Strike of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “All right,” Garneau agreed. “If that is what it will take for you to give me a demonstration, I’ll do that.”

  At that moment, Templeton came back into the house. “Colonel, I’ve got a man who says he’ll do it.”

  “Very good,” Garneau said. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Strode.”

  “Strode, yes, an excellent choice,” Garneau said.

  “Strode? Vince Strode?” Priest said.

  “Yes,” Garneau replied. “Do you know Vince Strode?”

  “I know him,” Priest answered. “He’s a friend of mine. Me ’n him wintered together a year or so back.”

  “You’re friends, and he has agreed to try to kill you?”

  Priest laughed. “We used to wonder which one of us would kill the other if it ever came down to it. I reckon we’re about to find out.”

  “If neither of you are bothered by the fact that you are friends.”

  “There’s a thousand dollars riding on it. For a thousand dollars, I’d shoot my own brother.”

  Since gathering his army, Garneau had decided to house the gunmen in an additional barracks away from his working cowboys in the bunkhouse. At the moment, Strode was in the barracks oiling the barrel and frame of his pistol. He had already checked the loads in the cylinder.

  “Strode, are you sure you want to do this?” Ken Conn asked.

  “Yeah, why not? A thousand dollars is a thousand dollars.” Strode spun the cylinder, then put the pistol in his holster. He drew it a couple times, and smiled. “Besides, I always did think I was faster than that little pissant.”

  “Strode, I don’t know,” Conn said. “They say Priest has killed twenty men.”

  Strode chuckled. “I ain’t exactly a virgin, you know. I didn’t get into this game yesterday. Tell you what. After I kill the feller, what do you say you an’ me go into town, have us a good meal, get a few drinks at the Brown Dirt, and then a couple women?”

  “Strode, you know I ain’t got enough money to do all them things.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll pay for all of it. I’ll have the thousand dollars by then. And I need somebody that’ll be pullin’ for me, when I go up ag’in Priest.”

  “Hell, Strode, you’re my friend,” Conn said. “You don’t need to pay me to pull for you.”

  Templeton came back into the barracks then. “Strode, did you mean what you said about facing Priest?”

  “You’re damn right, I meant it.”

  “Well, then you might want to get on outside. Priest is out there waiting on you.”

  Once again, Strode loosened the pistol in his holster, then looked over at Conn and smiled. “Only thing is, I get first pick of the woman tonight. “You got that? I get first pick.”

  “You got it, Strode,” Conn said as he followed the gunman outside.

  In addition to Jeremiah Priest, every other person on the ranch was standing around, waiting to see the show. Garneau and Templeton were sitting in chairs up on the front porch of the big house. Garneau held a drink in one hand and a fan in the other.

  “Is that him?” Conn asked, pointing toward the small man standing about fifteen feet in front of the steps.

  “That’s him,” Strode said.

  “I’ve heard about him, but I ain’t never seen him before. Hell, he ain’t no bigger ’n a dog turd. There ain’t a man on the place but couldn’t slap him around.”

  “Yeah, well, his guns make him bigger.”

  “Hello, Strode. I ain’t seen you in a while,” Priest said. “When was it? Two years ago? Three maybe?”

  “I think it might have been three years. How you been getting’ along, Priest? Ever get rid of that disease you caught from that squaw?”

  “Yeah, it took a while. How come you didn’t catch nothin’ from her?”

  “Hell, Priest, I knowed she had been Frenchified. I thought it was a big joke on you.”

  “Takin’ the mercury cure ain’t much of joke,” Priest said.

  Strode laughed. “I thought it was funny. Bein’ as it was between friends ’n all.”

  Garneau stood up and walked out to the edge of the porch. “Gentlemen, I want it clearly understood the two of you are entering into this . . . contest . . . of your own free will. I also want it clearly understood that I have not used coercion on either of you.”

  “I don’t know what that word means, Colonel,” Strode said. “But I was told if I kill Priest, you’ll give me a thousand dollars. Is that right?”

  “Oui. If you are willing to risk your life in this affaire d’honneur, I will give you one thousand dollars.”

