to the farmers who were burned out. The men had about five hundred dollars between them. That would go a long way toward rebuilding the homes and barns and smokehouses.

Morning Dove was still chanting her death song as they rode away.

18

Judge Garrison read the signed statement from Smith.

“Will that hold up in a court of law, Judge?” Smoke asked.

“It will in my court,” the judge said with a smile. “Besides, both you and Deputy Dagonne heard one man confess. Don’t worry, Smoke. Just remember the name of the town the jury is going to be picked from.”

Both men shared a laugh at that. Smoke said, “Any further word about Max Huggins’s background?”

“Yes, but unfortunately, we can’t use any of it. Some of the parties involved are still too frightened to testify. Others have moved away or died. While the authorities east of here know Max is guilty, they can’t prove it.”

Smoke thought about that for a moment. “But Max doesn’t have to know that, Judge.”

The judge looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled. “Of course, you’re quite right.”

“Let me think about how we can use that information, Judge. We’ve got Max bumping from side to side now, let’s see if we can keep him that way.”

“Good idea. I have trial scheduled to start Thursday for those who tried to shoot up the town. I want extra security, Smoke.”

“You’ve got it, Judge. How about Melvin Malone’s case?”

“His is the first one I try. This is ... unusual for a judge, Smoke. But I want to ask your opinion. I can put him in jail. I can put him to doing community work ... public service work it’s now being called. But putting him to work cleaning the streets is only going to anger him further. Jail? Probably do the same thing. Or I can fine him. What do you think?”

Smoke rolled a cigarette and lit up. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders. “The boy wants to kill me so bad now it’s like a fire inside him....”

“Is he that good?” the judge interrupted.

“I doubt it. He makes the mistake that so many would-be gunhandlers make: He hurried his first shot. I was born blessed with excellent eye and hand coordination, Judge. I was born ambidextrous.” He smiled. “Sally taught me that word, by the way. The speed came with years of practice. I still practice. But I think the thing that keeps me ative—or has kept me alive all these years—is that I’m not afraid when the moment comes. I’m confident without being overly so. As to your original question ... fine him and let him walk for all I care.”

The judge nodded. “It might buy us more time, if you know what I mean.”

“I do. Kill Melvin now, and Red is very likely to blow wide open. The town is growing stronger every day. In another two weeks, it would take an army to overrun it.”

“That’s correct. And we owe it all to you.”

Smoke waved that away. “I just propped you people up, that’s all. Gave you all a little talking to and jerked you around and around. You all did the rest.”

The judge grinned and rubbed the side of his face. “I never thought I’d see the day when I appreciated a slapping around, but I do, boy, I do.”

“See you around, Judge.”

Smoke stepped out of the judge’s chambers and walked the streets of town. People waved and called his name as he passed. No doubt about it, Smoke thought. These folks are going to fight for their town. And they’re probably going to have it to do ... very soon.

He walked back to the jail and stepped inside. Murtaugh started cussing him as soon as he heard the jingle of Smoke’s spurs. “You’ll never hold me in this cracker box, Jensen. Soon as I can get my hands on a gun, you’re dead, hotshot. You’re dead, and that’s a promise.”

Smoke did not reply.

“I know a lot of things you don’t, Jensen,” Murtaugh kept flapping his mouth. “A whole lot of things.”

Smoke waited.

Murtaugh laughed from his cell. “Have your trials, Jensen. Let that lard-butted judge bang his gavel and hand down his pronouncements. It ain’t gonna make a bit of difference in the long run.”

Murtaugh lay down on his bunk and shut his mouth.