Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns)

by Johnstone, William W.

  “A man’s got a right to his dignity,” Trask growled resentfully.

  “Not in this case. I’ve found that a feller in your present condition is more inclined to cooperate.”

  “I’m not cooperating with nobody,” a truculent Brian growled.

  “Oh, I think you will be. I want to know where I can find Tinsdale, your boss. Remember him?”

  “I don’t know nothing.”

  Smoke jammed a stiff thumb into a sensitive nerve ganglia in the man’s armpit. Trask squealed like a stuck hog. “Again. Where is Tinsdale?”

  Trask had drawn up into a tight ball. “I don’t know. He’s out of town.”

  “Where out of town? You are his chief enforcer, aren’t you?”

  “So what?” Brian asked after he stopped gagging. Smoke had put that same hard thumb to a nerve center under his right ear.

  “So you know. Where is he?” A hard backhand to the exposed cheek of Brian Trask stung his eye and straightened him out.

  “He’ll kill me if I tell you anything,” Trask babbled.

  Smoke Jensen leaned in and dug the offending thumb into a complex of nerves an inch below the navel of Brian Trask. “I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

  When his squealing cut off, Brian Trask gasped and sobbed for air. “Yer a Marshal, you can’t kill an unarmed, naked man.”

  “I’ve only been a marshal for a short while. I can easily forget about ever being one. Now, talk.”

  Brian Trask talked. Then Smoke forced the head gunhawk to dress and frog marched him out of the parlor house. When Smoke left the room, he not only knew who had killed his friend Harrison Tate—a gutter thug named Wally Quade—but also why. And what Tinsdale had in mind.

  Ralph Tinsdale planned on capturing the entire center of Denver and exacting a fortune out of rentals. He also intended to do the same with every burgeoning city in the West. When Tinsdale met with resistance, he had the objecting land owner killed and dealt with the bereaved widow. Smoke had the name of the corrupt lawyer Tinsdale used and where to find him.

  And where to find the criminal mastermind. Now, it was only a matter of time.

  11

  Baldwin & Fiske, Attorneys at Law, had offices in one of Denver’s most attractive and expensive office buildings. A fashionable men’s haberdashery store occupied the ground floor. The impressive edifice had its own carbide gas generating plant in the basement, along with a coal-fired, steam radiator heating system. Even at night, the stark whitish radiance of gas lights illuminated several windows in the upper stories. In the rapidly growing, bustling metropolis, business went on around the clock. After booking Brian Trask into jail as an accessory to murder, Smoke Jensen went directly there. He had no difficulty setting foot in the Babcock Building by the grand, polished granite-faced main entrance.

  At the rear of the lobby, Smoke found another modern convenience. An elevator had been installed when the facility had been constructed. Operated during the day by an attendant, who used a large rope pull to raise and lower the open car, the device now stood vacant. Smoke Jensen studied the conveyance awhile and worked out how it functioned. Baldwin and Fiske had offices on the fourth floor. Smoke had fully expected to have to climb the stairs to reach his immediate goal. Now he entered the cage of the elevator and reached for the rope. He gave it a yank, but the car did not move. He crossed to the opposite side of the open platform and pulled again. With a creak and groan, the floor rose under his feet.

  A young man appeared suddenly from the lobby attendant’s cubical and waved at Smoke. “Here, sir, let me do that for you.”

  “Thank you,” Smoke replied with forced politeness, impatient to reach the office of the lawyers, and to do so unseen.

  High-stepping to get onto the elevator, the muscular youth took up position and heaved on the three-inch rope. “We have a lot of tenants who work at night.” He frowned slightly and paused before hauling again. “I don’t recall seeing you here before, though.”

  Inventing rapidly, Smoke Jensen answered him calmly. “I was asked to come here tonight on a business transaction. To see one of your occupants on the third floor.”

  That information erased the frown. “Oh, yes. That would be Henning Mining. Old Mr. Harvey came in not an hour ago.”

  “Yes, that’s it. But Mr. Harvey asked that our meeting be kept in strictest confidence.”

  Pausing in his attention to the rope, the young man laid an open palm on the center of his chest. “I assure you, I am the soul of discretion.”

  “Thank you, my man,” Smoke responded with a heartiness he did not feel.

  On the third floor, Smoke Jensen tipped the operator handsomely, stepped off the elevator, and turned in the direction indicated by an arrow on a directory. He walked along the hallway toward Henning Mining until out of sight of the elevator. Then he waited until it started down and headed for the stairs. He climbed slowly, careful not to make any betraying sound.

  Up on the next level, he located the offices of Baldwin and Fiske. Smoke paused outside the door, listening. A light shone through the pebbly, frosted glass pane in the main entrance. No sound came from within. Cautiously, Smoke tried the knob. It turned, but did not release the latch. Again, Smoke resorted to the thin-bladed knife in his boot. The bolt gave on the third try. Smoke entered and relocked the door behind himself. Now all he had to do was wait.

  While he went about that, Smoke decided, he might as well learn what he could from the files. A quick search of the outer office proved fruitless. No reference to Ralph Tinsdale or Tinsdale Properties, Ltd. Halfway down a corridor, brass lettering on a stout oak door announced the office of Lawrence Baldwin, Esq. Typical of lawyers—who were suspicious of everything, including their own shadow—it was locked.

  Smoke Jensen forced entry and went to a rank of three head-high file drawers. He soon found them to also be locked. To his surprise, it took even more effort to slip the latch on the first set and slide open the drawer. He found the “T” section, but no file for Tinsdale. The second down yielded nothing also. Smoke began to suspect that he had been lied to. In the third drawer, he came across his first nugget of gold. A thick file bore the label Tinsdale Properties, Limited. It consisted mostly of real estate contracts, with a small bit of correspondence as well. Not wishing to advertise his presence, Smoke took the letters out to the reception area and read them under the night light.

  To his disappointment, they provided nothing useful. He returned to the office and replaced everything as it had been. The search continued. Smoke drew blanks on the last two drawers. He closed the files and smiled to himself at the click that sounded when the sprung lock snapped back into place. On to the next.

  Nothing, until the fourth drawer. There, under a warning label in bold-faced red letters that read: MOST CONFIDENTIAL, he found his reward. Tinsdale Correspondence, it was labeled. Smoke took the whole file out into the light. What he learned at first amazed, then angered him. No question that Tinsdale and Baldwin were in cahoots in the land swindles. Tinsdale wrote candidly of using intimidation, extortion, and murder to acquire parcels of land in the heart of Denver. On one, dated the day after the death of Harrison Tate, Smoke found the most damning evidence.

  “Lawrence,” the letter read. “A man named Quade will be coming by later today to see you. You are to give him five hundred dollars out of the Special account, and arrange a chair car ticket on the first train out of Denver, headed west. San Francisco would do fine. As always,” and it was signed Ralph. There was a postscript that washed cold fury through the veins of Smoke Jensen. Wally Quade had been the name given him by Brian Trask the night before.

  “P.S. I am sure the Tate property will be available soon. You might send Trask around to see the widow about it, eh?”

  Smoke removed that from the file and dutifully read through the remainder. Nothing else came so close to sealing the fate of Ralph Tinsdale. Routinely, he searched the remaining file drawers, found nothing significant and settled in to wait for the
arrival of the crooked lawyer.

  He had prudently stopped off at a small street-front eatery on the edge of Chinatown and stocked up on an assortment of dim sum, bite-sized, portable foods that could be eaten as enjoyably cold as hot. They were in a woven sea-grass bag Smoke had carried into the building. He sat now behind the desk of Lawrence Baldwin, boots propped on the unmarked mahogany surface and reached in for a sample of the Chinese appetizers. Baldwin would be in about eight the next morning, Smoke estimated. Then he could remove another link in the chain.

  Lawrence Baldwin, Esquire, respected and admired member of the Colorado Bar, confidant of the mayor of Denver, member of the Pioneers Club—an exclusive residence club for charter residents, who had come to Colorado before it became a state, and their male descendants, provided they all had and maintained enough money to be eligible—had a routine day in mind when he entered the outer reception area of his offices. He surely did not expect anything untoward today, and certainly did not have in mind what he discovered when he opened the door to his inner sanctum.

