Betrayal of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Roy McGuire, M.D.

  Next to the apothecary was the sheriff’s office and jail, then the bank, a barbershop and bathhouse, then a hotel.

  On the north side of the street, next to the blacksmith shop, was a gunsmith shop, then a newspaper office, then a café, then several houses, followed by a seamstress shop, then a stage depot, the Brown Dirt Saloon, several more houses, then the stable, which was directly across from the hotel.

  Fargo pointed to the café. “There!” he said. “Let’s go in there ’n get us somethin’ good to eat.”

  “All right,” Ford agreed. The two men cut their horses to the side of the street toward the café, then dismounted and tied them off at the hitching rail. When they stepped inside the building, some of the patrons reacted visibly to the filth and stench of the two visitors.

  They found a table and sat down. A man and woman who were sitting at a table next to them got up and moved to another table.

  “What you reckon got into them folks?” Ford asked.

  “I guess they don’t like our company,” Ford answered.

  A man wearing an apron came up to them. “You gentlemen just coming into town, are you?” he asked.

  “Yeah, and we’re hungry as bears,” Fargo said. “What you got to eat?”

  “Oh, we have a lot of good things,” the man replied. “But, uh, being as you just came in off the trail, perhaps you would enjoy your meal better if you cleaned up first? There is a bathhouse just across the street.”

  “Yeah, we seen it,” Ford said. “But we’re hungry. We’ll eat first, then we’ll go take us a bath.”

  “Go take a bath first,” the waiter said. “Trust me, you will enjoy your meal much more.”

  “How do you know?” Ford asked.

  “Because in your present condition, you are offensive to my other customers, and I don’t intend to serve you until you have cleaned up.”

  “The hell you say,” Ford replied angrily.

  The waiter turned away from the table and started back toward the kitchen.

  “Look here, mister, don’t you walk away while I’m a’talkin’ to you!” Ford called after him, reaching for his gun.

  Fargo reached across and grabbed Ford’s hand, preventing him from drawing.

  “You don’t want to do that, Ford,” he said sternly, shaking his head.

  “I ain’t goin’ to let no son of a bitch talk to me like that,” Ford said angrily.

  “Come on, let’s go take a bath,” Fargo said. “Our money ain’t goin’ to do us no good if we’re in jail.”

  “You heard what . . .”

  “Come on,” Fargo said again, interrupting Ford’s grumbling. “We’ll board our horses, then take a bath.”

  As the two left the livery, they saw a crowd of people gathered in front of the hardware store, about halfway down the street.

  “What do you reckon that’s all about?” Fargo asked, pointing toward the crowd.

  “I don’t know,” Ford said. “What do you say we go down there an’ take a look?”

  “All right,” Fargo agreed.

  The two men started down the street toward the hardware store, but stopped when they got close enough to see what everyone was looking at.

  “I’ll be damned,” Ford said as he spit a stream of tobacco, then wiped the dribble from his chin. “That’s ole Dooley up there in that pine box.”

  “It sure as hell is,” Fargo replied.

  “How’d he wind up there?” Ford asked.

  “It tells you right there on the sign they got hangin’ around his neck,” Fargo said.

  “Hell, Fargo, you know I can’t read,” Ford said. “What does the sign say?”

  “It says he was kilt by a fella named Bill Kirby.”

  “Bill Kirby? I ain’t never heard of no Bill Kirby, have you?”

  Fargo shook his head. “Can’t say as I have,” he said.

  “What for do you think this fella Kirby kilt ’im?”

  “I don’t know. Says on the sign that Dooley kilt a deputy sheriff, then this Kirby fella kilt him.”

  Ford studied the corpse for a long moment.

  “What you lookin’ at?” Fargo asked.

  Ford chuckled. “Hell, the son of a bitch is even uglier dead than he was while he was alive.”

  Fargo laughed as well. “He is at that, ain’t he?” He paused for a moment before he spoke again. “Wonder where at is his share of the money,” Fargo said.

  “He prob’ly spent it all already,” Ford said.

  “He couldn’t of spent it this fast,” Fargo insisted.

