Battle of the
Mountain
Man
William W. Johnstone
One
Smoke Jensen rode his big Palouse, Horse, into Big Rock, Colorado, just as the sun peeked over the mountains to the east. As Horse cantered down dusty streets, Smoke’s eyes flicked back and forth, checking alleyways and shadows for potential trouble. Though his days as one of the West’s most feared gunfighters were behind him, old habits died hard, and old enemies seemed to live longer and outnumber old friends.
As Smoke passed the jail, Sheriff Monte Carson stepped through the door and tipped his hat. “Howdy, Smoke. Gettin’ an early start this mornin’?”
Smoke smiled at his old friend and pointed back over his shoulder at a buckboard following him. “Got to set an example for these young punchers, Monte. Otherwise they’d sleep half the day away.”
Monte grinned and glanced at the wagon. Pearlie, foreman of Smoke’s Sugarloaf ranch, was riding slumped over, his hat pulled down over his eyes, snoring loud enough to be heard over the creaking of wheels and the clopping of horses’ hooves.
Sitting next to Pearlie, leaning against his shoulder, was Cal Woods, Pearlie’s second in command at the ranch. His hat was also down and his eyes were closed.
Though he wasn’t snoring, he was obviously asleep, too.
Monte chuckled. “Good thing those broncs know the way to town, Smoke, or them boys’d be in Denver by now.”
Smoke nodded and reined Horse to a stop in front of the general store next to the jail. He stepped out of his saddle and tried the door, finding it still locked.
He shook his head.
Pearlie opened one eye and peered out from under his Stetson. With a prodigious yawn, he nodded and nudged Cal awake. “C’mon boy. Food’s callin’ an’ the boss is buyin’.”
They left the buckboard in front of the store and ambled over to the Silver Dollar Saloon, following Smoke.
When they brushed through the batwings, the three men found Louis Longmont sitting at his usual table, drinking coffee and smoking a long, black cigar. The ex-gunfighter smiled and waved them over to his table. Even at this early hour, he was, as usual, dressed impeccably in a black suit and a starched white shirt with ruffles on the front, a black silk vest, and a red cravat around his neck.
Louis looked like a dandy, but he was in fact one of the fastest guns in the West. He was a lean, hawk-faced man, with strong, slender hands and long fingers, his nails carefully manicured, his hands clean. He had jet black hair and a black, pencil-thin mustache. He wore low-heeled boots. A pistol hung in tied-down leather on his right side; it was not for show alone. For Louis was snake-quick with a short gun. A feared, deadly gun hand when pushed. Just past forty years of age. He had come to the West as a young boy and made a name for himself first as a gunfighter, then as a skilled gambler. He was well educated and as smart as he was dangerous.
Smoke and Pearlie and Cal pulled up chairs across from Louis, who waved a hand at a young black waiter. “Tell Andre to scramble up some hen’s eggs, burn three steaks, and make a fresh pot of coffee. These punchers look hungry.”
Smoke’s eyes flicked around the room in an unconscious search for danger, automatically noting three men sitting at a corner table on the far side of the room. Though it was barely dawn, two of the men had mugs of beer in front of them and the third a glass of whiskey.
The cowboy drinking whiskey sported a fancy double-rig of hand-tooled holsters containing pearl-handled Colts, and wore a black silk shirt and black pants tucked into knee-high stovepipe black boots. He had red hair and a red handlebar mustache. His hair was slicked down and glistened with pomade, and the corners of his mustache curled up, held in place with wax. His companions both wore pistols hung low and tied down on their thighs with rawhide thongs.
Smoke inclined his head toward the gunmen and said to Louis, “Trouble?”
Louis smiled and tipped cigar smoke from his nostrils. “They think they are. The one with the fancy rig calls himself the Arizona Kid.” He paused to chuckle. “The big one on the left, the one with the shaved head, says his name is Otto, and the other one’s name I didn’t catch.“
Louis paused while the waiter placed three mugs of dark, steaming coffee in front of them.
Pearlie built himself a cigarette and stuck it in the corner of his mouth, in unconscious imitation of his idol, the famous gunman Joey Wells, whom he had met and fought alongside the previous year.(See 'Honor of the Mountain Man')
“They were here drinking all last night,” Louis continued, glancing in the direction of the gunnies who were staring at Smoke and his men. “Said they heard Ned Buntline was in the area and they wanted to talk to him about writing a book about them.”
At the mention of Buntline’s name, Cal came fully awake, his eyes wide. “Mr. Buntline is in Big Rock?” he asked.
Louis smiled, knowing Cal’s addiction to the penny dreadfuls Buntline penned. “He was. He came through here last week, said he was headed into the high lonesome to talk to some of the old mountain men before they all died off. He’s planning on writing a story about how they opened the mountains up to the white man.”
