Brutal Night of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

“That was sort of quick, wasn’t it, Joe? I mean appointing a new marshal and deputy without even calling a meeting of the city council?” Blanton asked.

  “We did have a city council meeting.”

  “And the city council wanted Willis and Clark? Hell, Joe, those two are Atwood’s men, part of his special cadre. They don’t even live in town.”

  “I know that, Allen, and believe me, if it had been up to me, they would not be wearing badges today. But there is nothing I can do about it. The city council appointed them, and you know as well as I do that all five of them are in Atwood’s pocket. The vote on the council was five to zero.”

  “That’s not right,” Blanton said. “There’s nothing right about that.”

  “Let’s face it, Allen. Whether we like it or not, Atwood controls this town. And with the city council in his back pocket, I am as useless as tits on a boar hog.”

  “Maybe all it takes is a little reminder to the citizens of the town that, as Americans, we can control our own destiny,” Blanton suggested.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “You’ll see.”

  * * *

  Blanton didn’t waste any time printing a scathing editorial in the Etholen Standard.

  Marshal and Deputy Killed In Shoot-Out!

  Yesterday in an act, the motive of which we shall probably never know, Marshal Seth Witherspoon stepped into the Bull and Heifer Saloon shouting vituperative challenges at Tim Calhoun. Even as he mouthed the scurrilous words, he was engaging his pistol with devastating effect. Deputy Calhoun dropped to the floor with a bullet in his heart.

  Bo Willis and Emile Clark, both of whom were standing near the deputy, fired at the marshal, killing him instantly. Although there was no witness testimony, nor evidence to indicate that Witherspoon represented a threat, their claim of self-defense was immediately accepted by Judge Boykin, and no charge of homicide has been filed.

  With the death of both Marshal Witherspoon and Deputy Calhoun, our fair community was left without the services of either, though a case could well be made that neither the marshal nor his deputy represented the people’s interest in the first place. The absence of law enforcement did not last very long, however, for in a move that can only be described as bizarre, the city council, by unanimous vote, appointed Willis as our new marshal and Clark as our new deputy. The very men who had, by their action, rendered the vacancy available were selected to fill it. The city council wasted no time in making the appointments, no doubt directed to do so by Silas Atwood.

  While this newspaper agrees that it is good to fill such a vacancy as quickly as possible, we do not agree that the wisest choice was made. Atwood’s influence over Marshal Witherspoon had already been a point of concern by the good citizens of our town. Now that influence shall be even greater, for this paper believes that Willis and Clark have been appointed as the newest officers of the law in order to give Atwood even more control.

  I would be remiss in my duty if I did not urge my fellow citizens to rise up against this usurpation and demand an immediate popular election to either sustain, or override, the action of the city council. We cannot allow Atwood to continue to exercise his tyrannical reign over our fair community.

  “Just who the hell does Blanton think he is, anyway?” Atwood shouted angrily, throwing the newspaper down.

  “I couldn’t understand about half of them words, but I was pretty sure they wasn’t good ones. That’s why I brung the paper to you soon as it come out,” Willis said.

  “I think, perhaps, Mr. Blanton needs to be taught a lesson,” Atwood said.

  “You want me ’n Clark to rough ’im up a bit?”

  “No, I’ll have Sanders and Booker pay his office a visit. You’re the marshal. It’ll be your job to investigate, to find out who did it.”

  “Well hell, Boss, if Sanders and Booker does it, there won’t be no need to investigate. We’ll know who done it,” Willis said.

  “You won’t know that they did it.”

  “Sure I will, you just told me you was goin’ to have them do it.”

  “Willis, I didn’t make a mistake in making you the marshal, did I? Please tell me you aren’t that dumb.”

  “What do you mean? I mean, if Sanders and . . .” Willis stopped in midsentence, and a smile spread across his face. “Oh!” he said. “Oh! Yeah, I get it! I ain’t supposed to know who done it. That way I’ll be tryin’ to figure it out.”

