“My name is in the newspaper this morning,” Smoke said as he and Sally ate their breakfast. “I’m famous.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Smoke, you have more than a dozen books written about you. You are already famous, so you don’t need a story in a newspaper to make you famous.”
“But you’re famous, too, now,” Smoke said. “Your name is in here as well.”
“Let me see it,” Sally said, reaching for the paper.
Smoke pulled the paper back from her. “Ha! Good to see that you have a little vanity.”
“Give me the paper,” Sally said again, grabbing it from him.
“‘The two were having breakfast at the Palace Café. They had invited Cal, but he decided to have breakfast with Pearlie and Rusty.’
“Wow, he really is letting Atwood have it, isn’t he?” Sally said when she finished the article.
“He hasn’t printed anything about him that isn’t true,” Smoke replied. “This town is suffering under him.”
“I just hope he doesn’t wind up with his newspaper office damaged again. This time could be worse than the other time,” Sally said.
“I’ve got a feeling that Mr. Blanton is not the kind of man who would let a little intimidation cause him to back away from printing the truth.”
* * *
Of the three men who had gone into town to kill Smoke Jensen, only Tony Clinton returned to the Eagle Shire Ranch, and now, as Smoke and Sally were having their breakfast, Clinton was standing in the parlor of Atwood’s house, nervously rolling his hat in his hands as he reported their failure to his boss.
“Let me understand this,” Atwood said. “There were three of you. You attacked Smoke Jensen in the middle of the night, and you not only didn’t kill him, but he, while asleep in his bed, managed to kill Warren and Reed?”
“That’s just it, Mr. Atwood, he warn’t in his bed. Him ’n his woman was outside, standin’ on the roof of the porch, ’n when we went into his room, why they commenced a’ shootin’.”
“Still, there were three of you, which made the odds three to one.”
“No, sir. They was three of ’em, too.”
“Three?”
“Well, not at first. They was only Jensen ’n his wife at first, ’n both of them was shootin’. But by the time me ’n Reed got outside, they was three of ’em, ’cause another man had come out on the porch, ’n he was shootin’, too. Me ’n Reed was outnumbered then, ’n when they kilt Reed, well, sir, I was bad outnumbered. Seemed to me like the best thing for me to do was get away, so’s I could come back here ’n tell you what happened.”
“If this happened last night, why are you just now telling me?”
Clinton didn’t tell him when he first returned, because he was afraid to tell him.
“Well, I, uh, didn’t want to wake you up, it bein’ in the middle of the night ’n all.”
“Well, I didn’t need you to tell me what happened, anyway,” Atwood said. “Something like this, everybody in town will soon know, and it would get back to me.”
“Does this mean I ain’t goin’ to get none of that money you was talkin’ about?”
“Did you kill him, Clinton?” Atwood asked challengingly.
“Why no, sir, we didn’t kill him. It’s like I told you, he wound up killin’ Warren and Reed instead.”
“Then what makes you think I would give you anything? I’ve a good notion to take back the twenty dollars I did give you. The only way you can get the money I promised is by doing the job I asked. Would you like to go into town and try again?”
“No, sir, I wouldn’t like that a-tall,” Clinton said.
“I didn’t think you would. But it makes me wonder, just what in the hell is it going to take to kill Smoke Jensen?” Atwood asked.
* * *
Slim wasn’t proud to be riding for the Eagle Shire, and he knew that some of the other cowboys weren’t, either. Most of them, that is, the real cowboys, had ridden for legitimate spreads before. It may have been that, from time to time they might have put a running brand on a few new calves that didn’t exactly belong to the spread, or thrown an occasional long rope . . . but none of them had ever before worked for a man who was as ruthless as Silas Atwood. But they felt they had no choice. Atwood was so successful in his ruthlessness . . . that there was no place else for them to work, unless they left West Texas entirely.
