Gathering up his pencils and sketch pads, Smoke left the house, which was situated on a flat that sat slightly above the town, allowing Rex a commanding view. As he walked back to his tent, Smoke pondered his situation. Surely, Rex Davidson was insane; but if he was, would that not make all the others in this place mad as well?
And Smoke did not believe that for a moment.
More than likely, Davidson and Dagget and all the others who voluntarily resided in Dead River were not insane. Perhaps they were just the personification of evil, and the place was a human snake pit.
He chose that explanation. Already, people who had committed the most terrible of crimes were saying they were not responsible for their actions because they had been crazy, at the time, before the time, whatever. And courts, mostly back east in the big cities, were accepting that more and more, allowing guilty people to be set free without punishment. Smoke did not doubt for one minute that there were people who were truly insane and could not help their actions.
But he also felt that those types were in the minority of cases; the rest were shamming. If a person were truly crazy, Smoke did not believe that malady could be turned off and on like a valve. If a person were truly insane, they would perform irrational acts on a steady basis, not just whenever the mood struck them.
He knew for an ironclad fact that many criminals were of a high intelligence, and that many were convincing actors and actresses. Certainly smart enough to fool this new thing he’d heard about called psychiatry. Smoke Jensen was a straight-ahead, right-was-right and wrong-was-wrong man, with damn little gray in between. You didn’t lie, you didn’t cheat, you didn’t steal, and you treated your neighbor like you would want to be treated.
And if you didn’t subscribe to that philosophy, you best get clear of men like Smoke Jensen.
As for the scum and filth and perverts in this town of Dead River, Smoke felt he had the cure for what ailed them.
The pills were made of lead.
And the doctor’s name was Smoke Jensen.
11
For one hour each day, Smoke sketched Rex Davidson; the rest of the time was his to spend as he pleased. He took his meals at the Bon Ton—the man who owned the place was wanted for murder back in Illinois, having killed several people by poisoning them—and spent the rest of his time wandering the town, sketching this and that and picking up quite a bit of money by drawing the outlaws who came and went. He made friends with none of them, having found no one whom he felt possessed any qualities that he wished to share. Although he felt sure there must be one or two in the town who could be saved from a life of crime with just a little bit of help.
Smoke put that out of his mind and, for the most part, kept it out. He wanted nothing on his conscience when the lead started flying.
He was not physically bothered by any outlaw. But the taunts and insults continued from many of the men and from a lot of the women who chose to live in the town. Smoke would smile and tip his cap at them, but if they could have read his thoughts, they would have grabbed the nearest horse and gotten the hell out of Dead River.
Brute saw Smoke several times a day but refused to speak to him. He would only grin nastily and make the most obscene gestures.
Smoke saw the three who had shoved him around in Trinidad—Jake, Shorty, and Red—but they paid him no mind.
What did worry Smoke was that the town seemed to be filling up with outlaws. Many more were coming in, and damn few were leaving.
They were not all famous gunfighters and famous outlaws, of course. As a matter of fact, many were no more than two-bit punks who had gotten caught in the act of whatever crimes they were committing and, in a dark moment of fear and fury, had killed when surprised. But that did not make them any less guilty in Smoke’s mind. And then as criminals are prone to do, they grabbed a horse or an empty boxcar and ran, eventually joining up with a gang.
It was the gang leaders and lone-wolf hired guns who worried Smoke the most. For here in Dead River were the worst of the lot of bad ones in a three state area.
LaHogue, called the Hog behind his back, and his gang of cutthroats lived in Dead River. Natick and his bunch were in town, as was the Studs Woodenhouse gang and Bill Wilson’s bunch of crap. And just that morning, Paul Rycroft and Slim Bothwell and their men had ridden in.
The place was filling up with hardcases.
And to make matters worse, Smoke knew a lot of the men who were coming in. He had never ridden any hoot-owl trails with any of them, but their paths had crossed now and then. The West was a large place but relatively small in population, so people who roamed were apt to meet, now and then.
