Shootout of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “How’s this?” Conklin asked after repositioning the lantern, which was an actual lamp taken from the front of an engine.

  “Yeah,” Dodd said. “Yeah, that’s just about perfect. Come on down now, and get your ladder out of the way.”

  Wayland Morris laughed. “I have to hand it to you, Frank. When you said you wanted to steal a headlamp off the front of an engine, I thought you was plumb loco. But this here is a good idea.”

  Phillips and Garrison had joined Dodd, so that there were six men waiting alongside the track for the arrival of the Prospector, which was the name of the train that made this run every night.

  “Conklin, as soon as the train stops, I want you and Stillwater to ride up to the cab. Make certain the train stays here. Morris, you and I will hit the express car. Phillips, you and Garrison go through the train and collect whatever money the passengers might have.”

  “Wait, that ain’t fair. Is that all the money we get?” Garrison asked.

  “Just do what I tell you, Garrison,” Dodd said.

  A distant whistle came through the night.

  “Get ready,” Dodd said. “It won’t be long.”

  When the engineer of the Prospector came around a long, sweeping curve on the Nevada Central, he saw the headlamp of an approaching train.

  “Sweet Jesus, Ernie! Look at that!” he shouted, even as he pulled the brake lever to full emergency stop.

  “Where’d that come from?” his fireman shouted. “There ain’t supposed to be no train a’ comin’ this a’ way now!”

  * * *

  Smoke was in the bottom berth. He was sound asleep when the train made the abrupt stop. Reaching up, he grabbed the assist strap to keep from being tossed out. Some of the other sleepers were thrown from their berths, and Smoke heard sounds of surprise, pain, and anger.

  Having taken off only his boots when he went to sleep, he sat up now and began pulling them on. He had no idea why the train had come to such a sudden stop, but it couldn’t be good. He also didn’t like the fact that the conductor had taken his pistol and holster when he’d boarded the train earlier that night.

  There was a time when Smoke had worn two guns, a .44 on his right hip and a .36 on his left, which he had worn butt-forward. But sometime ago, he had given up that habit, and now wore only one pistol in his gun belt.

  There was, however, a habit he had not given up. Smoke had long carried a two-barrel derringer in his boot, and even as he put on his boots, he pulled the derringer out and held it in the palm of his hand. Now, dressed and so armed, he stepped out into aisle of the car.

  The car was dimly lit, illuminated by two lanterns that hung from the ceiling. As he started toward the front of the car, he saw the conductor.

  The conductor wasn’t alone. There was another man with him, and the man with him had one hand on the conductor’s shoulder. There was a pistol in his other hand, and that pistol was pointed at the conductor’s head. Even in the dim light, Smoke could see the absolute terror in the conductor’s face and eyes.

  “Mister, just where the hell do you think you’re a’ goin'?” the man with the gun asked.

  “The train came to a sudden stop,” Smoke said. “I thought I would investigate the cause.”

  “Investigate the cause? Haw!” the man laughed. “Mister, you sure talk fancy. But you don’t need to do no investigatin'. I’ll tell you what’s happenin'. We’re robbin’ the train and I come in here to collect ever’body’s money. So you might as well get whatever money you got, and put it there on the floor. All of you folks that’s hidin’ behind them curtains, drop your money out onto the floor.”

  “I’ll just bet that none of these folks want to give you any of their money,” Smoke said calmly. “I know I don’t want to give you any of mine.”

  “Haw!” the man said, laughing again. “You don’t want to give me any of your money, eh? Well now, tell me, mister, just how in the hell are you goin’ to stop me from takin’ it?”

  Smoke raised his hand and pointed his derringer at the train robber.

  “I’ll shoot you if you try,” Smoke said.

  “Mister, can’t you see that I’m pointin’ this pistol at the conductor’s head?”

  “And can’t you see that I’m pointing my pistol directly at your head?”

