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

by Johnstone, William W.

  Smoke drifted on, crossing the Timpas and then following the Purgatoire down to Slim’s General Store. A little settlement had been built around the old trading post, but it was fast dying, with only a few ramshackle buildings remaining. Smoke stabled his horses and stepped into the old store.

  An old man sat on a stool behind the article-littered counter. He lifted his eyes as Smoke walked in.

  “I ain’t real sure just perxactly what you might be, son,” the old man said, taking in Smoke’s wild get-up. “But if you got any fresh news worth talkin’ ’bout, you shore welcome, whether you buy anything or not.”

  Smoke looked around him. The store was empty of customers. Silent, except for what must have been years of memories, crouching in every corner. “Your name Slim?”

  “Has been for nigh on seventy years. Kinda late to be changin’ it now. What can I do you out of, stranger?”

  Smoke bought some supplies, chatting with Slim while he shopped. He then sat down at the offer of a cup of coffee.

  “I am an artist,” he announced. “I have traveled all the way from New York City, wandering the West, recreating famous gunfights on paper. For posterity. I intend to become quite famous through my sketchings.”

  Slim looked at the outfit that Smoke had selected for that morning. It was all the old man could do to keep a straight face. Purple britches and flame-red silk shirt and colored glasses.

  “Is that right?” Slim asked.

  “It certainly is. And I would just imagine that you are a veritable well of knowledge concerning famous gunfighters and mountain men, are you not?”

  Slim nodded his head. “I ain’t real sure what it is you just said, partner. Are you askin’ me if I knowed any gunfighters or mountain men?”

  “That is quite correct, Mr. Slim.”

  “And your name be?…”

  “Shirley DeBeers.”

  “Lord have mercy. Well, Shirley, yeah, I’ve seen my share of gunfights. I personal planted six or eight right back yonder.” He pointed. “What is it you want to know about, pilgrim?”

  Smoke got the impression that he wasn’t fooling this old man, not one little bit. And he was curious as to the why of that.

  “I have come from New York,” he said. “In search of any information about the most famous mountain man of all time. And I was told in Denver that you, and you alone, could give me some information about him. Can you?”

  Slim looked at Smoke, then his eyes began to twinkle. “Boy, I come out here in ’35, and I knowed ’em all. Little Kit Carson—you know he wasn’t much over five feet tall—Fremont, Smith, Big Jim, Caleb Greenwood, John Jacobs; hell, son, you just name some and I bet I knew ’em and traded with ’em.”

  “But from what I have learned, you did not name the most famous of them all!”

  Slim smiled. “Yeah, that’s right. I sure didn’t—Mr. Smoke Jensen.”

  6

  Over a lunch of beef and beans and canned peaches, Smoke and Slim sat and talked.

  “How’d you know me, Slim? I’ve never laid eyes on you in my life.”

  “Just a guess. I’d heard people describe you ’fore. And I knowed what went on up on the Sugarloaf, with them gunnies and your wife; I figured you’d be comin’ on along ’fore long. But what give you away was your accent. I’ve had folks from New York town in here ’fore. Your accent is all wrong.”

  “Then I guess I’d better start working on that, right?”

  “Wrong. What you’d better do is shift locations. You ain’t never gonna talk like them folks. You best say you’re from Pennsylvannie. From a little farm outside Pittsburgh on the river. That ought to do it. If you’re just bounded and swore to go off and get shot full of holes.”

  Smoke let that last bit slide. “How’s Preacher?” He dropped that in without warning.

  Slim studied him for a moment, then nodded his head. “Gettin’ on in years. But he’s all right, last I heard. He’s livin’ with some half-breed kids of hisn up in Wyoming. Up close to the Montanie line.”

  “It’s good to know that he’s still alive. But I can’t figure why he won’t come live with me and Sally up on the Sugarloaf.”

  “That ain’t his way, Smoke, and you know it. He’s happy, boy. That’s what’s important. Why, hell, Smoke!” he grinned, exposing nearly toothless gums. “They’s a whole passel of them ol’ boys up yonder. They’s Phew, Lobo, Audie, Nighthawk, Dupre, Greybull—two/three more. Couple of ’em has died since they hepped you out three/four years back.”

