Justice of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “When did you get here?” he asked without letting her go.

  “Less than an hour ago. Monte and Louis and I came in on the train from Fort Smith with Marshal Tilghman. We went straight to the sheriff’s office and he told us you were here in the hotel.”

  Smoke stepped back. “What time is it? We’ve got to get on the train to Houston.”

  Sally smiled and began to remove her clothes. “Don’t worry, we’ve got hours yet before the train leaves. Plenty of time for us to . . . say hello.”

  * * *

  Later, a much refreshed Smoke and Sally joined their friends along with Marshals Bill Tilghman and Heck Thomas at breakfast in the hotel dining room.

  It took a while for everyone to tell their part of the story, but by the time Pearlie was on his second helping of everything, all were up to date.

  Over final cups of coffee and cigars and cigarettes, Tilghman asked Smoke, “What do you plan to do now?”

  Smoke took a sip of his coffee, then leaned back in his chair. “I plan on taking the Cottonbelt train down to Houston, and from there heading on over to Galveston to see if I can head off Gomez and Curly Bob Gatling before they get on that steamer.”

  Tilghman glanced at Thomas, pursing his lips as if trying to think of a way to say what was on his mind. “You know, it ain’t your job to do that, Smoke.”

  When Smoke started to speak, the marshal held up his hand. “And technically, you’re still wanted for the murder of Jim Slade, the Durango Kid.”

  “What?” Smoke exploded. “You know I didn’t do that. You’ve got the testimony of a U.S. marshal that the witness was lying, and the testimony of the killer’s partner that he admitted he shot the Kid.”

  Tilghman gave a slight smile. “I know all that, but the fact of the matter is you’ve been formally charged with the crime. It don’t matter what I know, but what the court rules after considering all the evidence. You’re gonna have to go before Judge Parker and be declared not guilty before the charges can be dropped.”

  “That’s bull . . .” Smoke said, then paused and glanced at Sally sitting next to him. “Dung, and you know it!” he went on.

  Tilghman shrugged. “Yeah, I know it is. But I’ll tell you what. If Heck here agrees,” he said, glancing at his friend, “I don’t see any reason why you can’t stop by Fort Smith on your way back to Colorado. After you get your beeves from the King Ranch, you gotta drive ’em pretty near there anyway to get ’em home.”

  Smoke stared at the two marshals. “You’d trust me to do that?”

  Tilghman and Thomas looked at each other and nodded. “Sure,” Tilghman said.

  “What are you two going to do about Gomez and Gatling?” Smoke asked.

  “Well, our first job is to get those beeves back the vaquero bought from the Kid’s partners. So, Heck’s gonna take a few deputies and get on the trail after ’em.”

  “And what are you going to be doing?” Smoke asked.

  “Why, I plan to book passage on the Cottonbelt too,” Tilghman answered.

  “That’s why you’re so ready to trust me to come back to Fort Smith,” Smoke said. “’Cause you’re going to be right by my side the whole time.”

  “Well,” Heck Thomas said, “truth of the matter is, we’d kind’a hate to have to chase Gomez an’ Gatling all the way to the East Coast. Be much easier if they just happened to still be in Galveston when Bill here gets there.”

  Tilghman looked directly into Smoke’s eyes. “And I would trust you to keep your word, Smoke. You’ve proven that to me on several occasions already.”

  Monte pulled a pocket watch out of his coat and announced, “If we’re gonna catch that train, we’d better get a move on.”

  * * *

  Smoke hired a private car on the Cottonbelt so the group could all stay together on the two-day journey down to Houston. From Houston, they’d have to either rent or buy horses for the fifty-mile trip down to Galveston, since the train didn’t go that far.

  As they sat at tables in the car, drinking brandy, Monte, Louis, Cal, and Pearlie played with a deck of cards. Pearlie was anxious to show Louis what he’d learned from Smoke about the game of poker. Louis just grinned, figuring he’d show Pearlie a few things he hadn’t yet learned.

  Bill Tilghman, Sally, and Smoke sat at a table alone, talking about the past.

  “It must be exciting work, Marshal,” Sally said, “spending all your time hunting dangerous men.”

  Tilghman nodded. “It is, Mrs. Jensen. Human beings are about the most dangerous game there is to hunt. One of the few animals who’ll shoot back at the hunter.”