  “You don’t understand,” the train robber said. “If you don’t put down that little peashooter of your’n, I’m goin’ to blow this little feller’s brains out.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” Smoke said. “I met the conductor earlier today, and I don’t like him. In fact, I don’t think anyone on this train likes him all that much. So I don’t care whether you blow his brains out or not. But just think of this. While you are killing him, I’ll be killing you.”

  “No, my God, no!” the conductor shouted in a high-pitched, panic-stricken voice. He soiled his pants.

  “You’re—you’re crazy!” the train robber shouted. He pushed the conductor out of his way and tried to bring his pistol to bear on Smoke, but it was too late. Smoke pulled the trigger and a black hole appeared in the train robber’s forehead. He fell back as women, and the conductor, screamed.

  “Where is my gun?” Smoke asked the conductor.

  The conductor’s eyes were wide open in terror.

  “Garrison, what’s goin’ on in here?” another armed man shouted, coming into the car then. Seeing Garrison dead on the floor, he looked up. “Who did this?”

  “I did,” Smoke replied.

  With an angry bellow, the second train robber raised his pistol, but before he could fire, Smoke pulled the trigger for the second barrel. Like Garrison before him, the train robber went down, this time with a bullet hole in the bridge of his nose.

  “Where is my gun?” Smoke asked again.

  “I-I had it put into the baggage car,” the conductor answered, finally finding his voice.

  Moving quickly, Smoke picked up one of the train robbers’ pistols, then stepped rapidly to the front door of the car. Standing on the plates between the cars, he looked around and saw two men on horseback alongside the express car. He leaned around the edge of the car and fired. One of the two men went down.

  “It’s a trick!” one of the men on horseback shouted. “Let’s get out of here!”

  Smoke saw the robbers turn away from the car. He tried to fire a second time, but the pistol he had taken from the robber misfired and the remaining three men galloped away.

  In frustrated anger, Smoke threw the pistol away, then hurried back in to grab the pistol of the other would-be train robber. By the time he got back outside, though, the train robbers had disappeared into the night.

  When Smoke returned to the train car, he saw that most of the passengers were out of their berths and were staring with morbid curiosity at the two dead men. The conductor was sitting on the floor of the car, up hard against the front right corner, with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around his legs.

  The porter now came into the car.

  “Anybody kilt in here?” the porter asked.

  “Two,” Smoke said. “Neither of them passengers.”

  “Where is Mr. Polosi?”

  “Who?”

  “The conductor. I been lookin’ for him, I ain’ found ‘im.”

  “He’s up here,” Smoke said, stepping to one side and pointing to the figure who sat all drawn up in the corner.

  The porter’s eyes grew wide in surprise. “Mr. Polosi, you all right?” he asked. “Did you get shot?”

  “He’s all right.”

  “You sure?”

  “He wasn’t shot.”

  The porter stared at Polosi for a moment longer before speaking again. “Mr. Polosi, don’t you think you should tell the engineer to get us goin’ again?”

  Polosi didn’t answer.

  “What about these dead folks?” asked the porter. “We can’t just leave ‘em lyin’ here in the car. Don’t you think we should move ‘em into the baggage car?”

  P
olosi looked up at the porter, his eyes wide and his lower lip trembling. He tried to speak, but was unable to say anything.

  “What’s your name?” Smoke asked the porter.

  “John, sir. John Ware.”

  “Any other porters on the train, Mr. Ware?”

  “Yes, sir. Two more.”

  “I expect you’re going to need some help getting the bodies out of here.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll get them to help me. Mr. Polosi, should we put them in the baggage car?”

  Polosi stared at the porter, his eyes still wide with terror.

  “Mr. Polosi?”

  “You’ll find another body outside,” Smoke said. “You will need to get him picked up as well.”

  “Yes, sir, we’ll do that,” the porter said. “Mr. Polosi?” he said again. “Is it all right to put them in the baggage car?”

  “I doubt Polosi is going to be much help to you, Mr. Ware,” Smoke said. “It looks to me like you’re in charge.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, in that case, I’ll move the bodies into the baggage car. Then I’ll tell the engineer we can go on. I ‘spect we’ll get rid of the bodies in Austin.”

