Destiny Of The Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Oh, I’m sure Alice had a good time in Austin,” Henrietta replied. “But I am so glad that she is coming back. I’ve really missed her.” Looking over at Kleberg, she smiled. “And I suspect I’m not the only one who is glad she is coming back.”

  Kleberg ducked his head slightly. “No, ma’am,” he said. “You aren’t the only one who is glad she’s coming back.”

  King pulled his watch and looked at it. “Well, if the train is on time, like you say, it should be here very soon. Shall we go down to the depot?”

  “If you are asking me, I say yes,” Henrietta said.

  “Richard, uh, wait,” Kleberg said as King started to get up.

  The tone of Kleberg’s voice and the expression on his face alerted King to something, and he sat back down. “What is it?” King asked.

  “Before we go, there’s something I need to tell you,” Kleberg said.

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “Don’t tell me Alice missed the train,” Henrietta said anxiously.

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Kleberg said quickly. “I’m sorry if I caused you concern. It’s just that someone else is coming on the train.”

  “Someone else? Who?”

  “Please forgive me for my secrecy,” Kleberg said. “But I would rather wait until he is here.”

  King chuckled. “All right,” he said. “I suppose I can wait to find out.”

  The depot platform was a bustle of activity when the train pulled into the station. There were those who were waiting to leave on the train, those who were meeting the arriving passengers, and many more who had no purpose other than to just watch the train come and go.

  Vendors plied their wares among the waiting crowd, among them an old Mexican woman. She was wrinkled and humped over, and her chin extended forward and her nose hooked downward so that it looked as if nose and chin could join. She worked quickly, and with deft fingers, assembling the spicy ingredients of a taco. Wrapping the taco in a piece of newspaper, she handed it to her customer in exchange for a coin.

  “Here it comes!” someone shouted, and in the distance they could hear the train whistle. A few minutes later, the train rolled into the station, its huge driver wheels pounding against the track as wisps of steam feathered out from the drive cylinders. The train squeaked to a halt, then sat there, venting steam as if it were the labored breathing of some exhausted beast of burden. The gearboxes on the car wheels popped and snapped as they cooled.

  “Oh, there she is!” Henrietta called excitedly when she saw Alice step down from the train. “Alice!” she called. “Alice, we’re over here!”

  Alice embraced her mother first, then her father, and finally, with an embarrassed smile, Kleberg.

  “Oh,” Alice said. “They are beginning to unload the baggage car. I bought some lovely things while I was in Austin. I am going to go keep an eye on them to see that they don’t destroy anything.”

  “I’ll come with you, dear,” Henrietta said, walking away with her daughter.

  Standing among the crowd, awaiting the train, was Brad Preston. Dispatched by Brandt to meet Dingus Pugh, he watched the passengers as they stepped down from the train. Three-Finger Manning and Waco Jones had come to Corpus Christi with him, but neither one had come down to the depot.

  “You’re the only one can recognize him,” Waco said. “You was the one that was with him in prison. Me’n Three-Finger will be waitin’ for you in one of the saloons. When your friend gets here, come get us and we’ll have a drink or two before we get started back.”

  Preston would have argued back, but he knew that what Waco was saying was right.

  When he didn’t see Dingus get off the train, he walked over to speak to the conductor.

  “Is ever’one off that’s supposed to be off?” he asked.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I was lookin’ to meet someone, an’ he didn’t get off.”

  “Well, you might try toward the front of the train,” the conductor suggested. “Some of the passengers in the parlor car were coming here, and they may still be gathering their things before detraining.”

  Preston laughed. “This here fella ain’t likely to be ridin’ in no parlor car,” he said. “Maybe he missed the train. When’s the next one down from Austin?”

  “I believe there will be another one tonight at midnight.”

  “All right, I reckon I can wait on it,” Preston said. “I’ll just go have me a few drinks before then.”