  As he spoke, Smoke’s mind went back to the time he’d hunted down the men who’d killed his father . . .

  * * *

  After meeting up with Preacher, Smoke’s father, Emmett, told Preacher that he was going out looking for the three men who killed Smoke’s brother and stole some Confederate gold. Their names were Wiley Potter, Josh Richards, and Stratton. Emmett went on to tell Preacher that he was going gunning for those polecats, and if he didn’t come back, he wanted Preacher to take care of Smoke until he was grown up enough to do it for himself. Preacher told Emmett he’d be proud to do that very thing.

  The next day, Emmett took off and left the old cougar to watch after his young son. They didn’t hear anything for a couple of years, time Preacher spent teaching the young buck the ways of the West and how to survive where most men wouldn’t.

  During that time, Smoke became about as natural a fast draw and shot as Preacher had ever seen, the boy spending at least an hour every day drawing and dry-firing the twin Navy Colts he wore.

  Two years later, at Brown’s Hole in Idaho, an old mountain man found Smoke and Preacher and told Smoke his daddy was dead, and that those men he’d gone after had killed him. Smoke packed up, and he and Preacher went on the prod.

  They arrived at Pagosa Springs, Pagosa being an Indian term for healing waters, just west of the Needle Mountains, and stopped to replenish their supplies. Then, they rode into Rico, a rough-and-tumble mining camp that at that time was an outlaw hangout.

  * * *

  Smoke built a cigarette as his mind wandered, lighting it and taking a deep puff, remembering how it had been for the young boy and his old friend in those rough and rowdy days . . .

  * * *

  Smoke and Preacher dismounted in front of the combination trading post and saloon. As was his custom, Smoke slipped the thongs from the hammers of his Colts as soon as his boots hit dirt.

  They bought their supplies, and had turned to leave when the hum of conversation suddenly died. Two rough-dressed and unshaven men, both wearing guns, blocked the door.

  “Who owns that horse out there?” one demanded, a snarl in his voice, trouble in his manner. “The one with the SJ brand?”

  Smoke laid his purchases on the counter. “I do,” he said quietly.

  “Which way’d you ride in from?”

  Preacher had slipped to his right, his left hand covering the hammer of his Henry, concealing the click as he thumbed it back.

  Smoke faced the men, his right hand hanging loose by his side. His left hand was just inches from his left-hand gun. “Who wants to know—and why?”

  No one in the dusty building moved or spoke.

  “Pike’s my name,” the bigger and uglier of the pair said. “And I say you came through my diggin’s yesterday and stole my dust.”

  “And I say you’re a liar,” Smoke told him.

  Pike grinned nastily, his right hand hovering near the butt of his pistol. “Why . . . you little pup. I think I’ll shoot your ears off.”

  “Why don’t you try? I’m tired of hearing you shoot your mouth off.”

  Pike looked puzzled for a few seconds; bewilderment crossed his features. No one had ever talked to him in this manner. Pike was big, strong, and a bully. “I think I’ll just kill you for that.”

  Pike and his partner reached for their guns.

  Four shots boomed in the l
ow-ceilinged room, four shots so closely spaced they seemed as one thunderous roar. Dust and birds’ droppings fell from the ceiling. Pike and his friend were slammed out the open doorway. One fell off the rough porch, dying in the dirt street. Pike, with two holes in his chest, died with his back against a support pole, his eyes still open, unbelieving. Neither had managed to pull a pistol more than halfway out of leather.

  All eyes in the black-powder-filled and dusty, smoky room moved to the young man standing by the bar, a Colt in each hand. “Good God!” a man whispered in awe. “I never even seen him draw.”

  Preacher moved the muzzle of his Henry to cover the men at the tables. The bartender put his hands slowly on the bar, indicating he wanted no trouble.

  “We’ll be leaving now,” Smoke said, holstering his Colts and picking up his purchases from the counter. He walked out the door slowly.

  Smoke stepped over the sprawled, dead legs of Pike and walked past his dead partner.

  “What are we ’posed to do with the bodies?” a man asked Preacher.

  “Bury ’em.”

  “What’s the kid’s name?”

  “Smoke.”