Cat Ventura and the Hog had both given Smoke some curious glances and not just one look but several, and that made Smoke uneasy. He wanted desperately to check to see if his guns were behind the privy. But he knew it would only bring unnecessary attention to himself, and that was something he could do without. He had stayed alive so far by playing the part of a foolish fop and by maintaining a very high visibility. And with only a few days to go, he did not want to break that routine. He spent the rest of the day sketching various outlaws—picking up about a hundred dollars doing so—and checking out the town of Dead River. But there was not that much more to be learned about the place. Since he was loosely watched every waking moment, Smoke had had very little opportunity to do much exploring.
He was sitting before his small fire that evening, enjoying a final cup of coffee before rolling up in his blankets, for the nights were very cool this high up in the mountains, when he heard spurs jingling, coming toward him. He waited, curious, for up to this point he had been left strictly alone.
“Hello, the fire!” the voice came out of the campfire-lit gloom.
“If you’re friendly, come on in,” Smoke called. “I will share my coffee with you.”
“Nice of you.” A young man, fresh-faced with youth, perhaps twenty years old at the most and wearing a grin, walked up and squatted down, pouring a tin cup full of dark, strong cowboy coffee. He glanced over the hat-sized fire at Smoke, his eyes twinkling with good humor.
He’s out of place, Smoke accurately pegged the young cowboy. He’s not an outlaw. There was just something about the young man; something clean and vital and open. That little intangible that set the innocent apart from the lawless.
“My first time to this place,” the young man said. “It’s quite a sight to see, ain’t it?”
Smoke had noticed that the cowboy wore his six-gun low and tied down, and the gun seemed to be a living extension of the man.
He knows how to use it, Smoke thought. “It is all of that, young man, to be sure.”
“Name’s York.”
“Shirley DeBeers.”
York almost spilled his coffee down his shirtfront at that. He lifted his eyes. “You funnin’ me?”
Smoke smiled at his expression. “Actually, no. It’s a fine old family name. Is York your first or last name?” he inquired, knowing that it was not a question one asked in the West.
York looked at him closely. “You new out here, ain’t you?”
“Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I am. How did you know that Mr. York?”
The cowboy’s smile was quick. “Just a guess. And it’s just York.”
“Very well.” Smoke noticed that the young man’s eyes kept drifting to the pan of bacon and bread he had fixed for his supper. There were a few strips of bacon left, and about half a loaf of bread. “If you’re hungry, please help yourself. I have eaten my fill and I hate to throw away good food.”
“Thanks,” York said quickly and with a grin. “That’s right big of you. You don’t never have to worry ’bout tossin’ out no food when I’m around.” He fixed a huge sandwich and then used another piece of bread to sop up the grease in the pan.
Smoke guessed he had not eaten in several days.
When York had finished and not a crumb was left, he settled back and poured another cup of coffee. Smoke tossed him a sack of tobacco
and papers.
York caught the sack and rolled and lit. “Thanks. That was good grub. Hit the spot, let me tell you. Anything I can do for you, you just let me know. Most”—he cut his eyes suspiciously—“most of the hombres around here wouldn’t give a man the time of day if they had a watch in every pocket. Sorry bastards.”
“I agree with you. But you be careful where you say things like that, York.”
York nodded his agreement. “Ain’t that the truth. Say, you don’t neither talk like nor look like a man that’s on the dodge, DeBeers.”
“On the dodge?” Smoke kept up his act. “Oh! Yes, I see what you mean now. Oh, no. I can assure you, I am not wanted by the authorities.”
York studied him across the small fire, confusion on his young face. “Then…what in the hell are you doin’ in a place like this?”
“Working. Sketching the West and some of its most infamous people. Mr. Davidson was kind enough to give me sanctuary and the run of the place.”
“And you believed him?”
Smoke only smiled.
“Yeah. You might look sorta silly—and I don’t mean no o-fence by that, it’s just that you dress different—but I got a hunch you ain’t dumb.”