  “All right then. That’s why I’m here.”

  “And you will make the statement here, in front of all these witnesses, that you are entering into this competition, deadly though it may be, of your own free will?” Garneau said.

  “Hell, yeah, I’ll say that. What about you, Priest?” Strode asked. “Are you doin’ this of your own free will? I mean, bein’ as we’re friends ’n all?”

  “Yes,” Priest replied.

  “There you go, Colonel,” Strode said. “You heard ’im. This ain’t no more than a game between two friends.”

  “Very well. You may proceed,” Garneau said.

  Strode moved toward Priest, then stopped when he was about twenty feet away. Priest smiled at him. For a long moment the two men just stared at each other, and those who were watching the macabre dance of death, held their collective breath.

  Out in the stable, a horse whickered.

  Overhead, a circling crow called.

  A freshening breeze ruffled leaves in the trees.

  “Now!” Strode said as his hand flashed toward his pistol.

  Priest’s draw was so fast the men watching it were unable to see when the pistol actually appeared in his hand. They saw only a jump of his shoulder, concurrent with the sound of the gunshot.

  Strode had not even cleared his holster, and when the bullet hit him in the chest, he let go of his pistol, and it dropped back into the holster. He staggered back two steps, then clamped his hand over the wound. Conn and the others who had gathered for the grisly show saw the blood streaming through Strode’s fingers.

  “I’ll be damned,” Strode said as he fell. “I had no idea the little pissant was that fast.”

  Conn ran over to him. “Strode!”

  The gunman smiled up at him. “I reckon you’ll be gettin’ first choice of the women tonight, after all.”

  Conn watched Strode die. He was the closest thing to a friend Conn had. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, he grabbed Strode’s gun from its holster and swung it toward Priest. “Damn you!” he shouted in anger.

  Conn beat Strode, in that he was able to bring the gun up, but that was as far as he got. Priest, who had already holstered his pistol, drew and fired again. Conn was hit in the middle of the forehead, dead before he fell back on the ground.

  “Damn!” someone said. “I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that in all my borned days!”

  “I believe, Colonel, you had a question as to whether I would be up to the task you have chosen for me. Have I answered that question for you?” Priest asked.

  “You have indeed.”

  “And it is my impression the one thousand dollars you were going to give to Strode is now mine.”

  “That is correct,” Garneau replied.

  “Very good.” Priest turned to the others, all of whom were looking at him with eyes wide in wonder.

  “Men, I am going into town to find a saloon. I will be buying drinks for anyone who comes with me.”

  The men who made up Garneau’s army cheered loudly, though the cowboys were somewhat more reserved. It was Gately who quietly made the comment that brought the rest of them around. “Hell, boys. It wasn’t one of us that got killed. I say we go into town and drink on the man’s money.”

  “Yeah,” Anderson said, and all started toward the corral to saddle their horses for the night on the town.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE<
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  Having been released from jail and paid their fine, Gilchrist and Manning had watched the shoot-out.

  “Ten thousand dollars?” Gilchrist said. “Are you serious? Garneau is going to give Priest ten thousand dollars to kill Smoke Jensen?”

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” Manning answered.

  “Well, hell, what if somebody else kills him? Would he get the ten thousand?”

  “I don’t know why not,” Manning said. “Garneau wants him dead. I don’t think it really matters much who kills him.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “So are you coming with the rest of us to spend some of Priest’s money?”

  “I guess so. I mean, I liked Strode, and Priest killed him. So I may as well drink up some of his money.”

  “They’re all goin’ to the Brown Dirt. Come on, we can prob’ly catch up with ’em.”

  “All right,” Gilchrist agreed.

  Big Rock

  “Mr. McVey, why are you tending bar when you can play the piano as well as you do?” Smoke was standing at the bar in Longmont’s Saloon.

  McVey was wiping glasses and putting them back under the bar. He smiled. “Because it is my time to tend bar. Besides, I have this habit I can’t seem to break. I like to eat.”

  Smoke laughed. “You aren’t telling me you can’t make enough money as a pianist to make a living, are you?”

