Honor of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Tolson says it’s a prime piece of land, lots of water and grass and a sizable herd of shorthorns.” He began to build a cigarette as he talked. “Williams’s place abuts the Lazy M, and the river that runs through it supplies all of Murdock’s water. Tolson says whoever buys it will have control over the water Murdock needs to feed his stock.”

  Joey rubbed his chin. “That’s right interestin’.”

  Monte lit his cigarette and took a deep puff. “Even more interesting is the fact that no one seems eager to buy the place. Two local ranchers who put in early bids on the place withdrew their money after having the shit kicked out of ’em by persons unknown.”

  Joey said, “Those persons unknown were probably wearin’ badges when they did the kickin’.”

  Smoke nodded, a slow grin curling his lips. He looked at Joey. “Joey, I’ve got an idea. How about you and I investing in a ranch in Pueblo? Might be a way to cause Murdock a passel of trouble.”

  Joey shrugged. “I ain’t exactly flush with cash right now, Smoke. ’Bout all my savin’s are tied up down in Mexico.”

  Smoke smiled. “Oh, money’s no problem. I think I can convince the bank in Big Rock that investing in prime ranch property in Pueblo is a good idea . . . especially since Sally is president of the bank board and owns the building it’s in.”

  “But, Smoke, I don’t know nothin’ ’bout ranchin’ in Colorado.”

  “I’m not saying we have to run the ranch forever. But from what Monte’s told us, Murdock is getting rich and powerful off the backs of poor people.” He pulled a cigar out and lit it. “It’s been my experience that the best way to hurt rich men is to take away all their money and power. That’s a lesson Murdock won’t soon forget!”

  “When you put it that way, the idee does have some appeal to it.”

  Monte shook his head. “I hope you boys don’t think Murdock is gonna just lie down and let you ruin him. He’s sure to send his men against you, and with the sheriff being his kin, you don’t stand much of a chance of a fair fight.”

  Joey looked at him, his eyes cold as glacier ice. “That’s the part o’ the plan I like best. When the law’s crooked, an’ people in town know it, it gives us an edge later if marshals are called in. If’n the Murdock brothers and their phony lawmen come after us, the real law cain’t hardly take their part after this fracas is over.”

  Smoke smiled and spread his hands. “That’s right. We’d just be innocent ranchers defending our property.”

  Monte snorted, still shaking his head. “You two are about as innocent as a fox in a henhouse with feathers all over his snout!”

  * * *

  Pueblo, Colorado, though not a large town when compared to Denver or Silver City, was considerably bigger than Big Rock and had both stagecoach and train service. Smoke and Joey took a Wells, Fargo and Company stage to get there as soon as possible. Cal and Pearlie followed by train so they could bring Smoke’s Palouse stallion, Horse, and Joey’s big roan stallion, Red, along with them.

  Smoke decided not to bring any of his hands along, not wanting to tip their hand to Sam Murdock too early, and he figured they would be able to recruit plenty of help from ranchers who had been driven out of business by Murdock.

  Their stage arrived at dusk, and ex-sheriff Ben Tolson was on hand to meet it, having been wired by Monte Carson to expect them. When they climbed down, Tolson walked up and stuck out his hand to Smoke. “Mr. Jensen, I’m honored to make your acquaintance. Any friend of Monte’s is a friend of mine.”

  Smoke took his hand. “Howdy, Ben. Monte speaks very highly of you.”

  Tolson rubbed his chin, grinning. “Well, Monte and I go back a ways. We rode together a couple o’ times when we were young pups, hiring out our guns in the range wars of a few years back.”

  Tolson was a large man with broad shoulders and thick, muscled arms, hands gnarled with early arthritis. He had a handlebar mustache and small goatee, neatly trimmed, under dark, bushy eyebrows. Smoke thought he didn’t look like a man to trifle with.

  “Like Monte, when I got married I figgered it was time to plant myself and quit galavantin’ all over the country.” He looked down at his hands, flexing them. “Plus, this rheumatiz makes using a short gun kind o’ tricky.”

  “Ben, this is Mr. Joey Wells,” Smoke said, inclining his head toward Joey.

  Tolson’s eyes narrowed for just a moment before he gave a lopsided grin and stuck out his hand. “I’ve heard a mite about you, Mr. Wells. You cast a long shadow fer such a young man.”