  Smoke remembered them all and smiled with that remembrance.

  “Yeah,” Slim said. “I’m thinkin’ hard on sellin’ out and headin’ up that way to join them. Gettin’ on in years myself. I’d like to have me a woman to rub my back ever now and then. But,” he sighed, “I prob’ly won’t do that. Stay right here until I keel over daid. But Preacher and them? They happy, boy. They got their memories and they got each other. And when it’s time for them to go, they’ll turn their faces to the sky and sing their death songs. Don’t worry none ’bout Preacher, Smoke. He raised you better than that.”

  “You’re right, Slim.” Smoke grinned. “As much as I’d like to see him, I’m glad he can’t see me in this get-up today.”

  Slim laughed and slapped his knee. “He’d prob’ly laugh so hard he’d have a heart attack, for sure. I got to tell you, Smoke, you do look…well…odd!”

  “But it’s working.”

  “So far, I reckon it is. Let’s talk about that. You got a plan, Smoke?”

  “About getting into Dead River?” Slim nodded. “No. Not really. But for sure, I’m going in like this.”

  Smoke did not hesitate about talking about his plans to Slim. He could be trusted. Preacher had told him that.

  “Might work,” Slim said.

  “The outlaws think they’ve got everybody convinced there is only one way in and one way out. I don’t believe that.”

  “That’s a pile of buffalo chips! You get on with the Utes, don’t you?”

  “Stayed with them many times.”

  “White Wolf and a bunch of his people is camped over just west of Cordova Pass. The word is, from old-timers that I talked to, White Wolf’s braves make a game out of slippin’ in and out of Dead River. White Wolf ain’t got no use for none of them people in there. They been hard on Injuns. You talk to White Wolf. He’s an old friend and enemy of Preacher.”

  Smoke knew what he meant. You might spend a summer with the Indians and the winter fighting them. That’s just the way it was. Nearly anyone could ride into an Indian camp and eat and spend the night and not be bothered. ’Course they might kill you when you tried to leave. But at least you’d die after a good night’s sleep and a full stomach.

  Indians were notional folks.

  “I did meet and sketch and convince some outlaw name of Cahoon.” He showed Slim the note.

  The old man whistled. “He’s a bad one; ’bout half crazy. Hates Injuns and women; ain’t got but one use for a woman and you know what that is. Then he tortures them to death. How’d you meet him?”

  Smoke told him, leaving nothing out. Slim laughed and wiped his eyes.

  “Well, you can bet that Cahoon has told his buddies ’bout you plannin’ on comin’ in. And you can bet somebody is right now checkin’ on your back trail. And they’ll be here ’fore long. So you best draw me two or three of them pitchers of yourn and I’ll stick ’em up on the wall.”

  Smoke spent several days at Slim’s, relaxing and learning all that the old man knew about Dead River, Rex Davidson, and the man who called himself Dagget.

  And Slim knew plenty.

  They were the scum of the earth, Slim said, reinforcing what Smoke had already guessed. There was nothing they would not do for money, or had not already done. Every man in Dead River had at least one murder warrant out on his head.

  That was going to make Smoke’s job a lot easier.

  “Smoke, if you do get inside that outlaw stronghold,” Slim warned him, “don
’t you for one second ever drop that act of yourn. ’Cause ifn you do, sure as hell, someone’ll pick up on it and you’ll be a long time dyin’.

  “Now, listen to me, boy: Don’t trust nobody in there. Not one solitary soul. You cain’t afford to do that.

  “Now personal, Smoke, I think you’re a damn fool for tryin’ this. But I can see Preacher’s invisible hand writ all over you. He’d do the same thing.” He eyeballed Smoke’s foppish get-up and grinned. “Well, he’d go in there; let’s put it that way! I ain’t gonna try to turn you around. You a growed-up man.”

  “But they have people being held as slaves in there, or so I’m told.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. But some of them would just as soon turn you in as look at you, for favor’s sake. You know what I mean?”

  Smoke knew. It sickened him, but he knew. “How many you figure are in there, Slim? Or do you have any way of knowing that?”

