Terror of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “No, no, nothing untoward,” Sally said quickly. “It’s just that he didn’t say one word for the entire time. I would have thought that, perhaps he was a little unsure of himself, but he is very good dancer. Still . . .”

  Sally let the word hang.

  “Still what?”

  “There is something a little frightening about him, like a hint of sulfur.”

  “That’s not very specific.”

  “I’m sorry, but that is about as specific as I can get. Call it woman’s intuition, but, for all his charm and polish, there is something frightening about him.”

  Smoke looked up, but the man Sally had danced with was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t find that too strange; all a person would have to do to disappear is step out of the bubble of light. The surrounding darkness would envelop one very quickly.

  Chapter Sixteen

  As Isback walked away into the night, he could still hear the music behind him. He had been in town for almost three weeks now, just waiting until Smoke Jensen arrived. Isback liked to play the advantages. Tonight he had studied Smoke Jensen with the single intention of killing him. On the other hand, Smoke had seen Isback, only in the brief time it took him to dance with Sally Jensen. And of course, Smoke had no idea what Isback had in mind.

  The advantage that gave Isback might have been slight, indeed, but when two men of comparative skill faced each other in deadly competition, a slight edge is all one of them would need, to best the other. Isback was convinced that he and Smoke Jensen were of comparative skill. And now he, Rick Isback, had that slight edge. He was now very much looking forward to the encounter that would elevate his name to one of instant recognition. He knew, also, that it would inscribe his name in history books, to be recognized for as long as there was history.

  When he stepped into the Lone Star Saloon, it was nearly empty, with but one man standing at the bar, and two others sharing a table.

  “It’s very quiet tonight,” he said.

  “Yes, sir, ever’one is at the dance.”

  “The women who work here? I was just there and I didn’t see any of them.”

  “Oh, they was there all right,” the bartender said. “It’s just that most likely you coulda looked right at one of ’em ’n’ not recognized her. There ain’t none of ’em dressed tonight like what they wear when they’re workin’ in here. Out there, they look just like any other woman.”

  “Give me a bottle of whiskey,” Isback said. “I know where Ida Rose’s room is. I’ll wait for her in there.”

  “I’d rather you not do that,” the bartender said. “The thing is, the girls that work here, they don’t get all that much privacy. It’s the nature of their profession, you might say. So, whatever privacy they do get, why, they guard that pretty damn close. So if Ida Rose was to come back ’n’ find someone waitin’ in her room, she’d know I was the one that let you in, ’n’ she’d be real upset with me.

  “I don’t like for any of the girls to get mad at me. It puts me off my feed.”

  “Would this help?” Isback asked, showing the bartender a twenty-dollar bill.

  The bartender smiled, then pulled a box from under the bar. Opening it, he took out a key and handed it to Isback.

  “She mighta left the door locked,” he suggested, exchanging the key for the twenty-dollar bill.

  Cal was the topic of conversation in the bunkhouse that night, not just because he had walked down to the river with the boss’s daughter, but because of the way he had handled Duke Pearson, from the Bar W ranch.

  “Pearson always has been a little quick to use his fists,” Stan said.

  “Ahh, me ’n’ Duke wound up as good friends,” Cal said.

  “It takes a good man to turn someone who is fightin’ him . . .” Stan paused in mid-sentence, then smiled before he continued, “that is, someone who is tryin’ to fight him, into a friend. And tonight, you done that. You are a good man”

  “Was there ever any doubt about it?” one of the other cowboys asked. “You know Miss Katrina, ’n’ you know she ain’t goin’ to fall for just anybody who happens to come along. She’s just real particular, ’n’ she’s done let it be known that you’re the one for her.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be so quick as to say that,” Cal replied, pretending to be embarrassed by the conversation, but secretly, very much enjoying it.

  “Well, if you won’t say it, I will,” Old Mo said. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you, Cal. That gal’s got her cap set for you, sure as gun is iron.”

  One week after the dance, Smoke went into town to arrange for railroad tickets back to Big Rock, Colorado. He would need tickets for the five of them, plus five horses. He had only five horses to take back, because he had sold the remuda to Tom Byrd, along with the other horses he had brought down.

  “When will you be departing?” the ticket agent asked.

  “I’m not sure; we have a few more days before all the horses are broken. I’d like to just keep it open, if I can.”

  “Yes, sir, I see no reason why you couldn’t do that.”

  The agent wrote out five tickets, with all the necessary transfers, then handed them to Smoke.

  “As you can see, your departure date is left open. You can present them at any time over the next three months.”

  “Well, I certainly hope it doesn’t take three more months to finish my business here. And I thank you.”

  “Isback, was you serious when you said you’d give a dollar to the first person to tell you when we seen Smoke Jensen come back into town?” someone asked, coming into the Lone Star.

  “Have you seen ’im?”

  “He’s over to the railroad depot buyin’ tickets. I think him, and the ones that stayed with him to break horses, is gettin’ ready to leave pretty soon.”

  Isback pulled a silver dollar from his pocket. “Thank you,” he said.

  “If you’re wantin’ to talk to ’im, he’ll more ’n likely take a meal over at the War Drum. I heard him say somethin’ about it.”