  A few days later, in a nearby town, a friend of Preacher’s told Smoke that two men, Haywood and Thompson, who claimed to be Pike’s brother, had tracked him and Preacher and were in town waiting for Smoke.

  Smoke walked down the rutted street an hour before sunset, the sun at his back—the way he had planned it. Thompson and Haywood were in a big tent, which served as saloon and cafe, at the end of the street. Preacher had pointed them out earlier and asked if Smoke needed his help. Smoke had said no. The refusal had come as no surprise.

  As Smoke walked down the street, a man glanced up, spotted him, then hurried quickly inside.

  Smoke felt no animosity toward the men in the tent saloon; no anger, no hatred. But they’d come here after him, so let the dance begin, he thought.

  Smoke stopped fifty feet from the tent. “Haywood! Thompson! You want to see me?”

  The two men pushed back the tent flap and stepped out, both angling to get a better look at the man they had tracked. “You the kid called Smoke?” one said.

  “I am.”

  “Pike was my brother,” the heavier of the pair said. “And Shorty was my pal.”

  “You should choose your friends more carefully,” Smoke told him.

  “They was just a-funnin’ with you,” Thompson said.

  “You weren’t there. You don’t know what happened.”

  “You callin’ me a liar?”

  “If that’s the way you want to take it.”

  Thompson’s face colored with anger, his hand moving closer to the .44 in his belt. “You take that back or make your play.”

  “There is no need for this,” Smoke said.

  The second man began cursing Smoke as he stood tensely, legs spread wide, body bent at the waist. “You’re a damned thief. You stolt their gold and then kilt ’em.”

  “I don’t want to have to kill you,” Smoke said.

  “The kid’s yellow!” Haywood yelled. Then he grabbed for his gun.

  Haywood touched the butt of his gun just as two loud gunshots blasted in the dusty street. The .36-caliber balls struck Haywood in the chest, one nicking his heart. He dropped to the dirt, dying. Before he closed his eyes, and death relieved him of the shocking pain by pulling him into a long sleep, two more shots thundered. He had a dark vision of Thompson spinning in the street. Then Haywood died.

  Thompson was on one knee, his left hand holding his shattered right elbow. His leg was bloody. Smoke had knocked his gun from his hand, then shot him in the leg.

  “Pike was your brother,” Smoke told the man. “So I can understand why you came after me. But you were wrong. I’ll let you live. But stay with mining. If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you.”

  The young man turned, putting his back to the dead and bloody men. He walked slowly up the street, his high-heeled Spanish riding boots pocking the air with dusty puddles.

  * * *

  After Smoke shot and killed Pike, his friend, and Haywood, and wounded Pike’s brother, Thompson, he and Preacher went after the men who killed Smoke’s brother and stole the Confederates’ gold. They rode on over to La Plaza de los Leones, The Plaza of the Lions. It was there they trapped a man named Casey in a line shack with some of his compadres. Smoke and Preacher burnt them out by setting the shack on fire, and captured Casey. Smoke took him to the outskirts of the town and hung him.

  After the hanging, the sheriff of the town put out a flyer on Smoke, accusing him of murder and offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward.

  Preacher advised Smoke they should head up into the mountains and go into hiding, but Smoke said he had one more call to make. They rode on over to Oreodel-phia, looking for a man named Ackerman. They didn’t go after him right at first. Smoke and Preacher sat around doing a whole lot of nothing for two or three days. Smoke wanted Ackerman to get plenty nervous. He did, and finally came gunning for Smoke with a bunch of men who rode for his brand . . .

  At the edge of town, Ackerman, a bull of a man, with small, mean eyes and a cruel slit for a mouth, slowed his horse to a walk. Ackerman and his hands rode down the street, six abreast.

  Preacher and Smoke were on their feet. Preacher stuffed his mouth full of chewing tobacco. Both men had slipped the thongs from the hammers of their Colts. Preacher wore two Colts, .44’s. One in a holster, the other stuck behind his belt. Mountain man and young gunfighter stood six feet apart on the boardwalk.

  The sheriff closed his office door and walked into the empty cell area. He sat down and began a game of checkers with his deputy.

  Ackerman and his men wheeled their horses to face the men on the boardwalk. “I hear tell you boys is lookin’ for me. If so, here I am.”

