Shootout of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Chapter Twenty

  At the Gold Strike Saloon, sun bars slanted in through the door and windows, highlighting the thousands of dust motes that hung in each beam of light. It was too early in the morning for customers, but that didn’t mean that the saloon was empty. Paul, the bartender, was washing and polishing glasses. The handyman, Jesus Rodriguez, was working with a mop and bucket, making passes across the floor. Despite his best effort, the mop did little to clean the floor of expectorated tobacco juice and quid residue. Nate Nabors, who employed a piano player to keep the atmosphere lighthearted when he had customers, was actually quite an accomplished pianist himself, and often played for his own enjoyment. This was just such an occasion, and he was sitting at the piano playing the Reverie by Schumann. It was a quiet and relaxing piece, geared to the moment.

  Of all the women who worked at the saloon, Minnie was the only one up at this hour, and she was sitting at a table near the piano, having her breakfast of biscuit and coffee while enjoying the music. It wasn’t required that she be here yet, none of the women were required to be at work before noon, but Minnie thought she would rather be here than alone in her room, worrying about Bobby Lee and Smoke Jensen, wondering where they were at this exact moment.

  Doc Baker came into the saloon then, smiling, and waving a copy of the Cloverdale News Leaf.

  “Wait till you read this!” he announced loudly, though to no one in particular.

  Nabors, having just finished his piece, got up from the piano and stepped over to the table where Minnie was sitting.

  “What is it?” Nabors asked.

  “Huh-uh,” Doc Baker said, shaking his head. “Read it, then we’ll talk about it.”

  “Do you mind if I read it over your shoulder, Nate?” Minnie asked.

  “Don’t mind at all.”

  Doc Baker laughed. “Knowing how much Marvin Cutler wanted to see Bobby Lee hang, it must have killed his soul to have to write this.”

  “What makes you think Marvin wanted to see Bobby Lee hang?” Nabors asked.

  “Ha! Why do you even have to ask? You read that article he wrote about Bobby Lee. What was it he said in that last paragraph? Oh, yes, I remember.” Doc Baker cleared his throat, then quoted the article in a stentorian voice, as if reading aloud. “A great crowd present to witness Cabot being delivered into the hands of Satan will send a signal to all who would contemplate duplicating Cabot’s foul deed.”

  “Marvin Cutler is the consummate newspaper-man,”

  Nabors said. “He is sometimes prone to be a bit overblown with his stories.”

  “A bit overblown? He is a pompous blowhard,” Doc Baker said.

  Daring Jail Break

  On the 28th, Instant, desperado Bobby Lee Cabot effected a daring escape from the jail at Cloverdale. The jailbreak came just three days before Cabot was scheduled to be hanged by the neck, the gallows having already been built and prominently displayed on Fremont Street in front of the jail.

  The jailbreak occurred at five minutes after eleven p.m. of the clock. There can be no doubt of the time, as it is firmly fixed in the minds of the citizens of Cloverdale who heard the sound of the detonating dynamite, which explosion rent an opening in the back wall.

  Deputy Jackson, who was the only eyewitness, states that he saw naught but the backside of Cabot as he made his egress through the aforementioned hole. Jackson discharged his pistol at the escaping prisoner, but the errant ball struck the wall with no effect. It is not known who helped the outlaw escape, but it is known that a telegram was dispatched on Cabot’s behalf to Buck West. Though no one seems to have noticed when or if the man Buck West ever actually arrived in town, Sheriff Wallace harbors the suspicion that West is the one who enabled Cabot to thwart justice.

  Bobby Lee Cabot was, at the time of the commission of the crime, a railroad detective for the Western Capital Security Agency. It was the contention of the prosecutor, and the conclusion of the jury, that Cabot took advantage of his position to gather information as to times and routes of trains and stagecoaches, upon which large amounts of money would be transferred.

  Because the Western Capital Security Agency is well aware of its obligations to protect its clients, the WCSA has put up a reward of five thousand dollars for the capture of their erstwhile agent.