  Chapter Ten

  Dodd, Conklin, and Stillwater rode hard for several minutes until the train was far behind them. Finally, Dodd held up his hand, calling them all to a halt.

  “Hold it up here. We’ll give the horses a blow,” Dodd said.

  The horses whickered and panted from their recent effort.

  “What happened?” Conklin asked. “I thought we had ever’thing set up? Was there law on the train?”

  “I only seen one man,” Stillwater said.

  “You mean one man kilt three of us?”

  “We don’t know that Morris, Phillips, and Garrison are dead,” Dodd said.

  “Morris is dead. Did you see the way he fell? He hit his head on the track and it didn’t even bother him. He’s dead,” Stillwater said.

  “They was a couple of shots inside the train before that fella stuck his head out,” Stillwater said. “So I figure Phillips and Garrison is probably dead too.”

  “So what if they are?” Dodd replied. “Turns out they wasn’t worth much anyway.”

  “What do we do now? “ Conklin asked.

  “We’re goin’ back to Desolation,” Dodd said.

  “They’s only three of us left,” Stillwater said. “We’re goin’ to have to get some new folks to ride with us afore we try this again.”

  “You let me worry about that,” Dodd said. His horse whickered, and Dodd reached down to pat it on the neck. “The mounts has caught their breath. Let’s get out of here.”

  Austin was a silver-mining town, the county seat of Lander County, and with almost ten thousand people, the second largest town in Nevada. The train was no more than an hour late when it rolled into Austin, but because of the attempted train robbery, the sheriff interviewed the train crew and the passengers, so they were delayed in Austin a few hours.

  Sheriff Jacobs invited Smoke, who was again wearing his pistol, to his house for breakfast. Breakfast was pancakes, eggs, ham, biscuits, and fried potatoes. Smoke chuckled as he saw all the food being put out on the table.

  “Mrs. Jacobs, I do believe that you and my wife, Sally, went to the same school of cooking,” he said. “And the first lesson must have been, ‘Do not allow a guest to leave the table hungry.'”

  “I do like to see a man with a healthy appetite,” Mrs. Jacobs replied. The fact that both she and the sheriff were considerably overweight showed that they had healthy appetites.

  “The engineer and the firemen said that they recognized Frank Dodd,” Sheriff Jacobs said. “They’ve mostly stayed down in Nye County. I must say I’m a little surprised to see them up here in Lander County.”

  “Did you find out the names of the ones I killed?”

  The sheriff nodded. “I know two of them. The one with the beard was Cory Garrison, the one with red hair was Jake Phillips. I’ve had both of them in my jail more than once. I’ve always thought they were sort of minor crooks, never did anything very big that I know of. I must say, I’m surprised that they were riding with Frank Dodd. I still don’t know who the third one is.”

  “Let me know if you find out who it was,” Smoke said. “I’ve had to kill enough men as it is—I don’t ever want to get to the point to where they are just nameless bodies.”

  “I’m told that you took the two who came into your car out with a derringer. Is that true? “ Sheriff Jacobs asked as he spooned a very healthy helping of fried potatoes onto his plate.

  “I used a derringer, yes.”

  “Most people couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a derringer, and I hear you did it from at least thirty feet away. That is some shooting for a derringer.”

  Smoke took a swallow of coffee, primarily to keep from having to respond to the compliment.

  “I’ve heard a lot of stories about you, Smoke Jensen, but I have never heard that you used a derringer.”

  “The derringer is a backup gun only,” Smoke said. “And I had to use it this time because the conductor insisted that I not board the train wearing this.” He patted the pistol at his side.

  “Ha! I never thought Smoke Jensen would give up his pistol so easily.”

  “I need to go to Cloverdale and the Nevada Central is the only train that goes where I want to go, so I decided not to make an issue of it.”

  “Yes, well, I always knew that Barney Polosi was a pain in the ass. But I never knew he was such a weak sister,” the sheriff said. “Why are you going to Cloverdale?”