  “Then he must’a hid it,” Ford said.

  “What do you say we hang around town long enough to find out just what happened?” Fargo suggested. He smiled. “Ha, the son of a bitch got most of the money; now he ain’t even around to spend it. What do you say we find it and spend it for ’im?”

  “Yeah,” Ford agreed. “I would like that.”

  When Sally, Pearlie, and Cal rode into Etna, they saw a gallows in the middle of the street, just in front of the marshal’s office. A rope was dangling from the gibbet, the noose at the end ominous-looking.

  “That kind of gives you chills lookin’ at it, don’t it?” Cal said. “I mean, knowin’ it was for Smoke.”

  “It wasn’t used,” Sally said, “so it doesn’t bother me.”

  “Where do we start?” Pearlie asked.

  “Why don’t you two go on down to the saloon and see what you can find out?” Sally asked. “I’ll check in the marshal’s office.”

  “Uh, you want me’n Cal to go on down to the saloon?” Pearlie asked.

  “Yes. Smoke always says you can find out more about what’s going on in a saloon than you can from the local newspaper.”

  Pearlie smiled broadly. “Yes, ma’am, I’ve heard ’im say that lots of times. All right, me’n Cal will go on down there and see what we can find out. We’ll all get together later,” Pearlie added.

  Pearlie and Cal continued to ride on down to the saloon, while Sally reined up in front of the office, dismounted, then went inside. A man with a badge was sitting at the desk, dealing poker hands to himself. He looked up as she entered.

  “Somethin’ I can do for you, little lady?” he asked with a leering grin.

  “Are you Marshal Turnball?”

  “No, I’m his deputy. The name is Pike.”

  “Where can I find Marshal Turnball?” Sally asked.

  “What for do you need him?” Pike asked. “I told you, I’m his deputy.” Pike moved around to the front of the desk, to stand uncomfortably close to Sally. “You want anything done . . . why, all you got to do is just ask.”

  “All right,” Sally said. “I want you to tell me where I can find Marshal Turnball.”

  “I tell you what,” Pike said, putting his hand on Sally’s shoulder. “Maybe if you’d be nice to me, I’ll be nice to you.”

  Pike moved his hand down to her breast.

  Pearlie and Cal stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer apiece. When they were delivered, Pearlie blew some of the foam away, then took a long, Adam’s apple-bobbing drink.

  “You’re pretty thirsty, cowboy,” the bartender said.

  “We rode a long way today,” Pearlie answered.

  “That’ll make you thirsty all right,” the bartender agreed.

  “Say, we noticed the gallows out in the street as we came into town,” Pearlie said. “You folks about to have a hangin’?”

  “Well, we thought we was,” the bartender said. “But the fella we was goin’ to hang, a man by the name of Kirby Jensen, got away.”

  “How did he do that?”

  The bartender laughed. “Hey, Marshal Turnball,” the bartender called across the room. “Here’s two fellas wantin’ to know how Jensen got away.”

  “Ain’t nobody’s business how he got away,” Turnball replied gruffly.

  Pearlie and Cal turned toward the man who had answered the bartender. They saw a big man filling a chair tha
t was tipped back against the wall. He was wearing a tan buckskin vest over a red shirt. The star of his office was nearly covered by the vest, though it could be seen.

  Pearlie took his beer and started back to talk to the marshal. Cal followed him.

  “Mind if we join you?” Pearlie asked when he reached the table.

  “It’s a free country,” the marshal replied, taking in the empty chairs with a wave of his arm. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’re looking for Smoke Jensen,” Pearlie said.

  “Who?”

  “Kirby Jensen,” Pearlie clarified.

  “Ha,” Turnball said. “Ain’t we all? What do you want him for?”

  “We don’t want him for nothin’,” Cal said. “He’s our friend.”

  “Your friend, huh? Well, mister, your friend robbed a bank and killed our banker.”

  “Was he caught in the act of robbin’ the bank?” Pearlie asked.

  “Near’bout,” Turnball said.

