War of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone

flyers to you. Oh, yes. We know what you’re doing here. We can’t give you our blessings, but we can close our eyes.”
    â€œThanks. Dubois and Mittermaier—Frenchman and a German?”
    â€œYep. And they’re good.”
    â€œI don’t like back-shooters. I’ll tell you now, Marshal: If I see them, I’m going to kill them.”
    â€œSuits me, Smoke. Good hunting.” He climbed back on board the stage and was gone.
    Smoke turned to Jim and Sal, who had just returned from the jail. “You hear that?”
    They had heard it.
    â€œPass the word to all the farmers and ranchers. Any strangers, especially those speaking with an accent, I want to know about. You boys watch your backs.”
    Sal spat on the ground. “I hate a damned back-shooter,” he said. “These boys are gonna be totin’ some fancy custom-made rifles. I see one, I’m gonna plug him on the spot and apologize later if I’m wrong.”
    â€œYou know what this tells me?” Smoke asked. “It tells me that Max is in a bind. What we’re doing is working. We can’t legally stop and permanently block freight shipments to Hell’s Creek. But we can hold them up and make them open up every box and crate for search. And I mean a very long and tedious search. It won’t take long for freight companies to stop accepting orders from Hell’s Creek.”
    Jim and Sal grinned. “Oh, you got a sneaky mind, Smoke,” Sal said. “I like it!”
    â€œThe last freight wagons rolled through a week ago,” Jim said. “There ought to be another convoy tomorrow, I figure.”
    â€œOK,” Smoke said. He looked at Sal. “You get a couple of town boys. Give them a dollar apiece to stand watch about two miles south of town. As soon as they hear the wagons, one of them can come fogging back to town for us. Everything going north has got to pass through here.” Smoke smiled. “This is going to give Max fits!”
    The men grinned at each other. One sure way to kill a town was to dry up its supply line. Big Max was not going to like this.
    Not one little bit.

9
    â€œSome of the boys is grumblin’ about you puttin’ up money on Jensen’s head and then lettin’ them foreigners come over here,” one of Max’s gunhands complained.
    Max spread his hands. “I put up the money, Lew. Anybody who nails Jensen gets it. As far as Dubois and Mittermaier are concerned, they’re old friends of mine. I sent for them long before Jensen entered the picture. Besides, they are much more subtle in their approach than most of those out there.” He waved his hand. “You and I, of course, could handle it easily. I’m not too sure about the others.”
    The outlaw knew he was getting a line of buffalo chips fed him, but the flattery felt good anyway. “Right, Big Max. Sure. I understand. What do I tell the boys?”
    â€œTell them . . .” Max was thinking hard. “Tell them that we must be careful in disposing of Jensen. If we draw too much attention to us, the government might send troops in here and put us all out of business.”
    â€œYeah,” Lew said. “Yeah, you’re right. They’ll understand that, Max. I’ll pass the word.”
    After Lew had left, Max leaned back in his chair. What next? he thought. What is Jensen going to do next?
    Â 
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    â€œWhat are y’all lookin’ for?” the teamster asked.
    â€œContraband,” Smoke told him. “Unload your wagons.”
    The teamster paled under his stubble of beard and tanned skin. “All the wagons? Everything in them?”
    â€œAll the wagons, everything in them.”
    Griping and muttering under their breaths, the men unloaded the wagons, and Smoke and Jim and Sal went to work with pry-bars. With his back to the teamsters, Smoke pulled a small packet from under his shirt and dropped it in a box. “Check