Assault of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’m Smoke Jensen.” Apprehension was apparent in his voice.

  “Mr. Jensen, Doctor Gunther sent me to find you. He said to tell you Mrs. Jensen is awake and is asking about you.”

  “Thank you!” Smoke practically shouted the words as he was already on his way almost before the boy could finish his report.

  Smoke ran down the street to the doctor’s office and, as he had before, took the steps up the side of the hardware store two at a time. He barged into the office, again without knocking, but it didn’t disturb Dr. Gunther, who was expecting him.

  “She is conscious,” Dr. Gunther said.

  Smoke hurried to Sally’s side. “I thought I taught you to duck,” he said, taking her hand in his.

  Sally smiled. “Smoke, what are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here? Did you think I would stay at the ranch, once I learned you had been shot?”

  “I’ve been shot?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Oh, yes,” Sally said, her voice weak. “I’d nearly forgotten that.”

  Smoke chuckled. “You’re quite a woman, Sally, if you can be shot and nearly forget it.”

  “Oh! The two thousand dollars! I threw it! I don’t know what happened to it.”

  “Tamara has it.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Smoke raised Sally’s hand to his lips and kissed it.

  “Is that the best you can do?” she asked. “That’s the way you greet some old lady at a party.”

  “I don’t want to do anything that will hurt you.”

  “I’m not made out of glass.”

  Smiling, Smoke leaned over to kiss her on her forehead, but when she pursed her lips, he knew she wanted a real kiss, so he obliged her.

  “Maybe if the other folks would leave, I could climb up on the table beside you,” Smoke suggested.

  Sally laughed out loud, then winced in pain and put her hand to her wound.

  “Oh, Sally, I’m sorry,” Smoke apologized.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. That was a perfectly outrageous thing for you to say.” She smiled. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Laramie

  The saloon was relatively quiet, with only a couple tables full. A bar girl, finding the pickings slim, was leaning against the wall next to the piano, talking to the bald headed piano player. Wes Harley stood alone at the far end of the bar, nursing a drink. Four at a table were playing cards.

  A couple cowboys came into the saloon, laughing and talking, brushing the dust from their clothes. When they noticed Harley, and the hairless skull that was his head, they stopped in mid-conversation to stare at him. He looked back with an unblinking stare of his own.

  “What’ll it be, gents?” the bartender asked.

  The cowboys continued to stare.

  “You boys just goin’ to stand there and gawk? Or are you going to order?”

  “Oh,” one of them said. “Uh, two beers.”

  “Two beers it is,” the bartender replied. He turned to draw the beers. As soon as he put the beers in front of the two young men, they picked them up and held them to their lips, drinking with Adams apple bobbing swallows, until all the beer was gone. With a mighty sigh of satisfaction, they put the glasses back down and swiped the backs of their hands across their lips.

  “One more,” one of the boys said.

  “You boys have quite a thirst on you,” the bartender said. “Been ridin’ long, have you?”

  “Yes, sir, we have,” the taller of the two answered. “We’ve been on the trail for nearly three weeks. Come up from Texas, we did.”

  “Did you now?” The bartender put two new beers in front of them. “That’s a long ride. What brings you to Laramie?”

  “We’re lookin’ to get on with a ranch up here.”

  “Texas,” Harley hissed. He continued to stare into his glass as he spoke, not bothering to look over at the two young cowboys.

  “You got somethin’ against Texas, mister?” one of the young men challenged.

  “You rode a long way for nothin’,” Harley said. “If I was you, I’d turn around and head back. There ain’t no self-respectin’ rancher from Wyoming goin’ to hire trash from Texas.” He continued to stare into his glass.

  “Mister, I don’t appreciate bad talk about Texas.” The young man’s level of irritation rose.

  “You don’t have to talk bad about Texas,” Harley said. “All you have to do is mention the name. That’s bad enough.”

  “Danny, leave it be,” the other boy said.

