Strike of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Well, you’re wrong,” Smoke said. “I also come in when she’s at a garden meeting, like tonight.”

  The others laughed.

  “Smoke Jensen, there’s not a gunman in the country that you won’t face down, but I think Sally’s got your number,” Murchison said.

  “Listen, have you ever seen Sally with a gun?” Louis asked. “She’s as good as anyone I know.”

  “I believe you there, my friend. I have seen her give shooting exhibitions,” Norton said.

  “How did the Cattlemen’s Association meeting go up in Red Cliff the other day?” Murchison asked.

  “It seems our newest rancher is being plagued with cattle rustling,” Smoke said.

  “Cattle rustling? That’s strange. I haven’t heard anyone else talking about cattle rustling. Have you had any trouble with it?” Norton asked.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Hmm.” Louis was staring at the entrance. “There are three men I haven’t seen before.”

  Smoke looked toward the front of the saloon as three men entered. “Probably more cowboys coming to work for Garneau. He’s bringing them in from everywhere,” Norton said.

  “Uh-uh. Those men aren’t cowboys,” Smoke said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at their hands. Most working cowboys have hands that are callused or crooked fingers from being broken. Those men have smooth hands. They’ve never done any real work.”

  “And look how they are wearing their guns,” Louis said.

  In cut-down holsters, their guns hung rather low from the hip. They carried themselves with the swagger of someone who not only knew how to use a gun, but had used it.

  “Barkeep!” one of them called out. “Three beers. And which way to the Long Trek Ranch?”

  “I’ll be right with you, sir.”

  “No, by God, you’ll be with us now,” the man said belligerently.

  “Sir, I am with a customer.”

  “Well, what the hell do you think we are?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, please be a little patient. I’ll be with you shortly,” the barkeep said.

  “Is that a new bartender?” Smoke asked.

  “Yes,” Louis responded, paying close attention to what was going on at the bar.

  The man slammed his fist on the bar. “By damn, I said you’ll be with us now!”

  “Monsieur,” Louis called over to him.

  The belligerent man looked over toward the table where Louis, Smoke, Murchison, and Norton were sitting. “Are you talking to me?”

  “I am, sir. The Long Trek is five miles west of town. I suggest you go there now. If you want a drink, you might be happier with the service at the Brown Dirt Cowboy. That is another saloon one block east of here, on the corner of Front Street and Sikes,” Louis suggested.

  “Yeah? Why should we go to another saloon, when we are already in a saloon?” He turned back toward the bar. “Barkeep, are you comin’ down here, or do I have to do something to get your attention?”

  “Perhaps I was too subtle for you,” Louis suggested.

  “Too . . . what?” the man replied, his face screwing up in confusion over the word subtle.

  “I will say it in words even someone like you can understand. Get out of my establishment.”

  “Your establishment? You mean you own this place?”

  “I do.”

  “You ain’t all that careful about how you treat your customers, are you?”

  “The customers I value, I treat very well. The others, I ask to leave. As I am asking you.”

  The belligerent one turned toward Louis then, and the two men with him stepped out beside him. All three faced Louis. They were standing, and Louis was sitting, which put him at a significant disadvantage if the situation developed any further.

  “Suppose we don’t want to leave, what are you going to do about it?”

  “I will force you to leave.”

  The man smiled an evil smile. “Is that so? Now just how are you going to do that? You seem to have gotten yourself into a little pickle, here. I mean, you are sitting down, and we’re standing.”

  “I believe you wanted my attention, sir?” the bartender said at that moment.

  “Not now. I may have some business with this man.”

  The loud sound of two hammers being pulled back was heard, and the belligerent one got a shocked expression on his face, then turned toward the bartender. He was holding a sawed off, double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun about twelve inches from the belligerent one’s head. “And I’ve got business with you. I believe I could get all three of you with one shot.”

  “No, wait!” the man shouted, holding his hand out. “Look here, now. There ain’t no need in this goin’ on any further. It was just a little misunderstandin’ is all. If the man don’t want our business, we’ll take it down to that other saloon he was talkin’ about.”

