Justice of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “My goodness,” Sally observed. “This place looks busier than Dallas.”

  The stage driver leaned to the side and spat his ever-present tobacco juice onto the salt grass alongside the road. “It is, ma’am. Up north, all they talk about is cattle, but down here, ’cept for the King Ranch, of course, cotton is king.”

  After waiting in line for some time, the stage was finally allowed on the ferry and they made the short trip across the bay without incident, though Pearlie refused to get out of the coach and walk around the ferry as the others did.

  “If God’d wanted man near this much water,” the cowboy said from his seat inside the stage, “He’d’ve made us with webbed feet like ducks.”

  Finally, they made their way to downtown Galveston, which was just a few blocks from the beachfront, and Sally was amazed to see large, fine homes comparable to any she’d seen on her travels to visit her family in New York City.

  The group disembarked at the stage depot, where there was another group of people waiting to make the trip back to Houston, it being a common destination for the well-to-do to travel to for both business and pleasure.

  Smoke paid off the driver, and they proceeded to the Galvez Hotel, which was on a bluff overlooking the breaking waves of the Gulf of Mexico and the pure white beaches of the island.

  “Let’s get some grub and make some plans on how to find Gomez and Gatling,” Smoke suggested.

  “That sounds good to me,” Pearlie piped up from the rear of the group.

  Cal looked at him. “The mention of food always sounds good to you, Pearlie,” he observed drily.

  * * *

  Down on the waterfront, Three-Fingers Gomez and Curly Bob Gatling, just awaking from a night of revelry in the red-light district of Galveston, gathered for breakfast at a small diner frequented by seamen.

  The Albatross was a small, single-roomed shack made of what looked like driftwood and old lumber washed up on shore during storms, and was just up the beach above the high-water line of seaweed, set back in the sand dunes.

  Its main attraction wasn’t the cuisine, which was plain but adequate. It was the wide selection of liquors and beers that were served at all hours, breakfast being no exception.

  As the two men leaned over their food in the dimly lit diner, Three-Fingers Gomez said, “When did they say that ship would be sailin’?”

  “Tomorrow,” Curly Bob Gatling answered as he shoveled runny scrambled eggs into his mouth, washing them down with coffee so black and strong he could almost chew it.

  “Damn,” Gomez said, glancing out the window at the many ships moored in Galveston Harbor. “With all them boats out there, you’d think they’d have some goin’ our way ’fore then.”

  Gatling shrugged as he held up his cup to show the waiter he wanted a refill. “They do, but most of ’em are freighters, an’ they don’t carry but a couple’a passengers each. I got us in line to get the first places available.”

  When Gomez grunted gloomily and began to eat his food, Gatling asked, “Why are you so jumpy? Why not just sit back and enjoy the nightlife here? Hell, they got more good-lookin’ women here than I ever seen before, an’ we finally got some spendin’ money in our pockets from sellin’ those beeves.”

  “It’s just that I got this here itch on the back of my neck, like somebody’s on our back trail. I can’t enjoy myself for lookin’ back over my shoulder to see who might be there.”

  Gatling leaned back and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling, where it mingled with clouds of smoke from the other patrons in the place.

  “One thing I’ve learned after all my years ridin’ the owl-hoot trail, podna, is that you can’t think about what may be behind you. If you do, you soon go crazy in the head.”

  Gomez shook his head. “How do you stop?”

  “You got to live one day at a time.... You got to figure you’re gonna take a dirt nap soon enough, so worryin’ about it don’t do no good. When it happens, it happens.”

  Gomez finished his eggs and coffee and pushed the plate away from him on the table.

  “That’s easy for you to say, Curly Bob, but you didn’t put that bullet in the Kid, an’ you don’t have that Jensen feller on your trail.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Gatling asked hotly. “We’re partners, ain’t we? If they after you, that means they after me too. When it comes right down to it, if Jensen’s still alive, which I doubt, he ain’t gonna just come up to us an’ say, ‘Which one of you shot the Kid?’” He shook his head. “Nope. He’s gonna just show up an’ start blazin’ away with those big Colts of his, so I got as much to lose as you, Three-Fingers.”