  “You know what I think?” Doc Baker asked.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think Wallace might have been involved with the train robbery that they got Bobby Lee on,” Doc Baker said.

  “I’d be quiet about making that accusation, Doc,” Nabors said. “Wallace doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would take too kindly to it.”

  “But don’t you think he might be?”

  “I have certainly thought about it,” Nabors admitted. “But let’s say you are right. What can we do about it? Where will we go with our suspicion? To the sheriff?”

  “Ha, right,” Doc Baker said sarcastically.

  As the two men were discussing the subject, Nabors started to fold the paper closed to return it to Doc Baker. But just as he did, Minnie saw an article that caught her attention.

  “No, wait,” she said, reaching for the paper.

  “You can have the paper if you want it, but that is the only article about the jailbreak,” Doc Baker said.

  “I saw something else I wanted to read,” Minnie said without being specific. One article, in particular, had caught her attention.

  Two New Riverboats Purchased

  News from St. Louis is that on Friday last, the purchase of two new steamboats was announced by Thaddeus Culpepper. The boats, modern in every detail, will be floating hotels on the Mississippi River and none who ply that waterway for trade or pleasure will enjoy more commodious or luxurious staterooms. They will enter service from St. Louis to New Orleans with immediate effect. The boats will be named Kristina Dawn and Minnie Kay.

  “You planning on taking a boat down the Mississippi River are you?” Nabors asked, chuckling, when he saw what she was reading.

  “Why not?” Doc Baker asked. “I read that article. Those boats sound like they would be something just real grand. But I know what caught her attention. One of the boats is named after her.” He laughed.

  “What? Let me see,” Nabors said. “Oh, the Minnie Kay. That’s not named after her. Minnie’s middle name is Lou, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Minnie replied. “Minnie Lou Smith.” She folded the paper closed and returned it to Doc Baker. “But it would be nice if I could make that claim. I’m sure those boats are just really grand.”

  * * *

  The little sign had been professionally lettered, and it stood proudly just outside town.

  Midas

  POPULATION: 213

  No-one is a Stranger.

  It was Thursday, August 30th, when Smoke and Bobby Lee arrived in Midas, a community where false-fronted shanties and canvas tents competed with each other for space along the length of the single street.

  “You ever been here before?” Smoke asked Bobby Lee as the two men rode into town. “The reason I asked is, is there anyone here who might recognize you?”

  “I was here once, but that was a couple of years ago and I didn’t stick around long. I doubt anyone would recognize me.”

  Despite the remoteness of the town, it seemed to be quite busy, as vehicles of commerce rolled up and down the street. In addition there were two new buildings under construction.

  “I’ll give the town this,” Bobby Lee said. “It sure is a busy little place.”

  “Yeah, it is at that,” Smoke said. He pointed to one of the more substantial buildings, which had its name, The Silver King, painted in red on the top of the false front. “What do you say we stop there?”

  “Now that’s the best idea you’ve had since the one you had about putting dynamite behind the jail,” Bobby Lee said. He put his hand to his ear. “But my ears are still ringing.”

  “I could have left you there,” Smoke said.

  “No
, no,” Bobby Lee said, holding out his hand. “Don’t get me wrong, believe me, I am not complaining.”

  The two tied off their horses, then stepped inside. If, as the sign outside town stated, there were 213 residents, Smoke figured that at least ten percent of them were in the saloon, even though it was just mid-afternoon.

  The saloon was noisy with the sounds of idle men and painted women having fun. There was no piano, but a couple of men and a couple of bar girls were singing out of tune a song with ribald lyrics.

  “Yes, sir, what can I serve you? “ the bartender asked, sliding down toward them. He was carrying a stained and foul-smelling towel that he used to alternately wipe off the bar, then wipe out the glasses.

  “How’s your beer?” Smoke asked.

  “Wet,” the bartender answered.

  “Sounds good enough,” Smoke said slapping the necessary silver on the counter.

  The singers let go with a particularly bawdy line, and everyone in the saloon laughed.

  “That’s some song they’re singin', ain’t it?” the bartender replied as he set two beer mugs in front of Smoke and Bobby Lee.

