Assault of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Nothing, I ... ,” the bartender started, then his eyes darted to the rear of the saloon, so quickly Smoke couldn’t tell whether it was a reflexive action or a signal.

  Curious and cautious, he glanced toward the rear of the saloon.

  “He’s seen us!” someone yelled at the top of his voice from the upper level floor. He was wielding a double-barrel shotgun, which he had turned toward Smoke.

  “Shoot the son of a bitch!” someone else shouted and the shotgun boomed loudly.

  Alerted by the shout, Smoke fell to the floor and rolled to his right, just as the man at the top of the stairs fired. The heavy charge of buckshot tore a large hole in the top and side of the bar, right where Smoke had been standing but a second before. Smoke shot at the man before he could pull the trigger on the second barrel. The would-be assailant tumbled over the railing and crashed onto the piano below.

  As Smoke and the man on the overlook were firing at each other, Coltrane took the opportunity to go for his own gun. Suddenly the saloon was filled with the roar of another gunshot as Coltrane fired.

  The presence of a second gunman did not surprise Smoke, for he had heard the first shooter yell out, “He’s seen us!” Smoke was able to react so quickly, his gunshot and the shot fired by Coltrane sounded like one.

  Smoke hit exactly what he was aiming for. Coltrane was knocked backward onto a table where he lay sprawled out on his back, his head hanging down on the opposite side of the table. The table was covered by green felt, the easier for card playing. At the moment, however, it was soaked in blood.

  A third man ran out of the saloon without even attempting a shot. Smoke didn’t know if he was running to get out of the line of fire, or if he had been a part of the team of ambushers who lost his courage when he saw the other two cut down.

  Hearing the shots, the town marshal and his deputy came running into the saloon with guns drawn. Smoke had already holstered his pistol and was standing calmly with his back to the bar, his arms up, resting his elbows on the bar. The other customers in the saloon, those who had dived under the tables, or behind the piano, were milling around the two dead bodies, looking down at them with a cross between morbid curiosity and guilty appreciation of still being alive.

  Noticing that Smoke was the only one not milling around with the others, the marshal and his deputy holstered their own pistols, then stepped over to talk to him.

  “I have a feeling you are a part of this,” the marshal said.

  “I was,” Smoke agreed. “But not by choice.”

  “You want to tell me what happened?”

  “These two men shot at me,” Smoke said. Moving to one side, he pointed to the damaged bar. “I believe there may have been a third, but he ran when the shooting started.”

  “You’re Smoke Jensen, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I guess you are used to this by now. Getting shot at, I mean.”

  “I don’t know if you ever get used to it,” Smoke replied.

  “Hey, Marshal, look at this!” one of the saloon patrons said.

  He brought over a piece of paper and showed it to the marshal. The marshal read it, looked up at Smoke, then back down at the paper. To Smoke’s surprise, the marshal drew his pistol and pointed it at Smoke.

  “What’s that for?” Smoke asked. “You can ask anyone in here and they will tell you these two men started the shooting.”

  “That may be so,” the marshal said. “But it doesn’t make any difference whether they started it or not, as long as they had justification for it.”

  “What can justify one man dry gulching another?” Smoke asked.

  “This, perhaps?” The marshal showed Smoke the wanted poster, stating that a five thousand dollar reward would be paid for him, dead or alive.

  “Where did that come from?” Smoke asked, surprised to see the poster.

  “Coltrane had it on him,” the saloon patron said.

  “It’s not real,” Smoke said.

  “What do you mean, it’s not real?” the marshal asked. “I’m holding it in my hand, looking at it. It’s real.”

  “Look, it’s no secret that I’m after Bill Dinkins and his gang. I’ve been told he put out a one thousand dollar reward, payable to anyone who killed me. I haven’t heard about this, but he has to be behind this as well.”

  The marshal shook his head. “According to this, it’s the sheriff of La Plata County who has put out the reward.”

  “Do you get reward posters in the mail to post in your office?” Smoke asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you gotten this flyer on me?”

  “No, not yet. But that don’t mean nothin’. It could be days, even weeks before I might get a poster that’s bein’ sent out. It looks like I’m goin’ to have to lock you up in jail until we get to the bottom of this.”

  “I don’t think I would like that,” Smoke said.

  “Well, Mr. Jensen, I don’t care what you would like,” the marshal replied. “I’ve got a duty to this badge. And right now, I’ve got the drop on you. So I reckon we’ll just do it my way.”

  In a move that was totally unexpected, and incredibly fast, Smoke reached out and jerked the marshal’s pistol out of his hand. Even as he was doing that, he drew his own gun.

  “Uh-uh.” Smoke cautioned the deputy with a warning glance, and the deputy who looked as if he might go for his own gun, stopped in mid-move. “We’ll do it my way.”

  “And what way is that?” the marshal asked, his voice edged with fear.

  “We are going to go down to the telegraph office and send a wire to the sheriff of La Plata County. I want you to ask him if he has authorized this poster.”

  “His name is on it,” the marshal said. “He must have approved it.”

  “You think so?”

  “If he didn’t approve it, where did it come from?”

