William Johnstone: Battle of the Mountain Man

“To hell with you, mister!” the man snapped, closing his fingers unconsciously for a quick pull, a signal to a man like Smoke that the time for talking had ended.

Smoke clawed one .44 free with the speed of a rat-der’s strike, thumbing back the hammer as he leveled it at the cowboy’s belly. He halted a few feet away with his feet spread slightly apart as the cowboy’s eyes became saucers, staring down the dark muzzle of Smoke’s Colt before he could clear leather. When Smoke spoke to him, it was in a hoarse voice.

“My mama used to say that when somebody don’t listen, it can be on account of too much wax built up in their ears.” He took a step closer. “She told me the best way to clean out somebody’s ears is to jar some of that built-up wax loose.” With the same lightning speed, Smoke struck the cowboy with the back of his free hand, a blow so powerful it sent the man reeling backward until he stumbled into the shallow stream and fell down on his rump in a foot of icy snowmelt gurgling down from the mountain peaks still capped by last year’s snow.

“Shit!” the cowboy exclaimed, shaking his head to clear it, scrambling back to his feet with his denims soaked. Only now he had his gun hand held to his face, where an angry red welt was forming, after Smoke had knocked him into the water. He rubbed his sore cheek a moment while his companion merely stood there near the mules holding the fence stave. “You had no call to do that to me!”

“I never ask a man to do anything twice,” Smoke replied, his gun still aimed in front of him. “I saw you whippin’ these mules and it didn’t sit well with me. When a man’s dumber than the animal he’s tryin’ to use, giving it a blacksnake treatment it doesn’t understand, I’ve got plenty of reason to slap the hell out of that kind of fool. I’m gonna get your team across this creek as soon as my ranch hands come over that ridge behind me, and after that’s done, you can be on your way. But if I ever see you whip mules like that again, I’ll take that same black-snake and work your ass over with it, same as you done to those poor dumb animals.” The other cowboy spoke for the first time. He was glowering at Smoke, holding the fence stave like a club. “You wouldn’t be talkin’ so big if it wasn’t fer them guns, stranger.”

“Is that so?” Smoke asked as he heard Pearlie and Cal in the buckboard rattle downslope toward him. “In that case, since you believe in what you say so strong, I’ll take ’em off and we can test your idea.” He examined the bearded gent with the club a little closer, making sure he wasn’t carrying a gun, finding him to be thick-muscled, big-handed, probably the sort who thought he was tough with his fists.

Smoke turned to the cowboy standing shivering wet in the creek “Toss that pistol out with two fingers. Pitch it up here. Soon as my boys get here they’ll make sure nobody goes for a gun while me and your pardner settle this.”

“You ain’t got the guts to fight Clyde bare-handed.”

“We can fight with feather dusters or claw hammers, for all I care,” Smoke replied, watching the cowboy lift his gun out very carefully to throw it near Smoke’s feet. He picked it up, then bolstered his .44 and removed his gunbelts, placing them in the back of the wagon. He spoke over his shoulder just as Pearlie drove up. “Boys, make sure that other feller stays right where he is while I teach this big fool a lesson.”

Pearlie drew his pistol. “I reckon you’ll explain after you’re done beatin’ this poor bastard half to death,” Pearlie said matter-of-factly, like the outcome was certain.

Smoke turned to the man with the wood stave. “Not much to it, really,” he answered back. “What we’ve got here is two of the dumbest assholes who ever tried to drive a team of mules. I watched ’em use a whip on this team, and that toothpick the big one is carryin’ now. I can’t hardly stand to watch men hurt an animal like that. I asked ’em real nice to stop, only they was not of the same mind on it. I’m gonna teach this one how it feels to have the hell knocked out of him with that very same club.”

Clyde answered in a snarl. “You gotta come git it first, you cocky son of a bitch. Ain’t gonna be easy.”

It was Cal who said quietly, “I’m real sure you’re gonna regret callin’ Mr. Jensen a son of a bitch, mister, not to make mention of what you done to them mules.”

“Are you Smoke Jensen?” the other cowboy asked, just as Smoke made a lunge toward Clyde before Clyde was ready for it. Swinging a powerful right hook at Clyde’s jaw, Smoke felt his knuckles crack when they landed hard against bone just as Clyde drew back with his fence stave.

Clyde grunted when Smoke’s fist struck him, and it seemed a mighty gust of wind lifted him off his feet, snapping his head around so that all he could see was mountains on the far side of the stream. Clyde staggered a few wobbly steps and then he knelt down as if he meant to pray, dropping the club beside him, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

Smoke walked up behind him and picked up the stave while Clyde blinked furiously, trying to clear his head. Smoke took a pair of short steps around the kneeling figure until he stood in front of him. “That’s what it’s like when a man hits another man in the head,” Smoke explained, sounding calm. “And now I’m gonna show you how those mules felt when you were whippin’ their asses with this stick.”

He swung a vicious blow with the stave, striking Clyde across the left cheek of his buttocks with a resounding whack.

“Yeeeow!” Clyde shrieked, tumbling forward until he landed on his chest with his palms covering the seat of his pants, his face twisted in agony.

Smoke took a deep breath, tossing the stick aside. “Now you know what the mules wanted to say. Remember how it feels to have the wood laid to your own ass. Me an’ my cowboys will cross that team over the way it oughta be done. And I meant what I said. If I ever see or hear of either one of you whippin’ a mule again when it ain’t necessary, I’ll come lookin’ for you. Believe me, you don’t want that to happen.”

Pearlie was already climbing down from the buck-board. “I’ll unharness the lop-eared mule an’ lead it across,” he said as if the remedy was all too clear. “Cal can drive the wagon across as soon as I git to the other side.”

Smoke returned to buckle on his pistols as Pearlie went about the harness task, selecting what was obviously the gender mule to lead it across.

Clyde came to his hands and knees shakily and shook his head again. “You broke one of my goddamn teeth when you slugged me,” he complained, running his tongue over a chipped tooth.

Smoke almost ignored him, until he said, “Count yourself real lucky I’m not still breakin’ ’em out one at a time. After that wagon gets across, I want you boys harnessed and headed on your way, wherever that is. But don’t stay in this country too long or I might change my mind about leavin’ the teeth in both of your mouths.”

“I’ve heard of you, Smoke Jensen,” the cowboy in wet pants said. “I reckon me an’ Clyde are real sorry we said what we did to you.”

Smoke gave him a withering stare, “Save your goddamn apologies for those mules They’ve each got one coming after what you did to ’em with that club and whip.”

He mounted Horse and watched Cal drive the loaded wagon easily across the shallow creek. Smoke waited until Cal and Pearlie waded back and climbed in the buckboard, then he glanced over to the men harnessing the mule.

“Let’s head home, boys, so Sally won’t be wondering why we’re late.”

Pearlie shook the reins over his buckboard team. He had a grin on his face. “I’ll swear we had a loose hub on this here buckboard, so she won’t have to be told the truth… that you killed two men early this mornin’ an’ just beat the hell out of two more over a pair of stubborn mules.”