  Gomez glanced across the table and smiled. “I know, Curly Bob. You are a good friend, and I know I can count on you if push comes to shove.”

  “That’s right!” Gatling said, nodding his head and grinning. “Now, we got twenty-four hours till we set sail for the East Coast, so let’s see how many women we can bag, an’ how much whiskey we can drink, between now and then.”

  * * *

  After settling in at the Galvez and cleaning up from their dusty journey from Houston, the group met at the Galvez Restaurant, where they dined on red snapper, speckled trout, fresh blue crabs, and oysters on the half shell, along with fried potatoes, coleslaw, and corn bread.

  Pearlie eyed the oysters skeptically. “I don’t know ’bout eatin’ those things,” he drawled from the end of the long table in the dining room.

  He picked up an oyster shell and held it under his nose, sniffing.

  “Don’t smell it, Pearlie,” Sally said, “eat it.” She took a shell in her hand, poured some red sauce on it, and tipped it up, letting it slide down her throat in one gulp.

  Pearlie watched her through narrowed eyes. “What’s it taste like?” he asked.

  “Delicious,” Sally said, a pleased expression on her face. “I haven’t had food this good since New York.”

  Pearlie was thinking, but had the manners not to say, that he wasn’t sure he wanted to eat food that looked like something he’d hawked up from the back of his throat.

  “They say,” Louis Longmont said as he tipped a shell and swallowed the shellfish, “that oysters are good for your nature.”

  “Nature?” Pearlie asked. “They ain’t nothin’ wrong with my nature.”

  “What’s nature?” Cal asked innocently, his eyebrows raised.

  As the men at the table laughed, and Sally blushed, Monte said, “It’s something somebody your age don’t have to worry none about, Cal.”

  “How about you, Monte?” Louis asked. “Are you going to partake of one of the sea’s best delicacies?”

  Monte shook his head. “No, Louis. My nature don’t need no stirrin’ up, not with Mary a thousand miles away.” He smiled. “Though I might see if I can take some back to Big Rock with me.”

  As Smoke wolfed down a quick half-dozen of the oysters, Sally glanced at him and leaned over to whisper in his ear, “Go easy on those, big fellow. You don’t need any help with your nature either. It’s fine just as it is.”

  After they finished the meal, Sally went to browse the shops along the waterfront next to the hotel, and the men went to the shipping offices at the Port Authority.

  While Tilghman and Smoke went in to talk to the clerk, Monte and Louis and Cal and Pearlie strolled along the beach, picking up shells and enjoying the balmy day.

  A half hour later, Smoke and Tilghman emerged, smiles on their faces.

  “What did you find out?” Louis asked.

  “Yeah,” Monte said. “We asked around out here an’ word is there’s more’n a hundred bars and saloons and houses of ill repute along the wharf. Ain’t no way we’re gonna find two men among all those, not unless we get awful lucky.”

  “We got lucky,” Tilghman said. “The clerk in there went through the records for us an’ found a Juan Gomez an’ Robert Gatling scheduled to sail out on the Sea Sprite tomorrow morning to Georgia.”

  “I c
an’t believe they’re still here,” Pearlie said. “They had a two- or three-day start on us.”

  “There again, we got lucky,” Smoke said. “The clerk told us the ships were backed up and running late due to some storms in the Gulf. There hasn’t been a ship out of here for the past four days, or they’d probably be long gone.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Monte asked.

  Smoke shrugged. “I’m going to relax and spend the day with Sally, shopping and seeing the sights. It isn’t often we get to make a trip like this together. Then tomorrow, at dawn, Marshal Tilghman and I are going to get on the ship early and be waiting for the two killers when they board.”

  “What about us?” Cal asked, a disappointed look on his face.

  “You’ll be our backup,” Marshal Tilghman said. “You’ll cover the roads to the ferry and the area around the ships’ loading docks, just in case they decide to leave Galveston instead of boarding the ship, or in case they get by us.”

  Louis nodded and cracked his knuckles, stretching his fingers. “Well, while you play dutiful husband, Smoke, I’m going to check out the various gaming establishments along the shore here and see if Texicans can play poker any better than the men in Colorado.”