  “The hell I will,” Danny said. “You don’t want any part of this, Andy, you just stand aside. But I don’t figure on lettin’ this hairless son of a bitch talk bad about Texas and not do nothin’ about it.”

  “Tell you what,” Andy said. “Looks to me like we’re just gettin’ off on the wrong foot here. If we’re goin’ to work up here, we can’t be makin’ enemies the first day. Bartender, give our new friend here a beer, on me.”

  “Mr. Harley?” the bartender asked uneasily. “Do you want another beer?”

  “Not if some Texas trash bought it,” Harley replied.

  “What is it with you, mister?” Danny asked angrily. “Here my pard is tryin’ to be real friendly with you, and you’re actin’ like that. You know what? Somebody needs to take you down a notch or two. And I might just be that somebody.”

  “Danny, come on, we don’t want no trouble on the first day we are in town, do we?”

  Danny continued to stare at the skull face of Harley, but Harley showed no expression of any kind, no anger, fear, or anxiety. Danny was a little surprised how the man could be so confrontational, and yet show no expression. Perhaps with no hair, and his skin drawn so tight across the bones of his face, it might be that the man could not show expression even if he wanted to.

  “It’s too late for that, sonny boy,” Harley asked. “You done stepped into it. You got more trouble than you can handle.”

  “More than I can handle?” Danny said angrily. “I’ll show you how much I can handle. I’m about to whip you like a rented mule!” He put up his fists.

  Harley turned toward the two young men and showed his first expression. He smiled, though it was a smile without mirth.

  “You don’t understand, do you, boy?”

  “Oh, I understand all right. I understand that I’m going to leave you with a broken nose, black eyes, and a fat lip. As ugly as you are, that can only improve your looks.” Danny laughed at his own joke.

  “Uh-uh,” Harley said. “If we’re going to fight, it’s going to be for real.” He stepped away from the bar, flipped his jacket back, exposing a pistol which he wore low, and kicked out, in the way of a gunfighter.

  “Mr. Harley, there is no need for this now,” the bartender said. “I’m sure these boys would apologize to you if you asked them for it.”

  “Aplogize? Apologize to this ... walking scarecrow? Why the hell should we apologize?” Danny asked.

  “Cowboy, don’t you know who this is?” the bartender asked, his voice reflecting his shock. “This is Wes Harley.”

  “Wes Harley? Is that name supposed to mean something?” Danny asked.

  “Oh, God in heaven, you don’t know do you?” the bartender said.

  “Don’t know what?”

  “Who Wes Harley is,” the bartender said.

  “I expect you’re talkin’ about this skull-faced piece of cow dung here,” Danny said.

  “Danny, come on, let’s go,” Andy said. “I don’t have a good feelin’ about this. This ain’t worth one of you dyin’ over.”

  “It ain’t goin’ to be one of us, sonny,” Harley said. “It’s goin’ to be the two of you.”

  “You’re crazy, mister,” Andy said. “We just come in here for a drink. We’re goin’ to leave now and just pretend none of this happened.”

  “It’s too late,” Harley said.

  “We ain’t drawin’ on you,” Andy said.

  “Oh,
I think you will,” Harley said. “The fiddler is already playin’ his tune, the dance has started, and here we are, the three of us, standin’ out on the dance floor.”

  “Mister, you are crazy,” Andy said. “We ain’t goin’ to get into no gunfight with you.”

  “Yeah, you are,” Harley said, his voice a quiet sigh.

  Andy turned to the others in the saloon. “Do you people see what’s going on here? Are you goin’ to let this happen?”

  “It ain’t our fight, boy,” one of the others said.

  “Danny?” Andy’s voice broke in fear. “We can’t do this.”

  “Looks to me like we don’t have no choice,” Danny replied.

  Danny started his draw and seeing that, Andy drew as well.

  With a smile that made his face look even more skeletal, Harley drew, the gun appearing in his hand as if by magic. Danny was so shocked at the speed of the draw that he hesitated for an instant. Had he not hesitated, he might have had a chance, but Harley got two shots off so fast it sounded as if it were only one. Danny pulled the trigger on his pistol, but the bullet went into the floor. Andy didn’t even get a shot off.