  “The words are all right, but they need to work some on carrying a tune,” Bobby Lee said.

  The bartender chuckled. “You got that right,” he said. “You boys just passin’ through?” he asked.

  “Could be,” Smoke said. “Or it could be that we might stay for a while. This looks like a pretty lively town.”

  “It is. There was silver discovered three years ago, and that’s what caused the town to come here in the first place. But that played out and looked like the town might die, but then some fellas come across a new lode no more’n a month ago and we’ve had some new folks come in.” The bartender squinted at the two. “But I have to tell you, you boys don’t look like no miners.”

  “We’re just a couple of cowboys, looking for someplace that might need some riders,” Smoke said.

  “Not much in the way of ranching around here,” the bartender said. “Not enough water, no grass.”

  “Yeah, that’s about what we figured,” Smoke said. “So I reckon we’ll be riding on.”

  “Hey, you,” someone at the far end of the bar called. “I know you. What’s your name?”

  Smoke laughed. “Well now, mister, if you know me, then you know my name.”

  “I know you all right. It just ain’t comin’ to me right now.”

  “Well, if you can’t remember my name, it’s not all that important, is it?”

  “Don’t get smart with me, mister,” the man said. “I don’t like people who get smart around me.”

  “Then you must not have many friends,” Smoke said. “I can’t imagine anyone around you who isn’t smarter than you.”

  The others in the saloon laughed.

  “What? What did you say?”

  “Boomer, why don’t you leave the stranger alone now?” the bartender said. “He ain’t botherin’ nobody. He and his friend just came in for a beer is all.”

  “You stay out of this, Abe, it ain’t none of your concern,” Boomer said. “This here is between me and Mr. Smart Mouth there. Ain’t it, Mr. Smart Mouth?”

  “Boomer, is it?” Smoke said. “Boomer, why don’t you have a drink on me. Abe, set him up with whatever he wants,” Smoke said.

  Boomer stared at Smoke for a long moment. Then his eyes flashed with recognition. He pointed his finger at Smoke.

  “Wait a minute, wait just a damn minute here! I know who you are now. You’re the fella they call Smoke Jensen.”

  “That’s right.”

  “My name is Watkins. Boomer Watkins. That mean anything to you?”

  “Can’t say that it does.”

  “You killed my brother, Jerry.”

  “Jerry Watkins was your brother?”

  “Yeah. Do you remember him now?”

  “I remember him,” Smoke said. “One of the ugliest men I’ve ever met. Of course, I suppose that is because his face was scarred with birdshot from a woman he tried to rape.”4

  “I’m glad you remember, ‘cause I want you to know why I’m killin’ you,” Boomer said as his hand snaked toward his gun.

  Boomer was fast, and he prided himself on his speed, but to his astonishment, Smoke had his gun out with the barrel inches from Boomer’s face before he even cleared leather.

  Boomer dropped his pistol back into his holster and threw his hands up.

  “No! No!” he shouted.

  “Shuck out of that gun belt and walk out of here,” Smoke said.

  “Sure thing, mister, sure thing,” Boomer said.

  “I didn’t mean nothin', I was just tryin’ to scare you is all.”

  Boomer released the buckle, then let the belt fall. “Abe, I reckon I’ll take that drink now,” he said.

  “I reckon you won’t,” Smoke said. “I told you to walk out of here and that’s what you are going to do.”

  Boomer glared at Smoke for a long moment. “You ain’t got no right to run me outta here.”

  Smoke pulled the hammer back and it made a deadly, double click as it rotated the cylinder.

  “Then I’ll shoot you and drag you out of here,” Smoke said.

  “No! I’m goin'! I’m goin'!” Boomer said as the laughter of the others in the saloon chased him out.

  “Smoke Jensen, by God!” someone said. “That there is Smoke Jensen! I’ve he’erd tell of him. Ain’t never seen him before.”

  “Well, we’ve seen him now,” another said.

  Bobby Lee chuckled, then spoke under his breath. “And you were worried about me being recognized.”

