“What do you want us to do with this money Max left?” Pearlie asked.
“Keep it. You can use it for spending money on the trip.”
The train slowed as it pulled into a small town that wasn’t much more than a water stop, and Smoke and the boys saw Max step out of the car ahead, carrying his carpetbag in his hand. As the train pulled out, they waved through the window at him, but he didn’t wave back.
4
James Slade, who called himself the Durango Kid, stood in his stirrups and shaded his eyes against the sun as he surveyed the small herd of cattle in the valley below him.
“Looks like ’bout a hundred head,” he said.
Curly Bob Gatling, who was bald as a billiard ball, grunted in reply. He was a man of few words, preferring to let the sawed-off twelve-gauge shotgun he wore in a modified holster on his belt speak for him.
Rawhide Jack Cummings, the third member of the gang, which also included Three-Fingers Juan Gomez, pulled out a Henry repeating rifle and jacked a shell into the chamber.
“Can you see how many men they got ridin’ the herd?”
“Appears there’s only three or maybe four,” the Kid answered.
“Then let’s do it,” Gomez growled, pulling a Colt Navy revolver from his holster.
Down below, Jimmy Little Deer, an Osage Indian living in the Indian Territories, sleeved sweat off his face. He glanced around at the herd he was watching, glad they seemed to be calm. In this heat, he didn’t feel up to chasing a bunch of dogies into the brush of the Oklahoma Territory countryside.
“Hey, Carlos,” he yelled, looked across the backs of a group of beeves toward his riding companion, Carlos Bear Claw. “How about we take our noon now?” he hollered.
Carlos nodded and cupped his hands around his lips to call to the third member of their group, Hank Stalking Horse. The three men were little more than teenagers, but could ride as well as men much older since they’d been raised in a saddle since they were pups.
The three Indian boys walked their mounts to a campfire they had going over on the edge of the herd, and stepped out of their saddles.
“Damn, but I’ll be glad when this day’s over,” Jimmy said as he bent to pour himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the edge of the fire.
Hank paused in the making of a cigarette to look at the horizon. “Do you hear hoofbeats?” he asked.
Jimmy cocked his head, then nodded. “Yeah, maybe the foreman’s sendin’ somebody to relieve us.”
Hank started to laugh at the notion when a loud thump was heard as a bullet smacked him dead center in the chest, knocking him backward and sending him flying spread-eagled onto the hot coals of the fire. Then a distant explosion of gunfire sounded.
“What the . . . ?” Jimmy said, grabbing for the ancient Colt Navy in a worn holster on his belt.
“Rustlers!” Carlos shouted, running for his horse to try to get his Winchester from the saddle boot.
As he leaned over the horse, a bullet shattered his skull, sending brains and blood spraying in the air in a fine, red mist.
Jimmy managed to get his pistol out and get off two wild shots at the four men riding down on him, but they missed their mark.
Curly Bob’s shotgun didn’t. The twin loads of buckshot took Jimmy square in the chest and blew a hole in his back as big as a bucket, killing him instantly.
The Durango Kid reined in, smoke still pouring from the barrel of his Colt. “Good work, boys,” he said. “Now see if these galoots have anything worth takin’, then put their hosses on a dally rope and we’ll get to roundin’ these beeves up.”
“How much you think we’ll get for ’em in Fort Worth, Kid?”
The Kid pursed his lips, thinking. “They ought’a bring about ten bucks a head, so figger ’bout a thousand dollars, give or take.”
Three-Fingers Juan Gomez grinned, exposing a gold front tooth. “Not bad pay for a few days’ work runnin’ them down to Hell’s Half Acre,” he said.
“Don’t forget,” Kid said. “Soon’s we get ’em outta the territories, we gotta put a runnin’ iron over ’em an’ change those brands.”
Two days later, after crossing the border into Texas, the men stopped and applied a straight branding iron over the brand of the Osage tribe, changing the brand to one unrecognizable. Then they were back on the trail, headed for Fort Worth, Texas, where they hoped to sell the beeves to someone who cared more about the price of cattle than their origin.
* * *
Since the train carrying Smoke and Cal and Pearlie didn’t have sleeping cars, it stopped on the way down to Texas for an overnight stay in Fort Smith, Arkansas, to give the passengers a chance for a bath and some good food.
Smoke and the boys got off the train and stretched, trying to get kinks out of their backs that were put there by jolting iron wheels traveling over uneven tracks for several hundred miles.
Pearlie rubbed his gut. “Damn, Smoke. You think we could get some food here? My stomach’s so hungry it thinks my throat’s been cut.”
“Your stomach’s always hungry, Pearlie,” Cal observed as he put his hands in the small of his back and bent over backward, trying to loosen up. “I think you were born hungry.”
“Hell, Cal. We ran outta Miss Sally’s bear sign over twenty-four hours ago an’ I ain’t et hardly nothin’ since then.”
Smoke grinned. “I guess those two steaks you put away this morning for breakfast don’t count.”
“That were more’n six hours ago, Smoke. A body cain’t hardly go that long without somethin’ to eat.”
“All right. Let’s go see if we can find a restaurant somewhere in this cow town,” Smoke said.
As the boys and Smoke walked down the street toward the center of town, Pearlie glanced to the side and saw a large, wooden structure off in a field by itself, with a chest-high wooden fence around it.
“What do you think that is, Smoke?” he asked.
Smoke followed his gaze. “Unless I’m mistaken, that’s the town gallows.”
“Gallows?” Cal asked. “Hell, it’s got six ropes hanging from it.”
Smoke nodded. “Yeah. It’s an idea of Hanging Judge Isaac Parker, the federal judge here in Fort Smith. Word is, he was hanging so many men, they had to increase the capacity of the gallows so as not to fall too far behind.”
Pearlie’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean they hang ’em six at a time down here?”
Smoke turned away. “Yes, that’s what I hear, so you boys better be on your best behavior. It wouldn’t do to get in trouble in this territory.”
Pearlie’s expression lightened up when he saw a combination saloon and dining hall down the street. “Now that’s what I call hospitality,” he said. “You can wet your whistle at the same time you fill your gullet.”
Cal stepped to the side, pulling Smoke with him. “Look out, Smoke, it don’t do to get between Pearlie and food. He’s liable to run you plumb over.”
They took seats at a table in the dining room close to the big double doors leading to the adjoining saloon. A large woman wearing a white apron with a hand towel thrown over her shoulder stepped to their table.
“Howdy, gents. My name’s Mabel. What can I get for you today?”
Pearlie spread his hands out. “I want a steak this big, with fried taters, sliced onions, and a loaf of baked bread.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “An’ a jug of beer to go along with it.”
Mabel threw back her head and laughed. “Now that’s what I like. A man with an appetite. How about you boys?”
Smoke said, “We’ll have the same, but bring us some coffee while we wait, please.”
“Sure thing, mister,” Mabel said, and waddled off toward the kitchen. She glanced back at Pearlie, and gave him a wink as she walked.
Smoke was about to tease Pearlie about his newfound friend when the braying of loud laughter came from the saloon. He glanced through the big door and saw three cowboys rousting a young black man who was trying to mop the floor.
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The tallest, a man well over six feet in height, reached out with his boot and kicked the young man in the seat of his pants, sending him sprawling onto his bucket of water, spilling it on the wooden planks of the floor.
Smoke sighed and got to his feet. “I’ll be right back,” he said, his eyes on the men at the bar.
Pearlie reached out and touched his elbow. “Now, Smoke, you know Miss Sally said for you to stay out of trouble.”
Smoke grinned a hard grin, his lips tight. “Oh, this won’t be any trouble. This is gonna be fun.”
Both Cal and Pearlie shook their heads and got to their feet, in order to cover Smoke’s back in the fracas they knew was coming.
As Smoke walked toward the cowboys, he noticed two men sitting at a nearby table, watching the proceedings with interest. One of the men was dressed in high fashion, wearing knee-high black boots, corduroy trousers, and a bright red flannel shirt. He sported two ivory-handled six-guns on his hips. The other was dressed less flamboyantly, but was impressive nonetheless. Standing six feet tall, he was lean and wiry and had eyes that Smoke recognized as belonging to a man used to facing death and unbowed by the experience.
