Betrayal of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “What business?”

  “Finding the other bank robbers.”

  Bidding the sheriff good-bye, Smoke started toward the saloon, as much to slake his thirst as to find out more information. He tied his horse off in front, then on a whim, took the plaid shirt out of his saddlebag and put it on.

  Pulling his pistol from its holster, Smoke spun the cylinder to check the loads, then replaced the pistol loosely and went inside. He had long had a way of entering a saloon, stepping in through the door, then moving quickly to one side to put his back against the wall as he studied all the patrons. Over the years he had made a number of friends, but it seemed that for every friend he made, he had made an enemy as well. And a lot of those enemies would like nothing better than to kill him, if they could. He didn’t figure on making it easy for them.

  As Smoke stood there in the saloon with his eyes adjusting to the shadows, he saw one of the men he was looking for. He might not have even noticed him had the man not been wearing the shirt Smoke was wearing when the men jumped him. It was a shirt that Sally had mended when Smoke tore it on a nail in the barn.

  As Smoke thought about it, he began to get angrier and angrier. He was not only angry with the man for being one of those who framed him, he was angry because the man was wearing a shirt that Sally’s own hands had mended and washed.

  What right did that son of a bitch have to be wearing, next to his foul body, something that Sally had touched?

  The man was talking to a bar girl, and so engaged was he that he noticed neither Smoke’s entrance, nor his crossing the open floor to step up next to him.

  “Would you be Curt or Trace Logan?” Smoke asked.

  “I’m Curt. Do I know you?”

  “Let’s just say that’s my shirt you are wearing,” Smoke said.

  “What?” the man replied. For a moment he was confused; then, perhaps because Smoke was wearing the very shirt he had been wearing, he realized who Smoke was. Smoke saw the realization in the man’s eyes, though he continued to protest.

  “What do you mean I’m wearing your shirt? I don’t know what are you talking about.”

  “You know what I’m talking about,” Smoke said. “You, your brother, and four others set me up to take the blame for a bank you robbed in Etna. I’ve already taken care of two of your friends. You and Trace are next. Where is Trace, by the way?”

  Curt’s eyes widened, then he turned toward the bartender. “Bartender, send somebody for the sheriff,” he said. “This man is an escaped convict.”

  “Go ahead, send somebody for the sheriff,” Smoke said. “I just left his office.” Smoke gave a cold, calculating smile. “I’d like him to come down here and take charge. According to the sheriff, Curt Logan is worth two hundred fifty dollars to me.”

  The bartender looked back and forth between the two men, not knowing who to believe.

  “Dan, this man is Smoke Jensen,” someone called out from the door. Although Smoke didn’t realize it, Charley, the salesman, had followed him to the saloon from the sheriff’s office, and was now standing just a few feet away. “I’ve known Mr. Jensen for years, and I’ll vouch for him. And I was just down at the sheriff’s office while Jensen and the sheriff were talking. Jensen’s telling the truth. This man,” he said, pointing toward Curt, “is lying.”

  “You’re crazy,” Logan said.

  “I don’t know that he is so crazy,” the bartender said to Logan. “I’ve been wonderin’ where you and your brother got all the money you two been throwing around ever since you come to town. Besides which, Jensen is wearing a shirt just like the shirt your brother is wearing. To me, that means that the story he’s tellin’ makes sense.”

  “We . . . we sold some cows, that’s where we got the money. And the shirt’s just a coincidence.”

  “Where is your brother?” Smoke asked.

  Suddenly Curt went for his pistol. Smoke drew his as well, but rather than shooting him, he brought it down hard on the top of his head.

  Logan went down like a sack of feed.

  Smoke stared at the man on the floor. “Do you have any idea where his brother is?”

  “Yeah, I know. He’s upstairs,” the bartender said. “Like I told you, they been spendin’ money like it was water. He and this one have been keepin’ the girls plumb wore out ever since they got here.”

  “Which room is he in?”

