Brutal Night of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Oh, don’t be so hard on them, Pearlie. It’s clear that Mr. Willis just hasn’t thought this through. He doesn’t realize that he could wind up getting himself, and his two friends, killed.”

  “What the hell are you two talkin’ about?” Willis asked, his voice reflecting his growing nervousness. “If they’s anyone that’s likely to get kilt here, it’s goin’ to be you two. Maybe you didn’t notice, but they’s only two of you, and there’s three of us.”

  Slipping his pistol from the holster and moving very quietly, and unnoticed, Cal stepped up behind the man who was standing at the end of the bar nearest the door. He brought his pistol down on the head of that man. Hearing him fall, Willis turned, only to see Cal holding a pistol in his hand.

  “Now there are three of us, and two of you,” Cal said.

  “Now, Cal, it’s not fair for you to be butting into this,” Pearlie said as he brought his gun up. “We’re the ones that loudmouthed son of a bitch has been picking on. That means I’m the one that gets to kill him. If you want to, you can kill the one that’s down at the other end of the bar.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Smoke said. “Cal already got his man. You can have the loudmouth if you want him, but I’ll be killing the one at the other end of the bar.”

  Like Pearlie, Smoke had drawn his pistol during the distraction caused by Cal’s dramatic entrance. He pointed it at the man at the other end of the bar, then cocked his pistol. As the hammer came back, the gear engaged the cylinder, making a loud clicking sound that filled the now silent room.

  “What . . . what are we goin’ to do, Willis?” the man standing at the opposite end of the bar asked. “My God! They’re goin’ to kill us! They’re goin’ to kill us, just like he did Pardeen.” He held both his hands out in front of him as if, by that action, he could ward off any bullets. “No, no! Don’t shoot me! Please don’t!”

  By now the man Cal had knocked out was coming to, and he groaned.

  “Take off your pistol belts, and hand them to Mr. Peterson,” Smoke said.

  “What the hell! I ain’t givin’ up my pistol!” Willis said.

  “Mr. Willis, you will either hand your pistol belt over to Mr. Peterson while you are alive, or I will kill you and give him the belt after you are dead,” Pearlie said.

  “You better do it, Willis, ’cause I ain’t standin’ with you!” the man at the far end of the bar said as, quickly, and with shaking hands, he removed his own belt.

  “Booker! You cowardly son of a bitch!” Willis said, but even as he was talking, he joined the other two in taking off his pistol belt. Then the three men, after turning their belts over to Peterson, left the saloon.

  “Damn!” someone said. “I never thought I would see any of Atwood’s cutthroats be disarmed like that and run off with their tails tucked between their legs.”

  “If you two fellas want another drink, I’ll be glad to buy it,” another said.

  “We’re good,” Smoke said. “But you can buy one for our friend. Step up to the bar, Cal, and tell Mr. Peterson what you’ll have.”

  With a broad smile, Cal ordered a beer, then, saluting his benefactor by raising the beer toward him, he joined Smoke and Pearlie at their table.

  “I got the horses taken care of,” he said.

  “Good. Did you see Sally?” Smoke asked.

  “Not since we separated at the depot.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “You need to get over to the Pretty Girl Saloon. Some son of a bitch just kilt Pardeen!” Willis said. He and the others had come straight to the marshal’s office after leaving the Pretty Girl and Happy Cowboy Saloon.

  “What do you mean, someone kilt Pardeen? You mean he shot ’im in the back?” Calhoun replied.

  “No, he faced Pardeen down.”

  “I didn’t think anyone could beat Pardeen.”

  “This feller did,” Booker said. “He’s the fastest I’ve ever seen.”

  “Who was it?”

  “He has some funny name like Stoke or Shoke or somethin’ like that.”

  * * *

  Sally and Kate, in back of the jail, were unaware of the conversation taking part out front.

  “I must be going,” Sally said. “But I don’t want you to worry anymore. Smoke says that we will get you out of jail, and I learned, a long time ago, to trust him when he is determined to do a thing.”

  “Sally, thanks for coming. And please ask Wes to come visit me.”

  “I’ll send him right over,” Sally promised.

  When Sally reached the front of the jail, she saw three men there with Deputy Calhoun.

