Assault of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Harley waited on the platform until his horse was led down the ramp from the cattle car, then walked down to claim him.

  “Yes, sir, here is your mount, as fresh as he was when he boarded the train.” The groom held the horse’s reins in one hand, while his other hand was palm up for the expected tip.

  Harley ignored the groom’s palm and, without a sound, mounted, and rode away. It took but a minute to ride from the depot to the saloon where he dismounted and tied his horse to the hitch rail. He glanced up and down the street as if making certain there was no potential threat, then pushed his way through the swinging bat wing doors.

  He was wearing a gun strapped low on his right hip, and once inside, he stepped away from the door so he wasn’t back lighted. He paused for a moment. Only when his eyes were fully adjusted to the dimmer light, did he walk over to the bar.

  “You know who that is?” Dinkins whispered to the others.

  “Can’t say as I do,” Parnell said.

  “That is Wes Harley. I reckon you’ve heard of him, ain’t you?

  “I’ve heard of ’im,” Travis said. “He’s a—”

  “He’s a gunfighter,” Dinkins interrupted, intending to keep control of the conversation.

  “He’s supposed to be fast,” Travis said.

  “He’s not just supposed to be fast, he is fast,” Dinkins said.

  “I don’t believe that is him,” Parnell said.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well think about it. What would someone like that be doin’ here?”

  “He’s here ’cause I asked him to be here,” Dinkins said.

  “What?”

  “He’s the one I was telling you about. He’s the one I asked to join us. He’ll be with us when we hit the bank in Crystal.”

  “You really think we need someone like that to hold up the bank in that little town?” Parnell asked.

  “If people like Smoke Jensen are going to start coming after us, it would be good to have someone like Harley on our side,” Dinkins said.

  Harley stepped up to the bar and slapped a coin down.

  “Whiskey,” he grunted. “The good stuff.”

  “Oh, sorry, mister, but you are just a little too late for any of our good stuff. That miner down there at the other end of the bar just bought our last bottle of blended whiskey. But I think you’ll find our trade liquor ain’t that bad.”

  Harley turned to look at the young miner, who had just poured himself a glass from the bottle. “Mister, I’ll be askin’ you to sell that bottle to me.”

  The miner shook his head. “Friend, I been bustin’ up hard rock all week, just a’ thinkin’ about comin’ in here for a good bottle of whiskey. I aim to keep it for myself.”

  Harley put some money on the bar and slid it toward the cowboy.

  “Mister, don’t you hear good?” the miner asked. “I told you, I ain’t sellin’ my whiskey.”

  “Either pick up the money, or go for your gun,” Harley said.

  “What?”

  “I said, pull your gun or give me the bottle.”

  “I ain’t even wearin’ a gun. What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

  “You.” Harley looked toward Travis Slater. “You’re wearin’ a gun. Give it to the miner there.”

  “All right.” Travis pulled his pistol from his holster by thumb and forefinger, carried it over to the miner, and held it out toward him.

  The miner held up his hands, as if pushing Travis away. “I don’t want your gun.”

  “Put it on the bar, then back out of the way,” Harley said.

  Travis did as Harley directed.

  “You’re armed now,” Harley said. “Pick it up.”

  “Mister, are you serious?” The miner’s voice was high-pitched and cracking with fear. “You really aimin’ to throw down on me over a bottle of whiskey?”

  “For God’s sake, give him the bottle, boy,” the bartender said.

  “I paid for this bottle, and there ain’t nobody goin’ to buffalo me into givin’ it up. I don’t know who you are, mister, but I ain’t givin’ you my bottle, and I ain’t goin’ to pick up this pistol.”

  Harley pulled his gun and fired. Pink mist sprayed from the miner’s earlobe and he slapped his hand up to the side of his head with a howl of pain. By the time the smoke cleared, the pistol was back in Harley’s holster.

  “Give me the bottle,” Harley ordered.

  With his left hand still pressed against his ear, the miner shoved the bottle down the bar with his right. “Here. Take the goddamn bottle.” He reached for the money.

