Code of the Mountain Man tlmm-8

by William W. Johnstone

  “Jesus!” the barkeep said. “What’s the matter with him? Why don’t he say something?”

  “Because he’s dead,” Smoke said.

  Dirty Jackson fell on his face.

  Greeny was moaning and crawling around on the floor. The kid was beginning to show some signs of life. The other two had wisely decided to stay on the floor with their hands in plain sight.

  “You others, get up!” Smoke told the two outlaws, wide-eyed and on the floor. “And haul the kid and that jerk over there to their boots.”

  Greeny and the punk were jerked up. “The punk goes to jail,” Smoke said. “The others get chained to that tree by the side of the office.”

  “Hey, that ain’t right!” Greeny said. “What happens if it rains?”

  “We give you a bar of soap.”

  “Damn!” Albert said, looking at his boss. “How come we miss all the fun, Mills?”

  Mills was dabbing horse liniment on yesterday’s jaw bruise and ignored the question.

  “You know, Smoke,” Hugh said. “You really can’t keep those men chained up to that tree.”

  “Why?” Smoke asked, scratching the little dog behind the ears.

  “Because they’re human beings and as such, have basic rights accorded them by the Constitution.”

  Mills smiled. He’d already gone over that with Smoke. He would have gotten better results by conversing with a mule.

  “Greeny didn’t think much of the rights of those people he killed up in Canada, Hugh. Lebert didn’t give a damn for the rights of those women he kidnapped and raped. Augie didn’t have anybody’s rights in mind when he tortured a man to death.” Smoke held up several wire replies. “It’s all right there. Deputies will be coming for Lebert and Augie. Royal Canadian Mounted Police will be here for Greeny. And I’m going to hang the punk back yonder in the cell.”

  “I ain’t done nothin’!” the kid squalled. “You ain’t gonna hang me!”

  “Oh, yes, I am, kid. I say you were the one who

  killed that poor man back up the trail. I say you was the one who raped and killed those poor little girls. And that’s what I got you charged with. You’re gonna hang, punk.”

  Winston started to protest. Smoke held up his hand. The cell area was behind and to the right of the main office, and the kid could not see what was going on, only hear, exactly how Smoke had planned it.

  “Ever seen a hanging, kid?” Smoke called.

  “No!”

  “It’s a sight to behold, boy. Sometimes the neck don’t break, and the victim just dangles there while he chokes to death. Eyes bug out, tongue pooches out and turns black . . .”

  “Shut up, damn you!”

  “. .. Fellow just twists there in the breeze. Sometimes it takes five minutes for him to die . . .”

  “Darmn you, shut up!” the kid screamed.

  “Awful ugly sight to see. Plumb disgusting. And smelly, too. Victim usually looses all control of himself . . .”

  The kid rattled the barred door. “Let me out of here!” he yelled.

  “. . . Terrible sight to see. just awful. Sometimes they put a hood on the victim—I’ll be sure and request one for you—and when they take that hood off—once the man’s dead—his face is all swole up and black as a piece of coal.”

  “Jensen?” the kid called, in a voice choked with tears.

  “What do you want, kid?”

  “I’ll make a deal with you.”

  Smoke winked at Mills and the others. “What kind of a deal, kid?”

  “I know lots of things.”

  “What things?”

  “We got to deal first.”

  “You don’t have much of a position to deal from, boy. Your trial is coming up in a couple of days. The jury’s already picked. And they’re eager to convict. Folks around here haven’t seen a good hanging in a year or more. Gonna be dinner on the grounds on the day you swing. Did you hear that hammering a while ago?”

  “Yeah.” The kid blew his nose on a dirty rag.

  “What was all that racket?”

  “Fellows building a gallows, boy. That’s where you’re going to swing.”

  “I told you I’d deal!” His voice was very shaky.

  “Start dealing, boy. You don’t have long.”

  “Don’t let Greeny and Lebert and Augie know nothin’ about his, Marshal.”

  “You have my word on that.”

  “I’m ready when you are.”

  Smoke looked at Mills. “He’s all yours, Mills. You wanted it legal, you got it legal.” He smiled. “This time.”

