Brutal Night of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Is that right, Mex? Did Atwood tell you to come in here?”

  Again, Bustamante didn’t answer.

  “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you speak English? No habla Inglés?”

  Bustamante stared at him but said nothing.

  “You know what I think? I think maybe he’s deef,” one of the other two men said, and the others laughed.

  Clinton pulled his pistol and pointed it at Bustamante. “Let’s find out. Mex, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to count to three, ’n if you don’t say somethin’ to me before I get to three, I’m goin’ to shoot you dead. You comprender, Mex?”

  “I am Bustamante.”

  A wide grin spread across Clinton’s face, and he put the gun back in his holster. “Well now, Loomis, Hicks, what do you think of that? Our little brown friend can talk after all. Bustamante, is it?”

  “Si.”

  “I don’t know what Mr. Atwood was thinkin’ when he hired a Mex, but let me tell you how it’s goin’ to be. As long as you are in this bunkhouse, with us, you stay the hell out of my way. I don’t like Mexicans. Comprender that, Bustamante?”

  “Sí.”

  * * *

  It may have been close to midnight, Bustamante had no way of knowing, though he knew it was quite late. And, because of the chorus of snoring coming from the others, he knew that everyone was asleep. Getting up from bed, Bustamante removed his knife from its scabbard, then lit a candle. By the wavering light of the candle, he walked quietly across the wide, unfinished plank floor until he reached Clinton’s bunk. Clinton was lying on his back, his mouth open, and snoring loudly.

  Holding the candle in his left hand, and the knife in his right, Bustamante made a quick slice, with the blade cutting halfway through Clinton’s neck. Clinton’s eye popped open, and he remained conscious just long enough to be aware of what happened to him. He opened his mouth wider, as if to cry out, but because the larynx had been destroyed, he could make no sound. Blood gushed from the wound and began to pool on both sides as Clinton’s eyes glazed over.

  Bustamante went back to his own bed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “What the hell!” Loomis shouted the next morning. “Hicks! Boyle! Jones! Come here! Look at this!”

  Loomis was standing over Clinton’s bunk, looking down at his cut throat, his open, but unseeing eyes, and his blood-soaked pillow and blanket.

  “Son of a bitch! Who did this?” Boyle asked.

  “I don’t know. Someone must’ve come in here last night,” Jones said.

  “I think it was the Mex,” Loomis said.

  “The Mex?” Boyle asked. “Who are you talkin’ about?”

  “That’s right, you ’n Jones wasn’t here when he come in yesterday. He says his name is Bustamante.”

  “It couldn’ta been him,” Hicks said. “Hell, look down there! He’s still here, lyin’ in his bunk. He wouldn’ still be here iffen he had done this.”

  “Then who did do it?”

  * * *

  “Did you hear about Clinton?” Slim Pollard asked Hog Jaw Lambert. Like Slim, Hog Jaw was one of the working cowboys on Eagle Shire. The two of them were riding fence line.

  “Clinton? Ain’t he one o’ them gunmen that Atwood’s brought onto the place? What about ’im?”

  “He was found dead in his bunk this morning.”

  “Damn! You mean he died in his sleep?”

  Slim chuckled, a macabre laugh. “Yeah, if you call gettin’ your throat cut dying in your sleep.”

  “Someone cut his throat?”

  “He didn’t cut it himself.”

  “Who did it?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  “That’s a hell of a way to die,” Hog Jaw said.

  “Yeah, I suppose it is. But I’ll be honest with you, Hog Jaw. I don’t feel one bit sorry for the son of a bitch.”

  Hog Jaw looked around quickly to make sure that there was no one close enough to overhear them.

  “No,” he agreed. “I don’t feel sorry for ’im, either. I wonder if it has somethin’ to do with what’s goin’ on between Atwood and town right now?”

  “It could be. You know he, Reed, Clinton, and Warren went to town together the other night. Clinton was the only one who come back.”

  “Yeah,” Hog Jaw said. “They say that fella Smoke Jensen kilt ’em. I wonder if he come out here in the middle of the night ’n kilt Clinton?”

  “I doubt it,” Slim said. “So far ever’body Jensen has kilt has been face to face. It ain’t like him to sneak up in the middle of the night ’n kill someone.”

  * * *

  Atwood was certain that Bustamante was the one who killed Clinton, but he didn’t ask him about it. And, if he was being honest with himself, he didn’t really care. He had sent Clinton into town with two other men for what should have been an easy job . . . to kill Jensen in the middle of the night. Clinton and the other two had failed. If Bustamante could kill Clinton, in a bunkhouse that was filled with Clinton’s friends, and neither be caught nor discovered, then this might just be the man he needed.