  “That would be the Brown Dirt,” the bartender said. “And as Mr. Longmont explained, it is one block east, then south on Sikes Street. You can’t miss it. It’s rather loud and unruly, just your kind of place.”

  “All right, all right. We’ll go.”

  “Thank you,” Louis called out to the three men. “I would appreciate that. Oh, and if you three would like to come back in here again sometime . . . and act like gentlemen . . . I would welcome your business.”

  “We ain’t never acomin’ back here. Come on, let’s go,” the man mumbled to the other two, and laughter from the bar patrons chased the three men out.

  “If those three men aren’t cowboys, why do they want to find the Long Trek?” Norton asked.

  “Over the last several days, I’ve noticed quite a few men like that have gone to work for Garneau,” Murchison said.

  “What on earth for?” Norton asked.

  “Garneau is recruiting a private army to, as he explains it, control the cattle rustling,” Smoke said.

  “What a dumb thing for him to be doing.” Louis looked toward the bar and waved the barkeep over.

  “Yes, Mr. Longmont?”

  “Mr. McVey, I want to introduce you to some friends of mine,” Louis said. “Smoke, Dan, Tim, this is my new bartender, Johnny McVey.”

  “What happened to Poke?” Norton asked.

  “He still works here. He won’t come in until eight o’clock tonight,” Louis answered. “He and Johnny are splitting the time.”

  “Well, Mr. McVey, you looked as if you were at home with that scattergun,” Smoke said.

  “Yes, sir, I’ve deputied some, and I’ve been a shotgun guard on a stagecoach,” McVey said.

  “It certainly came in helpful a few minutes ago,” Smoke said.

  McVey smiled. “Not really. The three of them standing were no match for the two of you, even if you were sitting down. I don’t think they had any idea who they were dealing with. What I got was a cheap moment in the limelight.”

  “You wouldn’t think to look at him that he is a pianist, would you?” Louis asked.

  “So, you’re a piano player, are you?” Murchison asked.

  “No, sir. I’m a pianist,” McVey said.

  Murchison looked confused. “What’s the difference?”

  “A piano player plays Buffalo Gals. A pianist plays Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto Number One.”

  “Smoke!” Norton shouted.

  The three belligerent men had come back into the saloon, bursting through the batwing doors with their guns in their hands. Dan Norton, Tim Murchison, and Johnny McVey¸ none of whom were armed, dived for the floor. Smoke and Louis came up from their chairs, bringing their pistols to bear.

  The saloon was filled with women’s screams, the shouts and curses of men, and the bang of gunfire as all five guns were brought into play.

  One of the bullets from the three intruders hit the sleeve garter Louis was wearing, cutting it in two. Because it was elastic, it flew from his arm and hit Norton in the face.

  “I’m hit!” Norton yelled.

 
Another bullet smashed Norton’s mug, sending out a spray of beer and tiny shards of glass. The third bullet hit the heating stove, cold for the summer, then went screaming off to bury itself in the wall.

  It wasn’t hard to track the three bullets fired by Smoke and the two fired by Louis. All three of the intruders went down with fatal wounds.

  For a long a moment after the explosive sounds of the gunshots were gone, there was absolute silence in the saloon. Gun smoke curled upward, then formed a cloud that hung just under the ceiling, the acrid smell burning the eyes and noses of the witnesses and participants alike.

  Smoke and Louis, with smoking guns still in their hands, approached the three men, all three of whom were now prostrate on the floor. Smoke prodded one of the shooters with the toe of his boot and got no response.

  “Whoa, that was something!” one of the bar patrons shouted.

  “Are they dead?” another asked.

  “I’ll say they’re dead. They’re deader ’n crap. Hell, I can tell that from way over here,” another said, and after that, the saloon was alive with excited chatter.

  “You don’t mind if I look, do you?” Doc Urban asked. He’d been sitting in a card game on the other side of the room and had come over to examine the bodies.”