“Thank you.” Smoke was not going to fall into any verbal traps, not knowing if York was a plant to sound him out.
The cowboy sipped his coffee and smoked for a moment. “You really come in here without havin’ to, huh?”
“That is correct.”
“Weird. But,” he shrugged, “I reckon you have your reasons. Me, now, I didn’t have no choice at all in the matter.”
“We all have choices, young man. But sometimes they are disguised and hard to make.”
“Whatever that means. Anyways, I’m on the hard dodge, I am.”
He tried to sound proud about that statement, but to Smoke, it came across flat and with a definite note of sadness.
“I’m very sorry to hear that, York. Is it too personal to talk about?”
“Naw. I killed a man in Utah.”
Smoke studied him. “You don’t sound like a man who would cold-bloodedly kill another man.”
“Huh? Oh, no. It wasn’t nothin’ like that. It was a stand-up-and-face-him-down fight. But the law didn’t see it thataway. I guess near’bouts all these people in this lousy town would claim they was framed, but I really was.” He poured another cup of coffee and settled back against a stump, apparently anxious to talk and have somebody hear him out. “You see, I bought a horse from this feller. It was a good horse for fifty dollars. Too good, as it turned out. I had me a bill of sale and all that. Then these folks come ridin’ up to me about a week later and claimed I stole the horse. They had ’em a rope all ready to stretch my neck. I showed ’em my bill of sale and that backed ’em down some. But they was still gonna take the horse and leave me afoot in the Uintahs. Well, I told ’em that they wasn’t gonna do no such a thing. I told ’em that if the horse was rightfully theirs, well, I was wrong and they was right. But let me get to a town ’fore they took the horse; don’t leave me in the big middle of nowheres on foot.”
He sighed and took a swallow of coffee. “They allowed as to how I could just by God walk out of there. I told them they’d better drag iron if that’s what they had in mind, ’cause I damn sure wasn’t gonna hoof it outta there.
“Well, they dragged iron, but I was quicker. I kilt one and put lead in the other. The third one, he turned yeller and run off.
“I got the hell outta there and drifted. Then I learned that I had a murder charge hangin’ over my head. That third man who run off? He told a pack of lies about what really happened.
“Well, bounty hunters come up on me about two or three months later. I buried one of them and toted the other one into a little town to the doc’s office. The marshal, he come up all blustered-up and I told him what happened and added that if he didn’t like my version of it, he could just clear leather and we’d settle it that way.”
He grinned boyishly. “The marshal didn’t like it, and I’ll admit I had my back up some. But he liked livin’ moreun gunfightin’. So I drifted on and things just kept gettin’ worser and worser. I couldn’t get no job ’cause of them posters out on me. I heard about this place and sort of drifted in. I ain’t no outlaw, but I don’t know what else to do with all them charges hangin’ over my head.”
Smoke thought on it. He believed the young man; believed him to be leveling as to the facts of it all. “Might I make a suggestion?”
“You shore could. I’d rather live in hell with rattlesnakes than in heaven with this bunch around here.”
Smoke couldn’t help it. He laughed at the young man’s expression. “York, why don’t you just change your name and drift. And by the way, do you still have the horse in question?”
“Naw. I turned him loose and caught me up a wild horse and broke him. He’s a good horse.”
“Well then, York, drift. Change your name and drift. Chances are that you’ll never be caught.”
“I thought of that. But damn it, DeBeers, I ain’t done nothin’ wrong. At least, not yet. And York is my family name. By God, I’m gonna stick with it. I’m doin’ some thinkin’ ’bout linkin’ up with Slim Bothwell’s bunch. They asked me to. I guess I ain’t got no choice. I don’t wanna hurt nobody or steal nothin’ from nobody. But, hell, I gotta eat!”
“York, you are not cut out for the outlaw life,” Smoke told him.
“Don’t I know it! Look, DeBeers, I listened to some of the men talk ’bout all they’ve done, in here and out there.” He jerked his thumb. “Damn near made me puke.” He sighed heavily. “I just don’t know what to do.”
