Trek of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Uh, this here man’s causin’ some trouble, Mr. Gooch,” the bartender said, backing away from the bar but keeping his eyes on Smoke.

  “That true, mister?” Gooch asked, moving between Smoke and the barman.

  Smoke inclined his head at the dirty glass in front of him. “All I did was request the good whiskey and a clean glass,” Smoke said. “If that is too much for this establishment, I will be happy to take my business elsewhere.”

  Gooch glanced at the glass, frowned, and whirled around to confront the bartender. “I’ve told you about this before, Jack,” he said angrily. “Now, get out. You’re fired.”

  “But . . .”

  “No buts, you lazy shit. Get out and you can come back later for what I owe you.”

  After Jack left, holding his hands in front of his stained pants, Gooch turned back to Smoke, shaking his head. “Damn,” he said. “It’s the gold fever.”

  “Oh?” Smoke asked.

  “Yeah. Every able-bodied man who’s not afraid of a little work is out in the mountains digging for gold. What’s left in town for me to hire are the ones too lazy to work or who are looking to steal what they need instead of earning it.”

  Smoke nodded. “I’ve seen it before,” he said.

  Gooch took the glass and replaced it with a clean one. As he poured the whiskey, he grinned at Smoke. “This one’s on the house, ’cause of the trouble with my man, but you’re gonna have to pay for the next one.”

  Smoke smiled. “Pour two and I’ll treat you to one.” “Damn,” Gooch exclaimed, “I don’t get an offer like that too often.”

  He poured himself a drink and held up his glass to Smoke. “To happier days,” he said.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Smoke said, and took a sip of his drink while Gooch emptied his own glass in one long drink.

  Smoke glanced at the sign over the bar. “I like the name of your place,” he said. “It indicates an owner with a sense of humor.”

  Gooch grinned at him and topped off Smoke’s glass and refilled his own. “My name’s Homer Gooch,” he said. “Growing up with a name like that, you either have to learn to be a good fighter or have a good sense of humor. I ain’t much of a fighter, but I don’t mind the occasional laugh at my expense.”

  “That’s a sound philosophy,” Smoke said.

  Gooch stuck his hand across the bar, “And what’s your handle, mister?”

  Smoke shook his hand. “Smoke Jensen.”

  Gooch’s eyes opened wide and he burst out laughing. “The Smoke Jensen?”

  Smoke smiled back and nodded. “The only one I know of.”

  Gooch continued to chuckle. “Old Jack would have shit himself in addition to pissing himself if he’d known who he braced with that little stick he kept under the bar.”

  Smoke just grinned and took another small sip of his whiskey, following it with a drink of beer.

  “What brings you to our neck of the woods, Mr. Jensen?” Gooch asked. “You’re not about to try your hand at mining, are you?”

  “Call me Smoke, and no, I’m not here looking for gold. I’m supposed to meet someone here today.”

  Gooch raised his eyebrows. “A friend?”

  Smoke’s smile faded. “Not exactly.”

  Gooch shook his head and glanced at the five-foot-long mirror behind the bar. “Well, Smoke, if it comes down to gunplay, would you try not to hit that mirror? It cost me two hundred dollars to have it shipped here from St. Louis.”

  Smoke laughed. “I’ll do my best, Homer.”

  Gooch looked around the room. “I bet you’ll be wanting a table in a corner so’s you can keep your eye on the door. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” Smoke answered.

  Gooch came out from behind the bar and walked over to a corner table where three men wearing the canvas pants of miners sat getting quietly drunk.

  “You men are going to have to move,” Gooch said. “I need this table.”

  One of the men glanced up, his eyes red and bloodshot. “I ain’t movin’ fer nobody. We was here first.”

  Gooch leaned down, both hands flat on the table as he stared at the man. “It’s worth a free bottle of whiskey if you’ll take another table,” he said.

  The man who’d objected jumped to his feet and looked around at his friends. “What the hell are we sittin’ here for, boys. Let’s do what the man says.”

  Gooch smiled at Smoke and waved his hand at the now empty table. “I’ll send a bottle over, Smoke.”