  Pearlie smiled. “You mind if Cal an’ I tag along, Louis? I want to try out what you taught us on the train, see if ’n I can win some money.”

  Louis laughed. “Not at all, Pearlie. How about you, Monte?”

  Monte shrugged. “Sure, why not? Beats hanging around the hotel missin’ my wife.”

  Smoke nodded and left, going to look for Sally. He wanted to see if the oysters really did make a difference.

  * * *

  The next morning Smoke and Tilghman, followed by Louis, Monte, Cal, and Pearlie, walked through a fog so thick you could cut it with a knife. The sun wasn’t quite up, but the eastern clouds were beginning to turn a brilliant orange and red and yellow on the horizon.

  When they got to the dock where the Sea Sprite was moored, Tilghman stationed the other men around the area as a precaution, and he and Smoke walked up the gangplank.

  A burly sailor, his massive arms covered with tattoos, started to stop them, but backed off when Tilghman pulled his vest back and showed him his gold badge.

  They went to the quartermaster and asked him which cabin was assigned to Gomez and Gatling.

  “Number three,” he said, and led them down a long, dark, dank corridor to the room, which he opened for them.

  The cabin was incredibly small, and both Tilghman and Smoke had to duck their heads, not being able to stand erect in the tiny enclosure.

  “We can’t wait for ’em here,” Tilghman said. “No room to maneuver in case they resist.”

  “You’re right,” Smoke said. “Let’s get settled up on deck. We can brace them there when they come aboard.”

  They searched the upper deck until they found the right place to hide, just behind the opening to the belowdecks area. It was a small, raised wooden structure that would keep them concealed until the two men were well on board. Then they could step out and arrest them.

  Smoke and Tilghman settled down, sitting on coils of rope as thick as Smoke’s arm, and smoked and talked of western things until it was almost eight o’clock.

  Tilghman peeked over the wooden structure, and could see several people making their way toward the ship. “Time to get ready.”

  Smoke smiled. “Strike up the band?” he asked.

  Tilghman grinned back. “Start the dance,” he added.

  * * *

  Three-Fingers Gomez and Curly Bob Gatling strolled up the gangplank. Gomez was smiling and whistling, and Gatling laughed. “See, partner?” Gatling said, nudging Gomez with his elbow. “I told you we didn’t have nothin’ to worry about. Jensen’s dead, an’ we’re on our way to Georgia.”

  Smoke and Bill Tilghman stepped out from behind the entranceway to the cabins, their hands hanging next to their pistol butts.

  “The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” Smoke drawled, a grim smile on his face.

  “Goddamn!” Gatling exclaimed, stopping dead in his tracks and dropping the duffel bag he had slung over his shoulder.

  He glanced at Gomez, who shook his head.

  “I knew it,” he said morosely. “I told you I felt someone on our trail.”

  “Juan Gomez and Robert Gatling,” Tilghman said in a formal tone of voice, “I’m a U.S. deputy marshal and I arrest you for the murder of Jim Slade, known as the Durango Kid.”

  Gatling held out his hands. “I didn’t have nothin’ to do with the Kid’s murder,” he said, a whining note in his voice.

  “But you did conspire to have Smoke Jensen murdered by paying some vaqueros to kill him, didn’t you?” Tilghman asked.

  “Shit!” Gatling said.

  “I think you boys have a date with George Maledon,” Tilghman said grimly.

  “Who’s this Maledon feller?” Gomez asked. “I don’t know no Maledon.”

  “He’s known as the prince of hangmen,” Tilghman said. “He is the chief executioner for Judge Isaac Parker, the man who’s gonna judge you boys.”

  Gomez began backing away, his hands near his pistol. “I ain’t gonna get my neck stretched for killin’ a snake like the Durango Kid. It ain’t fair,” he said, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

  “It ain’t fair to be shot in the back either,” Smoke said, “but the Kid didn’t have any choice in the matter, and neither do you, Gomez.”

  “Yes, I do!” Gomez said, going for his gun.

  Gatling did the same, crouching and slapping at his holster.

  Smoke and Tilghman drew in the same instant, guns coming up and firing almost simultaneously, twin explosions that shattered the peaceful morning and caused seagulls to wheel away from the ship, keening and screeching in fear.