  “To see a friend,” Smoke replied without specifics.

  “Do you know the sheriff there?” Sheriff Jacobs asked.

  “No. Do you?”

  “His name is Wallace. Herman Wallace. I know him, but I don’t trust him.”

  “Why not?”

  “I told you that Frank Dodd and his men work mostly in Nye County?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think that is mere coincidence.”

  “You think Sheriff Wallace is mixed up with Frank Dodd?” Smoke asked.

  “I don’t have any real reason to think that, so I’m not sayin’ it. At least, not officially,” Sheriff Jacobs said. “But if I were you, I would sort of watch out for him.”

  “Sheriff, if you would do me a favor?”

  “Sure, just ask.”

  “Don’t put out the word that I had anything to do with foiling the train holdup.”

  “I’ll have to do that if you want to claim the reward,” Sheriff Wallace said. “I think there’s at least a hundred dollars reward apiece on Phillips and Garrison. And we don’t know who the other’n is yet, but once we find out, I wouldn’t be surprised but what the reward on him is even bigger. ”

  “Give the reward to the volunteer firemen’s fund or something,” Smoke said.

  “Really? Damn, that’s right decent of you, Smoke.”

  The conversation continued through breakfast. Then, excusing himself, Smoke stood up.

  “I’d better get going. I don’t want to miss the train.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, you ain’t goin’ to miss it.” Sheriff Jacobs stood up, opened a biscuit, and slid in a piece of ham. “I gave strict orders that the train was not to leave until I got there.” He pointed to the pistol that Smoke was now wearing. “And you won’t have a problem hanging onto your gun for the rest of the trip either. I’ve already had a talk with Jenkins, the new conductor. Come on, I’ll walk down to the depot with you.”

  The sheriff took a bite of his biscuit sandwich as he started toward the door.

  When they approached the depot, they saw an open coffin standing up against one of the support posts on the roofed depot platform. Inside the coffin was the body of the third train robber. The undertaker had cleaned up his head wound, and crossed his arms across his chest. He was holding a pistol in his right hand. His eyes were open and glazed. On the top of the coffin was a sign that read:

&nbs
p; DOES ANYONE KNOW THIS MAN?

  At the bottom of the coffin was another sign.

  WARNING TO TRAIN ROBBERS THIS COULD BE YOU

  Sheriff Jacobs walked with Smoke to the train, then shook his hand just before he boarded.

  “Come back any time, Mr. Jensen,” he said. “You will always be welcome.”

  “Thanks,” Smoke said.

  The train whistle blew and with a final wave, Smoke stepped up into the car.

  As Emmett Clark drew closer to Desolation, he passed through a canyon, on the left side of which rose a high bluff. After passing the bluff, he looked back, and about halfway up the side of the canyon wall, a column could be seen jutting out in front of the bluff, crowned with what looked like the feathers of a war bonnet. This gave the canyon its name, War Bonnet.

  Clark was coming to Desolation because he had overheard some saloon conversation back in Geneva that Desolation was not a place anyone would want to visit because of its lack of law.

  “I reckon you could find just about any outlaw in Nevada there if you cared to go look for him,” one of the speakers suggested.

  “If that’s so, why don’t the law ever go there to catch ‘em?” another asked.

  “Ha! They ain’t no law ever goes there but what they don’t wind up getting themselves kilt,” the first one answered. “They got themselves a boot hill there that ain’t for nothin’ but law what’s come after one or another of them.”

  Clark wasn’t the law per se, but then his occupation of hunting down wanted men and turning them in for the reward wouldn’t likely be one that would be welcomed either. He decided, therefore, to pass himself off as someone who was on the dodge from the law.

  Black thunderclouds rumbled ominously in the northwest, but held off long enough for Clark to reach the little town of Desolation.

  Desolation was laid out along one long street. In the middle of the street on the west side was a railroad depot, complete with a small white sign with the name of the town, and the altitude neatly painted in black letters: