Assault of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Some, but not all, of the crowd laughed at the remark.

  “You think gettin’ hung is funny, do you boy? We’ll see who is laughin’ half an hour from now.”

  Parnell did not respond to the taunt. His face was without expression of any kind.

  He was led up the thirteen steps to the gallows, and carefully positioned over the trap door. His arms were then tied to his sides, and his legs were tied together. Sheriff Daniels stepped to the front of the gallows, cleared his throat, and read the warrant which stated that Cole Parnell, having been found guilty in a legally constituted court of law, was hereby sentenced to death by means of hanging.

  “You’ve got it coming to you, you horrid person!” a woman shouted. “My husband was a good man, a father of three children, and you took him away from us!” She broke down in racking sobs.

  There were a few other taunts, jibes, and sneering verbal attacks, but they quieted when a tall, very thin man, dressed all in black but with a bright white collar, started up the thirteen steps to the platform. He stepped over and whispered something to the prisoner. Parnell shook his head, and the priest spoke a second time. Parnell nodded in the affirmative.

  With that, the priest walked away from Parnell, and opening the little black book he was carrying, began reading the prayer Prayers for Persons under Sentence of Death from the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer.

  “Dearly beloved, it hath pleased Almighty God, in his justice to bring you under the sentence and condemnation of the law. You are shortly to suffer death in such a manner, that others, warned by your example, may be the more afraid to offend; and we pray God, that you may make such use of your punishments in this world, that your soul may be saved in the world to come.”

  As the priest droned on, Smoke looked into the faces of the crowd, seeing in them a mixture of morbid fascination, naive curiosity, fear, and even some pity.

  When the priest was finished, Parnell was invited to give his final words.

  “Boys,” Parnell said. “This is really going to teach me a lesson.”

  There was a scattering of nervous laughter through the crowd, then the sheriff stepped back to Parnell and offered him a hood. When he declined, Sheriff Dennis fitted the noose around Parnell’s neck. Stepping away from the trap door, he looked over at the hangman, who was standing by the trip lever. The sheriff nodded.

  As the lever was thrown and the trap door fell open, the sound of the mechanism was drowned out by the sounds from the crowd, a mixture of shouts of excitement and wails of compassion. Parnell fell through the trapdoor, was jerked up short, then turned one half turn to the left as he hung there, already dead.

  A child, who had been brought to the hanging, began to cry. Finding her in the crowd, Smoke saw that it was Maggie, the little girl he had seen when he first rode into town.

  He wondered what kind of parent would bring a child to an execution. He had no problem with them hanging Parnell. If he had encountered him on the trail, he would have shot him himself. But he didn’t like the idea of it being turned into a carnival.

  He stayed in town for about four more hours, long enough to exchange telegrams with Sally.

  I AM STILL ON THE MEND PEARLIE AND CAL ARE PLEADING WITH ME TO LET THEM COME JOIN YOU PLEASE BE CAREFUL

  LOVE SALLY

  By the time Smoke left town the crowd had dispersed, and only a handful of the most morbidly curious remained standing by the gallows, looking up at the figure who was still hanging there with a stretched neck and bulging eyes. Most of them, Smoke noticed, were young boys, probably between twelve and fourteen.

  “You think he can see us?” one of the boys asked.

  “Nah, he can’t see us.”

  “But look at him. His eyes is bugged way open and he’s starin’ right down here at us.”

  “He’s dead, stupid. Dead men can’t see you. Dead men can’t do nothin’.”

  “He’s lookin’ at us from hell.”

  “He ain’t lookin’ at us from nowhere a-tall.”

  “It’s kinda scary, ain’t it?”

  “Nah, it don’t scare me none.”

  Smoke smiled as he rode by, because even the boy who proudly proclaimed that he wasn’t frightened belied that claim by the expression in his voice.

  Parlin, Colorado

  It was late afternoon by the time Smoke reached the town that did not exist prior to the arrival of the railroad. As a railroad town, it was growing so quickly it had already surpassed many of the older, more established towns that had been missed by the railroad. On the south side of the tracks lay the holding pens and feeder lots for cattle the area ranchers brought to ship to the slaughter houses in Kansas City and Chicago.