  Smoke shook his head. “No, thanks, Homer. I need to keep a clear head.”

  Gooch winked at him. “How about I fill a whiskey bottle with sarsaparilla? It looks like whiskey but it won’t get you drunk.”

  “Helluva good idea, Homer,” Smoke said. “I’m obliged.”

  Gooch pointed a finger at him. “Just remember to miss the mirror and we’ll call it even,” he said good-naturedly.

  20

  Smoke settled into his chair in the saloon, sipping his sarsaparilla and smoking an occasional cigarette as he waited for Pike or one of his men to show up. He had the hammer thong on his Colts undone just in case whoever showed up started blasting instead of talking.

  Smoke had no illusions; he knew Pike’s ultimate desire was to see him dead, and Sally was just an instrument in that final outcome. Smoke’s problem was to try and avoid killing Pike or his men until Cal and Pearlie could report back to him as to where they were keeping her. He refused to entertain any thoughts that she might already be dead or injured.

  After a while, Homer Gooch walked over to his table. “Smoke, you haven’t told me exactly what’s going on here, but if you need some backup, I’ll be over there behind the bar with a ten-gauge sawed-off express gun handy. You give the word and I’ll blast shit out of anyone giving you trouble.”

  Smoke found he liked this man more and more. “Thanks, Homer. I don’t think that will be necessary, but I appreciate the thought and the help.”

  Gooch nodded and made his way back behind the bar, where he leaned on it, his eyes searching the room for possible trouble. Smoke smiled to himself at the man’s offer. He’d discovered over the years that once people found out who he was, they generally reacted in one of two ways: They either feared him and tended to avoid his company, or they liked what they’d heard about him and wanted to be friends and help him out if they could. Such was both the penalty and the benefit of being a celebrity among common folks.

  * * *

  The Dog Hole was the fourth saloon Bill Pike entered while searching for Smoke Jensen. He’d never laid eyes on the man before, but he thought he’d probably recognize him when he saw him.

  He walked into the Dog Hole and stepped up to the bar. He ordered a shot of whiskey and after the heavyset man behind the counter gave it to him, he turned and leaned back against the bar on his elbows, sipping his drink and letting his eyes roam around the room.

  He knew Smoke immediately when his eyes fell on the man sitting at the corner table. Damn, he thought, he’s a dangerous-looking son of a bitch. Several inches over six feet tall, with shoulders as wide as an ax handle, Smoke dressed in buckskins. He must be in his forties by now, Pike thought, but his hair is still coal black, like his eyes, and there isn’t a trace of softness about his body. Muscles bulged in his forearms where they rested on the table, and his expression looked as if it were cast in stone.

  “You looking for somebody, mister?” Homer Gooch asked, noticing the way Pike scanned the room with his eyes.

  “Yeah, but I think I just found him,” Pike answered, emptying his glass and slowly moving toward the man in the corner. He kept his hands out from his sides, well away from the pistol on his hip. From what he’d heard, Jensen was snake-quick with a short gun, and Pike didn’t intend to find out for sure when he was by himself.

  As Pike walked toward Smoke, Homer Gooch got Smoke’s attention and winked, pointing under the bar to indicate the shotgun was ready and waiting if Smoke got into trouble.

  Pike stopp
ed in front of Smoke’s table and stared down at him. “You Jensen?” he asked, trying to make his voice low and hard.

  Smoke looked up at him, a tiny smile curling the corners of his lips. “Yes. Are you Pike?” Smoke answered, his voice level and smooth without a trace of fear in it.

  Pike nodded and pulled out a chair across the table from Smoke. He pushed his empty glass across the table. “How about a refill?”

  “Get your own whiskey,” Smoke said, all trace of good humor gone from his tone. “This isn’t a social call.”

  Pike’s face paled slightly at the insult, but he turned his head and waved to Gooch. “Another bottle of whiskey over here,” he called.

  After Gooch had delivered one of the cheap bottles with no label on it, Pike filled his glass and took a deep drink.

  “You called this meeting, Pike,” Smoke said. “Say your piece.”

