Brutal Night of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Hear! Hear!” several of the others called out.

  * * *

  As soon at the meeting and concert was over, Allen Blanton hurried back to the newspaper. The first thing he did, was print the circular he had spoken of at the meeting.

  IMPORTANT NOTICE

  to the CITIZENS OF ETHOLEN:

  A SPECIAL ELECTION

  TO REPEAL TAXES !

  will be held on

  TUESDAY, JUNE 8.

  VOTE YES TO APPROVE THE MOTION.

  With the circular printed, Blanton turned his attention to the story he intended to run in his newspaper. The next issue was due on the following day, and it had already been put to bed, but this story was important enough that he pulled the Associate Press article about the fire that burned the Whitney Opera House in Syracuse, New York.

  Blanton didn’t even attempt to write the story first before setting it. Instead he wrote the story and set the type at the same time. Then, the story having been set, he read over it to satisfy himself that he had caught the mood of the concert and the meeting.

  OF GREAT CIVIC INTEREST TO OUR COMMUNITY

  Several concerned citizens of Etholen gathered at the Pretty Girl and Happy Cowboy Saloon today to hear a concert of classical music brilliantly performed by Rusty Abernathy. Mr. Abernathy, who is a concert pianist of exceptional talent, was in perfect form as he played selections by Beethoven.

  But as it turned out, as great an event as the concert was, there was even more afoot. During the concert, a proposal was made that there be an effort to call a special election. The proposal was met with enthusiasm and support, and enough signatures were gathered on a petition to authorize . . . no to demand . . . that an election be held on Tuesday June 8. The election will be on a proposed amendment, which will have the immediate effect of rescinding the Law Enforcement Capitalization Act, thus relieving the citizens of Etholen from the crippling burden of taxes, which have been levied upon us by the city council.

  In affixing their names to the petition, these brave men have assured a spot for themselves in the history of our city . . . and no doubt schoolchildren far into the twentieth century will be able to recite the names, which I now list:

  Roy Beck, Lonnie Bivins, Allen Blanton, Rusty Abernathy, Arnold Carter, Mayor Joe Cravens, Andrew Dawson, Lou Dobbins, Dan Dunnigan, Barney Easter, Benjamin Evans, Ken Freeman, McKinley Garrison, Ron Gelbman, Bert Graham, Cole Gunter, Ed Haycox, Doodle Higgins, Michael Holloway, Roy Houston, Ed James, Robert Jamison, Gerald Kelly, Ray Kincaid, Luke Knowles, David Lewis, Pete Malone, Jim Martin, Ray Peterson, Cletus Murphy, and David Vance.

  These thirty-one names are enough to guarantee the election will be held. They have done their part to free Etholen from the yoke of oppressive taxes. Now, this newspaper urges every citizen to do his civic duty and vote “yes” on the amendment.

  “What?” Judge Boykin said when Mayor Cravens put the petition before him. “What is this?”

  “It is a mandamus that an election be held on Tuesday week, to vote on this act,” Cravens said.

  “What do you mean it is a mandamus? A mandamus can only come from a superior court!”

  “In this case . . . Your Honor”—Cravens set “Your Honor” aside so that the words dripped with sarcasm—“it is a mandamus from the people, and, as I’m sure you know, in our form of government the people are our superior. This is a petition with the required number of names, calling for a special election. You have no choice . . . the election must be held.”

  Boykin looked over toward Smoke, who had come to the office with Cravens to deliver the petition.

  “Is your name on here? This is your doing, isn’t it?”

  “Why, Judge Boykin, you know I’m not a resident of this town. I can’t vote, so if my signature was on there, it would be invalid,” Smoke replied.

  Judge Boykin smiled smugly.

  “I could just tear this up, you know. Then where would you be?”

  “We would be just fine,” Smoke said. “We have sent a copy to the state, and we have an extra copy. On the other hand, if you would do something so foolish as to tear up this petition of the people, you will be dead.”

  “What do you mean I would be dead?”