  As Preston walked away from the depot, he didn’t glance toward the four people who had just gotten down from the parlor car. If he had, he might have recognized Smoke Jensen as the man with whom he had had a run-in back in Colorado about ten years earlier.

  There were twelve saloons in Corpus Christi, and Preston looked through half of them before he found Manning and Waco Jones. Even though it was not yet noon, both men were drunk.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Like Preston, Kleberg had watched the passengers detrain without seeing who he was looking for.

  “What about this mysterious person you are looking for?” King asked. “Have you seen him yet?”

  “No, sir,” Kleberg answered. “Not yet.”

  At that moment, Kleberg looked toward the front of the train and saw Smoke Jensen leading a horse down a ramp from the attached stock car. He smiled.

  “There he is,” Kleberg said.

  “There who is?”

  “Toward the front of the train. You see the fella leading the horse down the ramp?”

  By now, there were three men leading horses down the ramp.

  “Which one?”

  “The one in front,” Kleberg said.

  “Yes, I see him. What about him?”

  “That’s Smoke Jensen.”

  “Smoke Jensen?” King asked. “Wait a minute. Do you mean the Smoke Jensen? The famous gunfighter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it would be interesting to meet him, I suppose,” King said. “I mean, I’ve certainly heard a lot about him over the years. But I’m curious. How did you happen to know he would be on this train?”

  “Because I sent for him,” Kleberg said.

  “You sent for him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would he come just because you sent for him?”

  “He owes me a big, big favor,” Kleberg replied.

  “And that brings me to my second question. Why did you send for him?”

  “I figured he could help us with our . . . uh . . . problem,” Kleberg said.

  King let out a sigh, then put his hand on Kleberg’s shoulder.

  “Look, Bob, I know you did what you think is right. But I don’t want to do that.”

  “You don’t want to do what?”

  “I don’t want to use a hired gun to take care of my problem.”

  “Richard, he’s not exactly a hired gun. As far as I know, he’s never actually hired his guns out to anyone. Besides that, he is a wealthy man in his own right. I doubt that he would take any money for his services, even if you offered it to him.”

  “Then what would make him get involved?”

  “I told you, he owes me a favor. And he has a very strong sense of what is right and what is wrong.”

  “He sounds like an admirable man.”

  “He is, Richard. He is one of the finest men I’ve ever met.”

  “Then that makes me all the sorrier that you didn’t check with me first. I hate putting an honorable man through all this. But I can’t use him, Bob. I just feel that it would only make matters worse.”

  “All right,” Kleberg said, obviously disappointed by King’s pronouncement. “I’ll go talk to him, and tell him that it was all a mistake, that we won’t be needing him after all.”

  “I’m sorry, Bob. I just . . . well, I just wish you had checked with me first, that’s all.”

  “No, sir, I’m the one should be sorry,” Kleberg said. “I clearly overstepped my bounds on this, and I’ve
put myself in an awkward position. I’ve no one but myself to blame.”

  As Kleberg started toward the train, he saw a fourth horse being led down the ramp by a very pretty woman, and realized that she, like the two young men, was with Smoke. That was going to make it even more difficult for him to tell Smoke that he wouldn’t need him after all.

  Smoke looked up as Kleberg approached, then smiled and stuck out his hand.

  “It’s been a long time, but unless I’m wrong, you are Mr. Kleberg,” he said.

  “I am. But please, call me Bob,” Kleberg replied.

  “Sally, I want you to meet Bob Kleberg. I owe him a lot . . . my life, practically, because if it hadn’t been for him, why, I would never even have gotten to meet you,” Smoke said. “Bob, this is my wife Sally.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Kleberg said.

  “And I, you,” Sally said. “Smoke has told me many times how you arranged for the pardon for him and Preacher.”

  “Yes, well, I’m glad I could do it. They were good men, being unjustly pursued,” Kleberg said.

  “And this is Pearlie and Cal,” Smoke said. “No-accounts, the both of them,” he said, though his broad smile showed that he was teasing. “But they are my friends nevertheless. And since I don’t know exactly what you have in mind for me to do, I figured having these two along would be to my advantage.”