  Pike’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re talkin’ awful brave for a man who’s lost his wife.”

  “I didn’t lose her, you scum,” Smoke said, leaning forward but keeping his right hand on his thigh near the butt of his pistol. “You and your men took her.”

  “Nevertheless,” Pike said, trying to get the upper hand in the conversation, “we’ve got her and you don’t. You want her back?”

  Now Smoke smiled. He screwed the butt of a cigarette into the corner of his mouth, lit it, and tilted smoke out of his nostrils, his face hard and set. “Oh, I’m going to get her back, Mr. Pike. There is no doubt of that. The only question is how you and your men are going to die . . . slow and painful or fast and easy.”

  “That ain’t no way to . . .” Pike began, but Smoke interrupted him.

  “Make your offer, Pike. I assume that’s what you came here for.”

  Pike took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. This wasn’t going at all the way he’d pictured it in his mind on the way here from the camp.

  “You can have her back, unharmed and untouched, for ten thousand dollars,” he said, attempting to make his voice firm and hard.

  Smoke took the half-smoked butt from his lips and tapped it out in an ashtray. “That all you want?” he asked, knowing full well that it wasn’t.

  “I figure you can go to the bank here and have a letter of credit wired from your bank in Big Rock. Once you have the money in hand, we can make the trade and nobody has to get hurt,” Pike said, his eyes shifting from the dangerous look on Smoke’s face.

  Smoke pretended to think the offer over for a few minutes, slowly sipping his sarsaparilla and staring at Pike.

  “Oh, I know all about your reputation, Jensen,” Pike said, “and if you’re as good as they say you are, you may be able to take out me and my men like you’re thinking you can. But”—Pike leaned forward as he spoke—“in the process of doin’ all this, you wife is bound to get hurt, maybe even kilt.”

  “There is some truth in what you say,” Smoke said, letting Pike think he was considering his offer.

  “From what I hear, you won’t have any trouble raisin’ the money,” Pike added, pouring himself another drink as he watched Smoke to see his reaction.

  “The money is no problem,” Smoke said. “I’m just trying to figure out how we can make the trade so everyone’s happy and no one gets the idea of taking the money and not delivering my wife to me.”

  Pike held up his hands. “Hey, we know how dangerous you are, Jensen. And since there’s only three of us, we wouldn’t stand a chance against you if we went back on the deal,” Pike lied.

  Smoke smiled. He knew Pike had at least seven or eight men left in his gang and was lying through his teeth, but Pike didn’t know he knew this.

  Smoke got to his feet. “Come on with me,” he said, throwing a couple of bills on the table and walking toward the door. “Homer,” Smoke called, “save my table for me, would you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Gooch replied.

  Pike hastily emptied his glass and followed.

  Smoke walked down the street about fifty yards and entered a building with a sign on it that read PUEBLO BANK. He walked up to a teller and asked to see the manager.

  A few minutes later, a portly man dressed in a black suit and a boiled white shirt with a string tie walked out of his office. “I’m Jedidiah Morgan,” the man said. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  Smoke handed him a piece of paper. “I’m Smoke Jensen, from Big Rock Colorado. I own the bank there. I want you to wire the bank for a letter of credit for ten thousand dollars, plus whatever fee you charge for the transfer. I’ll want to pick up the money tomorrow morning.”

  “Why, yes, sir, Mr. Jensen,” Morgan said. “That should be no problem at all.”

  Smoke turned on his heel without another word, walked back to the Dog Hole, and sat at his same table. Pike remained standing on the other side of the table.

  “As you can see, I’ll have the money tomorrow morning. How do you want to handle the trade?” Smoke asked.

  “There’s a small clearing about three miles up Fountain Creek. It has an old cabin in it. I’ll meet you there at noon tomorrow. Bring the cash. My men will be out in the woods with your wife. Any sign of a double cross, and they’ll put a bullet between her eyes ’fore you can sneeze.”

  “I’ll need to see her and see that she’s all right before I turn the money over,” Smoke said.

  “Of course,” Pike said. “I wouldn’t want you to take my word for it.”

  Smoke smiled. “See you tomorrow, Pike.”

