Strike of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Finding a map of Colorado, Lucien Garneau put his finger on the chart with no particular destination in mind. The closest town to the tip of his finger was Big Rock, in Eagle County, so he bought a ticket for that destination and boarded the train.

  Dijon, France

  Inspector Andre Laurent of the French Military Police was shown into General Moreau’s office.

  “Colonel Durand said you had information for me,” General Moreau said.

  “I do, my General,” Laurent said. “The body we found was not that of Capitaine Mouchette.”

  “What? But the body was wearing Mouchette’s uniform. His billfold was found with the body.”

  “Those were plants, to make us believe it was Mouchette’s body.”

  “Who would do that?”

  “I believe Mouchette himself did it,” Laurent said. “The body was that of Sergeant Antoine Dubois.”

  “Dubois?”

  “I believe Mouchette murdered Dubois, stole the money, then made it appear as if Dubois was the guilty party. He burned Dubois’ face so he could not be identified.”

  “Then how was he identified?”

  “The body was missing two toes on its left foot. It is well known by Sergeant Dubois’s friends that he lost two toes in the war. Mouchette had no such wound.”

  “Then Mouchette is guilty of murder and theft of the money.”

  “Yes, my General.”

  General Moreau drummed his fingers on his desk. “Inspector Laurent, you have full authorization to go after Mouchette. Find him, wherever he is, and bring him to justice for France.”

  Inspector Laurent saluted General Moreau. “That will be my pleasure, General.”

  Big Rock, Colorado

  On August first, the day that three years earlier, Colorado had become a state, the entire town of Big Rock was turned out to celebrate Statehood Day. There were food booths, horse and foot races, horseshoe throwing competitions, shooting matches, and of course, music and dancing.

  Smoke hadn’t entered any of the shooting contests because he had been asked to judge. In the match for rifle marksmanship, Humboldt Puddle and Dwayne Booker had survived all the others and were the last two shooters remaining. Each had just put three shots into the bull’s eye, after having moved the targets to the far end of the street.

  “What are we going to do now, Smoke?” Sheriff Carson asked. “If we move the targets any farther, they are going to be in another county.”

  Those close enough to hear the sheriff laughed.

  Smoke took out a silver dollar, then set it up on top of the bale of hay being used as a backstop for the target. Standing it on its edge, he pushed enough of the coin into the hay to keep it erect. The result was that just over half the coin was showing. “Let them shoot at this.”

  Despite the fact that many other things were going on to attract the people of the town and county, word of the intense shooting competition had spread, and hundreds were drawn up to watch the final two shooters. They flipped a coin to see who would shoot first, and Dwayne Booker was selected.

  The crowd grew very quiet as Booker raised the Winchester .44-40 to his shoulder, sighted down the barrel, then pulled the trigger. A few stems of hay fluttered up right beside the coin, but the coin wasn’t hit.

  “It’s a miss,” Smoke said, looking through a pair of binoculars.

  It was Humboldt’s turn. He looked down range at the target, which was at least one hundred yards away. After staring at it for a long moment, he raised the rifle and fired, almost in the same fluid motion.

  Smoke didn’t have to look through the binoculars, nor did he have to make the announcement. The cheers of at least four hundred people made the announcement for him. The coin flew away from the top of the hay bale, the result of a direct hit.

  Humboldt’s feat of marksmanship was still the talk of the town as everyone gathered for the dance held in the commodious dining room of the Dunn Hotel. Sally dragged Smoke out on the floor to form the first square. Sheriff Carson stood in front of the band, calling the steps through a megaphone he held to his mouth.

  Chew your tobacco and rub your snuff,

  Meet your honey and strut your stuff.

  Right foot up and a left foot down,

  Make that big foot jar the ground,

  Promenade your partner around.

  “It’s too bad Pearlie and Cal aren’t here,” Sally said. “They so enjoy these things.”

  “No doubt Denver is also celebrating Statehood Day,” Smoke said. “And I expect they are doing just fine.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Denver

  Cal had entered a pie-eating contest and it was down to three contestants. The other two contestants had a combined weight of nearly six hundred pounds, compared to Cal’s weight of one hundred seventy-five pounds.

  The three remaining contestants had been given a five-minute break before the contest was to resume, and Cal and Pearlie were back in one corner of the room, talking quietly.

  “I don’t know if I can do it,” Cal said. “I’m stuffed.”

  “You’re stuffed?” Pearlie said. “This is pie we’re talkin’ about, Cal. In all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never known you to pass up a piece of pie.”

  “This isn’t a piece of pie, Pearlie, it’s a whole pie. And I’ve already eaten three.”

  “Then what’s one more? Here, let me rub your stomach, that’ll move some of what you’ve already eaten aside and give you a little more room.”

  “All right, gentlemen, the time is up,” the judge called. “Please return to the table.”

  Initially, there had been several tables, but the final three contestants were moved to one round table and seated across from each other. A pie was put in front of each of them.

  “All right, gentlemen, you may commence,” the judge said.

  One of the heavy contestants stared at the pie for just a moment, then without so much as touching it, he stood up and walked away. That left only two people.