  “I, uh,” Kleberg started. He coughed, and scratched the side of his face. “Well, the truth is . . . uh . . .”

  “What is it?” Smoke asked.

  “Yes, well, the truth is, turns out I brought you down here for nothing.”

  “Oh? You mean the problem has resolved itself?”

  “No, not exactly,” Kleberg said. He pulled on his collar. “Uh, Mr. King doesn’t want to use any hired guns.”

  Smoke nodded. “I can understand that,” he said. “But we’re not exactly hired guns. I’m not here for money. I came down to repay a favor for a friend. And any friend of a friend is my friend.”

  “It’s not the money, it’s the idea of bringing in outside guns.” Kleberg ran his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really very sorry.”

  Upon seeing the difficulty Kleberg was having in telling him, Smoke broke into a wide, easy smile.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Smoke said. “We’ll spend a few days in town, look around and enjoy the sights, then go back home. We’ve been needing a vacation anyway.”

  After they got rooms in a hotel and had lunch, Sally decided she would like to spend the afternoon shopping. Cal offered to go with her to carry any packages. Smoke said he would check out some of the local saloons and Pearlie decided to go with him.

  Smoke and Pearlie were standing at the bar of the Boar’s Head Saloon at about mid-afternoon when the batwing doors slapped open and a young man stepped in. He was scratched and bruised, and his clothes were dirty and torn. When he saw Smoke standing at the bar, he let out a loud yell.

  “You!” he shouted, pointing at Smoke. “You threw me off the train, you son of a bitch!”

  The intensity of the yell brought all conversation in the saloon to a halt as everyone looked toward the angry young man standing in front of the door.

  Slowly, Smoke turned toward him.

  “Yes, well, it seemed to be the thing to do,” Smoke said easily. “You were threatening that young lady, and throwing you off the train seemed to be the best way to take care of it.”

  “I’ll bet you never expected to see Dingus Pugh again, did you?”

  “That would be your name? Dingus Pugh?”

  “That’s the name, mister,” Pugh said. He smiled, a cold, evil smile. “I figured you might want to know the name of the man that’s going to kill you. I see that you are wearing a gun. Get ready to use it.”

  At the challenge, those who were standing close to Smoke scattered quickly, moving to each end of the bar.

  One person very pointedly did not move. Pearlie was standing next to Smoke, but he didn’t even turn around to face Smoke’s challenger. Instead, he leaned over the bar and called down to the bartender, who, like the others, had fled down to the far end of the bar.

  “Mr. Barkeep, would you put a head on my beer, please?” Pearlie called.

  “What?” the bartender answered in a nervous voice. “What do you want?”

  Pearlie held up his beer mug. “I want you to refresh my beer, if you would. I’ve lost the head.”

  “You . . . you don’t want me to do that right now, do you?”

  “Well, I sure would appreciate it, if you don’t mind,” Pearlie said. “And what’s wrong with right now?”

  “Mister, are you blind, or just crazy?” the bartender asked. “There’s a shoot-out about to take place, and you are right in the line of fire.”

  “Oh. Are you talking about that dumb turd standing in the door there? What did he say his name was? Dingus Pugh? Don’t worry, I’m not in the line of fire. He won’t even get a shot off. Smoke will put him down before he clears leather.”

  “Smoke?” the bartender said.

  “Smoke Jensen,” Pearlie said. “Now, about that beer, a cool one would be nice.”

  Smoke’s name traveled all around the saloon, from mouth to mouth.

  “Smoke.”

  “Smoke Jensen.”

  “I’ll be damned. I’ve heard of ’im, never seen ’im before.”

  “You reckon that’s really him?”

  “Could be. Otherwise, why would he be standin’ there so calm after someone’s just said they’re goin’ to shoot him?”

  “This’ll be something to tell my grandkids. The day I seen Smoke Jensen kill somebody in a gunfight.”