  “Let me explain it to you. If you tear up that petition, I will kill you where you stand,” Smoke said calmly.

  “What? You would say something like that to me? I am a sitting judge, sir! A sitting judge! You wouldn’t dare threaten me, sir! You wouldn’t dare!”

  Smoke chuckled dryly. “I didn’t threaten you,” he said.

  “What do you call that, if not a threat?”

  “I would call it a promise.”

  “Cravens, you heard him! You are my witness! I intend to serve him with a warrant for threatening to kill me. That is a ten-year sentence!”

  “What are you talking about?” Mayor Cravens asked. “I didn’t hear any such threat.”

  “That you, an elected mayor, would countenance such a thing as a threat against a sitting judge is unconscionable.”

  “Where are you going?” Smoke asked.

  “I’m going to get someone to come in here as a material witness.”

  “No, you aren’t,” Smoke said. “You are going to sit back down and listen to what Mayor Cravens has to say.”

  “Well I . . . I never . . .” Judge Boykin sputtered.

  “Sit down,” Smoke repeated, but he didn’t raise his voice. It wasn’t necessary for him to do so.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Mayor,” Smoke said to Cravens.

  “Judge Boykin, I am also serving you with a court order, setting aside the Law Enforcement Capitalization Act until its status can be determined by the election next Tuesday,” Mayor Cravens said.

  “Court order? What court order? I’ve issued no such order.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I should have been more specific. This order comes from Judge Turner of the West Texas Federal Court. And that means you will do it, sir,” Cravens said.

  “See here, you have no right to do this!”

  “How is it that you are a sitting judge, and yet you know so little about the law?” Smoke asked.

  “Don’t you presume to lecture me about the law, sir,” Judge Boykin said.

  “I am a member of the bar, as you know, but don’t worry, I won’t. I could no more get you to see your duty than I could teach a pig to sing.”

  “I . . . I . . .” Boykin sputtered.

  “We’ll be going now, Judge,” Mayor Cravens said. “We have a campaign to run.” Cravens smiled. “Come to think of it, I suppose you have the same campaign to run. I expect we had all better get busy and let our republic form of government work its course.”

  * * *

  Atwood held up the newspaper. “Are you telling me that the nonsense Blanton has printed in his newspaper is true? Is there actually going to be a vote against the taxes?”

  Atwood was sitting in the parlor of his house, along with Willis, Clark, Judge Boykin, and Jay Kinder, Speaker of the City Council.

  “I’m afraid so,” Judge Boykin said.

  “Can’t you stop it?”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. Issue an order or something.”

  “If I did, Turner would just issue an order that would override it.”

  “Maybe if we conduct a rigorous enough campaign, we can convince the people that we need this tax base to keep them safe,” Kinder said.

  Atwood glared at him. “Are you serious? We are going to be able to convince people to pay more taxes? Why the hell did I select you as the speaker of the city council? My God, you are dumber than a day-old mule.”

  “Mr. Atwood, you have no right to talk to me like that,” Kinder said, obviously stung by the harsh comment.

  “I put you and the entire city council in office, Kinder. You belong to me. And that means I can talk to you any way I want.”

  “Well, what are we going to do?” Judge Boykin asked. “You’re right, we aren’t going to be able
to convince them to vote against their own best interests.”

  “It depends on what you mean when you say convince them,” Kinder said.

  Boykin glanced over toward him. “What do you mean?”

  “If they are frightened enough, perhaps they’ll vote the way we want them to vote.”

  “We aren’t going to be able to frighten them,” Judge Boykin said. “Not as long as Smoke Jensen is here.”

  Atwood smiled. “My point, exactly.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  In all the time he had been in the newspaper business, Allen Blanton had only put out two “Extra” editions; one when Custer and his men were killed, and one when President Garfield was shot. Now he was about to put out his third.

  EXTRA ! EXTRA ! EXTRA !

  By court order the taxes demanded by the Law Enforcement Capitalization Act have been set aside. That means that, already, businesses that have been crippled by the taxes can reopen, and the additional tax burden upon the citizen has been lifted.