  The town proper was north of the tracks. Earl Avenue, the main street, ran at right angles to the tracks in a mostly unsuccessful attempt to get away from the smell and the flies of the holding pens. The town, built by merchants and businessmen, boasted a bank, three lawyers, a doctor, a thriving newspaper, a hotel, restaurant, playhouse, and four saloons.

  The stores and business buildings had not yet had time to become weather-worn, and stood proudly along either side of the street with boardwalks connecting one to the next so that, even in the worst weather, pedestrians did not have to walk in the mud of the street. Behind those were private homes where the townspeople lived. Most of the houses had vegetable gardens, but the tomatoes, corn, carrots, beans, lettuce, and cabbage plants were nothing but late spring green.

  A train sat at the Parlin Depot and its presence had drawn several people to the station to watch its arrival and departure. Because there were so many people at the depot, the main street of town was relatively empty as Smoke rode in. Though it wasn’t yet dark, the lamplighter was already making his rounds, to provide some illumination once darkness fell.

  Smoke stopped at the Silver Spur Saloon, not only for a beer to cut the trail dust, but also on the chance that he could pick up some news about Dinkins and the other men he was looking for.

  Because of his longtime friendship with Louis Longmont, Smoke had the tendency to gauge all saloons by Longmont’s. Nearly all the saloons he had ever seen came in lacking, but the Silver Spur missed it by a mile. Even in the nighttime, Longmont’s was well lit. In this place, all the chimneys of the lanterns were soot-covered, so the light was dingy and filtered through drifting smoke.

  The place smelled of whiskey, stale beer, and sour tobacco. A long bar was on the left, with dirty towels hanging on hooks about every five feet along its front. The large mirror behind the bar, like everything else about the saloon, was so dirty Smoke could scarcely see any images in it. What he could see was distorted by imperfections in the glass.

  Against the back wall, near the foot of the stairs, a cigar-scarred, beer-stained upright piano was being played by a bald-headed musician, while out on the floor of the saloon, nearly all the tables were filled. A half dozen or so bar gals were flitting about and a few card games were in progress, but for the most part the patrons were just drinking and talking.

  “What can I get for you?” the bartender asked.

  “Beer,” Smoke said. “And a recommendation for some place to eat.”

  “We got food here,” the bartender offered.

  “No, I have a hankerin’ for a real sit-down restaurant,” Smoke replied.

  “Kind of a high falutin fella, ain’t you?”

  “No, I just like clean food,” Smoke replied.

  The bartender took a mug down, then held it under the spigot as he drew a glass of beer. “You might try the Parlin Diner. Folks talk high about it.”

  “Thanks.” Smoke paid for the beer. Without turning away from the bar, he drank his beer and listened to the conversation going on all around him.

  “Hung him, they did.”

  “What was it? A lynchin’?”

  “Weren’t no such thing. They had a trial and ever’thing.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Today. Over in Cyrstal. He was on
e of ’em that robbed the bank there a few days back. When they was all ridin’ out of town, well, someone shot this fella’s horse. He was left without a ride and the rest of the outlaws just left him behind.”

  “One less person for ’em to have to divide up the money with, I reckon.”

  “How’d you find out about it?”

  “I was down to the newspaper office when they brung in the telegram to Mr. Denton, tellin’ about it. It’ll be in tomorrow’s paper.”

  Smoke listened a little longer, hoping to get some information that would be useful to him, but he heard none. He finished his beer, then walked down the street until he found the Parlin Diner. After a supper of roast beef and homemade noodles, he took Seven to the livery to be put up for the night.

  “Fine looking animal,” the liver yman said.

  “He is a good horse.”

  “You’ll be wantin’ to feed an animal like this oats, I’m sure.”

  Smoke chuckled. “And here, I thought you were just telling me how good a horse Seven is. Turns out all you want to do is sell me some oats.”