  The two began eating their pie. Cal called out to the judge and pointed to the pie the big man had left behind on the table. “Hey judge, since he’s not going to eat that pie, can I have it when I finish this one?”

  The spectators who were gathered around the table laughed and exclaimed in amazement. “There’s no bottom in that man’s stomach!”

  When Cal asked for the abandoned pie, the the other contestant got a very sick look on his face, then pushed away from the table. “I quit,” he said.

  Everyone cheered, but the judge held up his hands to call for quiet. “You must take at least one more bite to be declared the winner,” he said to Cal.

  Smiling, Cal not only took another bite, he consumed half the pie, then held his hands up over his head in triumph.

  The crowd cheered and offered their congratulations as Cal was crowned the “pie-eating champion of Colorado.”

  After what seemed an interminable length of travel—he’d had no idea America was so large—Garneau reached Denver. From there, he took a train to Pueblo, and from Pueblo he began the final leg of a journey that had started in Dijon almost a month earlier.

  Six and one half days after he left New York, Garneau arrived in Big Rock at six o’clock in the morning. He was tired from the overnight trip, for there had been no sleeping arrangements on the train. He inquired of the station agent where he might find a hotel.

  “Well sir, we’ve got two of ’em,” Phil Wilson replied. “We’ve got the Big Rock and the Dunn. One’s just about as nice as the other, so I wouldn’t know which one to recommend.”

  “Which is the closest?”

  “That would be the Big Rock. You just go down Tanner Street for one block, and it’s on the corner of Tanner and Center Street.”

  “Merci.”

  Although the Big Rock Hotel was but one block away, Garneau arranged for him and his luggage to be transported there. He was very tired, and wanted nothing more than to go to bed, but he knew there was something he
had to do first. Before he could rest, he had to go to the bank.

  He looked at his two cases on the floor of his room. One contained clothes, and a casual look into the other would suggest it also contained nothing but clothes. However, under the first layer of clothes, were forty-seven bound packets of hundred dollar bills, one hundred bills in each packet.

  Garneau had been very nervous with the money in his possession for the last month.

  Finally, when he was certain the bank was open, he took the suitcase containing the money and walked downstairs. As he started across the lobby, the desk clerk called out to him.

  “Sir? Is something wrong with your room or our service? Are you leaving?”

  “I’m not leaving,” Garneau said. “Monsieur, could you direct me to the bank, s’il vous plaît?”

  “Certainly.” The desk clerk pointed. “Just go this way one block to Ranney Street, turn left one block to Front Street. You can’t miss it. It’s the third building on the right, next to the Dunn Hotel.”

  “Merci,” Garneau replied.

  Although it was the middle of the day, and he was in the middle of town, Garneau was nervous as he carried the suitcase to the bank. He felt a sense of relief when he reached the bank a moment later. When he stepped inside, he stood for just a moment as he had a long look around.

  “Yes, sir, may I help you?” a man sitting at a desk just inside the door asked.

  “Oui. I am just moving here and would like to open an account, s’il vous plaît.”

  “I can do that for you, sir,” the man said, picking up a printed form and a pen. “How much would you like to deposit in the account?”

  “Four hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars,” Garneau said.

  “What?” the bank clerk gasped. “How much did you say?”

  “Four hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars,” Garneau repeated. He sat the suitcase on the desk and opened it, then began removing the packets of money.”

  “No, sir, not here,” the bank clerk said. “Come into the back with me to speak with the president of the bank. I don’t think it is good to show so much money in public.”

  Joel Montgomery looked at the money that was piled up on his desk.

  “We can handle your deposit, Mr. Garneau—”

  “Colonel Garneau,” Garneau insisted.

  “Yes, sir. Well, here is the thing, Colonel Garneau. We can handle your deposit, but there is no way we are going to keep all that money here. We are going to have to lay off ninety percent of it to other banks.”

  “Why?”

  “The risks. We are capitalized at fifty thousand dollars, and it would be much too risky to keep this much money in one bank, so over the next few days we will be making deposits in other banks. That it won’t all be kept in this bank will not affect you. You will still have a demand account, and can draw against it at any time.”

  “Merci,” Garneau said.

  Half an hour later, he left the bank with one hundred dollars in small denominations in his pocket, along with a deposit slip for the four hundred seventy-five thousand dollars he had left at the bank. He returned to his room at the hotel and slept through the rest of the day.

  Waking up that evening, Garneau decided to walk through the town to get a look at the rather quaint place that was to be his new home. He took his dinner at Delmonico’s, then went next door to Longmont’s, which he perceived to be a drinking establishment.

  “What will you have, sir?” the bartender asked.

  “I don’t suppose you would have any cognac, would you?”

  The man standing at the far end of the bar overheard Garneau’s accent and his order. He smiled and came toward him. “Bonsoir, monsieur. Par votre accent, je suppose que vous êtes un homme de bonne taste. Vous demandez pour le cognac, j’ai J.V.C. Aumasson.”

  “How delightful,” Garneau said. “You speak French, though with an accent I can’t place. As I am in America now, I wish only to speak English. And J.V.C. Aumasson is a most delightful cognac.”