  “Uh-uh. That ain’t your money now. You didn’t take it when I give you the chance.”

  The miner stared at Harley through terror-stricken eyes. Keeping his hand pressed against the side of his head, he rushed out of the saloon.

  Harley picked up the bottle. Carrying it and Travis’s pistol with him, he walked over to join Dinkins and the others at his table. “I thank you for the loan of the pistol.” He held the gun across the table. Raising the bottle to his lips, he took a couple swallows, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked over at Dinkins. He smiled. “Hello, Little Brother.”

  “Brother?” Frank Slater said. “You two are brothers?”

  “Yeah.” Dinkins reached over to shake hands with Harley.

  “How come you ain’t got the same last name?”

  “We got the same mama, but different daddies,” Dinkins said.

  Harley took another swallow from the bottle. “We think.”

  “You think?” Parnell asked, clearly confused by the strange answer. “What do you mean, you think? Do you have different daddies or not?”

  “Mama was a whore,” Dinkins said. “She didn’t always keep track of the men she slept with.”

  “When you sent for me, you said you had somethin’ in mind,” Harley said. “What is it?”

  “Banks,” Dinkins replied. “Startin’ with one over in Crystal, tomorrow.”

  “Banks?” Parnell asked.

  “You didn’t think we was goin’ to do only that one in Gothic, then quit, did you?” Dinkins asked.

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t know. I mean the first one sure didn’t turn out well now, did it?” Parnell said.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Elco

  Smoke had been on the trail for two days, but so far he had no leads on where the bandits were, or even where they were going. He saw a small town rising ahead of him. He hadn’t happened on the town by accident. He knew it was there, and he knew, too, that the men he was looking for would be in a town somewhere. Because towns were few and relatively far between, he was prepared to search every town until he found them.

  As he approached the town Smoke decided to get a haircut. He had to find someone talkative enough to engage in conversation if he was going to find out any information. He didn’t know anyone more talkative than a barber. He wasn’t in desperate need of a haircut, but he could use one.

  Emerson Bates had his chair tipped back against the rip-sawed boards that made up the false-front of Wong’s Laundry. He liked sitting there, because he lusted after the Chinaman’s two daughters. Of course, he had never been able to act on his lust. They were not whores, and he could not get them to show any interest in him. At the moment, his feet were wrapped around the front legs of the chair and his hat was pulled down low over his eyes. The sun was almost dead overhead so there were no shadows on the street. It was the hottest time of the day which meant most citizens stayed out of the sun as much as they could.

  Bates was a deputy sheriff and the only one out in the noonday sun. The other deputies and the sheriff were in the saloon drinking beer and playing cards.

  Bates heard the hollow, clumping sounds of a single rider and looked toward the south to see a horseman coming into town. Tipping his chair forward Bates stood up and watched as the rider came farther into town. Just across the street from the Chinese laundry, the rider pulled up, then dismount
ed in front of Max’s Barbershop.

  As Smoke was tying his horse off at the hitching rail, the barber stepped out through the door of his shop. “Yes, sir.” He smiled at his potential customer as he stood with a damp towel draped across his shoulder. “Would you be wanting a haircut and a shave?”

  “Just a shave,” Smoke answered. “From the sign outside, you would be Max, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir, Max Gibbs is the name, and this shop, such as it is, is all mine. And you would be?”

  “Smoke Jensen.”

  “Smoke Jensen! My, what a privilege it will be to serve you, Mr. Jensen. Yes, sir, I have read about you.” Max stepped back into his shop and invited Smoke in with the motion of his arm. “Please, step inside.”

  The barber shop was very small, just barely large enough to accommodate the barber chair and a small, leather covered settee where customers could wait their turn.

  “You’ll be wantin’ to wash some of the trail dust off your face, I expect,” Max said. “There’s a wash basin on that table there. Help yourself. That comes with the price of the haircut and shave.”

  “Thanks,” Smoke said as he took advantage of the barber’s offer. “How much is a shave?”