  “Oh, no, sir, no sir, not at all, sir!” the liveryman said. “This truly is a fine horse.”

  “Never mind. I would have bought oats for him anyway.”

  “I’m sure you would, sir, for an animal like this.”

  Smoke laughed again. He knew the liveryman didn’t even realize what he was doing. “I need a hotel for the night. Any suggestions?”

  “That depends. You want a hotel for sleepin’? Or for somethin’ else?”

  “Sleeping,” Smoke said.

  “Then that would be the Homestead Hotel. It’s up toward the depot, on the left-hand side of the street.”

  The lobby of the Homestead Hotel was well appointed with overstuffed sofas and chairs, a rose-colored carpet, and several brass spittoons. A few strategically placed lanterns provided light, if not brightness.

  The lobby was quiet and empty, except for the desk clerk who sat in a chair behind the sign-in desk, reading a newspaper. The clerk looked up as Smoke stepped up to the desk.

  “Do you have a room that overlooks the street?”

  “We do indeed, sir.”

  “Good.”

  Smoke signed the register and the clerk turned it around to read the name before he reached for a key. “Smoke Jensen? My, what an honor, sir, to have you stay in our hotel.”

  “Thanks.” The number of newspaper articles and even books that had been written about Smoke Jensen made him one of the best known men in Colorado, if not throughout the entire West. Sometimes being well-known was advantageous, sometimes it was annoying, and sometimes it was just a little embarrassing.

  The clerk turned toward a board filled with keys hanging from hooks, and took one down. “Your key, sir. You are in room two-twelve. Go upstairs, turn back toward the street, and it will be the last room on the right.”

  Smoke nodded and started toward the stairs.

  “Enjoy your stay, Mr. Jensen!” the clerk called loudly.

  Rufus Barlow was sitting in the lobby, reading the newspaper when he heard the desk clerk call out to Smoke Jensen. Barlow watched Smoke go up the stairs, then walked over to the front desk. “Who was that fella that just checked in?”

  “Why, that was Mr. Smoke Jensen,” the clerk said proudly. “Staying right here, in our hotel.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I do say. You want to see the register, where he signed in?”

  The clerk turned the register toward him, and Barlow read it, then smiled.

  “How about that,” Barlow said. “That’s somethin’, ain’t it.”

  “Mr. Barlow, may I ask what you are doing here?” The desk clerk suddenly realized who he was talking to. “You never do anything except come into our lobby, read our newspapers, and drink our coffee. I have told you that the lobby and the coffee are for paying guests, not derelict bums. Now if you don’t leave, I will summon the sheriff.”

  “I’m goin’, I’m goin’,” Barlow said, hurrying out of the hotel.

  Like the lobby, the hotel room was nicely furnished. More spacious than most hotel rooms, it had a bed, a settee, a chest of drawers, and a chif-ferobe. A porcelain pitcher and bowl sat on a dry sink. Smoke poured water into the bowl, took off his shirt, washed, then turned the covers down to crawl into bed. Since starting on his quest to find the people who shot Sally, it would be the first time he had slept in a real bed and this one felt particularly comfortable.

  In Blakely’s Saloon, which was halfway up Earl Avenue on the east side of the street, Rufus Barlow sat nursing his beer as he discussed a plan with his partner, a plan that both knew could either make a lot of money for them, or get them killed. Barlow’s partner was a man named Murdock Felton, but he had been called Slim for so long that even he had almost forgotten his real name. He fingered his mustache fitfully.

  “Are you sure that the fella stayin’ in the Homestead is really Smoke Jensen?” Felton asked. “Or is it just Waycox shootin’ off his mouth?”

  Waycox was Jeremy Waycox, the desk clerk at the hotel.

  “It’s Smoke Jensen all right. I seen the register where he signed in.”

  “Might have been someone just sayin’ that’s who he is,” Felton suggested.

  “No, I seen him go up the stairs. It’s Jensen all right. I seen him one time in Colorado Springs. I didn’t recognize him right off, ’cause it’s been a long time, but he’s damn near big as a bear, so it ain’t like you could miss him.”