  “Very well. We will speak English. My name is Louis Longmont, and I own this establishment. The first cognac is on the house.”

  “Merci, Monsieur Longmont. And my name, sir, is Colonel the Marquis Lucien Garneau.”

  “What brings you to Colorado, Colonel Garneau?”

  The bartender served the cognac, and Garneau swirled it about, used his hand to waft the fragrance into his face, smiled, and took a sip. “Marvelous. I have come to this place to buy land and raise cattle.”

  “Well, there is land for sale. And this is good cattle country. In fact, we have one of the largest and most successful ranches in the nation right here. It is called Sugarloaf, and is owned by Smoke Jensen. I’m sure you have heard of him.”

  “Smoke? Fumer?”

  Louis nodded. “‘Fumer,’ yes. ‘Smoke’ is not his real name. His real name is Kirby, but everyone calls him Smoke.”

  Garneau shook his head. “What an odd name.”

  “How long have you been in America?”

  “I have been in this country for a fortnight only.”

  “Well, that explains it. Anyone who has been here for six months or longer has heard of Smoke Jensen. We don’t have marquis and lords and such, but if we did, Smoke Jensen would have a title for sure.”

  “He sounds quite successful. I should like to meet him.”

  Louis looked toward the door and smiled. “Well, speak of the devil. Smoke just came in.”

  “Smoke!” someone called, and he was greeted by at least half a dozen others.

  “Smoke, over here,” Louis called.

  Acknowledging the greetings, Smoke shook hands with a couple and waved at the others. Then, with a broad smile he went over to Louis. “It looks like business is good tonight.”

  “Business is good every night, as you would know if Sally didn’t keep you on such a tight leash,” Louis teased. “How is it she let you come to town tonight?”

  “She is on the school board, remember? There’s a meeting down at the school tonight.”

  “I thought it must be something like that. Smoke, this is Colonel the Marquis Lucien Garneau. Colonel Garneau¸ this is the man I was telling you about. Smoke Jensen.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Garneau.”

  “That would be Colonel Garneau,” Garneau said.

  “I beg your pardon, Colonel.”

  “I understand you are the largest and most successful rancher in the county,” Garneau said.

  “I’ve been fortunate,” Smoke said.

  “Well, Monsieur Jensen, I give you fair warning. My personal motto is secundus nulli. That is Latin for—”

  “Second to none,” Louis said.

  Garneau glared at Louis, showing displeasure over being one-upped. But he regained his composure quickly. “Yes. And I am not used to being second to anyone. I will soon have a ranch that is larger.”

  Louis laughed.

  “You find that humorous, Monsieur?” Garneau asked rather sharply.

  “Not humorous, so much, as impossible,” Louis said.

  “Why is it impossible?”

  “Because there isn’t enough available land left in Eagle and Pitkin counties combined, to build a ranch larger than Sugarloaf.”

  “I will find the land. Thank you for the cognac.” Garneau took a coin from his pocket and slapped it onto the bar. Then, turning, he walked away and left the saloon.

  “Now that is one odd duck,” Smoke said.

  “He is a marquis,” Louis replied. “I think that to be a marquis, one must first be an odd duck.”

  Smoke laughed.

  When Garneau awakened the next morning, he donned the uniform of a colonel in the French Cavalry. Although he never advanced above the rank of captain, he felt that passing himself off as a colonel would be more impressive. Inquiring at the hotel desk, he was directed to the land office, which was just around the corner from the hotel on Ranney Street.

  When Garneau stepped into t
he building the clerk looked up, then registered surprise at seeing Garneau in uniform. “May I help you?”

  “I am Colonel the Marquis Lucien Garneau, and I have come to buy land,” Garneau said.

  “Yes, sir, if you’ll wait here for just a moment.” The clerk stepped into another room, then a moment later reappeared. “Mr. Perkins will see you, sir.”

  Pete Perkins was a small man with a red face and an oversized nose. He invited Garneau to have a seat. “I understand that you want to buy land.”

  “Oui.”

  “How much land are you interested in buying?”

  “How much does the land cost?”

  “It is about five dollars per acre.”

  “How much land does Monsieur Jensen have?”

  “Oh, heavens, I don’t know. I would guess he has around thirty thousand acres or so.”

  “Then I shall want thirty thousand acres as well.”

  Perkins chuckled and shook his head. “There aren’t that many acres of unowned land available in the whole valley.”

  “How large is Eagle County?”

  “Just over one million acres.”

  “You say that there are one million acres in the county, but I can’t buy thirty thousand acres?”

  “Oh, there might be that many acres, perhaps even more, but it wouldn’t be contiguous. There are too many ranches and farms of one to three sections of land.”

  “Suppose enough farmers and ranchers contiguous to land that I buy could be persuaded to sell their land. Would it be possible to put together a ranch of the size I am seeking?”

  “Well, yes, if you could convince enough of the smaller owners to sell. But I’m not sure you can do that. The small ranchers and farmers are doing remarkably well. I don’t see any of them selling out, let alone enough for you to do what you want.”