  Turnball explained how he and the posse found Smoke out on the prairie. “There was some of them empty wrappers, like’s used to bind up money, on the ground around him, and they was marked ‘Bank of Etna.’ Besides which, he was still wearin’ the same plaid shirt he was wearin’ when he robbed the bank.”

  “Plaid shirt?” Cal said. He chuckled. “Smoke ain’t got no plaid shirts. He don’t even like plaid.”

  “Yeah? Well, he was wearin’ one when he robbed the bank, and he was wearin’ that same shirt when we caught him.”

  “Did he confess to robbin’ the bank?” Pearlie asked.

  “No.” Turnball laughed, a scoffing kind of laugh. “He said he was set upon out on the prairie by the ones who actual done it, and one of ’em changed shirts with him.”

  “But you didn’t believe him,” Pearlie said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “It wasn’t just me that didn’t believe him,” Turnball said. “Your friend was tried legal, before a judge and jury, and found guilty.”

  “Did you think to send a telegram back to Rio Grande County to check with Sheriff Carson?” Pearlie asked.

  “We couldn’t. The telegraph line was down.”

  “If the line was down, how is it that you was able to send a telegram a few days ago sayin’ that Smoke had escaped?”

  Turnball squinted. “Are you fellas deputies to Sheriff Carson?”

  “We ain’t regular deputies, but we’ve been deputies from time to time,” Pearlie said. “So I’ll repeat my question. How is it that you could send a telegram after he escaped, but you didn’t think to send one to check on him?”

  “They got a line put up that we was able to use,” Turnball explained.

  “If you had just waited, I think the sheriff would have told you that Smoke couldn’t have done what you said he done.”

  “Let me ask you this,” Turnball said. “Is it true that Jensen is bad in debt? That he’s about to lose his ranch?”

  “He owes some money, yes,” Pearlie said. “But he wasn’t about to lose the ranch. He was goin’ to Denver to make arrangements to lease Sugarloaf out for the money that he needed.”

  “That’s what you say. But sometimes folks change. Especially if they get desperate.”

  “How did Smoke escape?”

  “What do you mean, how did he escape? He escaped, that’s all. I had him in jail; then when I come back to the jail the next mornin’, he was gone.”

  “Was there anyone guardin’ him while he was in jail?” Pearlie asked.

  “Yeah, my deputy was. Why?”

  “A few minutes ago you said that Smoke robbed your bank and killed a banker. But you didn’t say anything about him killin’ your deputy.”

  “I didn’t say that ’cause he didn’t kill ’im,” Turnball said.

  “If Smoke is the killer you think he is, don’t you think he would have killed the deputy when he was getting away?”

  “What? I don’t know,” Turnball said. He was silent for a moment. “Maybe he would have.”

  “Marshal, we brung Mrs. Jensen with us,” Cal said. “Would you like to meet her?”

  “What do I want to meet her for?”

  “She rode a long way to get here, Marshal,” Pearlie said. “It wouldn’t hurt you to meet her.”

  Turnball sighed and stroked his chin; then he nodded and reached for his hat.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll meet her. Where is she? At the hotel?”

  “We left her down at your office,” Cal said. “She might still be there.”

  “Oh, damn,” Turnball said. “I hope she didn’t tell Pike who she is.”

  “Pike?”

  “Pike is my deputy,” Turnball said. “He is as dumb as dirt, and he was . . . well, he was . . .”

  “He was what?”

  “He was ridin’ Jensen pretty hard while he was in jail, carryin’ on about how he was goin’ to go back to Jensen’s ranch and tell his widow first-hand what happened to him.”

  “That would be all the more reason for Smoke to kill your deputy, wouldn’t it?” Pearlie said. “But he didn’t do it, did he?”

  “No, he didn’t,” Turnball said. “But now I’m worried about the woman bein’ down there with Pike. There’s no tellin’ what that dumb son of a bitch might do if he knows who she is.”

  “Might do?” Pearlie asked.

  “To Mrs. Jensen.”

  Pearlie and Cal looked at each other; then both laughed.

  “What is it?” Turnball asked. “What’s so funny?”