  “I told you that Dinkins had a thousand dollar reward on me. It looks like he just upped the ante.”

  “You think he has that much money?” the marshal asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t intend to pay it,” Smoke said. “That’s why he put it out over the sheriff of La Plata’s name.”

  Smoke handed the marshal’s pistol back to him. “Shall we go find out what this is all about?”

  Surprised to have his gun returned to him, the marshal put it back in his holster, then nodded. “Yes. Let’s go find out.”

  Half an hour later, the telegrapher handed the marshal a telegram.

  THIS OFFICE HAS ISSUED NO FLYERS OFFERING A REWARD FOR SMOKE JENSEN ANY SUCH REWARD POSTERS AS MAY EXIST ARE FORGERIES

  “It looks like you are right,” the marshal said. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

  “That’s all right,” Smoke said. “You were just doing your job. Or at least, you thought you were doing your job.”

  “Yes, but I could have killed you.”

  Smoke chuckled. “No, you couldn’t have.”

  For a moment the marshal was confused by the answer, then realized that Smoke was right. Smoke had actually taken his pistol away from him.

  “Come to think of it, I don’t guess I could have killed you after all.”

  Smoke had no idea what woke him up. Since it was his first night in a real bed in over a week, and since he was sleeping soundly, there was no discernible reason why he suddenly awoke. But he was lying in bed, staring into the darkness overhead, wide awake.

  He did not hear anything, nor did he see anything, but the same sixth sense that had awakened him told him to get out of bed. Rolling over quietly, Smoke pulled his pistol from the holster, then stepped over to the wall, backing up against it, right next to the door.

  No sooner had he done that, than he heard the sound of a key being inserted in the lock of his door. The key was turned slowly, but he heard the click of the tumblers. The door opened, and in the ambient light cast through the window, dim as it was, Smoke saw the man walk over to the bed. He raised his hand ov
er his head, and Smoke saw the soft gleam of moonlight on the blade of a knife.

  “What the hell?” the man said, when he realized nobody was in the bed.

  Smoke had stepped up behind him, no more than foot away. “Are you looking for me?”

  “Ahh!!” the man cried, startled by the unexpected sound behind him. He turned quickly trying to bring his knife around in a slashing arc, but he was too late. Smoke took him down with a crushing hard right to the jaw.

  Half an hour later they were in the marshal’s office. The deputy had awakened the marshal who was clearly agitated by being awakened in the middle of the night. “Stallings, you want to tell me why you were in Mr. Jensen’s room in the middle of the night with a knife?”

  “I was trying to kill him.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe you don’t know it, but there is a price on his head. The sheriff over in La Plata County has offered five thousand dollars, dead or alive, for Smoke Jensen.”

  “And of course you were planning on taking him in dead, is that it?”

  “Yeah. It don’t say he has to be alive.”

  “You might be interested in this.” The marshal showed Stallings the telegram he had received from the sheriff of La Plata County.

  Stallings read the telegram, then looked up at the marshal. “Does this mean there ain’t no reward?”

  “That is exactly what it means.”

  “So what you are saying is, Coltrane and Grange, they both got themselves kilt for nothing.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Stallings, where did you get that flyer?” Smoke asked.

  “I don’t know. They’re all over. I think we got this one offen’ an old abandoned shack about ten miles east of here.”

  “You said they are all over,” Smoke said. “What do you mean by all over?”

  “I mean this ain’t the only one we seen. After we took this one, we seen at least five, maybe ten more, on trees, old buildings, an abandoned mine.”

  “All of them east of here?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  Smoke nodded. “Then that’s where they are.”

  “That’s where who are?”

  “Bill Dinkins and his men.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Sapinero, Colorado

  At ten-thirty p.m. the eastbound train number 20 arrived at the Sapinero station. Harley and the two Slater brothers, Frank and Travis, were waiting in the darkness on the opposite side of the railroad tracks from the station. They had hidden their horses a mile out of town, and the plan was to get on the train and force it to stop where their horses were.

  When the train stopped at the station, the three men climbed onto the platform just behind the tender. They remained there, unseen in the dark, as the train pulled out of the station. Travis climbed up over the tender and dropped down behind the engineer and fireman, both of whom were illuminated by the yellow cab lantern. They were staring straight ahead.

  “Hello, boys!” Travis called.

  Startled, the engine crew turned toward him.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” the engineer asked.

  “You might say I’ve taken over as the conductor,” Travis said. “I want you to get ready to stop where I tell you to stop.”

  “The hell I will,” the engineer said angrily.

  Travis shot the fireman in the leg, and he let out a yelp of pain, grabbing his leg where the bullet struck.

  “My next shot will be to his head,” Travis said.

  The engineer stuck both hands out in front of him. “All right, all right. Don’t shoot him again.”

  “Brake this train, right now,” Travis said.

  The engineer set the brakes, and the train squealed to a halt. Travis leaned out through the engineer’s window and looked ahead. He saw a bonfire with a man standing in silhouette in front of it. The man was carrying a rifle, and he held it up, then pointed it to the right.

