War Of The Mountain Man

The room was clean and it faced the street. Smoke laid out clean clothes and shook out and hung up one of Sally’s dresses while she bathed. He looked out the window and was not surprised to see a crowd gathering on the boardwalks below their room. Neither was he surprised to see the sheriff and two deputies among the gawking people. The desk clerk had not been slow in running his mouth.

He bathed and shaved while Sally got herself all fixed up, then dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and string tie. He strapped on his .44’s and they went down to the dining room for an early supper.

Smoke got a shot of whiskey from the bar for himself and a glass of wine for Sally, then rejoined his wife in the dining room. The sheriff approached them.

“Mind if I join you for a moment?” the lawman asked respectfully, his hat in his hand.

Smoke pushed out a chair with one boot.

“Coffee, Marie,” the sheriff ordered.

“Nice little town, Sheriff,” Sally said, taking a sip of wine.

“Thank you, ma’am. And it’s peaceful, too.”

Smoke knew his cue when he heard it. “It’ll stay peaceful, too, Sheriff. We’re here to rest for the night and then we’ll be moving on.”

“Nothin’ is peaceful around you for very long, Jensen,” the sheriff said. “You attract trouble like honey does flies.”

“We don’t have any trouble in the town near where I live,” Smoke rebutted. “Hasn’t been a shot fired in anger in a long, long time.”

“How do you manage that?”

“We get rid of the troublemakers, Sheriff. It’s really very simple.”

“You run them out of town, eh?”

“We usually bury them,” Sally said.

The sheriff cut his eyes to her. Strong-willed woman, he reckoned. Man would be hard-pressed to hold the reins on this one, he figured.

He’d of course seen them riding into town, her astride that mare and packing a pistol. Way she carried it, the sheriff figured she knew how to use it. And, more importantly, would use it.

“There’s some pretty randy ol’ boys in this town, Smoke. Some of them would like to make a reputation. I thought I’d warn you.”

“The only way they’re going to get to me, Sheriff, is if they come into the lobby of this hotel and call me out while I’m reading the newspaper, come in here while I’m eating and call me out, or try to backshoot me when I’m pulling out in the morning.”

“And if they call you out? ...”

“Then I guess the local undertaker is going to get some business, Sheriff.”

“The one that’ll more than likely try to crowd you is called Chub. He’s a bad one, I’ll give him that. He’s killed a couple of men and wounded a couple more in face-downs. He’s quick, Jensen.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, Sheriff.”

The sheriff drank his coffee and eyeballed Smoke. Wrists as big as some men’s forearms. And his upper arms; Lord have mercy! The man had muscle on top of muscle. The sheriff had heard of Smoke Jensen for years, but this was the first time he’d ever seen him. And as far as the sheriff was concerned, it was a sight that he’d not soon forget.

The sheriff pushed back his chair and stood up. “See you, Jensen. Ma’am.”

“See you around, Sheriff,” Smoke told him just as the waitress put their dinner in front of them.

“Smells good,” Smoke said.

“Then you’d better enjoy it, mister,” a small boy said, walking up to the table. “‘Cause Chub Morgan told me to tell you he was gonna kill you just as soon as you got done eatin’.”

3

Smoke looked at the boy. “You go tell Chub I said to calm down. When I finish eating and have my brandy, I’ll step outside to smoke my cigar on the boardwalk. I get testy when people interrupt my dinner.”

“Yes, sir.”

Smoke gave the boy a coin. “Now get off the streets, boy.”

“Yes, sir.”

But Smoke knew he wouldn’t. The boy would gather up all his friends and they’d find them a spot to watch. A shooting wasn’t nearly the social event a good hanging was, but it would do. Things just got boring in small western towns. Folks had been known to pack lunches and dinners and drive or ride a hundred miles for a good hanging. And a double hanging was even better.

“Who is Chub Morgan, honey?” Sally asked.

“I have no idea, Sally. But I’ll tell you what he’s going to be as soon as I finish my food.”

She looked at him. “What?”

“Dead.”

Smoke had his coffee and a glass of brandy, then bought a cigar and stepped outside. Sally took a seat in the lobby and read the local paper.

It was near dusk and the wide street was deserted. All horses had been taken from the hitchrails and dogs had been called home. Smoke lit his cigar and leaned against an awning support.

He had played out this scene many times in his life. and Smoke knew he was not immortal. He’d taken a lot of lead in his life. And he would rather talk his way out of a gunfight than drag iron. But he was realist enough to have learned early that with some men, talking was useless. It just prolonged the inevitable. Smoke also knew—and had argued the belief many times with so-called learned people—that some men were just born bad, with a seed of evil in them.

And there was only one way to deal with those types of people.

Kill them.