  “I suppose I could, if I worked at it hard enough. My basic problem is that I’m too lazy.”

  Smoke laughed at his answer. “I don’t believe that for a minute. Would you play something for us now?”

  McVey looked toward Louis.

  “Go ahead, Johnny. I’ll run the bar for a while,” Louis said.

  “I won’t be playing any cowboy ballads,” McVey said.

  “I don’t want you to. You choose what you want to play.”

  “All right.”

  Gilchrist and Manning had reached town. As they rode past Longmont’s Saloon, Gilchrist pulled up. Manning rode on for a short distance before he realized his partner had stopped. The gunman stopped as well, and looked back toward him. “What are you doing? They’re all at the Brown Dirt.”

  “I think I’m going to step in here for a minute or two. You want to come with me?”

  “No. Longmont’s is too highfalutin a place for me. Besides, the free drinkin’ is over at the Brown Dirt, not here.”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Gilchrist said.

  “All right. But you better get there before all the money is drunk up.”

  “You go along. Like I said, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  When Gilchrist stepped into the saloon he saw Smoke standing by the piano, his back to the entrance. The gunman smiled. He was about to earn ten thousand dollars.

  He pulled his pistol, pointed at Smoke, and shouted, “Turn around, Jensen!”

  Turning slowly, Smoke saw that Gilchrist had his pistol drawn, pointing it at him.

  “You’re worth ten thousand dollars to me, Jensen,” Gilchrist said.

  “You’re mistaken,” Smoke said easily. “There is no paper out on me.”

  “I ain’t talking ’bout the law. I’m talkin’ about a fella wants you dead, and he’s willin’ to pay ten thousand dollars for it.”

  “Do you really think you’ll be able to collect that money?” Smoke asked. “Think about it. You’ve just admitted in front of all these witnesses that you are being paid to do this. If you kill me, you’ll be arrested and hanged. Either that or you’ll have to go on the run, and you’ll never get the money.”

  “I’ll take that chance.” Gilchrist smiled. “I don’t think I’ll hang.”

  “No, you won’t hang,” Smoke said. “Because I’ll kill you.”

  “Ha! Maybe you ain’t noticed, but I’ve got my gun in my hand. Your gun is in the holster. When you get to hell, I got a couple friends that just went there—Strode and Conn. Tell ’em I said hello.”

  “You can tell them yourself,” Smoke said, his voice as calm as if he were discussing the weather.

  Gilchrist lifted his thumb up from the handle of his pistol, preparatory to pulling back the hammer, but his thumb never reached the hammer. Smoke drew and fired. His bullet slammed into the middle of Gilchrist’s chest. The gunman looked down with an expression of surprise on his face. He looked back up at Smoke. “How? How the hell did you . . . ?” Gilchrist collapsed.

  Mark Worley, who had joined the others in moving out of the way when the confrontation started, hurried over to him. The first thing he did was kick the pistol away, then he dropped down to one knee beside him. He put his hand on Gilchrist’s neck. “He’s dead.”

  “It’s the damndest thing I ever seen,” Andy Anderson told the others in the Brown Dirt. “Gilchrist was standing there with his gun in his hand, but Jensen drew his pistol and shot him before Gilchrist could even pull the trigger.”

  “That’s impossible,” Manning said.

  “Yeah, well, I woulda thought so too if I hadn’t seen it for myself. But I’m tellin’ you the truth. Gilchrist had his gun in his hand and Jensen’s gun was in his holster. But he pulled it and shot Gilchrist dead.”

  “I still say that’s impossible,” Manning said. “There ain’t nobody that fast.”

  “I am,” Priest said. “I can do that.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Manning said.

  “Take your gun out of your holster and point it at me. When you see me start my draw, pull the trigger.”

  “Don’t do it, Manning. Don’t you ’member what happened out at the ranch? Conn was already pointing his gun at Priest, when Priest shot him.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I do remember.”

  “Do you want to try it, Manning?” Priest asked.

  “No. Uh, no. I take it back. I reckon you could do it.”

  “Glad to hear you say that. Priest smiled. “It means I don’t have to kill you.”