  Travis smiled. That was the agreed-upon signal, which meant the switch had been thrown.

  “All right, start her up again, but go slow.”

  After proceeding forward for several feet, the train took the switch track and veered to the right.

  “Where are we going?” the engineer asked. “I ain’t never left the main line.”

  “Slow down, way down,” Travis said. “But don’t stop.”

  “What’s going on?” the engineer asked.

  “Haven’t you figured that out yet, Mr. Engineer? We’re robbing your train,” Travis said. “Slower, slower, slower.”

  The engineer complied with Travis’s order until the train was barely moving. “Now stop,” Travis said.

  The train stopped, as it bumped up against the track guard at the end of the spur. It had been switched onto a siding that would allow cars to be backed up to a loading pen.

  “Get out,” Travis ordered. “Both of you.”

  “I’m not sure I can get down, what with my leg,” the fireman said.

  Travis pointed his gun to the other leg. “I can even it up for you if you want me to.”

  “No, no!” the fireman said. “I’ll get down!”

  “I thought you might see it my way.”

  Travis stayed in the cab until both the engineer and the fireman were on the ground. The engineer, thinking it was his opportunity to run, started to do so. Travis shot at him and the engineer went down.

  Harley and Frank had come out from their place on the platform behind the tender. The conductor and several passengers were also coming alongside the train to see why it had stopped as abruptly as it did.

  Harley turned toward them. “Get back on the train.”

  “See here, I’m the conductor. I want to know what’s going on here?”

  Harley shot the passenger who was coming with the conductor.

  “Get back on the train and keep your passengers there,” Harley said. “I’ll kill the next person who sticks his head out.”

  Frightened, the conductor and the other passengers who had come out with him hurried to get back onto the train.

  “You,” Dinkins said to the fireman, who was staring down at the body of the engineer. “Come here.”

  The fireman limped over to him. “Ernie is dead.”

  “You’re going to be dead too, if you don’t do what I tell you to do,” Dinkins said. “Tell the messenger to open the express car.”

  The fireman tapped on the door of the express car. “Miller,” he called. “Miller, this is Jasper. Open the door.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to do it,” a muffled voice replied from inside.

  “Open the car or we’ll blow it up!” Dinkins said.

  “You go to hell!” the voice from inside replied.

  Dinkins pulled a stick of dynamite from the bag he was going to put the money in, and wedged it into the door frame. The dynamite had a short fuse, and Dinkins gave a match to the fireman. “Light it.”

  “That fuse is too short, and I’ve got a shot leg,” the fireman protested. “If I light that thing, I won’t get away in time.”

  Dinkins pointed his rifle at the fireman. “At least you will have a chance to get away. If you don’t light it, I’ll blow your head off, right here.”

  Dinkins and the other robbers stepped back from the train several feet, but Dinkins kept his rifle aimed at the fireman. With shaking hands, the fireman struck the match, lit the fuse, then, as best he could, ran several paces away from the train before he threw himself on the ground.

  The dynamite exploded, tearing off the door and opening a big hole in the side of the express car.

  Inside the train, everyone heard the loud, stomach shaking explosion.

  “Oh! What is it?” one woman called loudly. “What is happening?”

  “Listen to me!” the conductor said, holding out his hands. “The train is being robbed!”

  “Oh, my God! We’ll all be killed!” another woman said. Some of the children began to cr y.

  “They don’t w
ant to kill us, they just want the money,” the conductor said. “Hide most of your money, but keep a little on your person and if they come aboard, give ’em that.”

  “Why not hide it all?” one of the men passengers asked.

  “If you hide all of it, they will know what you have done and like as not they’ll start shooting. You have to keep a little so they won’t suspect anything.”

  “Where can we hide it?” someone asked.

  “Give it to me,” a porter said. “They ain’t goin’ to be searchin’ no colored man for money.”

  “Julius is right,” the conductor said. “Give him all your money.”

  Quickly the men and women began taking out their money and handing it to the porter, who stuffed it into his voluminous pockets.

  “How are you going to know who the money belongs to?” another man asked.

  “Mister, I reckon we just all got to be honest,” Julius said.

  While all that was going on inside the passenger cars, outside the train the four robbers started shooting through the open door of the express car, even before all the smoke cleared. Then they rushed up to the car and while Dinkins and Harley stayed outside, Frank and Travis Slater climbed in to the car.

  Two of the four kerosene lanterns had been extinguished by the blast, but two remained, though the thick billow of smoke made it impossible to see inside the car when they first entered. As the smoke drifted away, they saw Miller, the messenger, getting up on his hands and knees and shaking his head groggily.

  “Open the safe,” Travis ordered.

  “There’s not much in there,” Miller said.

  “You let us be the judge of that. Open the safe.”

  Miller got to his feet, then went over to the safe. “It looks damaged. I don’t know if I will be able to get it open.”

  Travis pulled the hammer back on his pistol and the click as the sear engaged the cylinder was loud. “I think you will be able to open it.”

  Miller turned the combination lock, then swung the door open.

  “Ha!” Travis said. “I knew you could open it if you tried. Clean it out, Frank, while I keep him covered.”