Betrayal of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Cal was filling a bucket at the water pump when he saw a boy of about fifteen riding toward the house.

  “Can I help you with somethin’?” Cal called out to him.

  “This here’s the Jensen spread, ain’t it?” the boy replied.

  “It is.”

  “I got a message for Mrs. Jensen from Mr. Mitchell.”

  “Mitchell?” Cal asked.

  “Mr. Cody Mitchell, the telegrapher.”

  “Oh!” Cal said. He smiled broadly. “It must be from Smoke. Give the telegram to me, I’ll take it to her.”

  The boy shook his head. “I ain’t got no telegram. All I got is a message, and Mr. Mitchell says I’m to tell it to her personal.”

  “All right,” Cal said, picking up the bucket. “Come on, I’ll take you to her.”

  An hour after the message was delivered, Sally, Pearlie, and Cal were in Sheriff Carson’s office.

  “You didn’t have to come into town, Miss Sally,” Carson said. “I was goin’ to come out there to see you.”

  “What’s this all about, Sheriff?” Sally asked.

  Sheriff Carson stroked his chin. “All I can tell you is what I heard from the marshal up in Etna. He said that they arrested Smoke for murder and bank robbery, and they tried him and found him guilty. He was supposed to hang this mornin’, but he got away.”

  “Thank God,” Sally said, breathing a sigh of relief.

  “Yes,” Carson said. “Well, he did get away, but it’s my understanding that Marshal Turnball has sent word out all over the West sayin’ Smoke is a wanted man.”

  “Sheriff, you know there is no way Smoke would hold up a bank, or murder someone,” Sally said. “How could a fair jury find him guilty of such a thing?”

  “I reckon they don’t know him like we do,” Carson said. “Sally, uh, they want me to arrest him if he comes back. I’m legally and morally bound to do it, so if he comes to the ranch first, you tell him to just keep on going and not to come into town.”

  “Don’t worry, Sheriff,” Sally said. “I don’t think Smoke will come back until he has this mess all cleared up.”

  That night in the bunkhouse, Pearlie woke up in the middle of the night. When he awoke, he saw Cal sitting at the window, just staring outside.

  “Damn, Cal, what time is it?” Pearlie asked from his bed.

  “I don’t know,” Cal answered. “It’s some after midnight, I reckon.”

  “What are you doin’ up?”

  “Can’t sleep.”

  “You’re thinking about Smoke, ain’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Smoke will be all right. He can take care of himself, you know that.”

  “Yeah, I know it.”

  “And he’ll find out who done this and get that set right too.”

  “Unless . . .” Cal answered, allowing the word to hang, pregnant with uncertainty.

  “Unless what?”

  Cal turned to look at Pearlie for the first time. “Pearlie, have you stopped to think that maybe Smoke, that is, maybe he . . .”

  “Did it?” Pearlie responded.

  Cal nodded his head, but said nothing. His eyes were wide, worried, and shining in the moonlight.

  “Cal, believe me, I’ve known Smoke longer than you have. He didn’t rob that bank and he didn’t kill that banker.”

  “I mean, if he did, why, I wouldn’t think no less of him,” Cal said. “What with the winter we just come through, and the danger of him maybe losin’ Sugarloaf an’ all.”

  “He didn’t do it,” Pearlie said again.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I told you how I can be so sure. It’s because I know him.”

  “Pearlie, you know how I come to be here, don’t you? I mean, how I tried to rob Miss Sally that time? If it had been anyone else but her, I would of probably got away with it. Then, there’s no tellin’ where I would be now. I might even be a bank robber. But I ain’t, ’cause she took me in.”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “The point is, I ain’t a thief. I mean, I ain’t no normal thief, but I was pretty desperate then, so I done somethin’ I never thought I would do. I could see how Smoke might do the same thing if he thought he had to.”

  “All right, Cal, do you want me to tell you how I know he didn’t do this?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s easy,” Pearlie said. “The sheriff said there were six of ’em robbed the bank, right?”

  “Right.”

