War Of The Mountain Man

The man grinned through his pain. “Told the boys we was gonna be buckin’ a stacked deck comin’ after you.” He groaned. “But the money was just too good to pass up.”

“Whose money?” Smoke asked.

“You go to hell!” the man said, then closed his eyes and died.

“This one’s still alive!” Sal called, kneeling beside the man who had fallen off the roof. “But not for long. I think his neck’s broke.”

“Hell, that’s Blanchard,” Pete said, looking down at the man. “I thought he was in prison down in New Mexico.” He knelt down. “Come on, Blanchard,” he urged. “Go out clean for once in your life. This is your last chance, man. Who hired you?”

Two dozen people, men and women, in various dress, including nightshirts and long-handles, had gathered around.

“Huggins from over to ... Hell’s Creek,” the dying man gasped. “Pulled us up from Utah. We rode the train. Me and Dixson. Dee was ... he rode over from Idaho.”

“Dee Mansfield?” Smoke questioned.

“Yeah.”

“That his horse down by the crick?” Sal asked.

“Yeah. He ... Gettin’ cold and I can’t ... move my hands.”

Dr. Turner pushed through the crowd and knelt down, looking at the man. It was a quick look. Blanchard had died.

The doctor stood up and faced Smoke. “When is this carnage going to end, Jensen?”

“Whenever Red Malone and Max Huggins call it off,” Smoke told him. He spotted the undertaker. “Haul them off,” he said. “OK, folks, show’s over. Let’s break it up.”

“No, it isn’t,” Tom Johnson said, walking up. “Melvin Malone just rode into town. He’s calling you out, Smoke.”

“Damn!” the word exploded from Smoke’s mouth. “I knew that kid would cut his wolf loose someday.” He punched out his empties and loaded up full. “Sal, clear the streets.”

“I demand an end to this barbaric practice of justice at the point of a gun!” Dr. Turner said. “Just arrest him, Marshal. You don’t have to kill him. You have the manpower to overwhelm him.”

Smoke looked at the man in the dim light. “You ... demand, Robert? Who in the hell do you think you are, anyway? Demand? Overwhelm him? How? He’s come to kill, Robert, not talk. He’ll shoot anyone who tries to disarm him.”

“You don’t know that, Smoke. That’s just conjecture on your part. Law and order must prevail out here. It’s past time.”

“Why don’t you go disarm him, then, Doctor?” Sal suggested.

“I ... uh ... I’m not a lawman,” the doctor said, his face coloring. “That’s your job.”

“Yeah, right,” Sal’s reply was dour. “I think that was the reason I hung up a badge the last time I wore one.”

Smoke turned his back to the doctor and walked away, his deputies moving with him, the crowd following along.

“He’s in the saloon,” Tom called. “You goin’ to kill the punk, Smoke?”

“I hope not,” Smoke muttered.

“There might not be any other way, Smoke,” Jim pointed out.

“I know. But 1 can always hope.”

Smoke stepped up onto the boardwalk and pushed open the batwings. The piano player stopped his pounding of the ivories when he spotted Smoke. The waitresses moved as far away from the bar as they could get. The long bar was already void of customers. Only Melvin stood there, a whiskey bottle in front of him, his right hand close to the butt of his Colt.

“Come on in, Jensen,” Melvin said. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

“You were banned from this town, Melvin. Leave now and I won’t toss you in jail.”

“You’ll never toss me in jail again, Jensen. Me, or anyone else for that matter.”

“Boy, don’t be a fool!” Smoke snapped at him. He knew that his plan to move close enough to slug the young man was out the window. Kill was written on Melvin’s face, and his eyes were unnaturally bright with the blood lust that reared up within him. “I’ve faced a hundred young hot-shots like you. They’re all dead, boy. Dead, or crippled.”

Smoke could tell that Melvin was not drunk. The young man had enough sense about him to lay off the bottle before a gunfight. Alcohol impaired the reflexes.

Melvin laughed at the warning.

Smoke was thinking fast. He had been warned that Melvin was very, very quick and very, very accurate, so any idea of just wounding the young man was out of the question. When Melvin dragged iron, Smoke was going to have to get off the first shot and make it a good one.

“Boy, think of your father,” Smoke tried a different tact. “Your sister. Think what your dying is going to do to them.”

“Me, dying?” The young man was clearly startled. “Me? Oh, you got it all wrong, Jensen. You’re the one that’s going to be pushin’ up flowers, not me.”

“Listen to me, boy,” Smoke said, doing his best to talk some sense into Melvin. “You ...”

“Shut up!” Melvin yelled, stepping away from the bar. “You’re a coward, Jensen. You’re afraid to draw on me.”

A coldness touched Smoke. A coldness that was surrounded by a dark rage. It sometimes happened when he was looking at death. It was a feeling much like the ancient Viking berserkers must have experienced in battle.

“I tried, boy,” Smoke’s words were touched with sadness. “Nobody can say I didn’t try.”