Assault of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  A mounted posse went in pursuit of the gang by the next morning, but they lost the trail and returned empty handed.

  “I’ll bet they were some mad when they found out the messenger had hidden the money shipment,” Frakes said.

  “Ha! And that the porter had hidden all the passengers’ money,” Saddler added.

  “They ain’t likely to find out,” Ollie said. “Not where they are now. There’s no newspapers.”

  “Where they are now?” Smoke said. “Why do you say that? Do you know where they are?”

  “More’n likely they are in Risco,” Ollie said.

  “Risco?” Frakes asked.

  “It’s a little town on Cebella Creek, about halfway between here and Powderhorn,” Ollie said.

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Frakes said.

  “It’s not on any map,” Smoke said. “And that’s by design. They don’t want anybody to know they’re there.”

  “Why, that beats all I’ve ever heard,” Saddler said. “Why would a town not want anybody to know of its existence?”

  “It’s what some might call a Robbers’ Roost,” Smoke said. “Men who are running from the law go there, knowing there is little chance anyone from the law will trace them there.”

  “You know the town, Mr. Jensen?” Ollie asked, surprised by Smoke’s response.

  Smoke had visited the town once when he was on the dodge, going by the name of Buck West. “Yes, I know the town.” He gave no further explanation.

  “How is it that you know the town, Ollie?” Frakes asked.

  “I wasn’t always an agent for Wells Fargo. At one time in my life I was a different kind of agent.”

  “My God,” Saddler said. “You mean you were a road agent?”

  “I was nineteen,” Ollie said. “And I fell in with the wrong crowd. I served two years, and I’ve been straight ever since.”

  “Does Wells Fargo know about this?” Frakes asked.

  “They know.” Ollie smiled. “That’s why they let me handle their money, just as you men are doing in this card game.”

  The others laughed.

  “I would like to ask you something, Ollie,” Smoke said. “When you say you fell in with the wrong crowd, would that be Bill Dinkins?”

  “I don’t have anything to do with Dinkins anymore,” Ollie said.

  “What?” Saddler said. “Ollie, are you telling me that you were not only a road agent, but that you actually rode with Bill Dinkins?”

  Ollie folded his cards and drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. “If you gentlemen would rather I not play cards with you anymore, I will understand. I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

  “We aren’t saying that, Ollie. We aren’t saying that at all, are we, Jim?” Frakes asked the question pointedly, challenging Saddler.

  “No, I, uh, didn’t mean to imply anything like that.”

  “Mr. Lynch, I don’t mean to be pushy or anything, but I have a personal interest in locating Bill Dinkins and the men who are riding with him,” Smoke said.

  “I know you do, Mr. Jensen. I doubt there is anyone in Colorado who doesn’t know that Dinkins shot your wife. It’s been in all the papers. How is she, by the way?”

  “She has had a hard time of it. But she’s doing quite well now.”

  “I figured she must be, or you wouldn’t be huntin’ for him. You would be back home with your wife.”

  “You think he might be in Risco, do you?”

  “I can’t be for sure, because I haven’t seen him in over five years. But when I was ridin’ with him, we used to spend quite a bit of time there.”

  “May I ask what was the attraction of such a place?” Frakes asked.

  “Well, think about it, Al. What is the good of holding up a stagecoach, or robbing a bank, if you can’t spend your money? And if you are a wanted man, you can’t spend it in a town like a normal person would—you can’t even go into a regular town without fear of bein’ recognized.

  “So, ever’one winds up in Risco at one time or another. Risco has restaurants, hotels, drugstores, general stores, saloons, gambling halls, and whore houses. In short, ever’thing a man might need. Only thing is, ever’thing costs ’bout three or four times more there than it does anywhere else.”

  “Mr. Lynch, I thank you kindly for the information,” Smoke said. “I just don’t know why I hadn’t thought of Risco myself.”

  “You’ll be goin’ there, will you, Mr. Jensen?” Lynch asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe you’re goin’ after Bill Dinkins, and I know why you are. But he ain’t the one you got to worry about. The one you got to worry about is Wes Harley. I reckon you’ve heard of him.”

  “Yes, I have heard of him. Cole Parnell told me about him, before he was hanged. Parnell said he was Dinkins’ brother.”

  “Yes sir, he is. They got the same ma, but their pa is different.”

  “I’m not looking for Harley. He isn’t the one who shot Sally.”

  “That don’t matter none. Like as not, he knows you are after them, so he’ll be lookin’ for you now. And here’s the thing. He’s like Dinkins, in that he would just as soon kill you, as look at you. What makes him different from Dinkins is that he is good at it.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Smoke said.

  “It’s not goin’ to stop you from lookin’ for him though, is it?” Ollie asked.

  “Not for a minute.” Smoke said.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Risco

  In the three days since the train robbery, Dinkins and his men had been living lavishly on the money they had taken from the bank in Crystal and from the stagecoach.

  With the increased prices of everything in town, they were paying a dollar for a glass of beer and twenty-five dollars for a bottle of whiskey. The women were charging them fifty dollars, but as long as the men had the money, they spent it, unaware the high prices had been fixed for them alone.

  They had gotten very little money from the train robbery, and the money they had taken from the bank and the stagecoach was diminishing rapidly as they spent it foolishly and gambled unwisely. As they saw the money going, their attitude toward the citizens of Risco became more and more belligerent.

  Thus it was that James Webb had a talk with Bill Dinkins.

  Risco had neither mayor nor sheriff, but even a city without law had to have some sort of leader, and James Webb had assumed that role. A graduate of Washington University in St. Louis, Webb had studied for the law and had been a circuit judge in Missouri when he was caught taking bribe money to affect the outcome of a major case.

  The date for the trial was set and Webb, because he was an important and influential figure, was given bail. There was no doubt in his mind that he would be sent to prison, where he’d face many of the hardened criminals he’d sent there. He was convinced that he would not live a year in prison, so he jumped bail. Abandoning his wife and two children, he headed west, winding up in the lawless town of Risco.

  “What do you want to talk about?” Dinkins asked.

  “You, and the men with you,” Webb replied. “You, Harley, and the Slater brothers are, well, to put it as delicately as I can, upsetting the equilibrium of our little town.”

  “I tell you the truth, Webb, I don’t have an idea in hell what you just said,” Dinkins said.

  “All right, let me reword it. Our little community is unique. We have neither law nor governing structure, and we ask no questions about anyone’s past. But, just because we have no law, does not mean you can behave any way you want while you are staying with us. No doubt, you noticed the corpse of the recently deceased Frank Marlow when you rode into town?”

  “Yeah, it was kind of hard to miss.”

  “That’s good. Mr. Marlow, you see, is an object lesson. We left him there as a reminder to others that there is a limit to our tolerance. He carved up and killed one of our whores. The rest of the town took umbrage with that
.”

  “Yeah, well, what are you talking to me for? We ain’t done nothin’ like that.”

  “You have been, however, rather brutal with the ladies. And you have been belligerent to the ones who serve us here, the bartenders, the cooks, the clerks in our stores.”

  “They have been charging us too much,” Dinkins said.

  “I am sure you can understand there must be added costs to living here, and enjoying the freedom that we enjoy.”

  “So, what you’re saying is you want us to be nicer to the hired help.”

  “I’m just giving you a few words of advice,” Webb said. “You know, there are some people who don’t want you here at all. You have a string of murders behind you that might attract enough lawmen here that we won’t be able to discourage them.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that among the horse thieves, cattle rustlers, bank, coach, and train robbers here, there ain’t none of them ever kilt anyone?”