  It is important to understand, though, that this relief is temporary, pending the outcome of the election on Tuesday. Therefore it is incumbent upon each of us to use the power of the ballot to make this relief permanent.

  When the deputies learned that they would no longer be able to collect taxes, they saw it as an end to their gravy train, and they returned to the marshal’s office to complain to Willis.

  “I’ll tell you right now, Willis,” Booker said. “If the money is shut off, I don’t intend to be a deputy anymore.”

  “Who said the money is goin’ to be shut off?” Willis asked.

  “Well, if we can’t collect the taxes no more, just where do you expect the money to come from?”

  “Mr. Atwood said not to worry, that he has come up with an idea. So let’s wait and see what his idea is.”

  “You mean like his idea of havin’ someone kill Jensen?” Clark asked. “Because that idea sure hasn’t worked out, has it?”

  “Just wait a while, and see what he has in mind.”

  * * *

  Everyone responded to the upcoming election, as well as the court order setting aside taxes, by posting signs outside their places of business.

  OPEN for BUSINESS as before

  NO TAXES

  The result was a flurry of business activity all over town, but no business bounced back as far as the Palace Café. It was so crowded that there was a waiting line to get a table. It wasn’t just the businesspeople who celebrated the suspension of taxes, the mood of the town had greatly changed, and men and women strolled up and down the boardwalks, recognizing each other with smiles and friendly greetings.

  Pearlie and Cal were nailing up election circulars all over town:

  VOTE: YES !

  to repeal taxes!

  TUESDAY, JUNE 16

  “How many more of these things do we have to put up?” Cal asked.

  “I’ve only got about four or five more,” Pearlie replied. “Why so you ask? Do you want to go get a beer?”

  “Yeah,” Cal said. “Let’s go over to your sister’s place.”

  Pearlie chuckled. “You’re not fooling me, Cal. It’s not a beer you’re after. You just want to talk to some of the Pretty Girls.”

  “Well, that’s why your sister named her place the way she did, isn’t it?”

  The two laughed as, with all the election circulars now put up, they started back to the saloon.

  When they stepped inside, they saw Rusty and Dolly sitting together.

  “Well now, Rusty, just how is this young lady supposed to earn her keep if she spends all her time with you instead of visiting with the cowboys?” Pearlie asked.

  “She doesn’t spend all her time with me,” Rusty replied.

  “Well, you can’t prove that by me. Seems like every time I look up, I see the two of you together.”

  “Oh, she visits with the cowboys. But she spends her quality time with me,” Rusty said with a broad smile.

  “Would you like Linda Sue and Peggy Ann to join us?” Dolly asked, flashing a smile at Pearlie and Cal.

  “Yeah, that would be nice. We’d like some quality time, too,” Cal replied with a laugh.

  * * *

  Smoke and Sally were also in the Pretty Girl, sharing a table with Kate and Mayor Cravens. A burst of laughter came from the table where Pearlie and Cal were holding court.

  “It’s good to see people laughing again. I’ve not seen a mood this ebullient since Atwood started taking over everything,” Cravens said.

  “It’s because of Smoke,” Kate said. “He, my brother, and Cal came riding in on white horses, dressed in shining armor, and nothing has been the same since.”

  “And don’t forget Mrs. Jensen,” Mayor Cravens said. “She is the one who has taken our fight to the courts.”

  “There’s no way I’m going to leave Sally out of this,” Kate said. “If Smoke, Pearlie, and Cal are knights in shining armor, Sally is the crown princess they serve.”

  “Let’s not celebrate too early,” Smoke said. “We’ve had a few victories against Atwood, but I don’t think he’s ready to give up just yet.”

  “Oh, believe me, I know you are right,” Mayor Cravens said. “But we have had so few victories against this . . . tyrant, is the only way I can think of him, that it is good to celebrate the ones that we do have.”