  “He took our guns,” one of the men said.

  “He didn’t take ’em, Booker. You give ’em up to ’im.”

  “Then you should thank Mr. Booker,” Sally said. “By giving up your guns like that, Smoke didn’t have to kill you.”

  “Who the hell are you?” the loudmouthed one asked.

  “She says she’s a friend of Kate’s brother,” Calhoun said.

  “I am Mrs. Smoke Jensen.”

  “Smoke! Yeah, that was the son of a bitch’s name that kilt Pardeen! It was Smoke!”

  “May I have my pistol back, Deputy?” Sally asked.

  Calhoun opened the drawer, took out the gun, and handed it to Sally.

  “Thank you,” Sally replied. She turned to the loudmouth. “And your name, sir?” Sally asked.

  “It’s Willis.”

  Sally pointed her pistol at Willis.

  “What the hell?” Willis cried out. “What are you doin’?”

  “Mr. Willis, I would appreciate it if you didn’t use such language around me. Especially about my husband. And I would appreciate an apology.”

  “Do somethin’, Calhoun!” Willis said.

  “What do you expect me to do?” Calhoun asked.

  “Iffen we had our guns, she wouldn’t be doing this,” Willis said.

  Sally cocked the pistol. “My apology?”

  “I’m sorry!” Willis said desperately. “I’m sorry.”

  Sally smiled. “Your apology is accepted.”

  “If Witherspoon wants us, we’ll be down at the Bull and Heifer,” Willis said. “That is, unless you’re plannin’ on shootin’ us,” he added, looking back at Sally.

  “No, as I said, your apology is accepted. You’re free to go wherever you wish.”

  “Come on,” Willis said to the others in a voice that could only be described as a growl.

  Sally waited until the three men were gone before she slipped her pistol back into its holster.

  “You probably shouldn’ta done that, Missy,” Calhoun said. “It ain’t good to have them boys as enemies.”

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want them as friends,” Sally replied.

  Sally’s response was unexpected, and after blinking in surprise, Calhoun laughed out loud. “I guess you have a point there,” he said.

  * * *

  When Sally reached the saloon a couple of minutes later, she saw two men putting a body into the back of a wagon. The words WELCH UNDERTAKING SERVICE were painted on the side of the wagon.

  As soon as Sally stepped into the saloon, she was met by Smoke.

  “I hear I missed some excitement,” Sally said.

  “A little,” Smoke said.

  “A little? I did see someone being loaded into the back of an undertaker’s wagon, didn’t I? Tell me, Smoke, how can someone be a little dead?”

  Smoke laughed. “Well, you’ve got me on that one, Sally, I’m not sure someone can be a little dead. Why don’t you come join Pearlie, Cal, and me at the table?”

  “I’d be glad to,” Sally said.

  “Mr. Peterson, a white wine if you please,” Smoke called over to the bartender as he led Sally to the table.

  “Yes, sir,” Peterson said.

  “Oh, Mr. Peterson, Kate said to tell you she is doing fine, and she thanks you for standing by her.”

  “You saw Kate?” Peterson asked, surprised at the comment.


  “I did indeed.”

  Pearlie and Cal stood as Sally approached the table, then waited until Smoke pulled out a chair for her before they sat again.

  One of the bar girls, having overheard Sally’s comment to Peterson, approached the table.

  “How is Miss Kate? Is she doing all right?” the girl asked.

  “Yes. She doesn’t enjoy being in jail, of course, but she is doing just fine, and of course, she is worried about all her friends here.”

  “Have you seen Rusty? I mean, if you have, you don’t need to tell me where he is, or anything like that, I wouldn’t want to put him in danger. I would just like to know if he is all right.”

  Sally reached up and put her hand on the girl’s arm. “He’s doing just fine, dear,” she said with a warm smile.

  “Oh!” the bar girl said with a happy smile. “Oh, that’s wonderful to hear! I mean . . . uh . . . well, all the girls who work here will be real glad to hear that. If you go see Miss Kate again, would you tell her that Dolly asked about her?”

  “I’ll be glad to,” Sally replied.

  “Do you think they really intend to hang her if Rusty doesn’t come back?” Dolly asked.