  “Ain’t no way of really tellin’ ’til you git in there,” Slim said. “Them outlaws come and go so much. Might be as many as three hundred. Might be as low as fifty. But that’s just the real bad ones, Smoke. That ain’t countin’ the shop owners and clerks and whores and sich. Like the minister.”

  “Minister! Wait a minute. We’ll get back to him. What about the clerks and shop owners and those types of people?”

  “What about them? Oh, I get you. Don’t concern yourself with them. They’re just as bad, in their own way, as them that ride out, robbin’ and killin’. The clerks and shopkeepers are all on the run for crimes they done. There ain’t no decent people in that town. Let me tell you something, boy: When a baby is borned to them shady gals in there, they either kill it outright or tote it into the closest town and toss it in the street.”

  Smoke grimaced in disgust. “I can’t understand why this town hasn’t attracted more attention.”

  “It has, boy! But lak I done tole you, can’t no legal thing be done ’cause no decent person that goes in there ever comes out. Now, I hear tell there’s a federal marshal over to Trinidad that might be convinced to git a posse together if somebody would go in and clear a path for them. His name’s Wilde.”

  Smoke made a mental note of that. “Tell me about this so-called minister in Dead River.”

  “Name is Tustin. And he’s a real college-educated minister, too. Got him a church and all that goes with it.”

  “But you said there wasn’t any decent people in the town!”

  “There ain’t, boy. Tustin is on the run jist lak all the rest. Killed his wife and kids back east somewheres. He’s also a horse thief, a bank robber, and a whoremonger. But he still claims to be a Christian. Damndest thing I ever did hear of.”

  “And he has a church and preaches?”

  “Damn shore does. And don’t go to sleep durin’ his sermons, neither. If you do, he’ll shoot you!”

  Smoke leaned back in his chair and stared at Slim. “You’re really serious!”

  “You bet your boots I am. You git in that place, Smoke, and you’re gonna see sights like the which you ain’t never seen.”

  “And you’ve never been in there?”

  “Hell, no!”

  Smoke rose from his chair to walk around the table a few times, stretching his legs. “It’s time to put an end to Dead River.”

  “Way past time, boy.”

  “You think my wife was attacked just because of a twenty-year-old hate this Davidson has for Preacher?”

  “I’d bet on it. Davidson lay right over there in that corner,” he pointed, “and swore he’d get Preacher and anyone else who was a friend of hisn. That’s why them outlaws is so hard on Injuns. ’Specially the Utes. Preacher was adopted into the Ute tribe, you know.”

  Smoke nodded. “Yeah. So was I.”

  “All the more reason for him to hate you. Law and order is closin’ in on the West, Smoke. And,” he sighed, “I reckon, for the most part, that’s a good thing. Them lak that scum that’s over to Dead River don’t have that many more places to run to…and it’s time to wipe that rattler’s nest out. Sam Bass was killed ’bout two years ago. Billy the Kid’s ’bout run out his string, so I hear. John Wesley Hardin is in jail down in Texas. The law is hot on the trail of the James gang. Bill Longley was hanged a couple of years back. The list is just gettin’ longer and longer of so-called bad men that finally got they due. You know what I mean, Smoke?”

  “Yes. And I can add some to the list you just named. You heard about Clay Allison?”

  “Different stories about how he died. You know the truth of it?”

  “Louis Longmont told me that Clay got drunk and fell out of his wagon back in ’77. A wheel ran over his head and killed him.”

  Slim laughed and refilled their coffee cups. “I hear Curly Bill is goin’ ’round talkin’ bad about the Earp boys. He don’t close that mouth, he’s gonna join that list, too, and you can believe that.”

  Smoke sipped his coffee. “Three hundred bad ones,” he said softly. “Looks like I just may have bitten off more than I can chew up and spit out.”

  “That’s one of the few things you’ve said about this adventure of yourn that makes any sense, boy.”

  Smoke smiled at the old man. “But don’t mean I’m gonna give it up, Slim.”

  “I’s afeared you’d say that. Boy, I don’t lak that grin on your face. Now, what the hell have you got up that sleeve of yourn?”