  * * *

  Unlike Kate Abernathy, Silas Atwood didn’t see Smoke Jensen as a knight in shining armor. But like the owner of the Pretty Girl and Happy Cowboy Saloon, he did see Jensen as the architect of the resistance that he was now facing. The court-ordered revocation of the Law Enforcement Capitalization Act, and the upcoming election, which would surely overturn it, was the latest setback.

  From shortly after Jensen arrived, Atwood had correctly assessed him as a problem and had tried to eliminate the problem by eliminating Jensen. And the only way to eliminate Jensen was to kill him. So far every effort had failed, and Atwood was beginning to believe all he had heard about Smoke Jensen. Jensen wasn’t a man who could be bested in a gunfight. If he was going to be killed, Atwood was going to have to come up with another way, but just what way would that be?

  * * *

  José Bustamante was a killer, but he was not a gunman in the classic sense. He was an assassin, pure and simple. When Bustamante learned there was a wealthy Texan who was willing to pay well to have someone killed, he started to contact him but decided instead to just go see him. Thus it was that, when he arrived at Atwood’s house, he was unexpected. Dismounting in front of Atwood’s house, one that Bustamante would call casa grande, he didn’t bother to knock on the door. Instead, he sat on the porch swing and remained there for well over half an hour before Atwood, who had no idea that Bustamante was there, came outside.

  “Who are you?” Atwood gasped when he saw a Mexican sitting cross-legged on his swing, a sombrero resting on his knee.

  “I am Bustamante.”

  “How dare you sit on my front porch without permission. What are you doing here?”

  “You sent for me, señor.”

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t send for you.”

  Bustamante took a piece of paper from his pocket and showed it to Atwood. It was a letter Atwood had written to an acquaintance, an acquaintance he could trust.

  From time to time in my business, I may have occasion to use a person who is possessed of a particular talent, as well as the predilection to use it without question or compunction. If you know such a person I would be most anxious to hire him.

  Atwood had sent the letter, but he had sent it six months earlier, long before Smoke Jensen had arrived on the scene. As it turned out, this was exactly one of those “times” he had mentioned in the letter. If this Mexican really was such a man, it was an unexpected and fortuitous piece of good luck that he should arrive here, now, when Atwood’s need was even greater than it had ever been.

  “Where did you get this letter?” Atwood asked.

  “
A man I did a job for gave me the letter,” Bustamante said.

  “Are you good with a gun?”

  “I do not have a gun.”

  “You don’t have a gun?”

  “No, señor.”

  “Then there has been some misunderstanding here. Apparently you don’t know what I am looking for.”

  “Do you want someone keeled, señor?”

  “That’s a hell of a question to ask.”

  “Do you want someone keeled?” Bustamante asked again.

  “What if I do? How are you going to do that without a gun?”

  “I do not need to be good with a gun, because I do not use a gun. For me, señor, killing is not a sport, it is a profesión,” Bustamante said.

  Atwood stroked his chin as he stared into the dark, obsidian eyes of the Mexican who had not yet risen from the swing.

  “There have been others who have tried to kill Smoke Jensen. But they have all failed.”

  “I am not like the others.”

  “Yeah, maybe you’ll do after all. All right, put your tack in the bunkhouse. Use that one,” he said, pointing to the smaller of the two buildings. “The other one is for the cowboys. This one is for men who do . . . special jobs for me.”

  Bustamante nodded but said nothing. He led his horse into the barn, removed the saddle, found an empty stall, then he took the blanket in which he kept his tack with him to the bunkhouse Atwood had pointed out to him.

  Clinton and two other men were in the bunkhouse. Bustamante saw a bunk on which the mattress was in an “S” roll, and he dropped his blanket there.

  “Hey you, Mex!” Clinton called. “What are you doing in here?”

  Bustamante didn’t answer.

  “I’m talkin’ to you, Mex. You’re in the wrong building. If you’ve just signed on, you need to be in the other bunkhouse.”

  “I seen ’im talkin’ to Mr. Atwood a couple of minutes ago, Clinton,” one of the other men said. “If he come in here, I reckon it’s ’cause Atwood told ’im to.”