  “I will guarantee you that you don’t have to worry about that,” Smoke said. “We will not let that happen.”

  “And if Atwood insists on it?” Dolly asked.

  “We will stop it.”

  “But, how? Atwood has so many men who work for him. To say nothing of Marshal Witherspoon. And there are only three of you.”

  “There are four of us,” Sally said.

  “What do you mean, four?” Dolly asked.

  Sally counted off, pointing her finger at Cal, Pearlie, and Smoke. “One, two, three.” She paused, then turned her finger to herself. “Four.”

  “Oh,” Dolly said. “Oh, I didn’t think . . . uh, that is, I mean you’re a . . .”

  “Yeah, I am,” Sally said with a big smile.

  “Did you have any trouble getting in to see Kate?” Pearlie asked after Dolly walked away.

  “Not really,” Sally said. “Oh, and Pearlie, Kate wants you to come see her.”

  “You mean now? She wants to see me now?”

  “Yes.”

  A broad smile spread across Pearlie’s face. “I’m glad to hear that. After all these years, and with me making no effort to get in touch with her, I wasn’t sure she would ever want to see me again, even if I tried.”

  “You aren’t the only one who feels guilty,” Sally said. “She blames herself for not trying to find you.”

  “You mean Katie thinks it’s all her fault?”

  “Apparently so.”

  Pearlie laughed. “Good, I’ll let her think that, and I’ll make her apologize to me.”

  “Pearlie, don’t you dare!” Sally said.

  “I was just teasing. I have to confess, though, that I am a bit nervous about going to see her.”

  “Don’t be. She’s as sweet a person as you would ever want to meet. Please, go see her now. I promised I would send you over there as soon as I could.”

  “All right,” Pearlie replied with an assenting nod. “I reckon I’ll just go on over there now.”

  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, mister!” a loud voice called out. “There ain’t nobody goin’ nowhere till I say they can!”

  Looking toward the man who had spoken, Smoke saw a man standing just inside the batwing doors. He was wearing a star on a shirt that strained at the buttons.

  “Witherspoon, you ain’t got no case here. Pardeen drew first,” one of the patrons said.

  “Cletus is right,” Peterson said. “Pardeen drew first.”

  “That’s the way it happened, Marshal,” Dolly said, and she was backed up by all the other girls in the saloon.

  “We ain’t goin’ to let you do to this man what you done to Rusty,” yet another patron said.

  “We’ll . . . we’ll see about that,” Witherspoon said, jabbing his finger toward everyone. “We’ll just see about that,” he repeated as he backed out of the saloon.

  Witherspoon’s departure was followed by a loud burst of laughter from the throats of everyone present.

  Pearlie followed Witherspoon out the door, and a moment later someone came in and stepped up to the bar to say something to Peterson. Peterson nodded, then stepped around the bar and led the man over to the table where Smoke, Sally, and Cal were sitting, Pearlie having just vacated his seat.

  “Mr. Jensen, this is Slim Pollard,” Peterson said. “He rides for the Eagle Shire.”

  “Atwood?”

  “Yes,” Peterson said. “But Slim here is a good man, I’ve known him for some time. And he’s one of the real cowboys, he’s not one of Atwood’s gunhands.”

  “What can I do for you, Pollard?” Smoke asked.

  “I, uh, have come to pick up the guns for Willis ’n the two men that was with ’im,” Pollard said.

  “Where are those men now?” Smoke asked.

  “They’re down at the Bull ’n Heifer,” Pollard said.

  “They sent you after their guns, did they?”

  “No, sir, I volunteered to come get ’em. I figured if they come for ’em, well, there could maybe be some more shootin’. But if I was to come ’n just ask for ’em real polite, there wouldn’t be no more trouble.”

  “All right,” Smoke said. “Mr. Peterson, give him the guns.”

  “I appreciate that,” Pollard replied.

  “Why don’t you join us for a beer?” Smoke invited.

  “Thank you!” Pollard said, this time with a broad smile.

  Smoke held his hand out toward Sally. “This is my wife.”

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Pollard said.