Could this entire thing be a setup? Smoke wondered, and concluded that it certainly could be. But something about the young cowboy was awfully convincing. He decided to take a chance, but to do it without York knowing of it.
“Perhaps something will come up to change your mind, York.”
The cowboy looked up across the fire, trust in his eyes. “What?”
“I really have no idea. But hope springs eternal, York. You must always keep that in mind. Where are you staying while you’re here?”
“I ain’t got no place. Give that Dagget feller my last fifty dollars. He told me that give me five days in here.” He shook his head. “After that…I don’t know.”
“You’re welcome to stay here. I don’t have much, but you’re welcome to share with me.”
“That’s mighty white of you, DeBeers. And I’ll take you up on that.” He grinned at Smoke. “There is them that say you’re goofy. But I don’t think so. I think you’re just a pretty nice guy in a bad spot.”
“Thank you, York. And have you ever thought that might fit you as well?”
The grin faded. “Yeah, I reckon it might. I ain’t never done a dishonest thing in my life. Only difference is, you ain’t got no warrants hangin’ over your head. You can ride out of this hellhole anytime you take a notion. Me? I’m stuck, lookin’ at the wrong side of society!”
The next morning Smoke left the still-sleeping York a full pot of coffee, then took his sketch pad and went walking, as was his custom every morning. As the saloon came into view, Smoke noticed a large crowd gathered out front, in the street. And it was far too early for that many drinkers to have gathered.
“Let’s have some fun!” Smoke could hear the excited shout.
“Yeah. Let’s skin the son of a bitch!”
“Naw. Let’s give him to Brute.”
“Brute don’t want no dirty Injun.”
“Not unless it’s a young boy,” someone shouted with hard laugh.
“Hold it down!” a man hollered. “Mr. Davidson’s got a plan, and it’s a good one.”
Smoke stepped up to a man standing in the center of the street. “What on earth has happened here?”
The outlaw glanced at him. “The guards caught them an Injun about dawn. He was tryin’ to slip out over the mountains. No one knows what he was doin’ in town.” Th
e man shut up, appraising Smoke through cool eyes, aware that he might have said too much.
“He must have slipped in on the road,” Smoke said quickly, noting the coolness in the man’s eyes fading. “It would be impossible to come in through those terribly high mountains around the town.”
The outlaw smiled. “Yeah. That’s what he done, all right. And there ain’t no tellin’ how long he’s been tryin’ to get out, right?”
“Oh, absolutely. I think the savage should be hanged immediately.” Smoke forced indignation into his voice.
The outlaw grinned. His teeth were blackened, rotted stubs. “You all right, Shirley. You’re beginnin’ to fit right in here. Yeah, the Injun’s gonna die. But it’s gonna be slow.”
“Why?” Smoke asked innocently.
“Why, hell’s fire, Shirley! So’s we can all have some fun, that’s why.”
“Oh. Of course.”
A man ran past Smoke and the outlaw, running in that odd bowlegged manner of one who has spent all his life on a horse.
“What’s happenin’, Jeff?” the outlaw asked.
“Mr. Davidson tole me to get the kid, York. Says we gotta test him. You know why?”
“Yeah.”
Neither man would elaborate.
Smoke felt he knew what the test was going to involve, and he also felt that York would not pass it. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Smoke wandered on down to the large crowd gathered in front of the saloon and tried to blend in.
The crowd of hardcases and thugs and guns-for-hire ignored him, but Smoke was very conscious of Rex Davidson’s eyes on him. He met the man’s steady gaze and smiled at him.
Davidson waved the crowd silent. “I have decided on a better plan,” he said as the crowd fell quiet. “Forget York; we know he’s a wanted man. There are some of you who claim that our artist friend is not what he professes to be. Well, let’s settle that issue right now. Bring that damned Indian out here.”
Trail Of The Mountain Man/revenge Of The Mountain Man (The Last Mountain Man) Page 34