  “Needless to say, we won’t tell the kid that hammering and sawing was a man building a new outhouse.”

  “He might not see the humor in it.”

  “Get your pad and pen, Winston,” Mills said. “Let’s see what the kid has to say.”

  In exchange for escaping the hangman’s noose and that short drop that culminated in an abrupt and fatal halt, the kid—his name was Walter Parsons—had quite a lot to say. He said he didn’t know nothin’ about Lee Slater and Luttie Charles bein’ related, but they was close friends . . . or so Lee had said. But the gang was hidin’ out on Seven Slash range. East of the ranch house and south of the Alamosa River. Wild country. They was plannin’ to rob the miners and the stages carryin’ gold and silver and Luttie was goin’ to handle the gettin’ rid of the boodle end of it.

  How many in the gang?

  The kid reckoned they was about fifty or sixty. He didn’t rightly know since they wasn’t camped all together. But it was a big gang.

  How many people had the kid robbed and raped and murdered?

  Bunches. Used to be fun, but now it was sort of borin’. All them people did was blubber and slobber and beg and cry and carry on somethin’ awful. It was a relief just to shoot them in the head to shut them up.

  “Disgusting!” Mills said, tossing the signed confession onto Smoke’s desk. “I have never in my life heard of such depravity as that which came out of Parsons’ mouth.”

  “You relaxing your stand on hanging now, Mills?” Smoke asked.

  He received a dirty look, but Mills chose not to respond to the question.

  “What are you doing to do with the kid?”

  Mills shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t allow the return of that vicious little thug back to a free society. That would be a grave injustice. The judge is going to have to decide that issue.”

  “He’s never going to change.”

  “I know that,” Mills said. “It’s a dreadful time we live in, Smoke.”

  “It’s going to get worse, Mills. Count on it. Now, then, what about Luttie?”

  “We can’t move against him on just the word of a common hoodlum. We’ve got to have some proof that he is, indeed, a part of this conspiracy. How about Greeny and Lebert and Augie? Have they agreed to talk?”

  “You have to be kidding. Those are hardened criminals. They’ll go to the grave with their mouths closed. They’re not going to assist the hangman in their own executions.”

  “When will the deputies and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police come for them?”

  “They said as soon as possible. Probably in a week or so.”

  “I’ve got to move the kid out of here and up to Sheriff Silva’s jail. For safekeeping.”

  “All right. Why not do that now and as soon as the kid is gone, I’ll pull those three scumbags in from the tree.”

  “I would hate for a supervisor to ride by and see them chained out there,” Winston said.

  Smoke shook his head. “I’ll be sure to take them some tea and cookies the first chance I get.”

  At Smoke’s insistence Mills sent four of his men out early the next morning, taking the kid to the county seat and to a better and more secure jail. They would be gone at least three days and possibly four.

  Smoke took down all the sawed off double-barreled shotguns from the rack and passed them around. “Clean them up, boys, and load them up. Don’t ever be too far
away from one.”

  “Are you expecting trouble?” Mills asked. “From whom and why?”

  “Yes, I’m expecting trouble. From whom? Either Lee Slater or his brother . . .”

  “His assumed brother,” Mills corrected. “Yes. I see. They could not want the three we have here talking and implicating either of them. Now I see why you insisted on sending more men than I thought necessary to the county seat with Parsons. I thank you for your insistence, Smoke. Parsons would be the more likely of the four to crack—as he did.”

  Smoke nodded his agreement as he loaded up the sawed-off with buckshot.

  Winston hefted the shotgun shells in his hands. “These are heavy, too heavy for factory loads.”

  “I had the gunsmith across the street load them for me. They’re filled with broken nails and ball-bearings and whatever else he had on hand.” He looked first at Mills, then at Winston and Moss. “Any of you ever shot a man with a Greener?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Close in they’ll cut a man in two. Makes a real mess. Fastest man in the world won’t buck the odds of a sawed-off pointed at his belly.”

  “You’ve shot men with these types of weapons?” Moss asked.

