Blood Of The Mountain Man. William W. Johnstone

kept walking.

      The others in the room wondered what in hell Jensen was up to.

      Smoke walked right up to Shorty and jerked his six-shooter from leather. He tossed the gun to a puncher seated at a table. The puncher caught the .45 and held it like he was holding a lighted stick of dynamite.

      “Sit down, Shorty,” Smoke said. “And I’ll buy you a drink. The trouble is over.”

      Shorty sat, then looked up at the man. “That took guts, Mister Jensen. I acted the fool.”

      “We all do from time to time. You sure don’t hold a corner on the market.”

      Smoke walked the room, introducing himself and shaking hands with all the men. Whatever friction might have been between the punchers had vanished. The men had gotten Dixie to his boots and the man wobbled over to the table and sat down. Turned out his jaw wasn’t broken, but it damn sure was badly bent.

      “I had a mule kick me one time wasn’t that hard,” Dixie mush-mouthed.

      The ranchers sent their men back to home range and they sat and had coffee with Smoke.

      “So Jake Bonner finally got himself six feet,” Three Star said. “It’s overdue.”

      Lazy J said, “You lookin’ for land up this way, Smoke?”

      “No. I’m heading for a place called Red Light. Can you tell me anything about it?”

      “It’s a damn good place to stay away from,” Three Star replied. “It’s a den of snakes and they’re all poison.”

      “It’s a hard four-day ride from here,” the other rancher said. “Figure on six unless you want to wear your horse out. But,” he added with a smile, “if that’s your buckskin out yonder, it don’t look like he ever gets tired.”

      “He’s a good one,” Smoke acknowledged. “And the best bodyguard I ever had.”

      “I can believe that. He gave me a look that caused me to give him a wide berth,” the rancher said. “Thanks for givin’ Shorty a break. He’s a good boy, but hot-headed. This might cool him down some.”

      The men chatted for a time, the ranchers telling Smoke the best way up to the rip-roaring mining town of Red Light, and then Smoke packed his supplies and rode north.

      “I always figured Smoke Jensen for a much older man,” one rancher said.

      The other one bit off a chew and replied, “Killed his first man when he was about fourteen. Then he dropped out of sight for a few years. Raised by mountain men. Ol’ Preacher took him under his wing. When Jensen surfaced a few years later, he was pure hell on wheels with a gun. Nice feller once you get to know him.”

      The West was being settled and tamed slowly, but it was getting there. Smoke avoided the many little towns and settlements that were cropping up all over the place. Most would be gone in a few years, some would prosper and grow.

      At the end of the third day, Smoke was beginning to feel a little gamy and wanted a hot bath, a bed with clean sheets, and a meal that someone else had cooked. He topped a ridge and looked down at a small six-store town, about a dozen homes scattered around the short main street. He rode slowly down the rutted road. As he entered the town he was conscious of the eyes on him. He swung down in front of the livery and told the man he’d stall and curry Buck himself.

      “I damn sure wouldn’t touch that hoss,” the liveryman said. “That beast has got a wicked look in his eyes.”

      “Gentle as a kitten,” Smoke said.

      “What kind of a kitten?” the man asked. “A puma?”

      Smoke smiled and spent the next few minutes taking care of Buck while the big horse chomped away at grain.

      Taking his kit and his rifle, Smoke walked across the street to the combination saloon, cafe, and hotel. It was mid-afternoon and the town was quiet. He registered as K. Jensen and went to his room. Taking fresh clothing, he walked to the barbershop and ordered hot water for the tub while he had himself a shave.

      “Passin’ through?” the barber inquired.

      “Yup,” Smoke told him. “Seeing the country. Thought I’d head up to Red Light and see what’s up there.”

      “Trouble,” the barber was blunt. “That’s a bad place to head for, mister.”

      “Oh?”

      “Yes, sir. You’re a hard day and a half from Red Light. Over the mountains. Used to be a decent place. Lots of small miners. Then Major Cosgrove moved in with his pack of trouble-hunters and before you knew what had happened, he owned the whole kit and caboodle. Them that tried to hold on to their claims suddenly got seriously dead. They tried to get their dust out, and they was robbed. I ran a shop up there for a few years. I made good money, but man, it got chancy, so I pulled out and settled here. The money ain’t so good, but the peace is nice. Except when Red Lee and his boys come to town.”

      “Red Lee?”

      “Owns a ranch east of here. Likes to think he owns everybody around here, too. Know the type?”

      “Sure.”

      “A couple of his boys is over to the saloon now. You’d best walk light around them. They like to start trouble, and they fancy themselves gunslicks.”

      “I’ll certainly take that under advisement,” Smoke said.

      He bathed carefully and then ordered more hot water to rinse off in. Dressed in clean clothes, while his others were being laundered, Smoke walked back to the hotel and into the saloon for a whiskey to cut the trail dust. It was just a little early for supper.

      He ignored the three men sitting at a table and walked to the bar. But he immediately pegged the men as rowdies and trouble-hunters. Nowhere had he seen any sign of a marshal or a marshal’s office in the small town.

      Smoke was beginning to have bad feelings about this trip. All he’d set out to do was settle his dead sister’s affairs, and so far all he’d had was trouble. He really wished he was back on the Sugarloaf, with Sally.

      “Whiskey,” he told the bartender. “From the good bottle.”

      “Well, now,” one of the rowdies said. “Looks like we got us a dandy come to town, boys. From the good bottle,” he mimicked mockingly.

      Smoke looked at the bartender as he poured the whiskey. There were warning signs in the man’s eyes, but Smoke ignored them. He was tired from the trail, wanting only a drink, a hot meal, and a warm bed. He was in no mood to be pushed around by the likes of those at the table.

      He despised that type of man and always had. He’d helped Sheriff Monte Carson run more than one of ’em out of town, and he’d personally killed his share of ’em over the years. They were, as the good folks in the Deep South called them, white trash.

      Smoke took a sip of his whiskey and carefully sat the glass down. He turned to face the men. “You have a problem with that, loudmouth?”

      The men fell silent, their mocking smiles suddenly gone from their faces. The bartender moved back, away from the tall stranger. Two locals at a table looked at each other and wished they were somewhere else.

      “Are you talkin’ to us, mister?” one of the trio said.

      “I don’t see anyone else in the room who stuck his lip into my business.”

      “You just bought yourself a whole mess of trouble, mister,” another of the three said.

      “You got it to do,” Smoke told him. “Fists or guns. It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to me. Step up here and toe the mark.”

      Four

      The three looked at each other and smiled. “You know who you’re about to tangle with, drifter?” one asked.

      “Three