  Harley was calmly sipping his whiskey by the time one of the sheriff’s deputies arrived.

  “I might have known it would be you,” the deputy said.

  “They drew first.”

  “I’m sure they did. Just as I’m sure you goaded them into it,” the deputy said.

  “I might have teased them a bit about bein’ from Texas,” Harley said. “Didn’t know they was goin’ to take it so hard.”

  The deputy stepped over to look down at the two young cowboys.

  “Damn, Harley, they’re just kids. Who are you going after next? Grade school kids?”

  “Won’t be any of your concern who it is, Deputy. I got a telegram today, offerin’ me a job.”

  “Somewhere else, I hope.”

  “Yeah, somewhere else,” Harley said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Gothic

  Sally was in New York City, sitting on the windowsill of the third floor of one of the Greek revival row houses on the north side of Washington Square. The apartment belonged to her Aunt Mildred, and Sally had come to New York to spend a couple weeks with her. It was late March, a cold and gray day with steely sunlight that illuminated, but did not warm the city. Spring had already begun, but the pedestrians walking on the sidewalk below wore heavy coats and scarves. From this elevation they were a never ending flow of black figures, rather like a stream of ants on the march.

  She heard the distant rumble of an El train and the clatter of an omnibus, and wondered about so many people on the move. Who were they ? Where were they going? What lay ahead of them?

  What lay ahead for her?

  She had already made the decision for her own future, and had announced it to her family with great passion and intensity. She was going West. She was going West to teach school, and to see some of the country she had only read about.

  Her parents were completely opposed to the idea, and sent her to New York on a visit so Aunt Mildred could “talk some sense in to her.”

  To Sally’s surprise and relief, Aunt Mildred did nothing to try and dissuade her. In fact, she disclosed the secret that she had once had a strong desire to move to San Francisco, to see what was on the other side of the countr y.

  So, without Aunt Mildred to dissuade her she was left to her own thought and reason. Was she making a mistake? Should she go West? Or should she stay safe, comfortable, and stable in Vermont, where her father was wealthy, and a “respectable” marriage would occur some day, with an “acceptable” man who was a moneyed member of society ?

  If only she knew what was the right thing to do.

  “You are making the right decision,” Smoke said. “Come West. Marry me. We will grow old together, and you will have all the comfort, love, and security you will ever want. And you will have something else. You will have excitement, not the dull future Vermont holds for you.”

  “I will come, Smoke,” Sally said. “I will come West and I will marry you.”

  Sally woke up, and for a moment, had no idea where she was. Was she at her aunt’s apartment in New York? No, that’s not possible. Smoke isn’t someone in a dream. Smoke is real.

  But where is Smoke?

  She reached over to touch him, but he wasn’t there. As she tried to raise up to look for him, a sudden ache in her side brought her back down sharply to lie on her back on the hard surface of the examination table. She moved her hands around her, feeling the edges.

  Yes, an examination table.

  But where was Smoke? She vaguely remembered talking to him earlier.

  “Mrs. Jensen, try not to move,” a soft, calming, and reassuring voice said.

  “Who are you?” Sally asked. “Where am I?”

  “I am Doctor Gunther. You are in my office.”

  “Why?”

  “You have been shot. Remember?”

  Sally was quiet for a moment. “Yes. I remember. Where is Smoke?”

  “He is staying in the hotel across the street. He will be back here first thing in the morning, but I can get him for you now, if you wish.”

  “Am I dying? If I am dying I want to tell him good-bye.”

  “You are not dying.”

  “Then let him sleep,” Sally said. “I am sure he is worried about me. I am sure he isn’t getting much sleep.”

  “You need some sleep as well,” Dr. Gunther said. “Do you want me to give you something to make you sleep?”

  “No. I will be all right.”

  “I’ll be right here if you need me.” Dr. Gunther’s words fell on deaf ears. Sally had already drifted off to sleep again.

