War Of The Mountain Man

“I’ll have to face one or the other pretty soon, I reckon. And I’m not looking forward to that. Well, let’s get off of it. How’s the bank coming along?”

“I just got word this morning. It’ll open for business next Monday morning. The money will be coming in day after tomorrow. And it will be heavily guarded.”

She handed him a telegraph and let him read it. He whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Yes. And that will be too good an opportunity for Max to pass up.”

“I wish you and Victoria would get out of here, Sally. The two of you go on back to the Sugarloaf.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m staying. We’ll leave together, Smoke.”

He had expected that answer so it came as no surprise to him. “I’d say I have two weeks before Max hits us. Maybe three. But no longer. I think those rumors the snitch carried to him about those old warrants back east has him spooked. And I’m told that Red Malone is getting jumpy, too.”

She smiled at him. “The Sugarloaf will look good, won’t it?”

“You bet.” He got up and found his hat. “I’m going to prowl the town for a while.”

“Anything wrong?”

“No. I just want to check around.”

“I’m going to read. If you’re late, I’ll leave the lamp low.”

Smoke walked down the stairs and through the lobby, speaking to the night clerk at the desk. The Grand Hotel was full, for with the coming of the paper, a doctor, two lawyers, and a half-dozen new businesses, the town was experiencing a growth unseen since its inception.

The saloon was doing a land-office business and had hired two nighttime waitresses and a piano player. The piano player was banging out a tune, the melody floating on the night air.

Pete walked up, spurs jingling softly. “Horse tied out of sight down by the creek,” he told Smoke. “I never seen the brand before. Fancy riggin’. Rifle is gone from the boot. We might have us a back-shooter in town.”

“You tell the others?”

“Goin’ to now.”

“OK. Watch yourself.”

Pete gone, Smoke stepped back into the shadows created by the storefront and lifted his eyes, inspecting the rooftops of the buildings across the street. He squatted down and removed his spurs, laying them behind a bench on the boardwalk.

Standing up, he freed his .44’s and slipped into an alleyway, walking around behind the buildings. He paused at the alley’s end, staying close to the hotel’s outside wall. He listened, all senses working overtime.

Smoke watched a man come out of a privy and walk into the hotel, through the back door. The lamplight inside flashed momentarily as the door opened. Smoke closed his eyes to retain his night vision. He opened his eyes and walked on, slipping around the buildings.

He angled around Martha’s Dress Shoppe and came out behind the cafe. A slight movement ahead of him flattened Smoke against the back wall of the cafe, eyes searching the darkness. He caught a faint glint of moonlight off what appeared to be the barrel of a carbine—short-barreled for easier handling. Smoke waited, muscles tensed. He pulled his right-hand .44 from leather and, with his left hand over the hammer to reduce the noise, cocked it.

The man behind the gun stepped away from the building, and for an instant, Smoke could see his face. It was no one he had ever seen before. The man was clean-shaven, his clothing dark and looking neat. The man took a step, a silent one. He wore no spurs.

Slowly, Smoke knelt down, carefully stretching out on the cool ground to offer the man less of a target. “You looking for me, partner?” Smoke softly called.

The man turned and fired, the slug striking the wood of the building some four feet above Smoke’s head. Smoke fired, the .44 slug hitting the rifle and tearing the weapon from the man’s hands. The gunman ran back into the darkness.

“Yo, Smoke!” Sal called from the street.

“I’m all right. Stay under cover. I’m thinking this man is not alone.” Smoke rolled to his left as some primal warning jumped through his brain.

Two fast shots, coming from different weapons, tore up the ground where he had been lying.

Smoke caught the muzzle flashes of one of the guns and snapped off a fast shot. The gunhand screamed as the slug ripped his belly and sent him tumbling off the roof of the saddle shop. He hit the ground and did not move.

An unknown gunhand stepped out of his hiding place behind Smoke and leveled his pistol. Jim and Sal fired as one from the main street, both slugs striking the man, knocking him off his boots.

Smoke rolled and came up on his feet, behind a tree. Both his hands were filled with .44’s, hammers back. A slug ripped the night, burning through the bark of the tree, knocking chips flying. Smoke stepped to the other side of the tree and fired twice, left and right guns working. The man doubled over, both shots taking him in the stomach. Smoke ran to him and kicked the dropped guns out of his reach. He knelt down beside the hard-hit man just as his deputies came running up.

“You’re not going to make it,” Smoke told the bloodied man. “Who hired you?”