  “News to me,” Smoke said. “What’s your name?”

  “You know who I am, kid. Ackerman.”

  “Oh, yeah!” Smoke grinned. “You’re the man who helped kill my brother by shooting him in the back. Then you stole the gold he was guarding.”

  Inside the hotel, pressed against the wall, the desk clerk listened intently, his mouth open in anticipation of gunfire.

  “You’re a liar. I didn’t shoot your brother; that was Potter and his bunch.”

  “You stood and watched it. Then you stole the gold.”

  “It was war, kid.”

  “But you were on the same side,” Smoke said. “So that not only makes you a killer, it makes you a traitor and a coward.”

  “I’ll kill you for sayin’ that!”

  “You’ll burn in hell a long time before I’m dead,” Smoke told him.

  Ackerman grabbed for his pistol. The street exploded in gunfire and black powder fumes. Horses screamed and bucked in fear. One rider was thrown to the dust by his lunging mustang. Smoke took the men on the left, Preacher the men on the right side. The battle lasted no more than ten to twelve seconds. When the noise and the gunsmoke cleared, five men lay in the street, two of them dead. Two more would die from their wounds. One was shot in the side—he would live. Ackerman had been shot three times: once in the belly, once in the chest, and one ball had taken him in the side of the face as the muzzle of the .36 had lifted with each blast. Still Ackerman sat in his saddle, dead. The big man finally leaned to one side and toppled from his horse, one boot hung in the stirrup. The horse shied, then began walking down the dusty street, dragging Ackerman, leaving a bloody trail.

  Preacher spat into the street. “Damn near swallowed my chaw.”

  “I never seen a draw that fast,” a man said from his storefront. “It was a blur.”

  Later, the editor of the paper walked up to stand by the sheriff. He watched the old man and the young gunfighter walk down the street. He truly had seen it all. The old man had killed one man, wounded another. The young man had killed four men, as calmly as picking his teeth.

  “What’s that young man’s name?”

  “Smoke Jensen. But
he’s a devil.”8

  * * *

  Smoke came out of his reverie as Sally asked him a question.

  “What did you say, dear?” he asked.

  “Daydreaming, huh?” she said.

  “Yeah. Just sitting here gathering wool, thinking about old times like some old codger on a porch in his rocking chair,” Smoke said.

  Across the table, Tilghman nodded. “It’s a disease common to all of us who live by the gun,” he said. “Sometimes, the memories of those times when your life hangs by the thread of who’s the quickest with a six-killer are overpowering.”

  27

  Sally poured tea for herself and stirred in some sugar.

  “That’s an interesting way of putting it, Marshal Tilghman,” she said. “How did you get in the marshaling business anyway?”

  Tilghman added a dollop of brandy to his glass and took a sip, thinking on how to put it.

  “When I was about eight or so, my father went off to fight in the Civil War, and my older brother, Richard, became a drummer boy. I was left alone as the ‘man’ of the place. Let me tell you, it was quite a job for a boy of eight to help keep food on the table, plow the fields with an old mule, bring in the crops, and take care of my mother at the same time.”

  Sally nodded. “I can see it must have made you mature quite early.”

  “Yep, an’ it didn’t help any when my dad came back from the war blind and my brother married and moved away.”

  “What’d you do?” Smoke asked.

  “The only thing I could do. I kept workin’ the farm and takin’ care of Mom and Dad. Then, after they died—this was in the summer of ’72—I got work as a professional buffalo hunter. I’d become a pretty fair hand with a rifle, shotgun, knife, an’ pistol during my years takin’ care of the farm, so the work kind’a came natural to me.”

  “I’ve read stories about the old buffalo hunters, Buffalo Bill Cody and Wild Bill Hickok, but I’ve never met one,” Sally said. “What was the life like?”

  “Well, that summer of ’72, me an’ a group of men made a camp near where the Kiowa and Bluff Creeks come together, ’bout fifty miles from Dodge City. We built a dugout large enough for all fourteen of us, and one for the horses an’ mules too. After a while, we’d just about shot all the buffalo for miles around, so we moved southward and made another similar camp on the Kiowa Creek. Now, just south of there was the Cimarron River on the edge of the Gloss Mountains, home of the Cheyenne.”