Trail Of The Mountain Man/revenge Of The Mountain Man (The Last Mountain Man)

by Johnstone, William W.

  Louis lifted his glass. “May I pay you a compliment, Smoke Jensen?”

  “I reckon so, Louis.”

  “I have seen them all, Smoke. All the so-called great gunfighters. Clay Allison, John Wesley Hardin, Bill Longley, Jim Miller. I’ve drank with Wild Bill Hickok and Jim, Ed, and Bat Masterson. I’ve gambled with Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp. I’ve seen them all in action. But you are the fastest gun I have ever seen in my life.”

  The men clinked glasses and drank of the Glenlivet.

  “Thank you, Louis. But I’ll tell you a secret.”

  Louis smiled. “I’ll bet you a double eagle I already know what it is.”

  “No bets, Louis, for I imagine you do.”

  “You wish you were not the faster gun.”

  “You got that right.”

  The men finished their drinks and stepped out onto the boardwalk. The photographer had set up his equipment at the corral and was taking his shots of Utah Slim. The duded-up dandies had gathered around, managing to get themselves in almost every shot the man took.

  “Fools!” Smoke muttered.

  “Look at them with their hands on the butts of their guns,” Louis pointed out. “They’ll be bragging about that picture for the rest of their lives.”

  “However short they may be,” Smoke added.

  “Yes.”

  Ralph walked up, joining the gambler and the gunfighter. Louis smiled at him.

  “I would offer you a drink, Mister Morrow, but I’m afraid I might offend you.”

  “I’m not adverse to a cool beer, Mister Longmont.”

  Louis was more than slightly taken aback. “Well, I’ll just be damned!” he blurted.

  “Oh, I think not, sir,” Ralph replied. He met the man’s cool eyes. “How is your orphanage up in Boulder doing? Or that free hospital out in San Francisco?”

  Louis smiled. “For a man of the cloth, you do get around, don’t you, Ralph?”

  “But I wasn’t always a preacher, Mister Longmont,” he reminded the gambler.

  “Tell me more,” Smoke said with a grin, looking at Louis.

  “Don’t let the news of my…philanthropic urges get out,” the gambler said. “It might destroy my reputation.”

  Smoke looked at him and blinked. “Hell, Louis! I don’t even know what that means!”

  Laughing, the men entered the gaming tent for a cool one.

  And the photographer’s flash pan popped again.

  And Utah Slim still clung to the corral railing.

  The town of Fontana had begun to die, slowly at first, and then more rapidly as the gold vein began to peter out. More businesses shut down, packed up, and pulled out. The rip-roaring boom town was not yet busted, but a hole had been pierced in the balloon.

  Those who elected to stay until the very end of the vein had been found were slowly shifting their trading to the new town of Big Rock. But since the Mayor of Big Rock, Wilbur Mason, refused to allow gaming and hurdy-gurdy girls in, the town of Fontana soon became known as the pleasure palace of the high country.

  But that was both a blessing and a curse for Sheriff Monte Carson and his three remaining deputies. A curse because it kept them on the run at all hours; a blessing because it kept them all in steady work, and doubly so for Monte, because it gave him a new direction in life to pursue. One that he found, much to his surprise, he enjoyed very much.

  Louis had, of course, noticed the change in Monte, and in his quiet way tried to help the man, as did Judge Proctor, Louis helping the man with his reading and Proctor loaning him books on the law.

  And Tilden Franklin maintained a very low profile, as did most of his gunslicks. Tilden wanted the area to settle down, stop attracting the governor’s attention. More importantly, he wanted that damned hard-eyed U.S. marshal to stay out of the high country.

  But both Tilden and Smoke knew that the undeclared war in the high country was not over, that the uneasy truce was apt to break apart at any time. And when it did, the high lonesome was going to run red with blood.

  Someone was going to come out on top, and Tilden was making plans for that someone to be named Tilden Franklin. And he had not given up on his plans to possess Sally Jensen. Not at all. They had just been shelved for a time. But not forgotten.

  The festering blot on the face of the high country began to leak its corruption when Paul Jackson rode into Fontana after a lonely six weeks in the mountains. Paul had heard talk of the new town of Big Rock, but had never seen it. He had heard talk of Fontana slowly dying, but had given it little thought. Paul had been busy digging gold. Lots of gold. More gold than even he had ever imagined he would ever find. His saddlebags were stuffed with the precious dust. His packhorses were loaded down.

  He rode slowly into Fontana and could not believe his eyes. He had remembered a town, just six weeks past, full of people.

  Place looked dead.

  No, he corrected that. Just dying.

  And where had the good people gone? Place looked to be full of whores and gamblers and pimps and ne’er-do-wells.

  Made Paul feel kind of uncomfortable.

  He reined up in front of the bank. But the damn bank was closed. He saw a deputy and hailed him.

  Stonewall ambled over. “Something wrong, Paul?”

  “Where’s the bank?”

  “Ain’t got no bank no more, Paul,” the deputy informed him. “It shut down when the gold began to peter out.”

  Paul, not a bright person to begin with, had to think about that for a minute or so.

  “The gold is petering out?”

  Now Stonewall never figured himself to be no genius, but even he was a shining light compared to this yoyo sitting his horse in front of the empty bank building.

  “Yeah, Paul. The vein is about gone. If you got gold, we can store it at the jail until you can figure out what to do with it.”

  “I plan on taking my woman and my gold out of here,” Paul said. “We are going to San Francisco and becoming man and wife.”

  “Your…woman?”

  “Yes. I should like to see Bountiful now. So if you’ll excuse me…”

  “The minister’s wife…Bountiful?” Stonewall asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Paul…they don’t live here in Fontana no more. The preacher quit his church and took to farmin’. He bought hisself some land up near the Sugarloaf. He preaches ever’ Sunday morning at the new church up in Big Rock.”

  “Bountiful?”

  Stonewall was rapidly losing patience with this big dumbbell. “Why, hell, man! She’s with her husband.”

  “Not when she sees me,” Paul said, then swung his horses and rode slowly out of town, toward the high lonesome and the town of Big Rock.

  And Bountiful.

  “What the hell was all that about?” Monte asked, walking up to his deputy.

  Stonewall took off his hat and scratched his head. “Sheriff, I don’t rightly know. That Paul Jackson never was too bright, but I think the time up in the mountains has flipped him over the edge.”

  He told Monte the gist of the conversation.

  “Strange,” Monte agreed. “But Paul is gonna be in for a surprise if he tries to mess with Ralph’s wife. That preacher’ll whip his butt up one mountain and down the other.”

  “Surely Paul ain’t that dumb!”

  “Don’t bet on it. Did he really have them horses loaded with gold?”

  “Said he did.”

  “Outlaws workin’ the high country; he’ll be lucky if he makes it to Big Rock.”

  “Bountiful,” Paul said, sitting his horse in front of the Morrow cabin. “I’ve come for you.”

  Bountiful blinked her baby blues. “You’ve…come for me?”

  “Yes. Now get your things. I’m a rich man, Bountiful. We can have a beautiful life together. I’ll buy you everything you ever dreamed of.”

  “Paul, everything I have ever dreamed of is right here.” She waved her hand. “What you see is what I want. I have it all.”

/>   “But…I don’t understand, Bountiful. The way you looked at me…I mean…I was sure about your feelings.”

  It had been that way all her life; men were constantly misreading her. Mistaking friendliness for passion. It was very difficult for a beautiful woman to have men friends.

  “Paul, I like you. You’re a good man. And I’m happy that you found gold. I hope it brings you a lot of happiness. And you’ll find a nice lady. I just know it. Now you’d better leave.”

  Smoke and Ralph rode into the yard. Sally stepped out of the cabin where she had been helping Bountiful make curtains.

  “Hello, Paul,” Ralph said. “How have you been?”

  “Very well, thank you, Ralph. I’ve come for your wife.”

  Ralph blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  Bountiful looked at Sally and shook her head. Sally knew the story; Bountiful had told her that Paul was infatuated with her.

  “Leave, Paul,” Sally told the man. “You’ve got everything all mixed up in your mind. It isn’t the way you think it is.”

  “Is too!”

  “Now Paul,” Ralph said soothingly. “You don’t want to make trouble for us. Why don’t you just leave?”

  Paul shook his head and dismounted. With a knife, he cut open one saddlebag, the yellow dust pouring out onto the ground.

  “See, Bountiful?” Paul cried. “See? It’s all for you. I did it for you. You can have it all.”

  “I don’t want it, Paul,” Bountiful said softly. “It’s yours. You keep it.”

  Paul stood like a big, dumb ox, slowly shaking his head. It was all so confusing. He had thought he had it all worked out in his mind, but something was wrong.

  Then he thought he knew what would bring Bountiful to him. “I know,” he said. “You’re afraid to leave because of Tilden Franklin. I can fix that for you, Bountiful. I really can.”

  “What do you mean, Paul?” Smoke asked.

  Paul turned mean eyes toward Smoke. “You stay out of this. You’re one of the reasons Bountiful won’t go with me.”

  Smoke blinked. “Huh?”

  “I can use a gun too,” Paul said, once more looking at Bountiful. “I’ll show you. I’ll show you all.”

  Smoke looked at Paul’s pistol. It was in a flap-type holster, the flap secured. Smoke figured he could punch Paul out before any real damage was done—if he went for his gun.

  “I’ll come back a hero, Bountiful,” Paul said. “I’ll be the hero of the valley, Bountiful.” He cut the saddlebags loose and let them fall to the ground. He tossed the reins of the packhorses to the ground. “You keep this for me, Bountiful. Play with it. It’s not as pretty as you. But it’s pretty. I’ll be back, Bountiful. You go on and pack your things. Wait for me.”

  Paul swung awkwardly into the saddle and rode off.

  “Paul is not very bright,” Ralph said. “What in the world do you suppose he’s going to do?”

  No one would even venture a guess.

  Smoke squatted down and fingered the dust and the nuggets. He looked at them closely. Then he stood up with a sad smile on his face.

  “It’s all fool’s gold.”

  “If it wasn’t so pitiful, it would be funny,” Ralph said. “But Paul really believes, after he does whatever in the world he plans to do, that Bountiful is going with him. I wonder what he has in mind.”

  “What was that about Tilden Franklin?” Sally asked.

  “He said I was afraid to leave because of Tilden Franklin,” Bountiful said. “But that’s silly. Why should I be afraid of that man?”

  No one could answer that.

  And in a few hours, it wouldn’t matter to Paul either.

  12

  “Rider comin’, Boss,” Valentine called to Tilden.

  Tilden stepped out onto the porch and squinted his eyes against the sun. It was that fool shopkeeper’s brother, Paul Jackson. “What in the hell does he want?”

  “That one ain’t playin’ with a full deck,” Slim said. “That’s the one used to foller the preacher’s wife around with his tongue a-hangin’ out like a big ugly hound dog.”

  “He looks like a hound dog,” Donnie observed. “A goofy one.”

  The gunfighters had a good laugh at that remark; even Tilden laughed. But for some reason he could not explain, the big man slipped the thongs off his six-guns.

  Luis Chamba noticed the movement. “What’s wrong, Boss?”

  “I don’t know. Just something about the way he’s riding that bothers me.”

  “You want me to kill him?” Donnie asked.

  Tilden waved that off. “No. Let’s see what he’s got on his mind.”

  Paul rode up to the house and sat his weary horse. “May I dismount?”

  “Ain’t he po-lite?” a gunfighter said, laughing.

  “Sure, Jackson,” Tilden said. “Climb down. What can I do for you?” Tilden noticed that the flap on the military-type holster was missing. Looked like it’d been freshly cut off. Paul’s gun was riding loose.

  “I’ve come to meet you man to man, Mister Franklin,” Paul said.

  “Well, Jackson, here I am. Speak your piece and then carry your ass off my range.”

  “I’ve come to kill you,” Paul stated flatly.

  “Is that so? Why?”

  “Personal reasons.”

  “Don’t I deserve better than that?” Tilden asked. This stupid sod was beginning to irritate him.

  Several of the gunhands were beginning to giggle and titter and circle in the area of their temples with their forefingers.

  Paul looked at the giggling gunslicks. “You men seem to find this amusing. Why?”

  That brought them all down laughing. Tilden joined in the laughter. “Get off my range, you silly bastard!”

  “Draw, goddamn you!” Paul shouted, and began fumbling for his gun.