  “That don’t sound to me like the kind of fella you would get into a fight with,” Felton said. “Yet that’s exactly what you’re wantin’ us to do.”

  “It ain’t goin’ to be no fistfight,” Barlow said. “This here fight is goin’ to be fought with guns.”

  “That’s even worse. They say he’s as quick as lightnin’ with ’is gun.”

  Barlow smiled. “Yeah, he is, and that’s somethin’ I’d be worr yin’ about iffen this was goin’ to be a fair fight. Only it ain’t goin’ to be what you would call a fair fight. The plan I got laid out is foolproof.”

  “There ain’t nothin’ foolproof,” Slim replied. “Most especial when it comes to dealin’ with someone like Smoke Jensen. That man ain’t even human.”

  “What do you mean, he ain’t human? He’s human just like ever’body else is, and if you shoot him, he’ll die, just like ever’one,” Barlow insisted.

  “Then how come he ain’t already dead? You got ’ny idea how many folks have tried to kill ’im?”

  “Yeah, well, they just didn’t go about it right, is all. We’ll do it right.”

  Slim drummed his fingers on the table for a moment as he thought about what Barlow was saying. “How much money is it again?”

  “There’s a thousand dollars in it, Slim. Five hundred for each of us.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “You’re damn right, that’s a lot of money.”

  “All right.” Slim finally agreed. “I’ll go along with your plan.”

  The next morning a slight breeze filled the muslin curtains and lifted them out over the wide-planked floor of Smoke’s hotel room. Smoke moved to the window and looked out over the town, which was just beginning to awaken. Water was being heated behind the laundry and boxes were being stacked behind the grocery store. A team of four big horses pulled a heavily loaded freight wagon down the main street.

  From the restaurant, and maybe even from half a dozen private homes, Smoke could smell bacon frying. His stomach growled, reminding him that he was hungry. He splashed some water in the basin, washed his face and hands, then put on his shirt and hat and went downstairs. There were a couple people in the lobby, one napping in a chair, the other reading a newspaper. Neither paid any attention to Smoke as he left the hotel.

  The morning sun was bright, but not yet hot. The sky was clear and the air was crisp. As he walked toward the café he heard sounds of commerce ; the ringing of a blacksmith’s hammer, a carpenter�
�s saw, and the rattle of working wagons. That was quite different from the night sounds of clanking liquor bottles, off-key piano, laughter, and boisterous conversations. How different the tone and tent of a town at work in the morning was from the same town in the play of evening.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Sugarloaf Ranch

  As the ramrod of Sugarloaf, Pearlie’s duties were greatly increased during Smoke’s absence. He had to supervise all the hands, including the extras who had been put on for the spring roundup. Cattle that had wandered away during the winter had to be found and brought back into the herd, and calves produced during that time had to be branded.

  He was laying out the irons with the slash SJ brand, when Cal came into the barn with a worried look on his face.

  “What is it, Cal?” Pearlie asked.

  “She ain’t got up.”

  “Who ain’t got up? What are you talkin’ about?”

  “Miss Sally. She ain’t got up yet this mornin’.”

  “Maybe she’s just tired and is sleepin’ in,” Pearlie suggested.

  “No, it ain’t that,” Cal said. “It’s somethin’ bad. I just know it is.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “’Cause, I stood outside her bedroom door and I called out to her. I called loud too, loud enough to wake her up if all she is doin’ is sleepin’. But she didn’t answer me. I’m worried, Pearlie. I’m awful worried.”

  “All right. Let’s go see if we can wake her up.”

  “Pearlie, you don’t think she’s dead, do you?” Cal asked anxiously as they walked quickly from the barn to the big house.

  “No, she was feelin’ real good last night. You know that.”

  “Yeah, and that’s what is got me worried. I mean, if she was feelin’ all that good last night, how come it is that she ain’t woke up yet this mornin’?”

  “You worry too much,” Pearlie said.

  The two men entered the big house, then walked down the hallway to the bedroom that Smoke and Sally shared. Pearlie knocked on the door.