Slim had seen Warren, Clinton, and Reed leave last night, but this morning only Clinton seemed to be around. He wondered what happened to the other two men, but there was no way he was going to ask Clinton. Slim tended to avoid the men who lived in the special bunkhouse as much as he could. He wasn’t sure what they did, and not long after he came to work at Eagle Shire, he asked some of the older hands about the mysterious group of men who occupied the other bunkhouse. It appeared to him that they did nothing for their pay, but he was told that it would be better if he didn’t ask questions.
He was working on the windmill when he saw Bo Willis come riding up. Until very recently, Willis had been one of the men who lived in the special bunkhouse, but now he was the new marshal in town. Slim couldn’t help but wonder how Willis had ever gotten the job. Slim’s idea of a lawman was someone who looked out for the people, and from what he knew of Willis, the new man didn’t give a damn about the people.
* * *
“Did Clinton come back here, or did he run off?” Willis asked.
“He came back,” Atwood said.
“I wasn’t sure he would, after what happened last night. I reckon he told you.”
“Yes.”
“Jensen kilt Warren and Reed.”
Atwood had answered in the affirmative, but Willis didn’t want to be denied the pleasure of telling him specifically.
“Yes, sir, he kilt Warren just outside his hotel room, ’n he shot Reed after Reed run out of the hotel ’n was already down on the street. Shot ’im from his hotel room, he did.”
“Clinton said there were three of them shooting at him and Reed.”
“Yeah, they was. Jensen, his wife, ’n one of them two fellers that come to town with ’em.”
“His wife was one of the shooters?”
Willis nodded. “I expect she’s right good with a gun. From what I heard, when Clinton ’n the others started raggin’ on them whores from the Pretty Girl Saloon, why, Jensen’s wife draw’d her gun quicker ’n Clinton did.”
“So, what you are saying is it isn’t just Jensen and Pearlie we have to worry about. It’s four of ’em.”
“Yeah. Well, I don’t know how good the youngest one is, the one they call Cal. But turns out he was one of the ones shootin’ last night.”
“I expect he is about as good as the others.”
“Yes, sir, I expect so, too.”
“You know what I think?” Atwood asked. “I think you need some more deputies.”
“What do you mean, I need more? Witherspoon never had but one deputy.”
“Yes, but Witherspoon didn’t have three, and maybe four gunmen to deal with. And Witherspoon wasn’t collecting the special taxes.”
“What special taxes?”
“The special taxes we’ll need so I can pay you and your new deputies more money.”
Willis smiled. “I like the idea of more money,” he said. “But I don’t understand what kind of special taxes you’re talkin’ about.”
“We’ll call it the Law Enforcement Capitalization tax. I’ll have the city council put on the new tax for the protection of the citizens of Etholen. It will apply to all the citizens in the town in order to pay all the extra deputies you’re going to put on,” Atwood said. He smiled. “And you’ll need the extra deputies to collect the taxes.”
“Do you think the city council will go along with this new tax?”
“Of course they will, when they learn that the new taxes will allow the council members to be compensated for their service to the community.”
Willis laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I
can see where they might go along with that.”
“When you go back into town, I want you to take Booker, Sanders, Creech, and Walker with you. That will give you five full-time deputies, and if it actually comes to a showdown, I’ll provide you with some additional support.”
“I’m pretty sure the six us will be able to handle just about anything that pops up,” Willis said confidently.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“All right, Willis, you called for a meeting of the city council,” Mayor Joe Cravens said, when Willis, Mayor Cravens, and the five members of the city council were gathered in the city hall. “What do you want?”
“One of the first things I realized, after becoming marshal, was the need for deputies,” Willis said.
“What do you mean, a need for deputies? You’ve got Clark,” Mayor Cravens said.
Willis shook his head. “Just havin’ Clark ain’t enough. Maybe you ain’t noticed it, but what with all the killin’ that’s been happenin’ lately, why we practically got us a war goin’ on here in town. It started with Rusty Abernathy killin’ Jeb Calley. Then, his mama helped him escape. Then, the next thing you know Smoke Jensen come into town with Kate Abernathy’s brother, ’n since they come to town, why they’s been a lot more that was kilt, even Deputy Calhoun and Marshal Witherspoon.”