  “Well, he’s with Becky, so that’d be the second room on your left when you reach the head of the stairs. And you better watch out for Becky too. She’s some taken with him now, I think. Though to be truthful, I think it’s more his money than it is him.”

  “Thanks.”

  The altercation at the bar had caught the attention of all the others in the saloon, and now all conversation stopped as they watched Smoke walk up the stairs to the second floor.

  When Smoke reached the room at the top of the stairs, he stopped in front of the door, then raised his foot and kicked it open.

  Becky screamed, and Trace called out in anger and alarm.

  “What the hell do you mean barging in here?” he shouted.

  “Get up and get your clothes on,” Smoke said. “There’s a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar reward out for you for robbing a bank, and I aim to collect it. I’m taking you down to the sheriff.”

  “The hell you are.”

  Smoke should have been more observant. If he had been, he would have noticed that Trace had a gun in the bed with him. From nowhere, it seemed, a pistol appeared in the outlaw’s hand.

  Trace got off the first shot, and Smoke could almost feel the wind as the bullet buzzed by him and slammed into the door frame.

  Smoke returned fire and saw a black hole suddenly appear in Trace’s throat, followed by a gushing of blood. The outlaw’s eyes went wide, and he dropped the gun and grabbed his throat as if he could stop the bleeding. He fell back against the headboard as his eyes grew dim.

  Becky’s screaming grew louder and more piercing.

  “You killed him! You killed him!” Becky shouted. She picked up the outlaw’s gun and, pointing it at Smoke, fired at him.

  Becky’s action surprised him even more than the fact that Trace had had the gun in bed with him. Stepping quickly toward her, he stuck his hand down to grab the gun, just as she pulled the trigger again. The hammer snapped painfully against the little web of skin between Smoke’s thumb and forefinger. It brought blood, but it didn’t hit the firing pin, so the gun didn’t go off.

  Smoke jerked the pistol away from Becky, then threw it through the window. Then, just to make certain there were no other hidden weapons, he picked up one side of the bed and turned it up on its end, dumping Trace’s body and the naked bar girl out on the floor.

  Becky curled up into a fetal position and began crying. Smoke looked at her for a moment, then left the room. When Smoke reappeared at the top of the stairs, he saw that everyone in the saloon was looking up to see how the drama had played out. They watched in silence as he descended the stairs; then several rushed toward him to congratulate him.

  Smoke smiled back and nodded at them, but he was very subdued about it. He didn’t consider killing a man to be anything you should be congratulated for. Looking toward the floor, he saw that that Curt Logan was gone. Silently, he cursed himself for not tying him up before he went upstairs.

  “Where did he go?” he asked.

  The bartender looked toward the floor where Curt Logan had been lying, and was genuinely surprised to see that he was no longer there.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” the bartender said. “We was all lookin’ upstairs to see what was goin’ to happen. I reckon he must’ve left when nobody was payin’ attention to him.”

  “That’s real brotherly love for Curt to leave and let Trace face me alone,” Smoke said.

  He walked over to the bar. “I’ll have a beer,” he said.

  “Yes, sir, and it’s on the house,” the bartender replied. As the bartender took an empty mug down to the beer barrel
to fill it, Smoke happened to glance toward the mirror that was behind the bar. That was when he got a quick glimpse of the reflection of Curt Logan just outside the front window. The outlaw had a gun in his hand, and he appeared to be sneaking up toward the front door.

  When Smoke leaned over the bar for a better look, he happened to see the double-barrel, ten-gauge, sawed-off Greener shotgun that the bartender kept handy. Picking it up, Smoke pulled both hammers back, then turned toward the door just as Curt Logan came through the batwings with his pistol in his hand.

  “You son of a bitch!” Logan shouted, shooting toward Smoke. His bullet crashed into one of the many bottles that sat in front of the mirror, shattering the bottle and sending up a spray of amber liquid. The other customers at the bar, suddenly finding themselves in the line of fire, dived to the floor and scooted toward the nearest tables.