  “I’ve shot men with muzzle-loaders, cap and ball, Sharps .52, .Navy .36 and Colt and Remington and Starr .44-s and .45s. I’ve shot them with a Remington .41 over and under. I’ve used knives, tomahawks and chopping axes more than a time or two. If somebody was trying to kill me or mine, I’d drop him with a hot horseshoe if that was all I could find at the moment. Gentlemen, I just have to ask a question. You all have sidestepped it before, but level with me this time. Why in the hell did your superiors send you men out here?”

  Mills cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable, and both Winston and Moss blushed.

  Smoke waited.

  “Truth time,” Winston muttered.

  “Yes,” Mills said. “Quite. Smoke, we are all new to the West, and to its customs. Tenderfeet, as I’ve read. We’ve worked the cities and smaller Eastern towns, but never west of the Mississippi. The United States Marshal’s office is being upgraded in manpower, and, well, while we are not amateurs in this business, we, ah . . .”

  Smoke held up a hand. “Let me finish it: you were sent out here to get bloodied?”

  “That, ah, is a reasonably accurate assessment, yes.”

  “Well, you might get that chance sooner than you think. Here comes Luttie with his whole damn crew!”

  Chapter Seven

  “Maybe they‘re coming in to put flowers on Don’s grave?” Winston said.

  Smoke turned to look at him. The man had a twinkle in his eye. Mills and Moss were both smiling. The U.S. Marshals were new to the West, and perhaps had not yet been bloodied in killing combat, but they had plenty of sand and gravel in them, and a sense of humor.

  “I’m sure,” Smoke said, picking up the sawed-off shotgun. “Shall we step outside and greet the gentlemen?”

  Luttie and Jake rode at the head of the column, and they both gave Smoke and the federal marshals curt nods, then turned toward the hitchrails at the saloon. They dismounted, looped the reins and walked into the barroom.

  “I don’t think they liked the sight of these shotguns,” Winston said.

  “I’m sure they didn’t,” Smoke said. He sat down on the bench in front of the office. Mills sat down beside him, Moss and Winston stood nearby.

  “I wonder what they’re up to,” Moss said.

  “A show of force?” Mills questioned. “If so, what is the purpose? We rode right up into their lair the other day. They must know that we’re not going to be intimidated.”

  “I don’t know whether any of them is that smart,” Smoke replied. “If I had to take a guess, I’d guess that this move is a diversion of some sorts.”

  Mills was thoughtful for a moment. “Yes. I agree. Luttie and his Seven Slash bunch keeps our attention here, while the Slater gang strikes somewhere in the county. But where?”

  “Nowhere close, you can bet on that. Around Silver Mountain, maybe.” He shook his head. “And it could be that Slater’s gang is going to hit the marshals escorting the kid . . . maybe to shut the kid’s mouth. Or they’re coming in here to try to break their friends out of jail.”

  “If that bunch hits my men in force, my people won’t have a chance,” Mills said softly.

  “I just hope I’ve impressed upon your people to shoot first and ask questions later,” Smoke said.

  “You know they won’t do that.”

  “Then if Slater and his bunch hits them, they’re at best wounded and at worst dead meat, Mills. I tried to impress upon you all that this is the West. I don’t seem to be a very good teacher.”

  He stood up and stepped off the boardwalk.

  Mills’ voice stopped him. “Where are you going?”

  “It’s a warm day. A mug of cool beer would taste good right about now.”

  “Step right into the lion’s den, huh?”

  “Might as well. We did pretty well in there the last time, didn’t we?”

  Mills smiled. “I should be ashamed of myself for saying this, but we damn sure did!”

  “We miss all the fun,” Winston said glumly.

  “Don’t count on that continuing,” Smoke told him, as they stepped up to the batwings of the saloon. “Once inside, Mills and I will stay together. Moss, take the right end of the bar. Winston, you take the left. Don’t turn your back completely on these ol’ boys. We’ll see how smart Luttie is. If he tries to brace us, we’ll put what’s left of the bunch in jail and keep them there.”

  “What will we do with the rest of them?” Moss asked innocently.

  Smoke looked at him. “Somebody will bury them.”