  “I’m tellin’ you Doc, you don’t have to examine ’em. They’re deader ’n crap. I can tell that from way over here.”

  Doctor Urban squatted down beside the three men and felt the carotid arteries of each of them.

  “What about it, Doc?” Louis asked.

  “In my medical opinion,” Doctor Urban said, “these three men are deader than crap.”

  Nervous laughter broke out in the saloon, and they were still laughing when Sheriff Carson came sprinting into the saloon with his pistol in his hand.

  “You’re a little late, Sheriff. It’s done all been took care of,” one of saloon patrons said.

  “Are they dead?” Sheriff Carson asked.

  “Indeed they are,” Doc Urban said. “Oh, Dan, I’m sorry. You said you were hit?”

  “Uh, it wasn’t anything,” Dan said.

  “Maybe I should look at it anyway. Sometimes the most minor wounds can be quite troublesome. You may as well get it treated.”

  “Like I said, it wasn’t anything. It was—uh—this.” Dan held up the severed sleeve garter. “This hit me in the face.”

  Those close enough to see, laughed again.

  “What happened here?” Sheriff Carson asked, eventually getting the story, though so many were trying to tell it at the same time it took a few minutes before he got the entire story. “Anybody know these men?”

  Nobody knew them, so he went through their pockets. In every man’s pocket he found the same thing. A recruiting poster.

  Men Wanted

  To Stem the Rising Tide of Cattle Rustling

  MUST BE PROFICIENT WITH FIREARMS

  Apply at Long Trek Ranch

  Big Rock Colorado

  Will Be Well Paid

  Cattle rustling?” Sheriff Carson asked. “What cattle rustling would that be?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Loy Babcock was having his lunch when there was a loud knock at his door. “I wonder who that could be?” He got up from the table.

  “Loy, be careful,” Millie said.

  “Be careful of what? It’s just someone knocking on the door.” He opened the door and saw Deekus Templeton standing there. Behind him were four men, all of whom were mounted. With the four mounted men was a steer with a rope around its neck.

  “Can I help you?” Babcock asked.

  “You mean instead of, can you help yourself?” Templeton asked.

  “What do you mean, help myself. I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “I’m talking about the fifteen head of steers that are mixed in with your cattle. You tried to change the brand, but you did a sloppy job.”

  “You’re crazy! I don’t have any Long Trek stock!”

  Templeton turned and called, “Bring that steer up here, Nixon.”

  The man called Nixon dismounted, then led the steer up to the front of the house.

  “What do you call this?” Templeton asked. “Look at this brand.” He stepped down from the porch, pointing out the very clumsy attempt to change the LT brand into a Bar-B. The LT was still clearly visible.

  “That’s not my steer,” Babcock said.

  “You damn right it’s not your steer,” Templeton said. “That’s the whole point. So what was this steer doing on your ranch? This one and fourteen others just like it.”

  “I don’t know how they got here. Maybe they wandered over here. Cattle do that, you know. They start following the grass or the water, and there’s no tellin’ where they are likely to turn up,” Babcock said, growing a little more frightened.

  “Uh-huh. And I suppose after they quit wanderin’ around, they also branded themselves.”

  “I’m tellin’ you, I don’t know how those steers got on my land. And I don’t know how they got branded, but I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “You’re lyin’,” Templeton said. “Well, I’m tellin’ you right now, your cattle rustlin’ days are over.”

  Nixon, who had been coming closer, suddenly dropped rope over Babcock, then cinched it up tight.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re going to make certain you never steal anybody else’s cattle.”

  Nixon jerked him down from the porch, then dragged him toward the barn.

  “Get ’im up in the hayloft,” Templeton ordered.

  “What are you doing? Let my husband go!” Millie Babcock shouted.

  “You’d better stay out of this, missus!” Templeton said.

  Millie stepped back into the house, then came back out onto the front porch, holding a rifle.”

  “You let my husband go!” she shouted, raising the rifle to her shoulder.

  Templeton shot her, and she fell.