  “Shave and a haircut is two bits,” the barber answered. “But seein’ as you are just getting’ a shave, it will only be a dime.”

  “Tell you what. I only want the shave, but suppose I pay you for both anyway.” Smoke flipped the barber a quarter.

  “Thank you, sir! Here, have a seat.”

  Smoke took his seat in the single chair.

  “You just passing through, are you, Mr. Jensen?” Max picked up a cup and brush and began working up a lather.

  “Yes. I came through Gothic a couple days ago. I guess you heard about what happened over there. I’m talking about the bank robbery.”

  “Oh, indeed we have heard about it over here. It was in the newspa—” Max stopped in mid-sentence. “Oh, my, the lady who was shot. That was your wife, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is she, if I may ask?”

  “Thank you for asking. She is much better.”

  “Well, thank God for that,” Max said.

  “I have,” Smoke replied.

  “You know, to those of us over here, that bank robbery and the shooting was particular upsetting, considerin’ the Slater brothers.”

  “Slater brothers?”

  “Travis and Frank Slater. They used to live here. They was our neighbors, you might say. And now they are riding with Dinkins. I don’t tell you that as a point of pride, by the way. The truth is, them two boys never was no good. They was working for Chance Carter, a rancher just south of town. Mr. Carter had him a fifteen-year-old daughter, prettiest little girl you ever seen. Well, one day Mr. Carter an’ his daughter both turned up dead, and the Slater brothers both turned up missin’.”

  “So you are saying that the Slater brothers killed Mr. Carter?” Smoke asked.

  “Yes, sir, I reckon I am sayin’ that. Of course, we don’t none of us have no proof or nothin’ like that. But Frank and Travis Slater never was no count a-tall. Mr. Carter turned up dead, and them two no accounts turned up missin’.”

  Smoke nodded. This was a good stop. Max had just supplied him with the last names of two people who were with Dinkins.

  Max stretched the chair out, used a brush to apply the lather, then a straight razor to shave him. When that was done, he wrapped warm wet towels around Smoke’s face.

  Bates had been waiting for just that moment. He walked into the shop. “Plannin’ on stayin’ in our town long?”

  Smoke’s face was wrapped in the towels, but not his eyes. “I just stopped in for a shave. And that’s about done, I expect. Wouldn’t you say so, Max?”

  “Yes, sir, just another moment to relax your face is all, I would say,” Max replied.

  Smoke noticed a twinge of fear in the barber’s voice, but had no idea why.

  “Yes, well, here’s the thing, mister,” Bates said. “We got law in this town. And we don’t take to strangers comin’ in and breakin’ the law.”

  “Have I broken the law by getting a shave?” Smoke asked.

  “It ain’t the shave I’m talkin’ about.”

  “I see. And you enforce the law, do you?”

  “I do indeed,” Bates said. “Do you see this star? That means I’m a deputy sheriff.”

  “Your mama must be real proud,” Smoke said calmly.

  Bates blinked a few times at the response. This wasn’t going the way he had planned. “The point is, mister, I am a deputy. And bein’ as I’m a deputy, well, sir, that means I can collect taxes when they’re due. And right now, you owe this here town two dollars in taxes.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It’s to pay for the protection we give you while you are here in town,” Bates said.

  “I’ll protect myself.”

  “Mister”—Bates’ voice reflected his growing anger and frustration—“you ain’t payin’ much attention to me, are you? Now I’m goin’ to say it real slow so’s maybe even someone as dumb as you can understand. You owe the city of Elco two dollars, and I aim to collect it.”

  “I told you, deputy, I don’t live here, I don’t plan to live here, and I don’t need your protection.”

  “Bates, there ain’t no call for you to come in here and be talkin’ to my customer like this,” Max said. “He told you, he’s just passin’ through. Now why don’t you just go away and leave us alone?”

  “Stay out of this, Max,” Bates said coldly. “Unless you want to get hurt.”

  With Bates’ attention diverted by the barber, Smoke pulled the apron off.

