The riders came right up to him, then reined to an abrupt halt. Smoke looked up at them again.
“Howdy,” he said.
“Howdy,” one of the riders—a man with a long, pockmarked face and a drooping eyelid—said, swinging down from his horse. The other five riders dismounted as well.
There was something peculiar about the riders, the way they all dismounted and the way they stared at him. It was also curious how they let one man do all the talking. Two of the riders were wearing identical red and black plaid shirts, and as he looked at them more closely, he saw that they looked enough alike that they must be brothers. He didn’t have a good feeling about the whole situation, and he decided that the quicker they left, the better it would be.
“Are you havin’ any trouble?” the man with the pockmarked face and drooping eyelid asked.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Smoke answered. He squinted at the men. “You folks headed anywhere in particular?”
“Yeah, we’re lookin’ for work,” the man with the drooping eyelid said.
Smoke shrugged. “Don’t know as you’ll have too much luck there. The winter was pretty bad on most of the ranches. What few spring roundups there were are probably over now. Far as I know, none of the ranches are hiring. Maybe if you go farther south, down into New Mexico Territory where the winter wasn’t so bad, you’ll have some luck.”
“What are you trying to do, mister? Put a shoe on a split hoof?” one of the men in a plaid shirt asked.
Smoke should have known better than to fall for an old trick like that, but out of concern for the horse, he looked at Stormy’s foot. That was when one of the other riders stepped up and slammed the butt of his pistol down on Smoke’s head. After that, everything went black.
Chapter Seven
Opening his eyes, Smoke discovered that he was lying facedown in the dirt. He had no idea where he was or why he was lying on the ground, though he sensed that there were several people standing around, looking down at him.
His head throbbed and his brain seemed unable to work. Who were these people and why were they here? For that matter, why was he here?
Smoke tried to get up, but everything started spinning so badly that he nearly passed out again. He was conscious of a terrible pain on the top of his head, and when he reached up and touched the spot gingerly, his fingers came away sticky with blood. Holding his fingers in front of his eyes, he stared at them in surprise. That was when he saw his shirt sleeve. He was not wearing the blue shirt he had started out with that morning. Instead, he was wearing a red and black plaid shirt . . . one of the shirts he had seen on the men who had accosted him.
“What happened?” Smoke asked. His tongue was thick, as though he had been drinking too much.
“I’ll tell you what happened, mister. Looks to me like there was a fallin’-out among thieves,” a gruff voice said. “The other boys turned on you, didn’t they? They knocked you out and took the money for themselves.”
Smoke got up slowly, trying to make sense of things. He wasn’t sure what the man was suggesting, so he just hesitated.
“That’s right, ain’t it?” the man asked. The man talking to him was a very big man, wearing a tan buckskin vest over a red shirt. Peeking out from just behind the vest was a lawman’s star.
“I’m not sure I know what you are talking about, Sheriff,” Smoke said.
“I’m not a sheriff, I’m marshal for the town of Etna. And lyin’ ain’t goin’ to do you no good. Too many people seen you in that shirt you are wearing. And just because you wound up without any of the money, it don’t make you no less guilty. You’re going to hang, mister. I don’t know which one of you killed Mr. Clark back there in Etna when you held up the bank, but it don’t really matter none who pulled the trigger. Every one of you sons of bitches is just as guilty.”
Smoke had been right in sensing that there were several people around him, because as he looked around now, he could see several more men glaring at him, all of whom were brandishing weapons, ranging from revolvers to rifles to shotguns.
Again, Smoke put his hand to the wound on his head. It was extremely painful to the touch, and he winced.
“Who are you?” Smoke asked.
“I’ll be askin’ the questions, mister,” the big man replied. “But for your information, the name is Turnball.” Turnball pointed to a thin-faced, hawk-nosed man who appeared to be in his mid-twenties. He was also wearing a star.
“This here is Pike, my deputy, and the rest of these men are temporarily deputized for posse duty. What is your name?”
“Jensen. Kirby Jensen, though most folks call me Smoke.”