“What the hell, Willis? You are the one who killed Witherspoon,” Cravens said.
“Yes, ’n that’s what I’m talkin’ about. You might ’member that I kilt Witherspoon right after he kilt Calhoun, ’n with him still shootin’ ’n all, why who knows who else he woulda kilt? ’N don’t forget, Kate’s brother was already wanted afore he even got here.”
“It is my understanding that he was tried and found not guilty,” Cravens said. “That means he is no longer wanted.”
“Yeah, well, whether he’s wanted or not, that didn’t stop the killin’, did it?” Willis said. “Two of ’em was kilt just last night. Smoke Jensen, his wife, and one o’ them two fellers who come to town with ’im, shot ’n kilt Muley Warren ’n Danny Reed.”
“After they broke into Mr. and Mrs. Jensen’s room and tried to kill them,” Cravens said.
“Could be. But even that proves my point,” Willis said. “It’s just that much more shootin’. Which is why we need to raise taxes so’s I can put on more deputies.”
“Raise taxes? Why, don’t be silly, Willis. You know the town would never put up with having their taxes raised,” Cravens said.
“It don’t matter whether the town is willing to put up with it or not,” Willis said. “The town don’t have nothin’ to say about it. All it needs is a vote by the city council to pass it.”
Mayor Cravens sighed, then looked at Jay Kinder, who was Speaker of the City Council.
“I’ve got an idea that you are going to pass it,” he said.
Kinder smiled. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
* * *
The first place to feel the manifestation of the new taxes was the railroad depot. Booker and Creech, two of the new deputies, set up a table in the waiting room of the depot, charged with the task of collecting a “visitor’s tax” from all the arrivals.
“Visitor’s tax? Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing,” an arriving salesman said. “I travel to towns all over West Texas, and nobody has ever asked me to pay a visitor’s tax before.”
“Well, it’s the law here in Etholen,” Booker said. “And you’ll either pay it or get on the train and go on to the next stop.”
“How much is it?” the drummer asked.
“The town charges visitors a tax of a dollar a day as long as you are in town.”
“All right,” the salesman said. “I’ve got too many good customers in town not to call on them. I’ll pay it. I don’t like it, but I’ll pay it.”
“You!” Creech called to a passenger who walked on by the table without stopping. “Get over here! We haven’t collected the visitor’s tax from you yet.”
“What do you mean, visitor’s tax? My name is Ron Gelbman, and I live here. I own Gelbman’s Department Store and I have lived here for as long as the town has been here. I’m just coming back home from a business trip.”
“Then you’re lucky,” Creech said. “You only have to pay the tax for one day. Iffen you was just visitin’, you’d have to pay a tax for ever’day you’re in town.”
“This is outrageous,” Gelbman said as he paid the dollar fee.
Very quickly, the rest of the town learned that the taxes weren’t limited to the visitors. The new taxes had an impact on everyone, sales taxes upon purchases, operating taxes on businesses, service taxes on people who provided services, from doctors to blacksmiths, and from lawyers to whores.
* * *
That same morning, one of the deputies came into the Pretty Girl and Happy Cowboy Saloon. Seeing Cal sitting at a table with Rusty, the deputy walked back to them.
“You ain’t a resident of this town, are you?” the deputy asked.
“No, I’m not, but I’m sure you already know that,” Cal replied.
“What are you doin’ here, in Etholen?”
“I thought everybody knew by now, Mr. Booker. This is a friend of my uncle, and they are visiting my mother and me,” Rusty said.
“That would be Deputy Booker. So, what you’re sayin’ is, he is a visitor.”
“Yes, I just told you, he is visiting my mother and me. But why is this any concern of yours?” Rusty asked.
Booker pointed a finger at him. “Now, don’t you go gettin’ smart with me, boy. I’ll throw you back in jail for mouthin’ off at a deputy.”