  Isback nodded, then, finishing his drink, left the saloon and walked down to the War Drum.

  The War Drum was run by a man named Dwight Ring. He smiled at Isback when Isback came in. Isback was not a cheap diner, and Ring appreciated that.

  “Mr. Isback, it’s good to see you,” Ring said.

  “Mr. Ring, do you know Smoke Jensen?”

  “Well, I can’t say as I know him, actually. He’s not a citizen of our community.”

  “But you would recognize him, wouldn’t you? I mean if you saw him?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, indeed. Mr. Jensen has come in here quite a few times.” Ring smiled, broadly. “I would say that he is a gentleman of discriminating taste, so it seems only normal that he would dine with us.”

  “Good. I have reason to believe that he will be taking his lunch here today. When he arrives, I would appreciate it if you would tell him that he can order anything he wishes to eat, and that I will pay for it.”

  “You are going to pay for Mr. Jensen’s meal? But why would you do that? I understand that Smoke Jensen is quite a wealthy man.”

  “I’m doing that because I would like to meet him. So, after you tell him that I am paying for his meal, please invite him to join me at my table.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ring said. “I would be glad to.”

  After he left the depot Smoke went to the War Drum Restaurant. He was met by the owner as soon as he stepped inside the door.

  “Hello, Mr. Ring,” Smoke said, greeting him with a smile. “What’s good for lunch?”

  “Anything that we have on the menu is good, you know that,” Ring said. “And for you, today, there will be no charge.”

  “No charge? Why would that be?”

  “Mr. Jensen, would you happen to know that gentleman over there?” he asked, pointing.

  The restaurant owner indicated a man who was sitting alone at a table in the far corner of the room. The man was wearing a low-crown hat with a silver hatband, a jacket,
and a bolo tie. His boots were highly polished. It was the same man who had danced with Sally.

  “I saw him at the dance. As a matter of fact, he danced with my wife. But I can’t say as I know him.”

  “He has been waiting to see you. He asked that I seat you at his table. He also said I was to serve you anything you wished, because he would pay for it.”

  “Really?” Smoke smiled and put his hat on the hat rack. “Maybe he has heard about the horses I brought to Tom Byrd, and he wants to do business. All right, I’ll have steak, a baked potato, some fried okra, and a couple of rolls.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  When Smoke reached the back table, the stranger stood and extended his hand. He was wearing an ivory-handled pistol tucked into a black, silver-studded holster. The holster was low, and well tied down. The skirt of the jacket was kicked back to allow a quick draw. Smoke wondered why a businessman would be wearing his gun in such a way.

  “You are the man who danced with Sally,” Smoke said.

  “Yes, you were most gracious to allow me to do so. And, she is a very skilled dancer. It was quite a pleasure.”

  “Well, I appreciate you buying my lunch, but you didn’t have to do so, just because you danced with my wife.”

  The man laughed. “Oh, I assure you, Mr. Jensen, this meal has nothing to do with my having danced with your wife. At least, there is no direct correlation. My name is Rick Isback. Does that mean anything to you?”

  The name was familiar, but Smoke couldn’t place where he had heard it.

  “I can’t say that I recognize it,” Smoke said. “I’m sorry, had we met before the other night?”

  “No, we haven’t met,” Isback said. “But I must say that I’m a little disappointed you haven’t heard of me. After all, I have heard of you.”

  “Yes, I often find myself at a disadvantage with people that I don’t know, who know me,” Smoke replied. “It can be a little frustrating at times.”

  “More and more, people are beginning to recognize my name, and, I’ve no doubt, the time will come when my name will roll as easily from the tongue as does your. Especially after today.”

  “Why, especially after today?”

  Isback flashed a toothy smile. “Oh, we’ll get to that after a while. Have you already ordered?”

  “I have.”

  “Good. That is good. Tell me, Mr. Jensen, how many men have you killed?”

  The question didn’t come as a complete surprise to Smoke; he had been having suspicions almost from the moment he had approached Isback. Also, he remembered Sally’s assessment of him.

  “There is something a little frightening about him, like a hint of sulfur.”

  “Are you a newspaper man?”

  Isback laughed. “Heavens, no. Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “Because that seems like a rather unusual question to ask a person.”

  “I expected you to respond by asking me the same thing.”

  “All right, Mr. Isback, how many men have you killed?”

  “I’ve killed seventeen men.”

  “That’s quite a few.”

  “But not as many as you, I’d wager,” Isback said.

  Smoke didn’t reply.

  “Let me reword my question. How many men have you killed as an affair of honor?”

  “What is an affair of honor?”

  “Don’t play coy with me, Mr. Jensen. You know perfectly well what an affair of honor is. It is when you met your adversary, face-to-face, with each of you having an equal opportunity to prevail.”

  “I see nothing honorable about killing,” Smoke replied. “And I’ve never killed anyone unless I had to.”

  “If someone is trying to kill you, would that put you in a position where you had to kill them?”

  “Well, yes, but, there has to be more to it than that. I mean, someone wouldn’t be trying to kill you unless they had a reason.”

  “So, you’ve never fought a gunfight that had no reason for its being, other than honor.”

