Assault of the Mountain Man

“That’s Smoke Jensen.”

Coltrane studied him for a moment longer. “Hmm. He don’t look all that tough to me.”

“I’m sure there has been many a man who has made that same judgment, or should I say, misjudgment?”

Coltrane took a step toward the dining room.

“No,” the clerk said sharply. “Whatever you have planned, don’t do it here.”

“Don’t worry, I ain’t goin’ to do anything here,” Coltrane said. “Not without Grange and Stallings.”

“For your information, he will be going down to the saloon after his dinner.”

“How do you know?”

“We discussed it as he was signing in,” the clerk said.

Coltrane hurried back to the saloon. It was early evening, and the saloon was at its busiest, with drinkers, card players, and even a few who were eating their dinner. He saw Stallings talking with one of the bar girls, and motioned him over. Grange was standing at the far end of the bar, nursing a drink, and Coltrane walked down to join him. He waited to speak until Stallings joined them.

“Jensen is here,” Coltrane said.

“Where?”

“Right now he is having his supper. Then he’s coming down here, so I suggest we get ready for him.”

Coltrane moved to stand just inside the door of the saloon watching for Jensen. When he saw him coming, he gave a signal to the others, who hurried to get into position.

The saloon had a wide boardwalk flanking the dusty street, a couple hitching posts out front, and bat wing doors through which Smoke pushed his way inside.

When he entered the saloon, he stepped to the side and made a quick perusal before he walked up to the bar to order a beer. At one time saloons such as this one had become so much a part of his day-to-day existence they had become part of his heritage. From Denver to Cheyenne to Phoenix to Dodge City, one saloon was like another.

Since he’d married Sally that was no longer the case. He still spent a lot of time in Longmont’s, but that was because Louis was his friend. And Longmont’s was so superior to the ordinary saloon, it was more like a private club than a public watering hole.

“What will it be, mister?” the bartender asked.

Smoke saw that, for some reason, the bartender seemed more than a little nervous. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I ... ,” the bartender started, then his eyes darted to the rear of the saloon, so quickly Smoke couldn’t tell whether it was a reflexive action or a signal.

Curious and cautious, he glanced toward the rear of the saloon.

“He’s seen us!” someone yelled at the top of his voice from the upper level floor. He was wielding a double- barrel shotgun, which he had turned toward Smoke.

“Shoot the son of a bitch!” someone else shouted and the shotgun boomed loudly.

Alerted by the shout, Smoke fell to the floor and rolled to his right, just as the man at the top of the stairs fired. The heavy charge of buckshot tore a large hole in the top and side of the bar, right where Smoke had been standing but a second before. Smoke shot at the man before he could pull the trigger on the second barrel. The would-be assailant tumbled over the railing and crashed onto the piano below.

As Smoke and the man on the overlook were firing at each other, Coltrane took the opportunity to go for his own gun. Suddenly the saloon was filled with the roar of another gunshot as Coltrane fired.

The presence of a second gunman did not surprise Smoke, for he had heard the first shooter yell out, “He’s seen us!” Smoke was able to react so quickly, his gunshot and the shot fired by Coltrane sounded like one.

Smoke hit exactly what he was aiming for. Coltrane was knocked backward onto a table where he lay sprawled out on his back, his head hanging down on the opposite side of the table. The table was covered by green felt, the easier for card playing. At the moment, however, it was soaked in blood.

A third man ran out of the saloon without even attempting a shot. Smoke didn’t know if he was running to get out of the line of fire, or if he had been a part of the team of ambushers who lost his courage when he saw the other two cut down.

Hearing the shots, the town marshal and his deputy came running into the saloon with guns drawn. Smoke had already holstered his pistol and was standing calmly with his back to the bar, his arms up, resting his elbows on the bar. The other customers in the saloon, those who had dived under the tables, or behind the piano, were milling around the two dead bodies, looking down at them with a cross between morbid curiosity and guilty appreciation of still being alive.

Noticing that Smoke was the only one not milling around with the others, the marshal and his deputy holstered their own pistols, then stepped over to talk to him.

“I have a feeling you are a part of this,” the marshal said.

“I was,” Smoke agreed. “But not by choice.”

“You want to tell me what happened?”

“These two men shot at me,” Smoke said. Moving to one side, he pointed to the damaged bar. “I believe there may have been a third, but he ran when the shooting started.”

“You’re Smoke Jensen, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”