  “Come on. Let’s have a beer,” Anderson said. “Priest is buyin’.”

  “Damn,” Manning said as he wrapped his hands around a beer mug. “I was wonderin’ why Gilchrist wanted to stop at Longmont’s. I believe he had it in mind to make ten thousand dollars by killin’ Jensen.”

  “That’s exactly what he had in mind,” Anderson said. “I heard ’im tell Jensen he was goin’ to make ten thousand dollars by killin’ ’im.”

  Sheriff Carson was at Longmont’s having been summoned after the shooting. “And that’s what you heard him say? That he was goin’ to make ten thousand dollars by killin’ Smoke?”

  “We all heard it, Sheriff,” Louis replied.

  “I wonder what he meant by that. Smoke, do you think there’s some old paper out on you?”

  Smoke shook his head. “I used the name Bucky West when I was on the dodge. As far as I know, all that paper has been pulled back.”

  “Then what did he mean that killing you would be worth ten thousand dollars?”

  “I’ll tell you what I think it means,” Hoyt Miller said.

  “Miller, what are you doing in here?” one of the saloon patrons asked. “I was just over at the Brown Dirt. Seems like every hand the Frenchman has working for him is there. It’s almost like a party.”

  “It is a party,” Miller said. “Jeremiah Priest is buying everyone drinks.”

  “Jeremiah Priest?” Sheriff Carson said. “He’s here?”

  “He’s one of Garneau’s new hands.”

  “What do you mean, he’s one of the Frenchman’s new hands? Are you saying he’s a cowboy?”

  “No, I ain’t sayin’ that,” Miller said. “Half the men Garneau has hired in the last month ain’t never punched a cow in their lives. They don’t do nothin’ but practice target shootin’. That is, the ones that’s still alive. Jensen kilt Gilchrist, and just before I come into town, Priest kilt Strode and Conn.”

  “What?” Sheriff Carson asked. “I haven’t heard anything about that.”

  “It just happened,” Miller said
. “And truth is, there prob’ly wouldn’t be nothin’ you could do about it anyhow. It was a fair fight. All of us that was there seen it. Strode braced Priest, an’ Priest kilt him.”

  “What were they fighting about?” Louis Longmont asked.

  “They weren’t fightin’ at all.”

  “Wait a minute. Didn’t you just say Priest and Strode faced each other, and Priest killed Strode?” Sheriff Carson asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But they weren’t fighting over anything?”

  “Word I got is Garneau wanted to see how good Priest was, so he offered a thousand dollars to anyone who thought they could beat ’im in a gunfight. Strode tried and lost.”

  “You also mentioned a man named Conn,” Smoke said.

  “Yeah, well, turns out Conn and Strode were friends. When Strode got hisself kilt, Conn grabbed the gun and tried to kill Priest. Priest had already put his gun away, but he drew it and kilt Conn.”

  “Miller, you said you could tell us what it meant when Gilchrist said that killing Smoke was worth ten thousand dollars to him. But I got you off track,” Sheriff Carson said. “You want to tell us what you meant?”

  “The way I heard it, Garneau is going to give Priest ten thousand dollars if he kills Jensen.”

  “You actually heard Garneau say that, did you?” Sheriff Carson asked. “Because if you did hear him say that, I’ll go out to Long Trek and arrest him right now.”

  “Arrest him for what?” Miller said. “He ain’t actually done nothin’ yet.”

  “I would arrest him for solicitation of someone to commit murder,” Sheriff Carson said. “But to make the charge stick, you would have to testify that you heard him do that.”

  Miller shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

  “If he actually did solicit for murder, he’ll go to prison, and he can’t hurt you. Understand he is just as guilty if the murder isn’t committed as he is if the murder is committed. So you don’t have to be afraid to testify.”

  “That ain’t it,” Miller said. “I can’t say nothin’ about it, ’cause I didn’t actual hear him say it. I just heard some of the other boys talkin’ about it. Besides which, I ain’t stayin’ around no more. Nance had the right idea when he left. I shoulda left then too. I don’t like some of the things Garneau is doin’.”