  “Aren’t you the brilliant one, though,” Atwood said.

  “Yeah, I am pretty smart at that,” Willis replied, not catching the sarcasm in Atwood’s remark.

  * * *

  Allen Blanton was still at breakfast the next morning when there was a loud knock on the door. When he opened the door he saw Oscar Davis, his all-around handyman.

  “Hello, OD. Lose your key?”

  “No, sir,” OD replied. “And truth is, even if I had, it wouldn’t have mattered this morning. There was no key needed.”

  “Damn! Did I leave the door unlocked last night?”

  “No, sir. That is, not that I know of,” OD said. “Anyway you don’t need a key to open the front door this morning because there is no front door. That’s why I’m over here.”

  “What?”

  “I think perhaps you should come take a look,” OD suggested.

  Five minutes later Blanton was standing in the front room of the Etholen Standard, looking at the disarray. In addition to the fact that the door was lying on the floor, all the glass of the front window had been broken, the composing tables turned over, the type trays emptied, and type scattered everywhere.

  “Who would do something like this?” Blanton lamented.

  “Do you really need to ask that question, Mr. Blanton? Don’t you know who it was?” Smoke asked. Smoke was but one of several of the town’s people who had gathered at the newspaper office, not only from curiosity, but, for many, a genuine desire to help put things back in order.

  Blanton shook his head. “No, I don’t know.”

  “Think about it, Mr. Blanton. Who has been the most frequent subject of your recent editorials?”

  “Surely you don’t think Atwood would do something like this, do you? I’ll admit, he is a bit overly ambitious, but he is a wealthy and influential man. I just can’t see someone of his social and economic status stooping to do something like this.”

  “I have been around a lot of wealthy men,” Smoke said. “Believe me, a sizable bank account has very little bearing on their behavior.”

  “Yes,” Blanton said with a troubled nod of his head. “You are right, of course.”

  “What happened here?” a loud voice called, and looking toward the front door, Smoke and Blanton saw the newly appointed Marshal Willis standing there.

  “It’s fairly obvious what happened here, isn’t it?” Smoke replied. “Some of your friends took issue with Mr. Blanton’s editorial.”

  “What do you mean, some of my friends? Are you telling me you think I know something about this? That’s a damn lie, and you know it.”

  “You may well be right,” Smoke replied. “Now that I think about it, it is foolish of me to believe that you actually have any friends.”

  Many of those who had been drawn to the scene laughed at Smoke’s reply.

  Blanton chuckled as well. “Thanks,” he said. “I needed a laugh, especially now.”

  “What do you mean I ain’t got no friends? I got friends,” Willis asked, not catching the sarcasm. “I got lots of friends.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Smoke replied.

  Blanton got down on all fours and began gathering the type that had been scattered all over the floor.

  “We’ll help you, Mr. Blanton,” someone else said.

  “Each of you just choose one letter to pick up at a time,” Blanton suggested. “It will be easier to separate them that way.”

  “I’ve got the z’s,” someone said.

  “Ha! Leave it to Doodle to do the least work,” another said
. “I’ll do the x’s.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute!” Willis called. “You folks ain’t got no right to start pickin’ up the type, or to do anythin’ like that till I tell you.”

  “What do you mean till you tell us, Willis?” one of those in the crowd asked.

  “This here is a crime scene, as I’m sure all of you know. ’N bein’ as it is a crime scene, it needs to be left just the way we found it, till I’m through investigating.”

  “Willis, either help us get this place cleaned up, or get out of the way,” Smoke said with an angry growl.

  “Well, I was just . . . I mean . . .” Willis started to respond, but he realized that he wasn’t going to be able to stop the cleanup of the newspaper office because by now at least ten of the citizens of the town were involved in putting it back together again.

  Willis remained for no more than a moment longer, then he turned and left the office as even more townspeople joined the first group, picking up type and setting the press and furniture to rights. At least two people were reattaching the door, while a couple more were cleaning out the rest of the broken window so a new plate of glass could be put in place.