  “What are you doing here?” The man to whom Lawrence Baldwin addressed that question looked large and dangerous. “How—how did you get in here?”

  “Shut up and close that door,” the darkly scowling stranger demanded.

  In spite of his inclination to the contrary, Lawrence Baldwin found himself doing as told. Once the heavy oak panel clicked into place, he leaned back on it for support, his knees suddenly weak, his bluster vanished. It had at last registered upon him that the unknown visitor had backed up his commands with the ugly black muzzle of a very large Colt revolver. It had been pointed at his minute lawyer’s heart. Fear sweat popped out on his brow and upper lip, oily and cold.

  “Come over here and sit down,” came the order from behind Baldwin’s desk.

  Lawrence Baldwin started his habitual route that took him to the place the stranger now occupied. He cut himself short and took one of the large, leather clients’ chairs. His growing apprehension caused him to sag into it. With considerable effort, Baldwin found his voice again.

  “Now, could you possibly tell me who you are and what you are doing at my desk?”

  “It’s Judgment Day, Mr. Lawyer Baldwin,” Smoke Jensen told him in sepulchral tones.

  Baldwin really began to sweat now. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

  “Tinsdale Properties, Limited. Ralph Tinsdale. A man named Brian Trask, and another named Wally Quade. That’s what I’m talking about.”

  Ghost-white in an instant, Lawrence Baldwin swallowed hard and fought the urge to bolt and run. He drew a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly. Took another. “Ralph Tinsdale is a client of mine. And I do represent his company. What business is that of yours?”

  “Are you also his bag-man, to pay his hired killers?”

  Had it been possible for Lawrence Baldwin to turn any whiter, he would have done so. “I won’t dignify that with an answer. It’s impertinent of you. There is a thing called lawyer-client confidentiality, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t. But it doesn’t matter in this case. I don’t think this case will be going to trial anyway.”

  That didn’t sound good, for several reasons. “What…case?”

  “The People of Colorado versus Ralph Tinsdale, Lawrence Baldwin, Brian Trask, Wally Quade, et al. The charges: murder, conspiracy to commit murder, extortion, fraud, coercion, conspiracy and any others I can think up.”

  “What gives you the authority to make any charges?”

  Smoke Jensen reached into his vest pocket and took out his U.S. Marshal’s badge. He tossed it casually toward Lawrence Baldwin. It fell short, onto the top of the desk, and cut a long, deep gouge in the pristine surface as it skidded to a stop. Baldwin winced.

  “I am a United States Marshal. And I have proof of your criminal activity in collusion with Ralph Tinsdale.”

  The lawyer in Baldwin took flame. “Whatever evidence you have has been gained illegally. You have no case.”

  Smoke shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t think this case will go to trial. Now, tell me, where is Ralph Tinsdale?”

  Baldwin correctly read the meaning of those words in the eyes of his visitor. Lips quivering, he tried once more to bluff his way out of it. “It won’t go to trial because you obtained your evidence without a warrant.”

  “No. It’s because of the most obvious reason a case cannot come to trial. A dead man cannot be tried for any crime.” When Smoke said that, Baldwin shuddered. “Of course, if you give evidence for the prosecution, testify against the others, I’m sure something can be worked out.”

  For all his earlier pomposity, Lawrence Baldwin deflated rapidly. “All right, all right, what is it you want to know?”

  “I have the general idea already. What I want is where I can find Ralph Tinsdale.”

  Baldwin swallowed with obvious effort, shook his head. “I’m not positive, understand? He—he’s trying to expand his land empire. He’s gone out to Dry Gulch Canyon. He wants to gain claim to as many working gold finds as possible. He’ll be some—somewhere in there.”

  That verified what Trask and Quade had told him. Smoke gave him a nasty smile. “See? That wasn’t too hard, was it?”

  Baldwin hung his head, features bland and pallid. “I feel dirty.”

  “As well you should, considering what you’ve done. Now, let’s get out of here.”

  “Wh-where are we going?”

  “To jail.”

  “But you said…”

  Smoke smiled nastily. “You underestimate me. I’m not so stupid as to let you run around free, knowing what I know about your operation with Tinsdale.”