  “Where is the nearest wire office, Slim?”

  “Trinidad. It’s a real big city. Near’bouts three thousand people in there. All jammed up lak apples in a crate. Gives me the willies.”

  “That U.S. Marshal might be in town.”

  “Could be. I know he comes and goes out of there a whole lot. What’s on your mind, boy?”

  Smoke just grinned at him. “Can you get a message to Preacher?”

  “Shore. Good God, boy! You ain’t figurin’ on dealing Preacher in on this, are you?”

  “Oh, no. Just tell him I’m all right and I’m glad to hear that he’s doing okay.”

  “I’ll do it. You keep in touch, boy.”

  Smoke rose to leave. “See you around, Slim.”

  “Luck to you, boy.”

  After the U.S. Marshal got over his initial shock of seeing the red and lavender-clad Shirley DeBeers introduce himself, he looked at the young man as if he had taken leave of his senses.

  He finally said, “Have you got a death wish, boy? Or are you as goofy as you look?”

  “My name is not really Shirley DeBeers, Marshal.”

  “That’s a relief. I think. What is your handle—Sue?”

  “Smoke Jensen.”

  The U.S. Marshal fell out of his chair.

  7

  “The reason I wanted us to talk out here,” Marshal Jim Wilde said, standing with Smoke in the livery stable, “is ’cause I don’t trust nobody when it comes to that lousy damn bunch of crud over at Dead River.”

  Smoke nodded his agreement. “You don’t suspect the sheriff of this county of being in cahoots with them, do you?”

  “Oh, no. Not at all. He’s a good man. We’ve been working together, trying to come up with a plan to clean out that mess for months. It’s just that you never really know who might be listening. Are you really Smoke Jensen?” He looked at Smoke’s outfit and shuddered.

  Smoke assured him that he was, despite the way he was dressed.

  “And you want to be a U.S. Marshal?”

  “Yes. To protect myself legally.”

  “That’s good thinkin’. But this plan of yours ain’t too bright, the way I see it. Let me get this straight. You’re goin’ to act as point man for a posse to clean up Dead River?”

  “That is my intention. At my signal, the posse will come in.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You, of course, will lead the posse.”

  “Uh-huh.” The marshal’s expression was hound-dog mournful. “I was just afraid you was gonna say something ’bout like that.”

  U.S. Marshal Wilde ch
ecked his dodgers to see if there were any wanted flyers out on Smoke. There were not. Then he sent some wires out to get approval on Smoke’s federal commission. Smoke lounged around the town, waiting for the marshal’s reply wires.

  Trinidad was built at the foot of Raton Pass, on a foothill chain of the Culebra Range. The streets of the town twisted and turned deviously, giving it a curiously foreign look. The Purgatoire River separated the residential area from the business district.

  Trinidad was known as a tough place, full of rowdies, and due to its relative closeness to Dead River, Smoke kept a close eye on his back trail.

  On his third day in town, sensing someone was following him, he picked up his pursuers. They were three rough-looking men. Inwardly, he sighed, wanting nothing so much as to shed his role as Shirley DeBeers, foppish artist, and strap on his guns.

  But he knew he had to endure what he’d started for a while longer.

  He had deliberately avoided any contact with any lawmen, especially Jim Wilde. He had spent his time sketching various buildings of the town and some of the more colorfully dressed Mexicans.

  But the three hard-looking gunhawks who were always following him began to get on his nerves. He decided to bring it to a head, but to do it in such a way as to reinforce his sissy, foppish act.

  With his sketch pad in hand, Smoke turned to face the three men, who were standing across a plaza from him. He began sketching them.

  And he could tell very quickly that his actions were not being received good-naturedly. One of the men made that perfectly clear in a hurry.

  The man, wearing his guns low and tied down, walked across the plaza and jerked the sketch pad out of Smoke’s hands, throwing it to the street.

  “Jist what in the hell do you think you’re doin’, boy?”

  Smoke put a frightened look on his face. “I was sketching you and your friends. I didn’t think you would mind. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  Smoke was conscious of the sheriff of the county and of Jim Wilde watching from across the plaza, standing under the awning of a cantina.