  Smoke pulled both triggers on the shotgun and it boomed loudly, filling the saloon with smoke. Curt Logan was slammed back against the batwing doors with such force as to tear them off the hinges. He landed on his back at the far side of the boardwalk with his head halfway down the steps just as Sheriff Owens, drawn by the sound of the first shots, was arriving.

  When Owens came into the saloon, he saw Smoke standing at the bar, still holding the Greener. Twin wisps of smoke curled up from the two barrels.

  The sheriff looked back through the broken door at the body lying on the porch; then he stepped up to the bar.

  “Give me a beer, Dan,” he said.

  Dan drew the beer, then with shaking hands, held it toward the sheriff.

  “Better let me take that before you spill all of it,” the sheriff said, taking the beer. He blew the foam off, and took a drink before he spoke to Smoke, who by now had put the shotgun down and picked up his own beer.

  “Let me guess,” the sheriff said. “You’ve just earned yourself another two hundred fifty dollars.”

  “Five hundred,” Smoke replied. “That’s Curt Logan. His brother Trace is upstairs.”

  Suddenly there was a commotion at the door and, as fast as thought, Smoke drew his gun and turned toward the sound.

  “Hello, Smoke,” Sally said. “How’ve you been?”

  Sally had a gun in her hand, having just used it as a club. Ford DeLorian was lying facedown on the floor, unconscious. His right arm was stretched out before him, his fingers wrapped around a pistol.

  Pearlie bent down and took the pistol from Ford’s hand.

  Cal came in right behind Sally and Pearlie, and Sally came over quickly to embrace Smoke.

  “Sheriff Owens, this is my wife, Sally.”

  “Sheriff,” Sally said, smiling sweetly. “I hope your aren’t planning on arresting my husband for bank robbery. Because I’m here to tell you that he has been cleared.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I know that,” Sheriff Owens said. “I was just tellin’ him that the state owes him seven hundred fifty dollars.”

  “Make that a thousand dollars,” Smoke said, nodding toward the man who was just beginning to regain consciousness. “His name is Ford DeLorian.”

  “I guess that explains why he was planning to shoot you,” Sheriff Owens said. “All right, I stand corrected. The state owes you one thousand dollars.”

  “No,” Sally said. “You were right the first time. It’s just seven hundred fifty.”

  “What are you talking about?” Smoke asked. “He was one of the bank robbers, and there is a two-hundred-fifty-dollar reward for each of them.”

  “I know,” Sally said. She smiled at Smoke. “But this two hundred and fifty dollars is mine.”

  As Ford came to, he looked around in confusion, wondering what everyone was laughing at.

  Turn the page for an exciting preview of

  PREACHER’S QUEST

  by William W. Johnstone (with J.A. Johnstone),

  USA TODAY bestselling author of

  BLOOD BOND and THE LAST GUNFIGHTER!

  Coming in January 2007

  wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.

  Preacher’s Quest

  January 2007

  Pinnacle Books

  ISBN 0-7860-1739-2

  Chapter One

  If there was ever any doubt in the mind of the man called Preacher that the frontier was truly where he was meant to be, it was erased as he rode slowly down a wooded hillside toward a long, green valley. He felt a sense of contentment growing within him. He felt as most men do when they return from a long journey to the place where everything dear to them resides.

  Preacher felt like he was coming home, and that was the simple, God’s honest truth of it.

  Rugged, snowcapped mountains loomed all around the valley, starkly beautiful against the deep blue vault of sky. The snow on the peaks was a reminder that although the weather down in the valley was warm and sunny on this late spring day, winter was never very far off in this mountainous region.

  Tendrils of gray smoke from dozens of campfires rose into the air above the valley. Tents and tepees dotted the valley floor on both sides of the little stream that meandered through it. A couple of hundred people were crowded into the encampment, mostly bearded, buckskin-clad men, although quite a few Indian women in beaded buckskin dresses were in evidence, too, most of them stirring the contents of iron pots that simmered over the flames of the campfires. The men stood and talked and smoked their pipes or played cards or passed around jugs. They argued with the representatives of the fur-trading companies who had come out here to bargain for their loads of pelts. A few wrestled or competed at throwing knives and tomahawks.