  The next morning Sally was strong enough to be moved from the doctor’s office to Tamara’s small house on the edge of town. She was put on a stretcher and carried two blocks to Tamara’s one room cabin.

  Smoke and Cal walked beside the stretcher with her, all the way. And, somewhat embarrassing to Sally, so did much of the town.

  “How is she doing?” someone called.

  “We’re prayin’ for you, Miz Jensen,” another shouted.

  When they reached Tamara’s cabin the stretcher bearers, two young men hired by Smoke for the job, took her inside and put her on the bed.

  There could not be a greater contrast between Sally’s fine house at Sugarloaf—a two-story edifice with five bedrooms, a living room, parlor, dining room, and kitchen—and Tamara’s tiny abode. The house was one room, with a bed, a table and two chairs, a cooking/heating stove, and a small settee. There was also a cot, where Tamara said she would be sleeping during Sally’s convalescence.

  Dr. Gunther had walked down with his patient as well, and as Sally was moved gently, from the litter to the bed, he put the back of his hand on her forehead. He looked over at Tamara.

  “I’m going to leave you a thermometer so you can take her temperature from time to time. There are two things we need to look out for. Shock and infection.”

  “How do I look for them?” Tamara asked.

  “If there is a change in her alertness, if she starts having dizzy spells, quick, shallow breathing, or clammy skin, those would be signs of shock. I think she is past that danger, but one should always be careful.”

  “What do I do if she has shock?”

  “If you think she is going into shock, lift her legs so that they are higher than her head. And keep her warm.”

  “All right.”

  “There may be a greater danger of infection, so I want you to look out for it as well. Her wound will probably start suppurating, or draining. If the liquid that comes out is clear, there’s no problem. That is to be expected. But if it looks like pus, or has an odor, or if you see little red streaks on the skin, leading away from the wound, that would indicate infection. Then I want you to take her temperature. If it is over 101 degrees, that is absolute evidence that her wound has become infected.”

  “And if th
at happens?”

  “Treat the wound with iodine,” Dr. Gunther said. “In fact, if you keep the wound treated, I think the likelihood of infection will be remote. I will leave you two bottles, along with the thermometer.”

  “Thank you,” Tamara said.

  Smoke sent Cal back to Sugarloaf to help Pearlie with the spring roundup. Over the next week, he developed a routine. Every morning he walked down to Tamara’s house to have breakfast with Sally and her friend. He would sit beside Sally’s bed, talking to her, sometimes reading to her while she was awake, remaining quiet as she slept. At night, he slept in the hotel room.

  On the third day Sally developed an infection. At first, it was just some red lines, radiating out from the wound. Then her temperature rose to 102. Dr. Gunther was called. He cleaned and disinfected the wound, and kept a wet cloth on her face.

  For two days, Sally hovered between life and death. Smoke stayed in the little house with her, talking to her, reassuring her when she was conscious, that everything was going to be all right. But was it?

  During Sally’s periods of unconsciousness, Smoke slept fitfully.

  A violent thunderstorm struck the valley, scattering the herd of breeding horses, and sending the milk cow off.

  “I’ve got to get the horses back,” Smoke told Nicole. “We’ve got to have them for breeding stock. But I hate to leave you and the baby alone.”

  Nicole laughed away his fears. “Don’t worry about me. Remember, I’m a pretty good shot.”

  “I might be gone for several days.”

  “Honey ”—Nicole touched his face—“it was the hand of Providence that brought us that cow. Lord knows how it got here. But you’ve got to get it back for the baby.” She pressed a bundle of food on him. “I’ll be packing while you’re finding the herd—and the cow.” She laughed. “You always look so serious when you are milking.”

  “I never did like to milk, even when I was a boy, back in Missouri.”

  Smoke left reluctantly, knowing he had no choice. As he rode away on his horse, Seven, he stopped once, turning in his saddle to look back at his wife, holding their son in her arms. The sun sparkled off her hair, casting a halo of light around the woman and baby. Smoke lifted a hand in good-bye.