  He pushed open the doors and stepped inside, walking to the bar, the others right behind him.

  Luttie and his crew had spread out all over the table area of the saloon, and that told Smoke a lot. None of it good.

  “Setup,” Mills mumbled.

  “Yeah,” Smoke returned the whisper. “Glad you picked up on it.”

  “What are you two love—birds a-whisperin’ about?” a Seven Slash hand yelled.

  “You reckon they’re sweet on each other, Paul?” another said with a laugh.

  “That’d be a sight to see, wouldn’t it—them a-smoochin’.”

  “Maybe we ought to see if they’d give us an advance showin’?”

  “Now that there’s a right good idea,” another said.

  “Now, boys,” Luttie said, a strange smile on his lips. “You know I can’t allow nothin’ like that to take place. Them fellows is lawmen. They’s to be respected. Besides, that’s the famous Smoke Jensen yonder. He’s supposed to be the fastest gun in all the West. You boys wouldn’t want to brace the likes of him, now, would you?”

  His crew—and the table area filled with them—all burst out laughing. I V

  “I won’t have no more of this, now, boys,” Luttie said. “Although I’m not too sure about me givin’ you orders when you’re on your own time. Might be some law agin that. What do you say about it, Mr. Fancy—Pants U.S. Marshal?”

  “I would say that you don’t have any authority to give orders when your hirelings are off the job,” he said stiffly.

  “Hireling?” a cowboy said. “Ain’t it a fancy title, though?”

  “Not really,” Mills told him, a tight smile on his lips. “It means anyone who will follow another’s orders for money—such as a thug or a mercenary”

  Smoke was half turned, his left side facing the crowded table area. “When he gets up, Mills,” he whispered, his lips just barely moving, “kill him.”

  Mills shook his head minutely. “I can’t do that, Smoke.”

  The cowboy pushed back his chair. “Are you callin’ me a thug, Whistle-Britches?”

  “Get ready,” Smoke whispered. “Cock that Greener, Mills.”

  “Actually, no,” Mills raised his voice. “I was merely explaining to you the dictionary defi
nition of a hireling. If you take exception to my remark, then you must have a low opinion of yourself.”

  “Huh?” the cowboy said.

  “Charlie,” another hand said. “I think he done insulted you. But I ain’t real sure.”

  Luttie and Jake were staying out of it. Luttie had voiced his objections about his hands’ needling any further, so in a court of law, he would be clear of any wrongdoing. But courts of law didn’t impress Smoke Jensen. Six—gun action was much more to his liking.

  “That remark of mine would only be taken as a blot on one’s escutcheon if the party to whom it was directed was in actuality, a thug or mercenary,” Mills further confused the cowboy and most of his buddies, including his boss and the foreman.

  "What’d he say?” Jake whispered to Luttie.

  “Hell, don’t ask me. Sounded dirty.”

  “Gawddam, boy!” another Seven Slash hand said.

  “Cain’t you talk English?”

  “I was,” Mills responded.

  “A blot on one’s escutcheon comes from medieval times,” a man spoke from a corner table. Smoke cut his eyes. The man wore a dark suit with a white shirt and string tie. He’d seen him get off the stage earlier. “An escutcheon is a shield, upon which a coat of aims was painted. In other words, it means a stain on one’s honor.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Charlie demanded.

  “No one who would associate with the likes of you,” the stranger said.

  “Damn, Charlie,” a hand said. “I think the stranger done insulted you, too.”

  “Now, look here,” Charlie said. “I’m gettin’ tarred of being insulted.”

  “You could always leave,” Smoke offered him an option.

  “And you could always shut your trap,” Charlie told him.

  “I’m right here, Charlie,” Smoke told him. “Anytime you think you have the cajones to brace me without all your buddies to back you up.”

  Nice way of making him stand alone whether he fishes or cuts bait, Moss thought. I’ll keep that in mind.

  The cowboy looked hard at Smoke and then sat down without another word.

  “You just saved your own life, cowboy,” the stranger said, rifling a deck of cards.

  Charlie mumbled something and concentrated on his beer.