  Joey’s lips curled up in what might have been a smile if his eyes hadn’t remained as hard as stones. “In spite of what you’ve probably heard, Ben, I ain’t never drawed on a man who didn’t pull iron on me first, an’ I ain’t never kilt nobody that didn’t deserve it.”

  “What do you plan to do now that Murdock’s hijacked your town, Ben?” Smoke said to break the tension between the two men.

  Tolson frowned. “Hell, I don’trightly know.” He looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was listening. “Jacob Murdock and his worthless brother, Sam, have been ridin’ roughshod over the smaller ranchers hereabouts and the businessmen in town who supported me during the election.” He shook his head. “Most of those folks have been friends of mine for years . . . I don’t want to let ’em down.”

  Smoke’s expression grew serious. “Isn’t there something you can do about it?”

  “Not without proof that the election was rigged.” Tolson patted his chest where his tin star used to lie. “When I put that badge on, I took an oath to uphold the law, and the law says the people have a right to elect whoever they want for sheriff, unless I can prove they stole the votes.” He shook his head as he pulled a plug of tobacco out of his pocket and sliced a chunk off. He chewed a couple of times, then leaned to the side and spit a stream of brown juice into the dirt. “I can’t prove anything against Murdock without havin’ some witnesses who’ll testify in court, and since the election, the only ones who tried to speak out have ended up deader than a stick. Now people who are willin’ to talk are few and far between.”

  He spit again, showing Smoke and Joey what he thought of people too afraid to speak out against the Murdock brothers. “Things were simpler in the old days. Then, I would’ve had a ... private talk with Murdock and tole him how much healthier it’d be if he and his no-good kin moved on down the line.”

  “Still sounds like a good idee to me,” Joey drawled in his soft Southern accent.

  Tolson cut his eyes to Joey. “Yeah, well, you don’t have a governor who’s tryin’ to make Colorado Territory a state. One complaint from Murdock, who is still the duty-elected sheriff of Pueblo, and I’d have a passel of U.S. marshals down here chewin’ on me like buzzards on a deer carcass.” He shook his head and spit again. “No, much as I like Monte, and much as I respect your reputation, Smoke, I can’t be a part of any vigilante justice here in Pueblo.” He shook his head. “If I did that, I’d be no better than Murdock and his crew.”

  Smoke smiled and spread his hands, an innocent look on his face. “You don’t have to worry about us, Ben. Mr. Wells and I are just honest ranchers come down here to inquire about buying a spread we hear is coming up for sale.”

  Ben chuckled. “Yeah, I bet. Anyway, I just wanted you gents to know where I stand. If we can get proof, or someone willing to testify, I’ll stand with you against the Murdocks. Otherwise, I got to keep my head down until that time comes.” Tolson glanced at the Colts hung low on their hips and Henry rifles slung over their shoulders. “I can see you men don’t travel light.”

  Joey stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and struck a lucifer on the hammer of his Colt. As the match flared, making his eyes glow with a feral glint, he growled, “Like you said, Ben, it’s a dangerous country, an’ the law cain’t always protect a fellah.”

  Monte nodded, his own eyes hard in the flickering light. “You know, I almost hope Murdock does come after you boys, and I
hope I’m there to see it. If anybody can take that man down a notch or two, you two can!”

  He pointed over his shoulder. “Take your bags on over to Mrs. Pike’s hotel. The food ain’t great, but it’s cheap and it’s plentiful.”

  Joey wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “They serve whiskey there? After twenty-four hours on that stage, my mouth’s so dry, I could plant cotton in it.”

  Tolson chuckled. “After you fill your bellies, come on over to the Silver Dollar Saloon. Murdock’s usually there playin’ poker till about midnight in a high-stakes game.” He grinned and winked. “I figure it’s about time he sees what he’s up against.”

  Chapter 8

  It was going on ten o’clock before Smoke and Joey had eaten their fill, washed the trail dust off, and changed into fresh clothes. On their way to the saloon, Smoke put his hand on Joey’s shoulder. “Joey, we’re liable to run into the men who attacked your ranch and shot up your family in the saloon. Do you think they’ll recognize you?”