  “Are you really Smoke Jensen?” the bartender asked.

  “Yes. And I’m sorry about running off one of your customers,” Smoke replied.

  “Don’t worry none about that, Mr. Jensen,” Abe replied. “If there was ever any sumbitch that needed runnin’ off, it is Boomer Watkins. Hell, he runs off half my customers anyway, always bul-lyin’ them. Yes, sir, it was worth it seeing him get his comeuppance. Besides which, you comin’ here will be good for my business. I’ll just put up a sign that said the great Smoke Jensen had a beer here.”

  “Or two,” Smoke said. He put another dime down. “How about another for my friend and me?”

  Abe pushed the dime back. “No, sir, Mr. Jensen, your money ain’t no good in here.”

  “I appreciate that, Abe, but you aren’t in business to give away your product. I’m more than glad to pay for it.”

  “Thanks,” Abe said, taking the dime back. “What are you doing in Midas, Mr. Jensen? I mean really? ‘Cause I know for sure you ain’t a cowboy lookin’ for work.”

  “Not looking for work, but I am looking for someone,” Smoke said.

  “Who would that be?”

  “Frank Dodd.”

  The bartender nodded. “I reckoned that might be who it was, him being an outlaw and wanted and all.”

  “Have you ever seen him?” Smoke asked.

  “He’s been through here a time or two,” Abe said. “He don’t never stay long though. You after the reward, are you?”

  “Yeah,” Smoke replied without being more specific.

  “Funny. I know’d you was on the right side of the law, but I never know’d you to be a bounty hunter, though.”

  “We do what we have to do,” Smoke said. “Do you think the sheriff might have any information on Dodd?”

  “He might,” Abe replied.

  “Where will I find him?”

  “His office and the jail are at the far end of the street on the other side. You can’t miss it—there are about six tents, then one brick building and that’s the jail.”

  “Thanks, I believe I’ll step down and pay him a visit.”

  “Bartender!” someone called. “A little service if you don’t mind.”

  “Hold your horses,” Abe said. “I’ll be right there.”

  Smoke waited until the bartender moved down to answer the call. Then he spoke to Bobby Lee, speaking so
quietly that only Bobby Lee could hear him.

  “I’m going over to the sheriff’s office to see if he has anything about your escape yet. That’ll let us know how careful we have to be while we are in town. You stay here.”

  “Smoke, uh, I was in jail,” Bobby Lee said. “So I don’t have any, uh …”

  Smoke chuckled. “I got it,” he said. He took a twenty-dollar gold double eagle from his pocket and gave it to Bobby Lee. “Don’t spend it all in one place,” he teased.

  “Thanks,” Bobby Lee said.

  4Pursuit of the Mountain Man

  Chapter Twenty-one

  As soon as Boomer Watkins left the saloon, he looked up his brother Clint, who was at the moment in Tsun Woo’s opium den, waiting for his time on the couch.

  “Clint, guess who’s in town!” Boomer said.

  “I don’t care who is in town. Can’t you see I’m waitin’ my turn here?”

  “You’ll care when I tell you,” Boomer said.

  “All right, who is in town?”

  “Smoke Jensen, that’s who.”

  The name got Clint’s attention. “Smoke Jensen? Are you sure?”

  “Hell, yeah, I’m sure. I recognized him. Besides which, he admitted it to me.”

  “Maybe it was just someone showin’ off, someone who wanted you to think he was Smoke Jensen.”

  “No, it was him all right. He know’d exactly what Jerry looked like. I mean, he described him just right. Besides which he—I, uh …”

  “What?”

  “Well, I tried to draw on him, and he beat me. I ain’t never seen no one as fast.”

  “If he beat you, how come you ain’t dead?”

  “I don’t know. ‘Cause he made a mistake, I guess. But I plan on it bein’ the last mistake he ever makes. That is, if I can get you away from the Chinaman here. ‘Cause if you don’t, I’ll just do it myself. ”

  “Do what?”

  “Wait for the son of a bitch to come out of the saloon, then kill him,” Boomer said.