  “Tell me, Mr. Pollard,” Smoke said after the beer was served. “If you are a good man, as Mr. Peterson says, and I don’t doubt him, why are you riding for someone like Silas Atwood?”

  “He’s got cows and horses that need tendin’,” Pollard replied. “And bein’ as they’re just dumb animals, they don’t know what kind of man it is that owns them. Besides which, after Mr. Dumey left, the Double Nickel, which is the brand I used to ride for, wasn’t no more, ’n I didn’t have no job left. So when Miner Cobb offered to put me on, I took ’im up on it.”

  “Miner Cobb?”

  “He’s the foreman out at the Eagle Shire. ’N he’s a good man, too, he ain’t no gunhand like them others that Mr. Atwood has hired.”

  Smoke drummed his fingers on the table for a moment or two as he stared at Pollard.

  “Mr. Pollard, for reasons that I’m not going to go into, actually for reasons I’m sure you already know, I plan to take Atwood down.”

  “Take him down? You mean you . . . you plan to kill ’im?” Pollard replied with a troubled expression on his face.

  “It is not my intention to kill him,” Smoke said. “When I say take him down, what I mean is, disengage him from his hold over this town.”

  Pollard shook his head. “He ain’t never goin’ to just willingly give that up.”

  “Fortunately, my plan does not depend upon a willing relinquishment of his position of power. But I will bring that about, with, or without, Atwood’s willing acquiescence.”

  “Oh,” Pollard said.

  “Where will you stand on that issue, Mr. Pollard?” Smoke asked.

  “Well, sir, I’ve been a cowhand, man, and boy now for more’n twenty years,” Pollard replied. “And I’ve always believed that a cowboy owes some loyalty to the brand he’s ridin’ for.”

  “I can understand loyalty,” Smoke said.

  “On the other hand, I was loyal to Mr. Dumey, too, but when he give up ’n left his ranch, I didn’t think twice ’bout ridin’ for the man that run ’im off. If it comes right down to a battle between you ’n Mr. Atwood, I won’t be fightin’ ag’in you, ’n I don’t think any of the regular Eagle Shire hands will, either. I expect that about the onliest ones you’re goin’ to have to worry about will be them boys that lives
in the special bunkhouse.”

  “Special bunkhouse?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s what the rest of us call the place where the gunhands, folks like Willis, ’n Clark, ’n Booker, and such live. That was where Pardeen lived, too, till you shot ’im.”

  “I see.”

  Pollard snorted what might have been a laugh. “Pardeen, well, he sort of lorded over all of us regular cowboys. I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Jensen, I don’t expect any of us is goin’ to be all too broke up over him gettin’ kilt.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  When Pearlie stepped into the jail, there were two men inside and both were wearing a badge. One of the men was Marshal Witherspoon, who had just left the saloon.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” the marshal asked. “Did you follow me?”

  “No. Well, yes, I suppose I did, but not specifically. Marshal Witherspoon, my name is Pear . . . , uh, that is, Wes Fontaine. I’m here to see my sister.”

  “We ain’t got nobody here by the name of Fontaine,” Witherspoon said.

  “Her married name is Abernathy. Kate Abernathy,” Pearlie said.

  “This here’s the feller the woman mentioned when she was here a little while ago.”

  “Let me ask you something,” Witherspoon said. “Were you in the saloon when Pardeen was shot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which one of you shot him?”

  “What difference does it make who shot him? Pardeen drew first. You heard everyone in the saloon tell you that.”

  “I just want to know which one of you done it is all.”

  “Willis said it was the one named Smoke,” Calhoun said.

  “It was Smoke, but it could just as easily have been me, because if Pardeen had drawn on me like he did on Smoke, I would have shot him.”

  “Ha! You think you could’ve beaten Pardeen?”

  “Yes.”

  “I doubt that. Pardeen was really good with a pistol.”

  “Is that so? Well, as it turns out, he wasn’t good enough, was he?”

  Pearlie’s response quieted Witherspoon for a moment. “What’s the purpose of your visit?” he asked.

  “I told you, Katie is my sister. What other purpose would I need?”

  The marshal stroked his chin for a moment, then he nodded. “All right. Shuck out of that gunbelt, ’n I’ll let you go on back.”