Turnball smiled broadly. “Smoke Jensen, eh?”
“You’ve heard of me?” Smoke said, relieved. Sometimes having a reputation could be an intrusive aggravation. But in a case like this, it would be helpful in preventing a case of mistaken identity.
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard of you all right,” Turnball said. “Fact is, I’ve got paper on you tacked up on my wall.”
“Paper?”
“You’re a wanted man, Mr. Jensen.”
“No,” Smoke said. “If you’ve got wanted posters on me, they are old. Very old. All the dodgers on me have been withdrawn. I’m not wanted.”
“Well, if you wasn’t wanted before, you’re sure wanted now, seein’ as how you robbed our bank. I reckon you and your friends figured you could get away with it ’cause Etna is so small. But you got yourselves another think coming.”
“I didn’t rob any bank.”
Turnball pointed to Smoke’s shirt. “Anyone who would wear a plaid shirt while robbing a bank is just too damn dumb to be an outlaw,” he said. “Hell, half the town of Etna described you.”
“They may have described this shirt, Marshal, but they didn’t describe me,” Smoke said.
“Same thing.”
“No, it isn’t the same thing. This isn’t my shirt.” Turnball laughed. “Oh, you mean you stole the shirt before you stole the money from the bank?”
“No. I mean whoever attacked me took my shirt and put this one on me.”
Turnball and the others laughed.
“Now if that ain’t about the dumbest damn thing I’ve ever heard. Why would anyone do that?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? They did it to throw the suspicion on me,” Smoke explained. “I guess they figured the law around here would be dumb as dirt and buy into it. Looks like they were right.”
Turnball laughed again. “You say I’m dumb, but you are the one who got caught. Quit lyin’ and save your breath. I know what happened. You boys got into a little fight, and they lit out on you. I’m arresting you for the murder and bank robbin’ you and the others done in my town,” Turnball said.
Deputy Pike and one of the other riders grabbed Smoke roughly, and tried to twist his arms behind his back. Smoke broke loose.
“Oh, do it!” Pike said, cocking his pistol and pointing it at Smoke’s head. “I’m just lookin’ for an excuse to shoot you, you murderin’ bastard!”
“Pike!” Turnball said gruffly. “I told you, we’re takin’ him back alive. You kill him here, we never will find the others.”
Smoke glared at Pike. “If you want to shackle me, just ask,” he said. “No need for you to pull my arms out of their sockets.”
“Put your hands behind your back,” Pike ordered.
“Shackle his hands in front of him,” Turnball said. “He’s got to ride his horse back into town.”
Smoke held his hands out in front, and Pike shackled them together.
“Help him on his horse,” the marshal ordered. “And pick up them empty bank wrappers. Like as not, we’ll be needing them as evidence.”
“Marshal Turnball, my horse picked up a stone,” Smoke said. “I was working on his foot when the bank robbers jumped me. He’ll go lame if it isn’t taken care of.”
“Check it out, Frakes,” Turnball said.
Frakes, who was the youngest of the bunch, had b
een staring unblinkingly at Smoke from the very beginning. He made no effort to move.
“Frakes?” the marshal said again.
Frakes blinked, as if just aware he was being spoken to.
“What?”
“He said his horse picked up a stone. Check it out.”
“Left foreleg,” Smoke said.
Frakes lifted the horse’s left foreleg. “Yeah, there’s a stone here, all right,” he said. He took a knife from his pocket and, after a moment, got the stone out.
“Thanks,” Smoke said.
“You’re welcome,” Frakes said.
Pike held the reins as Smoke got mounted.
“You’re making a big mistake,” Smoke said. “I did not hold up any bank. I was on my way up to Denver to meet with a land broker. I own Sugarloaf Ranch down in Rio Grande County. I haven’t even been in Etna before today.”
“You want to explain these empty bank wrappers here?” Turnball asked, holding one of them out for Smoke to examine. Printed on the side of the wrapper was $1,000,00 BANK OF ETNA.