  “Millie!” Babcock screamed.

  “Get ’im up there. Get the job done!” Templeton ordered.

  Two of the four men climbed the ladder to the hayloft in the barn. Then they grabbed the rope and literally pulled Babcock up. When they got him into the loft, they took him over the open door, tied one end of the rope around the protruding hay hoist, and looped the other end around his neck.

  “You got any last words, cattle thief?” Templeton asked.

  “I didn’t steal your cows,” Babcock said. “You killed Millie so I have nothing to live for, but I’ll be damned if I let you kill me.”

  Babcock leaped out of the door himself, hit the end of the rope, then swung back and forth as he gagged. Templeton and the others watched until he quit swinging.

  “Get the rope off him,” Templeton said.

  “You mean cut him down?”

  “No, leave him up there. Just take off the rope we used to tie him up,” Templeton said.

  He walked back over to the porch, where the body of Millie Babcock lay. He picked up the rifle, fired one round from it, then tossed the rifle onto the ground halfway between the house and the barn. “Let’s go.”

  “What about the steer we brought over?” Nixon asked.

  “Take him back to Long Trek. We don’t need him anymore.”

  From the Big Rock Journal:

  Terrible Tragedy

  LOY BABCOCK AND WIFE FOUND DEAD

  Yesterday, Charles Woodward, whose land adjoins the Babcock spread, grew concerned that it had been some time since he had seen his neighbor. Riding over to see if anything was wrong, he came upon a most grisly scene. Loy Babcock was found hanging from the hay hoist at his barn, and his wife, Millie, was dead of a gunshot wound on the back porch. Halfway between the porch and the barn, was found Babcock’s rifle, with one bullet having been fired.

  Tom Nunnley, the county coroner, has ruled the deaths as murder suicide.

  “It appears that Mr. and Mrs. Babcock got into an argument, resulting in Mr. Babcock shootin
g his wife,” Nunnley said. “Then, unable to live with what he had done, Mr. Babcock took his own life.”

  Interment will be in the Garden of Memories Cemetery in Big Rock tomorrow at two o’clock, post meridiem. There will be no church services.

  “I don’t give a damn what Nunnley says,” Woodward told the others after Babcock and his wife were buried side by side. “I know damn well Loy didn’t kill Millie. Why, you ain’t never seen a couple that loved one another like them two did.”

  “Then what do you think happened?” Humboldt Puddle asked.

  “I don’t know. Could be, a group of outlaws come by to see what they could rob.”

  Chris Logan shook his head. “Can’t be that. Sheriff Carson found sixty-two dollars in the sugar bowl. Don’t you think if it was robbers, they would’ve took the money?”

  “Maybe they didn’t find it,” Woodward said.

  “How could they not have found it? Damn near ever’one I know keeps their money in a sugar bowl,” Logan said.

  “I don’t know why they didn’t find it. Maybe they wasn’t even robbers in the first place. I just know that Loy wouldn’ta kilt Millie.”

  One of Babcock’s neighbors who went to the interment was Lucien Garneau. After the burial, he went to the land office to see Pete Perkins.

  “You didn’t waste any time getting here,” Perkins said. “Babcock’s body isn’t even cold in the ground yet.”

  “I’m thinking of his next of kin,” Garneau said. “Surely he has someone who will inherit his land. I want to find out who that is, and make them an offer on the place. I’m sure they will be aggrieved by his death, but perhaps some money would help ameliorate that grief.”

  “I will see what I can do,” Perkins said. “Robert Dempster should be able to find out who the next of kin might be.”

  Robert Dempster was a morbidly obese man. As he sat behind his desk listening to Garneau, he was eating a sugarcoated cruller. He took the last bite, then sucked the ends of his fingers. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Garneau nodded and left the office.

  “There is no need to find out who the next of kin is,” Dempster said after two days of investigation. “In thirty days taxes will be due on every piece of property in the entire county. Babcock won’t be here to pay the taxes, so title to the land will pass to whoever pays those taxes.”