  Joey gave a sardonic grin. “No. The onliest ones got close enough ta see my face didn’t survive the sight. The ones that got away stayed well outta range.”

  Smoke’s expression was solemn. “Do you think you can hold your temper and stick to our plan?”

  Joey nodded. “Only by knowin’ that’s the only way we kin git all the bastards an’ not jest one er two.”

  As they stepped up to the batwings, Smoke loosened the rawhide hammer thongs on his Colts and whispered, “Be sharp, Joey.”

  “Only way ta be, Smoke, an’ live ta see my wife an’ boy again.”

  The saloon was like hundreds of others in the gold rush and ranching towns of the West. A long wooden bar across one wall, a piano in a corner being tortured by a player with more enthusiasm than talent, and gaming tables scattered throughout the room. In spite of numerous kerosene lanterns, the room was gloomy and dark, the air suffused with a suffocating cloud of cigar and cigarette smoke combined with the pungent aroma of unwashed bodies and stale beer and whiskey.

  Ben Tolson was at a table to one side of the room, sitting by himself with a mug of beer in front of him. He had his Greener across his lap.

  As they entered, Tolson gave a small nod toward a table in the far corner of the room. A large, blustery man with carrot-red hair and muttonchop sideburns sat there, laughing too loudly and acting as if he owned the place. He wore a black coat and vest over a white shirt with a ruffled front and sported a large gold-nugget ring on the little finger of his left hand. Three other men, also wearing suits, were seated at the table. Two Anglos and two Mexicans were standing behind Murdock, eyes searching the room for any sign of danger to their boss, their hands resting on their pistol butts.

  There was no sign of anyone who might be Sheriff Sam Murdock or any of his deputies in the saloon.

  Joey stiffened, then spoke low out of the side of his mouth on the way to the bar. “El Machete.”

  He looked toward the tall, lean Mexican standing next to Murdock.

  Smoke and Joey walked across the room and leaned on the counter, facing one another so they could each cover the other’s back.

  Joey flipped a gold double eagle toward the barman. “Bottle o’ whiskey, an’ I want one with a label on it.”

  “Yes, sir!” the bartender said as he pulled a bottle from beneath the bar and placed it and two glasses in front of them.

  Joey poured drinks while Smoke observed El Machete out of the corner of his eye. The killer was staring at Joey, eyes squinted, a puzzled expression on his face as if he was trying to remember where he had seen him before.

  Smoke lit a stogie while Joey made a cigarette and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. As smoke curled up around his face, Joey asked the barman in a loud voice, “I hear tell there’s a ranch up fer sale hereabouts?”

  The bartender stopped wiping the counter and cut his eyes toward Murdock before replying, “Oh? Where’d you hear that?”

  “Around,” answered Joey. He drained his glass without removing the cigarette from his mouth and poured another.

  Smoke, peering over Joey’s shoulder, noticed they had Murdock’s full attention. He had stopped talking and was staring in their direction, as if trying to hear what Joey was saying over the noise of the cowboys in the saloon.

  “I also hear it’s a prime piece o’ land with good water an’ stock.”

  The barman began to sweat as he inched away from them. “I wouldn’t know nothin’ about that, mister. I just tend bar here.” He busied himself with his rag, keeping his head down and his gaze averted as if he was afraid of being seen talking to them.

  Murdock nodded over his shoulder at El Machete, who whispered something in Sergeant Garcia’s ear, causing the big man to grin widely. He hitched up his belt and walked toward the bar.

  Smoke leaned over and spoke low. “Uh-oh, trouble coming.”

  The fat Mexican stood behind Joey and placed a ham-sized hand on his shoulder. “Señor, I think you make a beeg mistake.”

  Joey winked at Smoke, then stared at Garcia. He looked like a child next to the huge man, his head barely reaching Garcia’s chest. “You talkin’ to me, mister?”

  “Sí. The ranchito you askin’ about, she is spoken for already.”

  Joey leaned his head back to glare up into Garcia’s eyes, blowing smoke in his face. “Oh? That ain’t what I heard.”

  The saloon became deathly quiet. The cowboys stopped their jawing, and sensing a confrontation watched to see what would happen. Even the piano player stopped beating the keys and spun on his stool to see what was going on. Smoke noticed out of the corner of his eye that Ben Tolson had put his beer down and placed his hand on the butt of his scattergun, ready for trouble. The ex-gunman had a slight smirk on his face, enjoying the action.