“They must’ve been left here by the men who jumped me. They’re the ones you are looking for.”
“Jumped you, you say?”
“Yes, I told you, I was seeing to my horse when they rode up. They started talking to me, and the next thing I knew, they knocked me out. That must have been when they took my shirt and left this one. That’s also when they left these bank wrappers lying around. They set me up.”
“You got any witnesses to that?”
“Well, no,” Smoke answered. “The only witnesses are the ones who did it, and they certainly wouldn’t testify against themselves.”
“Too bad you got no witnesses, mister. ’Cause I do have witnesses. At least half a dozen of ’em. And they’ll ever’one of ’em swear they seen you and the other robbers ridin’ out of town.”
“Your witnesses are wrong, Marshal. They are either mistaken, or they are lying.”
“Mister, I am one of them witnesses,” Turnball said. “And I don’t cotton to being called a liar. So, don’t you go tellin’ me what I did and what I did not see.” He pointed at Smoke’s chest, adding, “I remember them plaid shirts you and one of the other robbers was wearin’ like as if there was a picture of ’em drawn on my eyeballs.”
“I told you, this isn’t my shirt,” Smoke said again. “You are making a huge mistake.”
“No, friend,” the lawman responded. “The only mistakes made around here was made by you. And you made three of ’em.” Ticking them off on his fingers, he enumerated: “Your first mistake was in pickin’ a bank in my town to rob. Your second was in havin’ a fall-out with the other thieves, and your third was in getting yourself caught. Now, let’s go.”
The ride back to town took about two hours, and as Turnball and his posse rode into town, several of the town’s citizens turned out along either side of the street to watch.
“They caught one of ’em!” someone yelled.
“Good job, Marshal!” another said.
“Hang ’im! Let’s hang the son of a bitch now!” yet another shouted. “Ain’t no need for a trial! Hell, the whole town seen him kill Mr. Clark!”
The last citizen had several others in the town who agreed with him, and the mood grew much uglier by the time Turnball got Smoke back to the jail.
“What you goin’ to do with him now, Marshal?” someone asked as the riders all dismounted.
“I’m going to put him in jail and hold him there until Judge Craig can get down here and hold a trial,” Turnball said.
“Hell, there ain’t no need in wastin’ the judge’s time or our time,” one of the citizens said. “If you ask me, I say we hang the son of a bitch now, and get it over with.”
“Fremont, I hope you are just mouthin’ off to hear yourself talk,” Turnball said. “I hope you aren’t really talkin’ about lynchin’.”
“Come on, Jason, you seen what he did to poor old Mr. Clark. His wife has been grievin’ something pitiful ever since it happened,” Fremont said. “It ain’t right that poor Mr. Clark is dead and the son of a bitch that killed him is still alive.”
“Pike,” Turnball said gruffly. “Get the prisoner in the cell.”
“These folks are pretty worked up,” Pike said. “Maybe Fremont’s got a point. I mean, why should the town pay to feed the prisoner when he’s just goin’ to hang anyway?”
“Get the prisoner in the cell like I told you to,” Turnball said. Turnball pulled a shotgun from the saddle boot of his horse. “The rest of you,” he said to the crowd. “Get on about your business and let me get about mine.”
“Marshal, you know damn well if we try him, the judge is goin’ to find him guilty. Then we’ll hang him anyway,” Fremont said.
“Then you can afford to be a little paitent.”
“To hell with patience. I say let’s do it now and get it over with,” Fremont insisted, still undeterred by Marshal Turnball’s chastising.
Turnball pointed the shotgun at Fremont. “You aren’t listenin’ to me, are you?” Turnball asked menacingly.
“Whoa, hold on there!” Fremont said, his voice showing his fright. Fremont held his hands out in front of him and took a couple of steps back. “What are you doin’, Turnball? You’d shoot an innocent man to save a murderer?”
“There’s nothin’ innocent about a lynchin’, or about anyone who would suggest one,” Turnball said. He pulled the hammer back on one of the barrels of the double-barrel shotgun he was holding. “Now if these here people don’t leave in the next ten seconds, I’m goin’ to blow your head off.”