  A grin creased Preacher’s lean, weathered face as he looked down the hill at all the goings-on. There was only one word to describe these festivities.

  Rendezvous!

  Twice each year, at the end of the spring trapping season and also at the end of the fall season, the mountain men who had come here to the Rockies to harvest beaver pelts gathered together to sell the results of their labor to the agents of the fur companies. However, Rendezvous was a lot more than just business. It was also the most important social occasion—often the only social occasion—each spring and fall. Friends who hadn’t seen each other for months slapped each other on the back and called each other obscene names and roared with laughter. Fiddles scraped and mouth harps wailed and the valley fairly shook from the stomping feet of the mountain men as they danced and capered. The party lasted for three days and nights, and when it was over the buckskinners, most of whom led solitary lives the rest of the year, went their separate ways, hungover, sore from laughing and fighting, back to their lonely existence until the time came for them to head once again for the Rendezvous.

  Preacher knew that sometimes the men who lived in these mountains went crazy from the solitude. A lot more probably would have lost their minds if it hadn’t been for the Rendezvous twice a year.

  With the grace of a natural-born horseman, Preacher rode a rangy, ugly mount known as Horse. At his side padded along a big wolflike cur called Dog. Like Preacher, the animals were starting to get some age on them. Not that any of them were actually old, far from it. Preacher, who had been born as the eighteenth century slipped into the nineteenth, hadn’t seen thirty-five winters yet. But the rugged life he’d led had put a few silver strands in the thick black hair under the floppy-brimmed hat he wore. The mustache that hung over his mouth and the beard stubble on his lean cheeks were dotted with silver as well.

  He led a packhorse that carried the pelts he had taken. This time he had fewer than usual because he hadn’t been able to spend a full spring season in the mountains. After wintering in Texas, he had been on his way back to the high country when he’d gotten delayed by some trouble in the Sangre de Cristos, down New Mexico way. He wasn’t particularly worried, though. A man who could live off the land like Preacher could didn’t need a lot of money.

  A frown creased Preacher’s forehead as he noticed a large, striped tent near the river. Mountain men usually didn’t go in for anything that fancy. The
tent probably belonged to some of the fur company representatives, Preacher decided.

  As he reached the bottom of the slope and started across the valley floor toward the encampment, several dogs noticed him coming and bounded toward him, barking. The big cur beside him growled low in his throat, and Preacher said, “Behave yourself, Dog. I don’t want to have to be pullin’ you out of a ruckus ever’ time I turn around.”

  Dog just looked up at him.

  “I know, I know,” Preacher said tolerantly. “You’re bigger and tougher’n those other dogs. But you know that and I know that, and I reckon that’s all that matters.”

  With dignity and only the occasional growl, Dog padded on, ignoring the canine commotion that went on around him.

  Some of the men attending the Rendezvous noticed Preacher’s impending arrival, too, and they stopped what they were doing to stride out a short distance from the edge of the encampment and wait for him, long-barreled Kentucky rifles cradled in the crooks of their elbows. Preacher lifted a hand in greeting as he approached them.

  “As I live and breathe,” one of the buckskin-clad men called, “if it ain’t Preacher.” He nudged the man next to him with an elbow. “See, I told you I smelled somethin’. Smelled like rotted bear grease, so I knew it had to be Preacher.”

  “Rather smell like rotted bear grease than a three-hole privy like you, Stump,” Preacher said.

  The grin disappeared from the man’s face and was replaced by a scowl. “Damn it, Preacher, you know I don’t like bein’ called that.” The nickname had come about not because the trapper had lost an arm or a leg or because he was short—although he was—but rather because nature had been less than generous to him when it came to his masculine endowment. Quite a bit less than generous, in fact.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Preacher said as he reined Horse to a halt and the packhorse stopped, too. He held up a hand with the thumb and forefinger only a couple of inches apart and went on, “It ain’t really your fault that you only got—”