  When Bates looked back toward him he saw that Smoke was holding a pistol. “What the hell?” Bates said with a gasp. “You’re pulling a gun on an officer of the law?”

  “Maybe you didn’t notice.” Smoke jerked the thumb of his left hand toward his badge. “I’m also an officer of the law, a deputy United States marshal. And like I said, I don’t need your protection.”

  “Oh. You should have told me you was a lawman like me. Of course, bein’ as you are a lawman, why, there ain’t no tax due. Sort of a professional courtesy, you might say.”

  “I accept your courtesy.” Smoke got out of the chair, put his pistol back in the holster, then turned to reach for his hat, which was on the hat rack in the corner of the little room.

  “Marshal, look out!” Max suddenly shouted.

  Smoke spun around, drawing his pistol as he did so. He saw Bates standing in the doorway with his own gun drawn.

  Seeing Smoke’s rapid reaction to Max’s warning, the expression on Bate’s face changed from one of triumph, to one of shock. He thumbed back the hammer on his pistol, but it was too late. Smoke fired, and the bullet tore through Bates’ heart, leaving a quarter-sized exit hole just beside his left shoulder blade.

  Hearing the shot, several people came running toward the barbershop.

  Smoke noticed some of the men had stars pinned to their vest or shirt, but he had no idea which one was the sheriff.

  “Who did this?” one of the men demanded. From the authoritative tone of his voice, Smoke realized the man had just answered his question.

  “I did,” Smoke said.

  “Mister, you are under arrest.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t think so? Mister, you just killed one of my deputies!”

  “Bates drew first, Sheriff Cooper,” Max said. “In fact, he was goin’ to shoot Marshal Jensen in the back.”

  “Marshal?” the sheriff asked. “What kind of marshal?”

  “I’m a deputy United States marshal.”

  “Why would Bates try to shoot you in the back?”

  “Bates was tryin’ to make Marshal Smoke Jensen pay him two dollars for tax,” Max said.

  The expression on Sheriff Cooper’s face changed dramatically. “Did the barber just call you Smoke Jensen?”


  “Yes.”

  “Well, uh, Marshal Jensen, I don’t know exactly what sort of scheme Deputy Bates was trying to run, but I assure you, we don’t collect a tax from people who are just passing through our fair city.”

  “I didn’t think you would,” Smoke said. He turned to Max. “Thank you for the shave.”

  “Hastings,” Sheriff Cooper said, speaking to one of his deputies. “Get Gustafson up here to take care of this body.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hastings answered.

  “Sheriff Cooper, I wonder if you could tell me anything about the Slater brothers?” Smoke realized he had an advantage over the sheriff. He was positive Cooper not only knew Bates was shaking down strangers for tax money, but that he was probably behind it. Whereas Cooper might be reticent to talk about the Slater brothers under ordinary circumstances, he would welcome the discussion as a diversion from his own crooked dealings.

  Cooper had photographs of Travis and Frank Slater. “These here pictures was took by Fred Dysart. He runs the picture shop here.” Cooper handed the first photograph to Smoke. “This one is Frank Slater. He is the oldest.”

  Frank had a high forehead, thin hair, beady eyes, and a handlebar mustache.

  Cooper gave Smoke the second photograph. “And this one is Travis.”

  Travis had his head tilted to one side. He was clean shaven, and his hair was neatly combed.

  Smoke studied the pictures for a couple of minutes, then handed them back.

  “Marshal Jensen, about Bates and the tax,” Sheriff Cooper said. “We are collecting taxes as a way of raising money, but I don’t know why he tried to shoot you. I ain’t never authorized nothin’ like that.”

  “You reap what you sow,” Smoke said.

  “Yeah, well, I think we’ve raised enough money now, I’m probably going to stop it.”

  “Alvin Marsh, the state attorney general, is a friend of mine,” Smoke said. “I’m sure that when he sends some of his people down here to have a look around, he will appreciate that you have stopped taxing strangers.”