  Garcia stuck out an index finger as big as a sausage and poked Joey’s shoulder with it as he spoke. “Señor, I tole you, there is nothing in this place for you.”

  Joey stepped away from the bar and squared his shoulders, his eyes changing color as he stared at Garcia. “The last man touched me like that is eatin’ with his left hand now.” He glanced down at Garcia’s ample paunch. “From the looks o’ yore belly, ya need both hands to shovel in yore tortillas an’ frijoles, so why don’t ya back off an’ I’ll not hurt ya?”

  Garcia threw back his head and laughed, then swung a fist at Joey’s head. Quick as a snake, Joey reached up and grabbed the hand in midair with his left hand, squeezing. Knuckle bones cracked with a sound like dry twigs snapping.

  Garcia screamed, “Aiyeee,” and dropped to his knees. As the Mexican fumbled at his belt for his pistol with his left hand, Joey drew in one fluid motion and slammed the barrel of his Colt across the man’s face, flaying his forehead open with the raised front sight and snapping his head back. Garcia’s eyes crossed and glazed over. After a few seconds the outlaw fell facedown on the floor, his boots beating a tattoo on the boards as he flopped like a fish out of water, blood pumping from his wound to cover his face and chest and pool on the wooden floor.

  El Machete took a step forward and Joey glared at him. Joey extended his arm, hammer back on his pistol, pointing it between Vasquez’s eyes. “Hey, Mex, this trash a friend of your’n?”

  Vasquez stopped, his hands out from his sides, his face burning red at the insult. He nodded slowly, hate filling his eyes. “Sí.”

  “Then why don’t ya take his fat ass outta here ’fore I kill him?” Joey snorted in disgust, holstered his gun, and turned his back on the infuriated man as if he posed no threat.

  Joey poured himself another drink and said in a loud voice so all could hear, “It’s gittin’ so a man cain’t have a peaceable drink anymore without some greaser son of a bitch gittin’ in his face!”

  Vasquez slapped leather, but stopped when Smoke’s pistol appeared in his hand as if by magic. The mountain man eared back the hammer on his Colt with a loud click and put the barrel against the side of Vasquez’s head. “Your fat friend started it, Va
squez. Now, why don’t you and your compadres take him out of here ’fore my friend puts a window in your skull?”

  Murdock glared at Smoke and Joey, a speculative gleam in his eye. He growled from the corner, “Vasquez, take him back to the ranch, I’ll handle this.”

  It took Vasquez and three other men to lift Garcia and carry him from the saloon, sweating and grunting under the load. Smoke and Joey glanced at Murdock, their lips curled in derisive smiles, then holstered their pistols. They took their whiskey and glasses and sat at a table to the far side of the saloon, where they had an unobstructed view of the room and a wall at their backs.

  Murdock got up from his table and walked over to where Tolson sat, observing the action with a slight smile on his face. After talking with Tolson for a few minutes, beady pig-eyes watching Joey and Smoke, Murdock returned to his poker game. A half hour later the game broke up. Murdock pocketed his winnings and motioned for the bartender to bring him a bottle of whiskey. He spoke quietly to one of his two remaining bodyguards, who stared at Smoke and Joey as Murdock talked.

  The cowboy, an Anglo with his pistol tied down low on his right hip in a fancy rig, sauntered toward Smoke and Joey’s table, scowling and trying to look mean. He stopped in front of them, legs spread and hands on hips. “Mr. Murdock wants to talk with you,” he snarled.

  Smoke took the stogie out of his mouth and tapped an inch of ash on the man’s boots. “Okay.”

  When Smoke and Joey remained seated, the gunny got a puzzled look on his face. “I tole you, Mr. Murdock wants to talk to you!” he repeated.

  Joey shrugged, not looking up as he made another cigarette. “Yore boss has somethin’ ta say, send him over. We’ll listen.”

  Murdock’s man stood there, chewing his lips, trying to decide what to do next. “You want Mr. Murdock to come to you?” he asked, not believing his ears.

  Smoke shrugged as though he didn’t particularly care one way or the other.