  “So long,” Pike said, tipping his hat and turning to walk out the door.

  “Oh, Pike,” Smoke called to his back.

  Pike glanced back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

  “Best say your prayers tonight that I find Sally in perfect shape. If one hair on her head is out of place, you will find yourself begging me to kill you before I’m through with you.”

  Pike tried to grin as he turned and walked out the door, but his stomach knotted at the expression on Smoke’s face. He was looking death in the eye as sure as he was standing there. He felt sweat break out under his armpits and on his forehead, and he began to wonder if his dead brother was worth all this trouble.

  Hell, he hadn’t been lying to Mrs. Jensen when he said he hadn’t particularly liked the bastard any way. If it weren’t for Zeke and his big mouth, he wouldn’t be up here in this godforsaken frozen country worrying about getting his ass shot off.

  21

  A few minutes after Pike left the Dog Hole, the batwings swung open and Pearlie walked in. He took one look around the place and began to move directly toward Smoke. Evidently, his rather disheveled appearance, the way he wore his pistol tied down low on his right leg, and his determined expression worried Homer Gooch.

  Homer pulled the sawed-off shotgun from under the bar and rested it on top, his eyes watching Pearlie for any false moves. Smoke grinned and waved at Homer. “It’s all right, Homer,” he called. “This one’s a friend of mine.”

  Homer relaxed and put the shotgun away. He raised his eyebrows and pointed at the good bottle of whiskey Smoke had been drinking from when he first arrived.

  Smoke nodded and waited for Pearlie to take a seat across the table from him. After Pearlie sat down, he looked around the room and smiled. “This place is right nice,” Pearlie said, grinning. “When I saw the name on the sign outside, I thought it was gonna be a dive.”

  Smoke laughed. “Yeah, Mr. Gooch has quite a sense of humor,” he said, also looking around.

  The saloon was large and well lighted, with fresh paint on the walls, and the floor was clean and well swept. The tables were placed so that everyone had plenty of room to move around without being too crowded. In one corner, a piano sat facing the room with several bar stools in front of it. There was no one playing presently, and Smoke figured it was used mainly at night. Another thing he liked was that there were no “saloon girls” hanging around to cadge drinks from the miners who frequented the place. It was just another indication of Mr. Gooch’s cla
ss.

  Smoke finally looked back at Pearlie. “Did you find their camp?” he asked.

  Pearlie turned his attention from the decor of the room and nodded. “Yep. Cal’s got ’em all staked out now. He’ll tail ’em if they try to move.”

  Homer stepped up to the table and put the whiskey bottle down in the center of the table along with a glass for Pearlie. He picked up the bottle of rotgut Pike had left behind and the bottle of sarsaparilla and grinned. “Wouldn’t want you gentlemen to get sick drinking this horse piss,” he said.

  “Thanks, Homer,” Smoke said. “I owe you one for all you’ve done.”

  Homer waved a hand and blushed slightly. “It’s the least I could do, Smoke,” he said as he moved back behind his bar.

  “What about Sally?” Smoke asked. “Did you see her and is she all right?”

  Pearlie nodded. “She seems right as rain, Smoke. They’re camped in this clearin’ that has five or six old cabins scattered around. They got her stashed in one most of the time, but they seem to be leaving her alone an’ not botherin’ her none. They let her out to eat with them when they have a meal, but they make her sit off to one side by herself.”

  Smoke’s face wrinkled as he concentrated on the mental picture Pearlie had painted. “So, they don’t leave anyone in the cabin with her as a guard?”

  Pearlie shook his head. “No, at least they didn’t the night I watched ’em bed down. I think they must tie her up to the bed or to a post in there or somethin’, ’cause when she comes out she’s usually rubbing her wrists like they maybe were raw from the ropes.”

  Smoke nodded. “That’s good for us,” he said. “That’ll make it easier for us to get her out of there without them realizing it and starting to throw lead around.”

  “I noticed that big man comin’ out of here when I was comin’ in,” Pearlie said. “I seen him out at the camp yesterday and I think he must be head honcho out there ’cause everybody listens when he talks.”