“Are you aware of the First Amendment, Deputy?” Cal asked.
“The first what?”
“The First Amendment to the Constitution. It guarantees all Americans the right of free speech. That means that Rusty can say anything he wants to you, short of a physical threat, and you have no authority to put him in jail.”
“Yeah, well, he ain’t the one I’m concerned about anyhow. You’re the one I’m concerned about. On account of because I don’t believe you have paid your visitor’s tax.”
“My what?”
“Your visitor’s tax,” Booker repeated.
“What visitor’s tax?” Rusty said. “I’ve never heard anything about a visitor’s tax.”
“That’s ’cause it’s a brand-new tax that the city council just put on today. We’re collectin’ from ever’ man that visits the town. It’s called the Law Enforcement Capitalization tax.”
“How much is this visitor’s tax?” Cal asked.
“It’s a dollar a day, for ever’day you’re here,” Booker said. “Now, hand it over.”
“You know what? I don’t think there is any such thing as a visitor’s tax.”
Booker pulled his gun and, cocking it, pointed it at Cal. “You’ll pay the dollar now, or I’ll shoot you dead and take it from you.”
“You’d shoot a man for a dollar?” Cal asked.
“It ain’t just the dollar. It’s the law,” the deputy replied.
“Why do you suppose it is that I have the feeling you haven’t always been such a stickler for the law?” Cal asked.
“It don’t matter none whether I have or I haven’t. Right now I’m a deputy city marshal, ’n I’m askin’ you, polite like, to pay the taxes you owe.”
“Polite like? Asking somebody at the point of a gun doesn’t seem all that polite to me,” Cal said. “But here’s my dollar.”
Booker took the dollar.
“Do I get a receipt?”
“What do you need a receipt for?”
“Suppose one of the other deputies approaches me and asks for a dollar? If I just told them I had already paid it, they might not believe me. So, I’d like a receipt.”
“Yeah, all right, I’ll write you out a receipt.”
“Where are them other two?” Booker asked as he handed the receipt to Cal.
“What other two?”
“You know wha
t two. The ones that come with you, Jensen and Kate’s brother.”
“They aren’t in town right now.”
“Where did they go?”
“It’s such a nice day, I think they just decided to take a ride through the country.”
“When they come back, you tell ’em they owe me a dollar apiece.”
“They owe you a dollar?” Cal asked. “And here I thought the tax was going to the town.”
“You just tell ’em,” Booker said gruffly as he left.
* * *
“Who are you?” the rancher asked suspiciously, as he stood on the front porch of his small house, holding a shotgun. Smoke could see the anxious face of a woman, and a child, through the front window.
“Mr. Barnes, my name is Smoke Jensen. This is Pearlie Fontaine. Joe Cravens suggested that we come talk to you.”
“Talk to me about what?”
“So far you’ve managed to resist having your ranch taken over by Silas Atwood.”
“If you’re here to make me another one of those offers to buy my ranch, you can just forget about it,” Barnes said resolutely. “It ain’t for sale!”
“You don’t understand, Mr. Barnes. We aren’t here to take your ranch. We’re here to help you keep it.”
* * *
In the office of the Standard, Allen Blanton learned quickly that his business was no different from all the other businesses in town when he was assessed five dollars for every issue he published. Unlike the other businesses in town, though, Blanton published a newspaper, which gave him a voice, and he was using it.
After he finished setting the type, he leaned back to read it. Because he could read backward as easily as he could forward, he smiled as he read the opening paragraph of his editorial, to which he had added a title reminiscent of an earlier time in the nation’s history.
TAXATION WITHOUT REPRESENTATION
Our forefathers fought a war of revolution against the British because they insisted upon taxing the colonies without giving the colonies any say in their own fate.
Unfortunately the people of Etholen are now facing the same thing because Atwood’s bought and paid-for city council, in a closed hearing, which by its very nature prevented the attendance of our citizens, enacted a series of draconian taxes. That is, by any definition, taxation without representation.
Brutal Night of the Mountain Man Page 22