Smoke walked to the young man, now on his hands and knees trying to clean up his mess. Smoke reached down and pulled him to his feet.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Billy Williams, sir,” the boy replied.
“Don’t you worry none about cleaning that up, Billy.” Smoke cut his eyes to the men standing at the bar, watching him with amused expressions. “I’m sure these men will be glad to do it for you, since they caused it.”
The smiles left the faces of the men and they looked at each other angrily.
Finally, the tall one stepped forward, hitching his pants up. “Just who the hell do you think you are, mister, mixin’ up in our fun like this?” he asked.
Smoke shook his head. “I’m just a man who doesn’t like to see three grown men pick on a young boy like this. What else do you boys do for fun? Pull the wings off of flies, kick dogs, slap women?”
The man looked astonished that anyone would speak to him in such a manner. He cast his eyes toward the men sitting at the table nearby, looking to see if they were going to interfere. The one in the knee-high boots just shrugged and took a leisurely drink of his beer.
The cowboy turned back to Smoke. “You apologize for that, or I’ll kill ya!” he growled.
Smoke smiled back at him, unconcerned. “Apologize for calling you a low-life pond-scum who picks on children? Why? It’s evidently the truth.”
“You son of a bitch . . .” the man growled, and went for his gun.
Before his pistol was half out of leather, Smoke had drawn and slapped the barrel of his Colt down across the man’s forehead, buffaloing him and knocking him to his knees, senseless.
“Goddamn!” one of the man’s companions said, his voice awed. “I didn’t even see his hand move.”
“He’s quicker’n greased lightning,” the other man observed, holding his hands well out from his pistol.
Smoke holstered his gun and pointed at the man on his hands and knees in front of him. “You gents with this man?” he asked.
“Yes . . . yes, sir, but we didn’t have nothin’ to do with what he did.”
“But you didn’t do anything to stop him, did you?” Smoke asked.
“Uh . . . no, sir,” the other man said, his eyes dropping to the floor.
“Then I’d suggest you two fellows clean this mess up, before you get the same thing your friend did.”
The two looked at each other, then walked over to the young black boy and took the mop out of his hand. As they started to clean the floor, Smoke winked at the boy and walked back to his table in the dining room.
Just after the waitress brought them their food, the two men who’d been observing the action in the saloon sauntered into the dining area and stood next to Smoke’s table.
He looked up from cutting his steak, leaned back in his chair, and gave them a look. “Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked.
He noticed for the first time the shorter of the two men was wearing a gold star on his chest. It appeared to be hammered out of two twenty-dollar gold pieces and said “U.S. Marshal” on it. The man was also carrying a shotgun cradled in his arms.
“Hello, mister,” the man with the gold star said. “I’m Marshal Bill Tilghman, and this is my associate, Marshal Heck Thomas.”
Smoke nodded; he’d heard of both men, who were famous throughout the West as marshals who always got their men.
“Uh-huh,” Smoke said, and continued looking at the men, waiting for them to make their play, whatever it was.
Tilghman glanced at Thomas, who said, “Mind if we ask you what your name is?”
“I’m Smoke Jensen, and this is Cal and Pearlie, friends of mine,” Smoke answered.
The two marshals glanced at each other again, clearly surprised a man of Smoke’s reputation was in town.
“Do you have business in Fort Smith, Mr. Jensen?” Tilghman asked.
Smoke noticed his hands were tight on the shotgun, as if he expected Smoke to draw down on them.
Smoke shook his head. “No. As a matter of fact, we’re on our way down to Texas to buy some bulls for my ranch in Colorado.”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve had some reports of stolen Indian Territory cattle being moved down Texas way for sale. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Mr. Jensen?”
Smoke smiled. “No. I’ve made a deal to buy some of Richard King’s Santa Gertrudis bulls off the King Ranch. You don’t suspect him of selling these stolen beeves, do you?”