  “What’s funny is you worryin’ about Miss Sally,” Cal said.

  When Pearlie, Cal, and Turnball stepped into Turnball’s office a few minutes later, they saw Sally sitting at the desk, calmly dealing out hands of cards. She looked up and smiled.

  “Hello, Pearlie, Cal,” she said. She turned her smile toward Turnball. “And you must be Marshal Turnball,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am,” Turnball said. “I’m sorry you had to wait here all alone. My deputy was supposed to be here.”

  “Oh, he is here,” Sally said.

  “He is? Where?”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Pike was a bad boy,” Sally said. “So I had to put him in jail.”

  Looking toward the jail cell for the first time, Turnball saw Pike, handcuffed to the bed. His socks had been stuffed into his mouth.

  “I’m sorry about sticking his socks in his mouth like that,” Sally said. “But his language was atrocious. I just didn’t care to listen to it anymore.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fargo and Ford were in adjacent bathtubs. They had agreed to spend some of their money on new duds, so a representative of the mercantile store came to the bathhouse to show some of the clothes the store carried. He was standing alongside the two tubs, displaying his shirts.

  “Them’s just ordinary work shirts,” Ford said. “Ain’t you got nothin’ fancier than that?”

  Like Fargo, Ford was wearing his hat, even though he was in the tub. And like Fargo, he was smoking a cigar.

  “These are very good shirts, sir,” the store clerk said defensively.

  “I was just lookin’ for somethin’ a little fancier is all.”

  “We only had one dress shirt in stock,” the clerk said. “And the merchants all went together to buy it and a suit of clothes for Deputy Clayton to wear for his funeral.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s the man Bill Kirby shot, ain’t it?” Fargo asked.

  The clerk shook his head. “No, Mr. Kirby shot the man who shot the deputy. Dooley, his name was. Ebenezer Dooley.”

  “Do you know this here fella Bill Kirby?” Fargo asked. “Does he live here in town?”

  “I don’t know him. I believe he is just passing through,” the clerk said. “He has a room down at the hotel.”

  “Hand me that bottle of whiskey,” Ford said, pointing, and the clerk complied.

  “Will you gentlemen be making a purchase then?” the clerk asked.

  “Yeah,” Fargo said. He po
inted to the pile of dirty clothes they had been wearing. “I tell you what, you take them old ones, and leave us the new ones, and we’ll call it an even trade.”

  The store clerk looked shocked. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  Fargo laughed out loud at his joke. “I was just funnin’ you,” he said. He reached down on the floor beside the tub and picked up a billfold, then took out some money and handed it to the clerk. “This here ought to do it.”

  “Yes, thank you,” the clerk said.

  “And you can also have the old clothes,” Fargo said.

  The clerk looked at the old clothes with an expression of distaste on his face. “You, uh, want me to take the old clothes?” he asked. “And do what with them, sir?”

  “Do anything you want to with them,” Fargo said. “Clean them up and wear them if you want to. Or burn them.”

  “Burn them, yes. Thank you, I’ll do that,” the clerk said. Looking around, he saw a stick and he used the stick to pick the clothes up, one item at a time. Then he dropped them into the paper in which the new clothes had been wrapped. “I’ll take care of them for you,” he said.

  After the clerk very carefully and hygienically collected the old clothes, he wrapped them in the packing material, then left the bathhouse. Ford took a big drink of the whiskey, then tossed the bottle into an empty tub.

  “Did you see the way he got into a piss soup when you told him you wanted to trade even for them duds?” Ford asked, laughing out loud.

  “Yeah,” Fargo said, laughing with him. “He was so old-maidish the way he was handlin’ them clothes, I should’ a made him put them on and wear them out of here.”

  Ford lifted his arm and began rubbing the bar of soap against his armpit. “Hey, Fargo, how do you figure we ought to go about lookin’ for Dooley’s money?” he asked.

  “We could start by goin’ over to the hotel where he was stayin’ at and lookin’ through his room,” Fargo suggested.

  “Ha! Like they’re goin’ to let some strangers look through his room.”