  Smoke, Sally, and Pearlie had planned to go to El Paso to visit Judge Turner this morning, but they put the trip off, staying to help the rest of the town put the newspaper office together again.

  “This is great,” Blanton said as the newspaper office continued to be put back to normal. “I never would have expected anything like this.”

  “Mr. Blanton, you know what this tells me?” Kate, who had also joined the helpers, asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “It tells me that you have a lot of friends, and that, despite everything, Etholen is a very nice town.”

  “Yes, it is, or at least it could be, if we could ever get out from under Atwood’s thumb,” Blanton replied.

  “We will,” Kate said. “I have no doubt about that.”

  * * *

  It was late afternoon before the newspaper office was completely reassembled, with the type and composing tables back in place, along with a new door and new glass in the front window. Afterward, everyone who had showed up to help put the newspaper office together again gathered at the Palace Café for dinner. Sue Ellen Johnson, proprietor of the café, pushed several tables together so there was one long table to accommodate everyone.

  “Who could have done such a thing as try and destroy the newspaper?” someone asked. “And what could possibly be their reason?”

  “That shouldn’t be all that hard to figure out,” Cletus said. “I mean, all you have to do is read yesterday’s issue, when he talked about Atwood. There’s no doubt in my mind but that Atwood done it. Or leastwise he had some of his men do it.”

  “But Willis was one of Atwood’s men before he become marshal, wasn’t he? And now he’s investigating it. If it was one of Atwood’s men that did it, don’t you think Willis would know that?” one of the men around the table asked.

  The others looked at him.

  “Oh,” he said. “Yeah, he probably already knows, don’t he?”

  “If he didn’t do it himself,” another offered.

  Blanton struck his fork against the glass and, getting everyone’s attention, stood to speak.

  “My friends,” he said. “And you are, all of you, indeed my friends I will be honest with you. When Rusty Abernathy was convicted in the sham of a trial, and then Kate arrested and put in jail to take Rusty’s place when he escaped, I had just about given up all hope for this town. Indeed, I had started looking into other towns where I could take my printing press and start my newspaper all over again.

  “But now there are things that are giving me hope that our town will be able, not only to survive, but to escape from these oppressive shackles placed upon us by Silas Atwood and his gunhands. And the people we can most thank for that are here with us tonight. I’m talking about Smoke Jensen and his wife Sally, Pearlie Fontaine, and Cal Wood.”

  “Hear! Hear!” Joe Cravens said, lifting his glass toward Smoke, Sally, Pearlie, and Cal, and the others joined the mayor in lifting their own glasses in salute.

  Eagle Shire Ranch

  “Are you telling me that the people of the town actually turned out to help Blanton get his newspaper office put back in shape?” Atwood asked, the tone of his voice showing his anger.

  “Yes, sir, that’s exactly what happened, all right,” Willis said. “Why there musta been fifteen or twenty people there helpin’, fixin’ the door, puttin’ in a new window, pickin’ up all the type and such.”

  “I think the townspeople are feeling pretty emboldened right now, because Smoke Jensen and Kate’s brother, what is it they’re callin’ ’im?”

  “Pearlie,” Willis said.

  “Yes, Pearlie. Witherspoon didn’t get any of the reward posters out for him, did he?” Atwood asked.

  “No, sir, he never got the chance.”

  “As soon as we get them distributed, I have a feeling that Kate’s brother will concern us no further.”

  * * *

  Blanton had more to say in the next edition of the Etholen Standard.

  ATTACK ON FREEDOM OF THE PRESS

  As many of you know, the Standard offices were attacked last night. The vandals broke out the front window and knocked the front door off its hinges. Once they had gained access to the building, they scattered the type around and overturned the press. This scurrilous action was not only an attack on the newspaper, it was an assault on the free press, which means that every citizen of Etholen was as much a victim as was the Standard.