  “If Smoke was going to rob a bank, he wouldn’t need no five other men to help him get the job done. He would’a done it alone.”

  Cal paused for a minute; then he broke into a big smile.

  “That’s right!” he said. “He would’a done it alone, wouldn’t he? I mean, Smoke, there ain’t no way he would need someone else to help him do a little thing like rob a bank.”

  “Are you satisfied now?”

  “Yeah,” Cal said. “Yeah, you’re right. Smoke didn’t rob that bank.”

  “So, you’ll go to bed now and let me get some sleep?”

  “Yeah,” Cal said. “Good night, Pearlie.”

  “Good night, Cal.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was just growing dark when Smoke rode into the little town of Dorena. He passed by a little cluster of houses that sat just on the edge of town and as he came alongside them, he could smell the aroma of someone frying chicken. That reminded him that he was hungry, not having eaten anything for the entire day.

  Smoke had never been in Dorena before, but he had been in dozens of towns just like it, so there was a familiarity as he rode down the street, checking out the false-fronted buildings: the leather goods store, the mercantile, a gun shop, a feed store, an apothecary, and the saloon.

  The saloon was called Big Kate’s, and when Smoke stopped in front of it, he reached down into the bottom of his saddlebag, moved a leather flap to one side, and found what he was looking for. He had put one hundred dollars in the saddlebag before he left Sugarloaf, keeping it in a way that a casual examination of the pouch wouldn’t find it. Fortunately, it had escaped detection when he was arrested and his horse and saddle were taken.

  The smell of bacon told him that Big Kate’s offered an opportunity for supper, so he went inside.

  One of the amenities the customers could enjoy at Big Kate’s was a friendly game of cards. On the wall there was a sign that read: THIS IS AN HONEST GAMBLING ESTABLISHMENT—PLEASE REPORT ANY CHEATING TO THE MANAGEMENT.

  In addition to the self-righteous claim of gambling integrity, the walls were also decorated with animal heads and pictures, including one of a reclining nude woman. There was no gilt-edged mirror, but there was an ample supply of decent whiskey, and several large jars of pickled eggs and sausages placed in convenient locations.

  From a preliminary observation, Big Kate’s appeared to be more than just a saloon. It was filled with working girls who all seemed to be attending to business. Smoke saw one of the girls taking a cowboy up the stairs with her.

  The upstairs area didn’t extend all the way to the front of the building. The main room, or saloon, was big, with exposed rafters below the high, peaked ceiling. There were a score or more customers present, standing at the bar talking with the girls and drinking, or sitting at the tables, playing cards.

  A large, and very bosomy, woman came over to greet Smoke.

  “Welcome to Big Kate’s, cowboy,” she said. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before. Are you new in town?”

  “I am,” Smoke answered. “I take it that you are . . .” He hesitated, then left out the descriptive word. “Kate?”

  Big Kate laughed, a loud, guffawing laugh. “It’s okay, honey, you can call me big. Hell, I’ve got mirrors and I ain’t blind. Now, could I get you something to drink?”

  “Yes,” Smoke answered.

  “Wine, beer, or whiskey?”

  “Beer,” Smoke said. “And something to eat, if you’ve got it.”

  �
��Beans and bacon is about it,” Big Kate replied. “And cornbread.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Smoke said

  “Kim, do keep the cowboy company while I get him something to drink,” Big Kate said, adroitly putting Smoke with one of her girls.

  Kim was heavily painted and showed the dissipation of her profession. There was no humor or life left to her eyes.

  “You were in here last week, weren’t you?” Kim asked. “Or was it last month?”

  Smoke shook his head. “You’ve never seen me before,” he said.

  “Sure I have, honey,” Kim answered in a bored, flat voice. “I’ve seen hundreds of you. You’re all alike.”

  “I guess it might seem like that to you.”

  “Would you like to come upstairs with me?”

  “I don’t think so,” Smoke said. He smiled. “I’m just going to have my dinner and play some cards. But I appreciate the invitation.”