  “I am sure that quite a few of our citizens have killed,” Webb replied. “But generally they have killed because they were forced to. With you and your men, it is almost as if you have killed for no other reason than the pleasure it gives you.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “It is, indeed. Oh, and one final thing, Mr. Dinkins. As a result of the string of killings you and your men have left behind, the reward money being offered now is fifteen hundred dollars for you, dead or alive. It is one thousand dollars for Mr. Harley, dead or alive, and five hundred dollars each for Frank and Travis Slater. That makes the four of you worth a total of thirty-five hundred dollars, and I must warn you, that sum is enough to tempt some of our citizens.”

  “What you are saying is we should leave town. That is what you are saying, ain’t it?”

  “Let us just say I am making a strong suggestion to that effect,” Webb replied.

  Smoke removed his U.S. deputy marshal’s badge and put it in his saddlebag before he rode into town. It had been a long time since he was last in Risco, but as he rode down Outlaw Way, the main street of the little town, the years seemed to fall away. The town, inbred and festering, serviced by neither railroad nor stagecoach, had not changed. The purpose for which it existed meant it was better off remaining unheralded, unnoticed, and for the most part, unknown.

  Looping Seven’s reins around the hitching post in front of the saloon, Smoke loosened the pistol in his holster, then pushed through the swinging doors to step inside. To his amazement, the man tending bar was the same one who had been tending bar when he was there last.

  He stepped up to the bar, and when the bartender moved toward him, Smoke greeted him with a smile. “Hello, Dixon. Are you still watering the whiskey?”

  Dixon, who appeared to be in his mid-sixties, was confused for a moment, then his face reflected recognition. “Buck West.” He smiled and stuck his hand across the bar. “I haven’t seen you in so long, I thought you had gone straight. Actually, I hoped you had gone straight.”

  “So far I’ve managed to stay out of trouble,” Smoke said. When he was on the vengeance trail, and on the dodge because of it, Buck West was the name he was known by during his stay in Risco.

  Like many of the other tradesmen in town, Dixon was not a wanted man, and had never committed a criminal act other than the technical crime of harboring wanted fugitives. Since all he was doing was tending bar, Smoke doubted if he could have been charged with that.

  Dixon drew a beer without being asked, then put it in front of him. “Well, if you ain’t wanted, what are you doing here? Risco ain’t the kind of place someone visits for pleasure.”

  “Maybe it’s for old time’s sake,” Smoke replied. “You know, to see you, and a few other old friends?”

  “I doubt there is anyone here now that was here when you were, except for me. Most of the merchants make a killin’ here, sell out, and move on. And most of our residents—well, to tell you the truth, Buck, they don’t generally live that long. They wind up hung or shot. I’m surprised to see that you are still alive.”

  “Sometimes I’m surprised myself.”

  “I’ll ask you again, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m looking for some people. And I was sort of hoping I might find them here.”

  “Have you turned bounty hunter, West? Are you looking to cash in on the reward for someone? Because I can’t help you, you know that. If I turned someone over to a bounty hunter, my life wouldn’t be worth a wooden nickel.”

  “I’m not a bounty hunter, Dixon,” Smoke said. “This is personal.”

  “Do you see that man sitting over there, reading?”

  Smoke had seen him when he first came into the saloon. In fact, he had checked everyone out when he first came in, not only to see if he might recognize the Slater brothers, or Harley, but to make certain there was nobody who might recognize him.

  “Yeah, I saw him when I came in.”

  “His name is Webb. He’s a judge.”

  “A judge? Here?” Smoke asked, surprised by the pronouncement.

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t say he was an honest judge,” Dixon said with a little chuckle. “But, he sort of runs things here, or at least, keeps things even. Maybe you seen the corpse hangin’ from the tree when you come into town.”

  “I did see it. Smelled it too.”

  “Yeah, some of the people are already com-plainin’ about the smell. Anyway, Judge Webb is the one that held the trial and sentenced him to hang. So, if you got somethin’ personal against someone here, I’d suggest you talk to the judge.”