  But this heinous attack aroused a wave of righteous discontent among the population. For, dear readers, dozens of right-minded citizens of our city came to my aid, and in so doing, expressed their belief in, and their willingness to defend, freedom of the press.

  Now, and for some time, our fair city has been subjected to the heavy-handed activity of one Silas Atwood. Atwood, as our readers know, is a very rich man . . . one of the most affluent in West Texas, if, indeed, not in the entire state. This has given him a sense of entitlement, and no despotic ruler in the history of the European feudal system has ever been more tyrannical in the ruthless application of wealth and power than the owner of Eagle Shire Ranch, who used his position to force out all the other area ranchers, and now, through his control of our city council, judge, and city marshal’s office, is, by fear and intimidation, doing all that he can to establish his own fiefdom in El Paso County.

  We cannot let this happen, and it is my belief, as evidenced by the courageous reaction of our town when this newspaper was attacked, that the time will come when our citizens will arise and throw this despot out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  El Paso

  On the very morning that Allen Blanton’s defiant article appeared in the Etholen Standard, Smoke, Sally, and Pearlie went to the courthouse in El Paso to pay another visit to Judge Turner.

  “Is the information on this poster true?” Judge Turner asked.

  “If you are asking is it true that I killed Marshal Gibson, then the answer is yes, that is true,” Pearlie said. “But it isn’t true that I murdered him. I killed him in self-defense.”

  “Where, did this happen?” Judge Turner asked.

  “Bexar County,” Pearlie replied.

  “Bexar, not El Paso?”

  “No, sir. It was Bexar.”

  “But the information says contact Marshal Witherspoon in Etholen. By the way, I understand that he was recently killed.”

  “Yes, sir, he was.”

  “He was killed by the man who is now the marshal,” Smoke added.

  “When did this happen?” Judge Turner asked. He held up the poster. “It must be very recent, judging by this poster.”

  “It happened a long time ago, Your Honor,” Pearlie replied. “When I was fifteen.”

  “But these reward posters are new.”

  “Yes sir, they are,” Smoke said.

 
“Still, there is no statute of limitations on murder,” Judge Turner said.

  “It wasn’t murder, Your Honor. It was self-defense,” Pearlie insisted.

  “That may be, but there is going to have to be a resolution to the charge.”

  “Yes, that’s why we came to you,” Smoke said.

  “What, exactly, are you asking me to do?” Judge Turner asked.

  “I want to go to trial, Your Honor, and get this behind me. But I don’t want to be tried by Judge Boykin,” Pearlie said.

  “We’re asking for a change of venue,” Sally said. “We know that you can’t arbitrarily dismiss all charges, but, as a federal judge, you can at least position us in such a way as to guarantee a fair trial.”

  “Yes, I can at least do that,” Judge Turner replied. “Tell me the story of what happened. Don’t leave anything out,” the judge added.

  As he had when he related the story back at Sugarloaf, before they left to come to Texas, Pearlie laid out all the facts of that afternoon when he had gone into town with his friends with no more intention than to enjoy a cool lemonade.

  When Pearlie was finished with his story, Judge Turner smiled, then held up his finger. “Come with me,” he said mysteriously.

  The four followed Judge Turner downstairs, then to an office in the back of the building. The sign on the door leading into that office read FIELDING POTASHNICK, JUDGE OF CIRCUIT COURT.

  “Zeke,” Judge Potashnick said when Turner took them into his office. “What can I do for you?”

  “Fielding, I want you to conduct a trial for this young man,” Judge Turner said.

  “What kind of trial? And when?”

  “A murder trial, and right now.”

  “Whoa, hold on there, Zeke. What do you mean, right now?”

  “I am acting as his attorney,” Judge Turner said. “And we waive trial by jury . . . we will accede to your finding.”

  “We’ll need a prosecutor.”

  “Is David Crader in his office?”

  “Yes,” Potashnick said. “Wilma, step down to Mr. Crader’s office, and tell him to meet us in the courtroom.”