  “As I said, I can see no honor in killing.”

  “What a strange thing to say for a man who has killed as many as you have. You are aware, are you not, that your name is spoken of in awe from New York to San Francisco. Books have been written about your many brave encounters.”

  “I have nothing to do with that. Believe me, I don’t seek such notoriety.”

  “That’s very easy for you to say, Smoke Jensen, because you already enjoy such fame. And after today, it will be my name on everyone’s lips.”

  “After today?”

  “After I kill you in a fair fight.” Isback smiled. “You see, Mr. Jensen, you and I are about to participate in an affair of honor.”

  “Suppose I tell you I don’t want to fight?”

  “Oh, you’ll fight,” Isback said. “Because I’m going to kill you today whether we fight or not.”

  “How would you explain that as honorable?”

  Isback chuckled. “Really, Mr. Jensen, do you think I expect you to just sit there and let me kill you? No, I think not. As I said, I’m going to kill you, but not until after we have had our meal.”

  At a signal from Isback, the food was brought to the table.

  “Since you are buying, I would like for you to pay the man now, if you don’t mind,” Smoke said.

  Isback chuckled. “Do you think I’m going to change my mind?”

  “No. It’s just that after this affair of . . . honor . . . is over, I don’t want to have to go through your pockets to get the money. I’m sure you agree, that would be very awkward.”

  Isback took a quick breath, then he forced a smile. “Oh, that’s a good one,” he said. “I’ll try to remember that.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll remember,” Smoke said. “If you are serious about this foolishness, then you won’t be alive long enough to forget it. Do pay the man, won’t you?”

  With the forced smile still on his face, Isback pulled out his billfold, then extracted enough money to pay for the meal and handed it to the waiter.

  Over the next several minutes the two men enjoyed a leisurely meal. They exchanged stories and laughed so frequently that anyone who had not overheard the earlier conversation might think they were two very good friends.

  Many knew better, however, because some of them had overheard the initial conversation between the two men, and had passed it on to others until soon, everyone in the restaurant knew. Word spread beyond the café as well, so that before Smoke and Isback were finished with their lunch, every table was filled and there were many more present who were standing along the walls, watching. As a result of the unfolding drama, all other conversation in the café had stopped as everyone waited, silently, to see what was going to happen.

  As the last of the peach cobbler was eaten, Isback called for the waiter to pour them each another cup of coffee. The waiter did so, his hands shaking so badly that it was all he could do to get the coffee in the cup.

  “Mr. Jensen, people will talk and write about this meal for years to come, especially as it was your last meal. I do hope you found the food to your taste,” Isback said. He lifted the coffee cup. “I drink to our newfound but, of necessity, short-lived friendship, sir.”

  Smoke took a swallow of his coffee, then put the cup down. “This is your play, Isback, so I invite you to make the first move.”

  “Surely, sir, you wouldn’t want the gunfight to take place here, in this crowded restaurant?”

  “Why not?” Smoke asked. “Isn’t that the whole purpose? Don’t you need witnesses?”

  “Yes, but they can watch us in the street. In here, there is too much of a danger of someone being hit by a wayward shot.”

  Smoke shook his head. “There won’t be a wayward shot. You won’t get a shot off, and I won’t miss.”

  The easy smile left Isback’s face and he reached for his pistol, drawing it very fast, considering that he was sitting down. The smile returned as he brought his pistol up and saw th
at Smoke had not yet even started his draw. He had won!

  Then, faster than could be comprehended, Smoke’s pistol appeared in his hand. Smoke fired and, as he had predicted, Isback didn’t get his shot off, and Smoke didn’t miss. A small black hole appeared in the middle of Isback’s forehead and his chair pitched over.

  With his gun still in his hand, Smoke stood up, then stepped around the table to look down at Isback’s sprawled body.

  Returning the pistol to his holster, Smoke turned and started toward the door.

  “I’ve never seen anything like that before in my life!” someone said. “I thought for sure he had you. How can anyone be that fast?”

  Smoke neither spoke, nor looked toward anyone. He had no reason to kill Isback, except for the fact that Isback had it in mind to kill him. If this was an affair of honor, he wanted nothing to do with it. He felt a little sick.

  Chapter Seventeen

  From the Brownsville Cosmopolitan:

  GUNFIGHT IN SAN VICENTE

  Strange Affair of Honor

  Two of the best-known shootists in the American West, Smoke Jensen and Rick Isback, encountered each other recently in the border town of San Vicente. The two men, both known for the skill with which they could employ the pistol, settled for all time the question as to who was the better of the two of them.

  The gunfight took place in the War Drum Restaurant, and according to witnesses, occurred at the conclusion of a meal which, to the casual observer, seemed full of congeniality and friendly discussion.

  Witnesses, however, tell a different story. According to the reports of several who overheard the conversation, Mr. Jensen was forced into the fight by Isback, and had no recourse but to respond, or lose his own life.

  Smoke Jensen prevailed in the contest thus precipitated, employing his pistol with a speed that amazed all who saw it. None, however, were more shocked than Rick Isback, who went to his grave knowing that there was someone faster.