Thomas smiled, apparently relieved at Smoke’s news. “No, of course not. Mr. King is a highly respected rancher in Texas.”
“We may see you later, Jensen,” Tilghman said. “Heck and me are gonna be travelin’ down to Texas ourselves. We aim to find those rustlers and bring ’em back up here for Judge Parker to deal with.”
“Good for you,” Smoke said. “Now, do you gentlemen mind? My steak’s getting cold.”
“Go on back to your meal, Mr. Jensen,” Thomas said.
“Nice talkin’ to you,” Tilghman added as the two men walked off.
After the lawmen left, Pearlie leaned across the table. “I wonder what put a bee in their bonnet. They didn’t have no cause to be roustin’ you like that, Smoke.”
Smoke swallowed the piece of steak he was chewing, washed it down with a gulp of coffee, then answered. “Sure they did, Pearlie. Like it or not, I’ve still got quite a reputation as a gunfighter, and tracking and fighting gunfighters is what those men do for a living.” He shook his head as he cut another piece of meat. “No, I don’t blame them for checking me out. In their place, I’d be doing the same thing.”
Cal scratched under his arms and around his back. “You think we’ll have time for a bath and maybe a couple of hours’ sleep here in town ’fore the train leaves again?”
Smoke cut his eyes at Pearlie, who was watching the waitress hand out pieces of pie to a nearby table. “That all depends on if we can get Pearlie out of here before midnight.”
Pearlie got a pained expression on his face. “Aw, Smoke. It won’t take long to try just one piece of pie.”
5
When they got back on the train, Smoke noticed Marshal Heck Thomas and Bill Tilghman also boarded, though they sat in a different car from the men from Big Rock.
“You think they’re followin’ us?” Pearlie asked as he shuffled a deck of cards prior to resuming their poker game.
“No,” Smoke answered. “They’re probably just doing what they said they were going to do, heading down south to try and locate the men who’ve been rustling cattle from the Indian Territories.”
As the train pulled out of the station, Cal glanced out the window at the gallows sitting in an open field, surrounded by its wooden fence.
“I’m sure glad we didn’t have no cause to meet that Hangin’ Judge
Parker,” he said.
“I’ve always thought an innocent man has nothing to fear from the law,” Smoke said, “but with Isaac Parker I’m not so sure. Word is his first inclination is to hang a man, whether he’s proven guilty or not.”
“But that ain’t right,” Pearlie said.
Smoke nodded. “It may not be right, but it seems to be what the folks out here want from their judge. I guess they feel if the man’s not guilty of what he’s been charged with, he’s probably guilty of something else just as bad.”
Cal shook his head. “Helluva way to run a court, if you ask me.”
Evidently, Cal and Pearlie were getting to be better cardplayers under Smoke’s tutelage, because it took him the entire two-day trip to Fort Worth to win all their money from them.
As they entered the famous cow town, Cal’s and Pearlie’s eyes were glued to the window, staring at the extensive stockyards with their many cattle pens and slaughter yards on the outskirts of town.
“I never seen so many beeves in my whole life,” Cal whispered in awe.
Pearlie nodded. “Yep, quite a few steaks on the hoof out there, all right.” He wrinkled his nose. “Guess the folks here in Texas get kind’a used to the smell,” he opined.
“You boys think that’s something, wait until you see downtown. On the one hand, it’s the most opulent city in Texas, and on the other, it’s got more whorehouses and gambling dens than any place this side of Dodge City,” Smoke said.
“What’s that they call the red-light district, Smoke?” Pearlie asked.
“Hell’s Half Acre,” Smoke answered, “though I’ve heard it covers a lot more area than that now.”
When the train stopped, Smoke and the boys got off and took their gear to the Cattleman’s Hotel on North Main Street, supposedly the best hotel in town.
Cal’s eyes opened wide at the numerous saloons and gambling houses and places of prostitution that lined the street on either side of the famous hotel. “You wouldn’t think such a nice hotel would be smack dab in the middle of all of this,” Cal said.
Justice of the Mountain Man Page 3