  Baldwin’s mouth fell open, yet before he could frame a reply, Smoke Jensen came around the desk in a swift, fluid motion, yanked the corrupt lawyer to the soles of his shoes and gave him a rough shove toward the door.

  Dry Gulch Canyon, famous a few years ago for a fabulous gold rush, lay to the west of Denver. In the high mountain country, it could not be seen from any point except directly from above on the peaks surrounding it. Tons of ore had been mined and more tons of stream bed run through sluice boxes, producing hundreds of thousands of dollars in gold. Now only half a dozen mining companies operated here.

  Modern and efficient, they each yielded better than 300,000 dollars a year. Ralph Tinsdale, in his dreams of empire, wanted to own it all. He had been advised against it by Lawrence Baldwin. The intricacies of mine ownership made impossible Tinsdale’s usual tactic of killing off those who refused and coercing their heirs into selling out. Tinsdale, bloated with success, would hear nothing of it. He had been in the canyon only three days and already he had learned only how correct his lawyer had been. He sat in a dreary drizzle of rainfall, crouched over a ground-cloth-sheltered fire, in a side canyon. Three of his lackluster underlings were with him.

  So despondent had he become that he did not hear the clop of a horse’s hooves as a newcomer splashed through the puddles into the campsite. He barely looked up when the rider halted ten feet from him. Slowly he blinked when he recognized Wally Quade.

  “What are you doing here? I thought you had been sent out of town.”

  “I didn’t want to go. And then I got arrested, Mr. Tinsdale. For killing that old codger who wouldn’t sell to you. Some U.S. Marshal. Name of Jensen. Captain Yardley let me out this morning. Trask, too. And your lawyer.”

  Stunned, Tinsdale could only gape and stammer. “Th-th-this can’t be. How—how could he know who to go after?”

  Quade shrugged his shoulders. “The thing is, it happened. Lawyer Baldwin said this marshal was comin’ after you next. You best make ready. That Jensen is meaner than a wildcat with his bung sewed shut.”

  Galvanized into action, Tinsdale came to his boots. “You hear that, men? We’ve got a lawman coming after us. We’ll make it his last manhunt.” Tinsdale spun around on one heel, looked over their camp, the terrain to all sides. His decision made, he gave quick instructions. �
��Chances are he will come right before nightfall, or first thing of a morning. Only we won’t be here. Fix up your bedrolls to look like there is someone in them, then pick a spot where you can cover all the open ground. We’ll let him get in here, thinking he’s right among us, then cut him down.”

  Smoke Jensen arrived in Dry Gulch Canyon two hours before sundown. It took him less than half an hour to track the horse he had followed onto the soft bottom soil of the gorge. It led straight to a small, narrow side canyon. Smoke reined in and dismounted. He took a ground anchor from his saddlebag and screwed it into the turf. He tied off the reins of his horse and patted the animal on the neck.

  “Stay here, Thunder. I’ll be back shortly.” Drawing his Winchester from the saddle boot, he started off to scout the ground ahead.

  Well-trained by Preacher, his skills honed over years of practice, Smoke Jensen drifted through the trees on the inner gorge walls as invisible as the air itself. He quickly located the hiding places of two men. A ways farther into the canyon, he found another. He came upon two more near the dead end of the box canyon.

  Carefully, with all the stealth he could muster, he worked his way back to the first man. His target lay prone, eyes fixed on a campsite where it appeared four men lay rolled up in their blankets, sound asleep. Smoke Jensen stepped out from behind a big, resinous pine and tapped the sole of the man’s boot with his own.

  “Waitin’ for someone?” he asked quietly.

  The hard case jerked with surprise and tried to whirl rapidly. Smoke drove the butt of his Winchester downward and smashed it into the outlaw’s exposed head. The steel butt-plate made a mushy sound when it made contact. The thug twitched spastically and went still. Smoke disarmed him, tied him up, and moved on.

  His second target sat with his back to a boulder. He chewed methodically on a slab of fatback in a biscuit and watched the opening of the gorge indifferently. Smoke slid the tomahawk from his belt and reached around the huge chuck of granite. With a swift, powerful blow he rapped the lout on the side of the head with the flat of the blade. On to the next.