  “All right, I will. Thanks,” Smoke said. “Oh, what does the judge drink?”

  “Whiskey. Blended,” Dixon said.

  “Pour me a shot.”

  Carrying his beer and a shot of whiskey, Smoke walked over to Webb’s table. “May I join you for a few minutes, Your Honor?”

  Webb looked up from his book. “Please do not call me Your Honor. There is no longer anything about me that is honorable.”

  “All right.” Smoke put the glass of whiskey in front of Webb and, with a nod of thanks, Webb picked it up and tossed it down.

  “Now, sir, what can I do for you? But I must tell you before we begin to talk, that as I am not a conventional outlaw—I do not steal or rob—my only source of income is the money I get by providing legal advice.”

  “I’m not asking for legal advice per se,” Smoke said. “But I am perfectly willing to pay you for engaging in this conversation.”

  “Per se? My, one does not often hear language like that here. It is refreshing. Are you an educated man, sir?”

  “My wife is a schoolteacher. She has done what she could to educate me.”

  “You are also married. I must say, you are an unusual specimen for this settlement. What can I do for you, Mister ...” He left the word blank for Smoke to fill in.

  “When I was in this town before, folks knew me as Buck West.” Smoke nodded toward Dixon. “That is how Mr. Dixon addressed me a few moments ago. I’m going to tell you my real name, Judge, and in doing so, I am, in a manner of speaking, putting my life in your hands.”

  “Are you a lawman?” the judge asked.

  Smoke shook his head. “Not by profession, though from time to time I have been deputized. My name is Smoke Jensen.”

  The judge was silent for a moment. “So you are the famous Smoke Jensen.”

  “Yes. And I’m here to—”

  “You don’t have to tell me why you are here, Mr. Jensen. I know why you are here.”

  “You do?”

  “We may be isolated, but from time to time newspapers find their way here. I am aware that your wife was shot, either by Dinkins, or one of the men with him. I expect you are after them.”

  “Yes,” Smoke said. “But not for any reward. My quest is a personal vendetta.”

  “And what do you want from me, Mr. Jensen? Do you want some legal action, similar to that which was dispensed to Frank Marlow?”

  “Frank Marlow?”r />
  “The gentleman hanging from the cottonwood tree.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I see. You want to dispense your own justice, do you?”

  “Yes. And what I want from you, Judge, is your permission. This is your town, and as long as I am in your town, I am willing to play by your rules.”

  “Interesting,” Webb said. “All right, you have my permission. You do know, do you not, that Wes Harley is one of the men who is associated with Bill Dinkins?”

  “I have heard that. But he had no hand in shooting my wife.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I expect that you are not going to be able to get to Dinkins, without first going through Wes Harley. And I think you would find him to be quite a formidable adversary.”

  “I have never seen him, but I have heard him described,” Smoke said. “Is he in this room now?”

  “He is not. I believe he is visiting in one of the cribs out back.”

  “Thank you. I guess that means I’m going to have to take care of him first.”

  Smoke stood up then, and looked out over the men, and the few women, who were in the crowded saloon. Pulling his pistol, he shot it into the floor. The sound of the gunshot got everyone’s attention, as he expected it to.

  “Folks. I have a bone to pick with Wes Harley. I have reason to believe he is out back with”—he looked at one of the women, whose face reflected her fear, and smiled at her—“with a lady friend. If one of you would be so kind as to summon him, please tell him I will be waiting for him in the street out front.”

  Wanda watched as the tall, handsome cowboy pushed his way through the bat wing doors. She recognized him, having seen him once, several years ago. She knew if there was anyone in the country who could face up to Wes Harley, Buck West would be that man. And that, she would like to see.

  She went out behind the saloon to Emma’s crib, which was the second from the end, and knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?” Emma called.

  “Emma, honey, it’s me. Wanda. Is Mr. Harley in there with you?”