  “Enjoy your dinner, cowboy,” Kim said in a flat, expressionless voice that showed no disappointment in being turned down. Turning, she walked over to sit by the piano player.

  The piano player wore a small, round derby hat and kept his sleeves up with garter belts. He was pounding out a rendition of “Little Joe the Wrangler,” though the music was practically lost amidst the noise of a dozen or more conversations.

  “What’s the matter? you didn’t like Kim?” Big Kate asked, returning with Smoke’s beer.

  “Kim was fine,” Smoke said. “I’ve just got other things on my mind, that’s all.”

  “It must be somethin’ serious to turn down a chance to be with Kim. She’s one of our most popular girls,” Big Kate said, laughing. “If you’ll excuse me now, I see some more customers just came in and I’d better go greet them. Oh, there’s a table over there. Your food will be right out.”

  “Thanks,” Smoke said.

  Ebenezer Dooley had stepped out through the back door to the outhouse to relieve himself. He was just coming back in when he saw Smoke Jensen talking with Big Kate.

  What the hell? he thought. How the hell did he get out of jail?

  Dooley backed out of the saloon before he was seen.

  Kim brought Smoke another beer and supper, then left to ply her trade among some of the other customers. Smoke ate his supper, then, seeing a seat open up in a card game that was in progress, took the rest of his beer over to the table.

  “You gents mind if I sit in?” he asked.

  “We don’t mind at all. Please, be our guest,” one of the men said effusively, making a sweeping gesture. “The more money there is in a game, the better it is, I say.”

  “Thanks,” Smoke said, taking the proffered chair.

  Some might have thought it strange for Smoke to play a game of cards under the circumstances, the circumstances being that he was a man on the run. But he was also a man on the hunt, and he had learned, long ago, that the best way to get information was in casual conversation, rather than by the direct questioning of people. He knew that when someone started questioning people, seriously questioning them, the natural thing for them to do was to either be very evasive with their responses, or not say anything at all.

  Smoke had already drawn his first hand before he saw the badge on the shirt of one of the other men who was playing.

  “You the sheriff?” Smoke asked.

  “Deputy,” the young man answered with a broad smile. “The name is Clayton. Gideon Clayton. And you?”

  “Kirby,” Smoke replied, using his first name that no one ever used. Then, in a moment of inspiration, he decided to make that his last name. “Bill Kirby,” he added.

  For a moment, Smoke felt a sense of apprehension, and part of him wanted to just get up and leave. But he knew that doing something like that would create quite a bit of suspicion.

  On the other hand, with Deputy Clayton being here, he might learn right away if any telegraph message of his escape had reached the sheriff’s office. But when Deputy Clayton made no move toward him, nor gave any indication of being suspicious of him, Smoke knew that, for now, he was safe to continue his search.

  To the casual observer it might appear that Smoke was so relaxed as to be off guard. But that wasn’t the case, as his eyes were constantly flicking about, monitoring the room for any danger. And though he was engaged in convivial conversation with the others at the table, he was listening in on snatches of dozens of other conversations.

  “I believe it is your bet,” Deputy Clayton said to Smoke. Smoke missed the challenge when it was first issued because he was looking around the room to see if he could spot any familiar faces. “Kirby?” the deputy said again.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, I believe it is your bet,” Clayton said.

  “Oh, thank you,” Smoke said. He looked at the pot, then down at his hand. He was showing one jack and two sixes. His down card was another jack. He had hoped to fill a full house with his last card, but pulled a three instead.

  “Well?” Clayton asked.

  Smoke could see why Clayton was anxious. The deputy had three queens showing.

  “I fold,” Smoke said, closing his cards.

  Two of the other players folded as well, and two stayed, but the three queens won the pot.

  “Thank you, gentlemen, thank you,” Clayton said, chuckling as he raked in his winnings.

  “Deputy Clayton, you have been uncommonly lucky tonight,” one of the other men said good-naturedly. Smoke had gathered from the conversation around the table that the one speaking was Doc McGuire.