“Wait a minute! What do you mean you’re going to blow my head off? I’m not the only one here,” Fremont said, obviously frightened at having the gun pointed at him.
“No, you aren’t. But you are the one doin’ all the big talk, and you are the one I’m going to kill if the others don’t leave.”
“Why would you shoot me if they don’t leave?” Fremont asked.
“’Cause I won’t be able to kill all of them,” Turnball said impatiently. “One, two, three . . .”
“Let’s go!” Fremont said to the others. “Let’s get out of here!”
Turnball watched as the townspeople left. Then he looked at the men who had ridden with him in the posse.
“You folks can go too,” he said. “I thank you for ridin’ with me.”
The posse members left as well, some of them remounting and riding away, others leading their horses. Frakes remained behind.
“You may as well go on too, Frakes.”
“You think the town would really lynch Jensen?” Frakes asked.
“It sounded for a few minutes there like they were giving the idea some thought,” Turnball said. “But I don’t intend to let it happen. I can’t say as I blame them, though. Mr. Clark was a good man, and he carried a lot of people through the winter, givin’ ’em time on their loans and all.”
“What if we don’t have the right man?” Frakes asked.
Turnball laughed. “What do you mean, what if we don’t have the right man? Hell, you was right over there on Dunnigan’s porch with me when they rode in. We commented on the shirts two of ’em was wearin’, remember?”
“Oh, yes, sir, I remember all right,” Frakes said.
“Then what makes you think we ain’t got the right man?”
“I remember the shirt,” Frakes said. “But I don’t know as I remember the face. I know for a fact he wasn’t the one standin’ out front. And when the other two come out of the bank, why, they was both wearin’ hoods.”
“Well, don’t worry about it. We got the right man, all right. And soon as he gets his day in court, why, we’ll prove he is the right one. Then we’ll build a gallows right here on Front Street, and all these people that’s got a bloodlust out will have their hangin’. Only by then, it’ll be legal.”
“Yeah,” Frakes said. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Frakes climbed onto his horse, then started riding it toward the liv
ery.
Turnball watched him for a moment, then went inside. He saw Pike standing over at the utility table by the wall. Pike was leafing through all the wanted posters.
“You got him into the cell with no problem, I take it?” Turnball asked.
“No problem,” Pike said as he continued to page through the wanted posters. “I reckon his kind knows better than to mess with me.”
“No doubt,” Turnball replied sarcastically.
“Aha! You was right!” Pike said, suddenly holding up one of the posters. “We do have some paper on a fella named Smoke Jensen. Hey, Marshal, did you know there’s a five-thousand-dollar reward on him!”
“No. I just remember having seen the name on a dodger, that’s all.”
Pike whistled. “Five thousand dollars,” he said. “Damn that’s a lot of money. Just think what we can do with that money.”
“It don’t do us any good to think about it,” Turnball said.
“What do you mean it don’t do us any good to think about it? We’re the ones that caught him. I’d like to know who has a better claim on it.”
“It ain’t a point of havin’ a better claim on it. We’re the law,” Turnball explained. “If you’re the law, you can’t collect on a reward. That’s just the way of it.”
“Well, that ain’t right,” Pike said, crestfallen. “That ain’t no way right.”
“Marshal,” Smoke called from the cell at the back of the room. “Check the date on that poster.”
Turnball looked at the poster, front and back. “There ain’t no date,” he said.
“Well, take a good look at the poster then,” Smoke said. “Can’t you see how the paper has already turned color? That alone should tell you how old it is.”
Turnball shook his head. “It don’t matter how old it is. I’ve never received anything cancelin’ it.”
“All right, it tells what county issued it, doesn’t it?” Smoke asked. “Doesn’t it say it came from Hinsdale County?”
“Hinsdale County, yes.”
“Then it is easy enough for you to check,” Smoke said.
“Check, how?”
Betrayal of the Mountain Man Page 6
