War Of The Mountain Man

The man shook his head. “None at all. There ain’t nothin’ there ’ceptin’ the bottom of the barrel—if you know what I mean.”

“Good luck to you.”

“Thanks.” The man rode north, toward Hell’s Creek.

Smoke swung into the saddle. “Before you boys bury that crud, go through their pockets and take whatever money you find. You earned it.”

“Don’t seem right, takin’ money from the dead,” Bolen said.

“They won’t need it,” Smoke assured the man. “Near as I can figure out from reading the Bible, there aren’t any honky-tonks in hell.”

Big Max Huggins opened the folded piece of paper and read. He read it again and began cussing. He ripped the small note into shreds and did some more fancy cussing. All of the cussing leveled at and centered around Smoke Jensen.

The note read: MAX, YOU STUPID, HORSE-FACED PIECE OF HOG CRAP. MEET ME TOMORROW AT THE WEST SIDE OF THE SWAN RANGE BY THE CREEK. NO GUNS. I’M GOING TO STOMP YOUR FACE IN WITH FISTS AND BOOTS. COME ALONE IF YOU HAVE THE GUTS-WHICH YOU PROBABLY DO NOT HAVE, BEING THE COWARD THAT YOU ARE.

Max let his temper rage for a few moments, then began to calm himself. He sat back down behind his desk and smiled. Max had killed men with his fists and felt very confident that he would do the same with Smoke Jensen.

This is what you’ve been training for, isn’t it? he thought. Yes, of course it is. How to play it? The fight will be rough and tumble, kick and gouge. That isn’t what you meant and you know it! he mentally berated himself.

Jensen had slighted his courage, for a fact.

Max folded his hamlike hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. How to play it? Well, there was only one way: He would play it straight. He would go alone.

Jensen had tossed down the challenge; Jensen had implied that he did not have the courage to meet him alone. Well, he’d show that damn two-bit gunfighter a thing or two about courage.

Jensen had chosen well, Max thought. He knew exactly where Smoke would be: on the flats just above the creek. Good level place for a fight.

Max would go in alone, but he would be armed; to do otherwise would be foolish. Once there, both men would shuck their guns together, each in plain sight of the other. Then, Max smiled, I will beat Smoke Jensen to death with my fists.

Smoke camped on the flats. On the afternoon before the fight—if Max showed up, and Smoke felt confident he would—Smoke prowled the area, picking up and throwing away every stick and rock he could find. He walked the area a dozen times, looking for holes in the ground that might trip a man. He memorized the natural arena. Then, sure he had done everything humanly possible, he cooked his supper and made his coffee. He rolled into his blankets just after dark and went to sleep with a smile on his lips.

What he was doing he knew was foolish. It was male pride at its worst. But when two bulls are grazing in the same pasture, one is going to be dominant over the other, that was nature’s way. And Smoke had been raised too close to the earth to attempt to alter nature’s way.

The fight would really accomplish nothing of substance. Smoke knew it, and Max probably knew it, too. If he didn’t, then the man was a fool.

Smoke knew that what he ought to do was to kill Max Huggins just as soon as the man stepped down from the saddle. But that wasn’t his way, and Max probably realized it. If Max came, and came alone, then he was going to follow the same rules.

It promised to be a very interesting fight.

Smoke was up at dawn, boiling his coffee and frying his bacon. He ate lightly, for he knew the fight might take several hours until the end, and he did not want to fight on a full stomach.

At full light he looked out over the flats, and far in the distance he saw a lone rider approaching. From the size of the man, he knew it had to be Max Huggins. He lifted his field glasses and scanned the area all around Max, to the rear and both sides. He could pick up no sign of outriders. Big Max was coming in alone.

Max rode up to the flats and dismounted. He was wearing two guns, tied down. Smoke stood up from his squat and hooked his thumbs behind the buckle of his gunbelt.

“How do we play this, Max?”

“It’s your show. You call it.”

“First we untie, then we unbuckle and put them over here, next to my bedroll.”

“That sounds good to me.”

The men untied, unbuckled, and laid their guns on the ground, next to Smoke’s bedroll.

Smoke pointed to the battered coffeepot and two tin cups. “Help yourself. It’s fresh made.”

“Thanks. That’ll taste good.” Max squatted down and poured two cups. With a smile, he handed one cup to Smoke and said, “If it’s poisoned or drugged, then we’ll go out together.”

“It’s neither,” Smoke said, and took a sip of coffee. “It’s just hot.”

The men sipped and stared at each other in silence. Max broke the silence. “How’d you put it together about Robert?”

“Family resemblance is strong. Then I followed Robert one day and saw you together.”

“He’s quite insane, you know.” It was not a question.

“Yes, I know. What are you going to do with him?”