  Gomez flung his arms backward, his pistol still in its holster, as the molten lead from Smoke’s Colt punched a hole in his chest and exploded his heart. He whirled around and fell facedown on the deck of the ship, smashing his nose and breaking three of his front teeth.... But he felt no pain. He was dead before he hit the deck.

  Tilghman’s slug took Gatling in the gut, his gun also still in its holster, and doubled him over, so that Tilghman’s next shot entered the top of his head and drove him to his knees. He stayed in the bent-over position for a few seconds, as if giving up a prayer for his sins, before he toppled over to sprawl on the deck, leaking blood and brains over the hardwood planks.

  Smoke took a deep breath and sighed as he put his Colt back in its holster.

  Tilghman just let his hand drop to his side, shaking his head at the waste of human life he’d seen.

  Tilghman turned his head and stared at Smoke. “I’d always heard you were fast enough to snatch a quarter off a snake’s head and leave change ’fore he could strike. I guess I heard right.”

  Smoke laughed. “I think you beat me by a split second, Marshal.”

  Tilghman shook his head. “No way, Smoke. It was a dead heat.”

  “Remind me never to draw against you, Bill,” Smoke said.

  “Don’t worry, mountain man, I will!”

  32

  Smoke and everyone said their good-byes to Marshal Bill Tilghman at the ferry on the mainland side of the Bay of Galveston. He was heading back north to Arkansas to file his report on the murder of the Durango Kid, while Smoke and his friends were heading south to Corpus Christi and the King Ranch.

  Smoke stuck out his hand. “Marshal, it’s been a pleasure knowing you.”

  Tilghman took his hand and shook it. “Same here, Smoke. I’ll be sure and clear your name with Judge Parker an’ let him know it was all a mistake.”

  “So, I don’t need to stop by there on my way back to Colorado?”

  Tilghman smiled and glanced at Sally. “No, I don’t think so. Besides, from what I hear, the judge would just as soon not have to face Mrs. Jensen again. It seems she made quite an impression on him at their last mee
tin’.”

  Smoke raised his eyebrows. “Oh, is that so?”

  “Yeah,” Tilghman said, laughing. “He said something about how he’d rather face a mad dog than another woman like her takin’ up for her man in his court.”

  Smoke smiled at Sally. “She does have a rather . . . forceful way about her when her dander’s up,” he said.

  “I resent that,” Sally said, her face reddening. “I just told him the truth, that Smoke Jensen would never shoot anyone in the back.”

  “Oh, it’s not what you said, Miss Sally,” Tilghman said, “it’s how you said it. You see, the judge, he kind’a feels like he’s the king of his courtroom, an’ he’s not used to someone gettin’ in his face like you did. It upsets his equilibrium somehow.”

  “Well,” Sally said, standing up straight, “the only king in my world is Smoke, and the judge will just have to accept that fact.”

  * * *

  Smoke and his group of friends spent an enjoyable week at the King Ranch near Corpus Christi. Sally was much impressed by the modern way Richard King and his foreman used new scientific methods to improve the breed of cattle known as Santa Gertrudis. She hounded the poor foreman for several days, inquiring about bloodlines and breeding methods and feed and the amount of meat they could expect from their shorthorn crosses with the Gertrudis bulls, until by the time they’d taken the bulls to the train yards for shipment to Colorado, he was glad to see her go.

  While Sally was inquiring into the breeding and care of the new breed, Richard King took Smoke, Cal, Pearlie, Monte, and Louis hunting on his thousands of acres of prime land.

  Smoke, after killing a Texas mule deer, allowed as how he’d never seen a deer so big.

  Pearlie and Cal were more impressed by the number of quail and doves they killed. Especially Pearlie, who said he’d never tasted anything so good as quail barbecued over a mesquite fire.

  “So, you like them better than the oysters?” Louis asked as he gnawed meat off one of the small birds next to the campfire.

  King glanced at Pearlie. “You didn’t care for our oysters?” Pearlie shook his head. “Not enough so’s you could tell,” he answered.

  “That’s the first thing I ever saw ole’ Pearlie wouldn’t eat,” Cal said.