War Of The Mountain Man

“She’ll take every dollar from the safe, sell off the herds, and be gone in a month,” the judge prophesied. “And good riddance to bad baggage.”

Smoke looked around. Most of the bodies had been tossed in wagons and were being hauled off to be buried in a mass grave. Half the men in town were working with shovels at the gravesite.

“Wagons coming,” Jim announced, pointing to the north.

As the wagons neared, Judge Garrison said, “Saloon girls, gamblers, and assorted riffraff from Hell’s Creek. Rats leaving a sinking ship.”

“No,” Smoke said. “A burning one. Because that’s what we’re going to do in the morning.”

“Suits me,” Tom said. “I’ll ride with you.”

“Keep moving,” Sal told the lead wagon. “And don’t stop until you’re in the next county. And he won’t want you, either, ’cause I’m fixin’ to wire the sheriff and tell him about you scum.”

One of the ladies of the evening, sitting in the back of the wagon, gave him a very obscene gesture with a finger.

“I’ll jerk you out of that wagon and hand you over to the good ladies of this town,” Sal warned her. “And they’ll shave your head and tar and feather you.”

The shady lady tucked her finger away and stared straight ahead.

The wagons rumbled out of sight.

“Why wait until the morning?” Pete asked. “Hell, Smoke. Let’s ride up there and put that town out of its misery right now.”

Smoke was curious to see what had happened to Big Max. “All right. Let’s ride.”

The band of men had stopped at Brown’s farmhouse and asked if the farmers wanted any of the lumber in the town before they put the torch to it.

To a man, they shook their heads. “Thanks kindly, but no thanks,” Gatewood said. “We just want shut of that den of thieves and whores and hoodlums.”

The men rode on, Smoke, Pete, Tom Johnson, Judge Garrison, and half a dozen more of the town. They were heavily armed, for no one among them knew what awaited them in Hell’s Creek.

Desolation.

As they topped the ridge overlooking the town, they could all sense the place was empty, completely void of life.

“Let’s check it out,” Smoke said.

The men inspected every building. The town was deserted. Thre was no sign of Big Max Huggins. Smoke looked at the safe in Max’s quarters. The door was open and there was no sign of forced entry. So Max had found the strength to open it and ride.

Smoke found a coal-oil lantern, lit it, and tossed it into the squalor that someone had once lived in... and from all indications, it had housed several women. The building was quickly ablaze. The other men were doing the same with coal-oil-soaked rags. Soon, the fierceness of the heat drove them back.

In half an hour, the town of Hell’s Creek, Montana was no more than an unpleasant memory.

The men headed back toward Barlow, for a hot bath, a good meal, and some well-deserved rest. The day’s events would alter their lives forever. For the good.

All that was left for Sally and Smoke were the good-byes to the people of Barlow and the ranchers and farmers out in the county. In the short time they’d been there, a lot had happened and they had discovered some friendships that would last forever.

Robert had been transferred to the territorial mental asylum and the doctors there had given him very little hope of ever recovering.

Through Sally’s help, the new bank had agreed to loan Martha and Pete the money for a down payment on the Lightning spread. The two were married the day before Smoke and Sally were due to pull out.

Tessie Malone left the country the very day she sold Lightning to Pete and Martha.

Much to Sal’s embarrassment, Victoria announced that the newly elected sheriff had proposed marriage to her and that she had accepted. Victoria had also accepted a position of teaching at the new school.

The other new schoolteacher in town, a cute little redhead, was making goo-goo eyes at Jim Dagonne. Bets were that he’d be roped and hog-tied before summer’s end.

Smoke and Sally had said their good-byes to Joe Walsh and his wife.

The town of Barlow had been quiet for a week. Not one shot had been fired, not one fist had been swung in anger. Sal commented that it was just too good to last.

That proved true when one of Joe Walsh’s hands came fogging into town, pale as a ghost and so excited he could hardly talk. He’d found Smoke Jensen’s body on the trail. Sally Jensen was missing.

27

Smoke was not dead, but had the bullet that grazed his skull been one millimeter more to the right, the slug would have blown out his brains.

He was back on his feet the next day, over the protestations of the new doctor in Barlow, and strapping on his guns.

Every able-bodied man in Barlow had been on the search for Sally and her kidnapper or kidnappers. They had ridden back into town at dawn, weary. They had lost the trail.

All Smoke could remember was that he and Sally and the packhorse had ridden down the edge of Swan Lake, intending to pick up the Swan River and follow it south to the railroad. They had stopped to water and rest their horses when Smoke’s head seemed to explode.

That’s all he could remember.