  “Is that clock right? I want to remember the time this all happened.”

  When he heard Smoke Jensen’s name, and the comments being made by the others in the saloon, beads of perspiration broke out on Dingus Pugh’s forehead. His lower lip began to tremble, his mouth went dry, and he licked his lips nervously. His hand, which he was holding just over his pistol, began to shake visibly.

  “Well, are you going to open the ball? Or just stand there with your thumb up your ass?” Smoke asked. His voice was as quiet and calm as if he were having a conversation over a cup of coffee.

  Pugh stood there for a moment longer, neither speaking nor moving.

  “Go away, Pugh,” Smoke said. “I don’t want to kill anyone today.”

  Pugh glared at Smoke, then put both hands up and shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “I ain’t goin’ to give you no excuse to kill me. No, sir.”

  Turning, he pushed back out through the swinging doors, chased by the laughter of everyone in the saloon.

  Pugh stood just outside the saloon for a long moment, seething in rage. The anger he had felt over being thrown from the train was now compounded by the humiliation he had just experienced by being run out of the saloon.

  That was when he saw the shotgun protruding from the saddle sheath of one of the horses tied to the hitching rail in front of the saloon. Grinning broadly, he grabbed the gun, a Winchester double-barrel twelve-gauge. Breaking it down, he checked the loads, then snapped it closed again. He stepped back up onto the porch.

  Smoke just happened to glance in the mirror behind the bar when he saw Dingus Pugh charge back into the room, bent over, his shoulders thrust forward, his face set in a scowl. He was raising the shotgun to his shoulder even as he came in.

  “You’re going to die, you bastard!” he shouted loudly, pulling the trigger.

  The gun roared and one of the barrels spewed flame.

  Just before Pugh pulled the trigger, Smoke pushed Pearlie to one side while he dove to the floor on the other side. The shot passed so close overhead that he could feel the puff of air. Much of the heavy buckshot slammed into the top of the bar, ripping a big hole and sending out a shower of splinters. The rest of the load plowed into the shelf of bottles behind the bar, then into the mirror behind the bottle, bursting the mirror in
to several pieces of glass, from microscopic bits to large, dangling shards.

  As the noise and smoke from the shotgun discharge filled the saloon, and before Pugh could fire the second barrel, Smoke Jensen returned fire. From his position on the floor, he was shooting up, and his bullet hit Pugh just at the junction of his throat and chin. It penetrated the soft tissue, then burst from the back of his head, taking with it blood, brain matter, and chips of bone. It was all over before most people in the saloon had any idea that it was about to take place.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Within two hours after the shooting, an inquest was held before the Magistrate’s Court, with Judge Spicer Wells presiding. Smoke had not been arrested, but he was asked to attend the inquest, and he did so without protest.

  Nobody knew Dingus Pugh, and nobody would have even known the name had he not spoken it aloud when he came into the saloon. And though nearly everyone had heard of Smoke Jensen, only Bob Kleberg had ever met him, and Kleberg, who was not a witness to the shooting, had not been called. In fact, the inquest was already under way before Kleberg heard anything about it.

  One by one the witnesses testified as to how Dingus Pugh had come into the saloon, challenging Smoke Jensen. They told how Jensen faced him down without drawing against him, and how Pugh left. Then they told how Pugh came running back into the room a second time, this time carrying Frank Clanton’s shotgun.

  “I don’t know how he got the gun, Your Honor,” Clanton answered when he was on the witness chair. “I was in the hardware store next door at the time and didn’t even know what was goin’ on till I heard the shootin’. Then, when I went into the saloon, why, I seen that it was my gun the feller on the floor was holdin’.”

  “And you did not give it to him?” Judge Wells asked.

  “No, sir, I did not. And you can ask Cole Newton about that, seein’ as he was waitin’ on me in the store at the time.”

  “That’s true, Judge,” Newton said from the gallery. “Me’n Frank was talkin’ about Muley Olsen’s widder when we heard the shootin’.”