  “I’ll say I have,” Clayton agreed. “I’ve won near a month’s pay just sittin’ right here at this table.”

  “What do you think, Beasley?” Doc asked one of the other players. “Will our boy Clayton here give up the deputy sheriffin’ business and go into gambling full-time?”

  “Ho, wouldn’t I do that in a minute if I wasn’t married?” Clayton replied.

  “Where’s Sheriff Fawcett tonight?” Beasley asked.

  “The sheriff’s taking the night off,” Clayton said. “I’m in charge, so don’t any of you give me any trouble or I’ll throw you in jail,” he teased. The others laughed.

  “Where you from, Mr. Kirby?” Doc McGuire asked as he shuffled the cards.

  “Down in Laplata County,” Smoke lied.

  “Did you folks have a hard winter down there?”

  “Yes, very hard.”

  “I was reading an article in the Denver paper a few weeks ago,” Clayton said. “According to the article this was the worst winter ever, and it was all over the West. Hundreds of thousands of cows were lost.”

  “It was a bad one all right,” Beasley said as he dealt the cards. “Some folks think that bad weather only hurts the farmers and ranchers, but I can tell you as a merchant that it hurts us too. If the farmers and ranchers don’t have any money to spend, we can’t sell any of our goods.”

  “I reckon it was the winter that made those folks hold up the bank over in Etna,” Smoke said, taking a chance in bringing up the subject.

  “There was a bank robbery in Etna?” Beasley asked. “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “Yes,” Deputy Clayton said. “We didn’t get word on it until yesterday. Six of ’em held up the bank and killed the banker.”

  “They killed the banker?” Beasley asked. “Wait, I know that banker. His name is Clark, I think.”

  “Yes, Rob Clark,” Clayton said. “But I understand they caught one of the ones who did it.”

  “Good. I hope they hang the bastard,” Beasley said. “From what I knew of him, Clark was a good man.”

  “Oh, I expect the fella that killed him is already hung by now,” Clayton said.

  “You haven’t heard anything on any of the others, have you?” Smoke asked.

  “No, as far as I know they’re still on the run,” Clayton said as he pulled in another winning hand.

  Smoke won the next hand, which brought him back to even, and the way the cards were falling, he
decided he had better stop now. When Clayton started to deal, Smoke waved him away.

  “Are you out?”

  “Yeah, I’d better quit while I have enough money left to pay for my hotel room,” Smoke said, pushing away from the table and standing up. “I appreciate the game, gentlemen, but the cards haven’t been that kind to me tonight. I think I’ll just have a couple of drinks, then turn in.”

  Ebenezer Dooley was standing just across the street from the saloon, tucked into the shadows of the space between Lair’s Furniture and Lathum’s Feed and Seed stores. He had been there for just over an hour when he saw Smoke step outside.

  “Well now, Mr. Jensen,” Dooley said quietly. “It’s time I settled a score with you, once and for all.”

  Dooley pulled his pistol and pointed it, but just as he did so, a wagon passed between him and Smoke. By the time the wagon had cleared, he saw Smoke going into the hotel.

  “Damn!” he said, lowering his pistol.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The hotel clerk was reading a book when Smoke stepped up to the desk. He looked up.

  “Yes, sir, can I help you?”

  “I’d like a room.”

  “Would you prefer to be downstairs or upstairs?”

  “Upstairs, overlooking the street if possible.”

  “Oh, I think I can do that for you,” the clerk said. He turned the book around. “The room will be fifty cents.”

  Smoke gave him the half-dollar, then signed the book, registering as Bill Kirby.

  The clerk turned the book back around, checked the name, then wrote the room number beside it. He took a key down from the board and handed it to Smoke.

  “Go up the stairs, then back to your left. The room number is five; you’ll see it right in front of you.”

  “Thanks,” Smoke said, draping his saddlebags over his shoulder.

  The stairs were bare wood, but the upstairs hallway was covered with a rose-colored carpet. The hallway was illuminated by wall-sconce lanterns that glowed dimly with low-burning flames, putting out just enough light to allow him to see where he was going.