  Tilden drew, cocked, and fired with one blindingly fast motion. His slug hit Paul in the right shoulder, knocking the man to the dirt.

  “You stupid son of a bitch!” Tilden snarled at the man, cocking the .44.

  As Paul struggled to get to his feet, Tilden shot him again, this time the slug hitting the man in the right leg. Paul’s feet flew out from under him and he landed hard in the dirt.

  Screaming his rage at the rancher, Paul tried to claw his pistol out of leather. Tilden shot him in the other shoulder, rendering the man helpless.

  Laughing, Tilden cocked and fired, the bullet striking Paul in the stomach.

  “Tie him on his goddamned old nag and send him on his way,” Tilden ordered, punching out the empties and reloading.

  The gunslicks tied Paul upright in his saddle and slapped the already spooked horse on the rump. Paul went bouncing and swaying down the road, unconscious.

  It was almost breaking dawn when Charlie Starr knocked on Smoke’s cabin door. “Charlie Starr, Smoke. Got news for you.”

  In his longhandles, a Colt in his right hand, Smoke lifted the latch and peered out. “Mornin’, Charlie. Come on in. I’ll make us some coffee.”

  “Put your pants on first,” Charlie said drily. “You ain’t no sight to see first thing in the mornin’.”

  Smoke put on coffee to boil, visited the outhouse, then sat down at the kitchen table. “What’s wrong, Charlie?”

  “Paul Jackson was found late yesterday afternoon by some miners. He was tied to his horse. Somebody had a good time putting a lot of unnecessary lead in the fool. He’s alive, but just barely. He told Doc Spalding he braced Tilden Franklin out at the TF ranch house. Then he went into a coma. Doc says he probably won’t come out of it. My question is, why’d he do it?”

  Sipping coffee, Smoke told Charlie about Paul’s visit the day before.

  “But there ain’t nothin’ between Bountiful and Paul Jackson. Is there?”

  “No. It was all in Paul’s mind.”

  “Fool’s gold,” Charlie muttered. “Finding that and thinkin’ it was real might have been what pushed him over the edge.”

  “Prob
ably was. How many times was he shot, Charlie?”

  “Both shoulders, leg, and stomach. Me and Monte been up all night talkin’ about it. He admitted goin’ out there and bracin’ Tilden. Tilden had a right to protect hisself. But tyin’ the man on that horse was cruel. Still, the judge says there ain’t no laws to cover that.”

  “How’s Ed taking it?”

  “Harder than he’ll let on. Monte said the man was cryin’ last night after leavin’ the Doc’s office. He’s tore up pretty bad. And…he’s talkin’ about goin’ out there and seein’ Tilden.”

  “That wouldn’t be smart on his part.”

  “He’s a growed-up man, Smoke. I sure can’t stop him if that’s what he wants to do.”

  “And he thought Tilden hung the stars and the moon.”

  “Lots of folks seein’ the light about that crazy bastard. Monte told me to tell you something else too.”

  Smoke lifted his eyes.

  “Tilden’s replaced all them gunhawks that was shot in town. But he’s scrapin’ the bottom of the slime pit doin’ it. He’s hirin’ the real hardcases. Cold-blooded killers. Range-war types. He’s hiring some of them that was vigilantes down on the Oklahoma-Texas border. He’s hirin’ thugs, punks, cattle thieves, horse thieves…anybody who can pack a gun and even just brag about usin’ one. Them dandies in town, The Silver Dollar Kid and Sundance and them other punks? Tilden hired them too.”

  “I guess we’d all better get ready for the balloon to bust, Charlie. I don’t see any other way out of it.”

  Sally entered the kitchen and poured coffee. She set a plate of doughnuts on the table between the two men. Charlie grinned and helped himself.

  “You heard?” Smoke asked his wife.

  “I heard. I feel sorry for Paul. He wasn’t quite right in the head.”

  Speaking around a mouthful of bearsign, Charlie said, “Out here, ma’am, man straps on a six-shooter, that gun makes him ten feet tall. Out here, they’s a sayin’. God didn’t make man equal. Colonel Colt did.”

  Paul Jackson died mid-morning, the day after he was shot. And once more, the undertaker’s hack rumbled through the streets of Fontana. The streets were far less busy than they had been just a week before. The one remaining hotel had already announced plans to close.