  “You’re right,” Atwood said to Bustamante after sending for him. “I do want someone killed. His name is Smoke Jensen, and you will find him in town.”

  * * *

  Smoke was in the Bull and Heifer Saloon, campaigning for the election.

  “Hell, yeah, I’ll vote against the taxes,” someone said. “I don’t like payin’ extra for my drinks.”

  “And for ever’thing else you have to buy, too,” another added.

  “Mr. Jensen, have a beer on the house,” Bull Blackwell said. “I think the best thing that’s happened to this town is you comin’ here.”

  “Hell, I think he ain’t done nothin’ but bring trouble to the town,” someone said.

  “You would say that, Hicks, you’re ridin’ for Atwood.”

  “Yeah? So, what if I do?”

  “He ain’t really ridin’ for ’im. He ain’t a cowboy,” Slim Pollard said.

  “If you mean I don’t walk around with cow dung on my boots the way you ’n the others do, then yeah, I ain’t a cowboy,” Hicks replied. “But there’s other jobs Mr. Atwood needs done besides cowboyin’, and he hires special people for that.”

  “I think I’ve run across some of these special people you’re talking about,” Smoke said. “As a matter of fact three of them came into my hotel room the other night intent upon killing my wife and me.”

  “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t know nothin’ about that,” Hicks said.

  “No, I’m sure that you don’t. Mr. Blackwell, thank you for the beer,” Smoke said, lifting the empty glass toward the bartender.

  * * *

  It was very dark outside with only the moon and dim squares of light around the few lampposts keeping it from being as black as the inside of a pit.

  From the other end of the street Smoke could hear Rusty playing the piano, and he recognized the song “Lorena.”

  From the shadows of the Mexican quarters on the south side of the tracks, Smoke could hear a guitar and trumpet. They were playing different songs, yet, somehow it all seemed to blend into a melody that was distinctly here and now.

  A dog barked.

  Somewhere a baby cried.

  Smoke could see the lights of the Milner Hotel and started toward them. Sally was already there, probably reading, and he was anxious to get back to her. He knew that most wives, being displaced from home for as long as Sally had been, would probably start showing their displeasure. But Sally was supportive in every way, and he was glad she had made such good friends with Pearlie’s sister. It was almost as if Kate, like Pearlie, had been invited into the family.

  He felt the assassin coming for him before he heard him, and he heard him before he saw him. A man, obviously a Mexican, suddenly materialized from the dark shadows between the buildings and sprang toward him, making a wide slash with his knife. Only that innate sense that allowed him to perceive danger when there was no ot
her sign had saved his life, for he was moving out of the way at the exact moment the man started his attack. Otherwise the attacker’s knife, swinging in a low, vicious arc, would have disemboweled him.

  Despite the quickness of his reaction, however, the attacker did manage to cut him, and as Smoke went down into the dirt, rolling to get away, the flashing blade opened up a long wound in his side. The knife was so sharp and wielded so adroitly that Smoke barely felt it. He knew, however, that the knife had drawn blood.

  The Mexican moved in quickly, thinking to finish Smoke off before he could recover, but Smoke twisted around on the ground, then thrust his feet out, catching the assailant in the chest with a powerful kick and driving him back several feet. But the Mexican was good, skilled and agile, and he recovered quickly, so that by the time Smoke was back on his feet, he was once again facing the knife wielder.

  Smoke reached for his pistol, then realized with a shock that his holster was empty! The gun had fallen out while he was on the ground! He was unarmed and having to face someone who obviously knew how to use a knife.

  The attacker, realizing that Smoke was defenseless, flashed a self-satisfied smile and made another swipe with his knife. Smoke managed to avoid the knife and thrusting out with the heel of his hand, he hit the man in the forehead, driving him back a few feet.

  Smoke looked around on the ground to try to find his pistol as his attacker charged him again. Then Smoke heard a gunshot, and he saw a black hole appear in the forehead of his assailant. The Mexican went down, and Smoke turned to see Sally standing behind him, holding a smoking gun.

  “I was getting tired of waiting,” Sally said. “So I decided to come see what was keeping you.”

  “You mean you were actually going to go into the Bull and Heifer?”

  “If necessary,” Sally said, putting her gun back in the holster. “It looks like I made a good move.”

  “What? You mean this little fracas? Ahh, I was handling it all right.”

  “Yeah, I could tell,” Sally replied with a chuckle. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig. We’d better get that taken care of.”

  “Nothing to it, I just need . . .”

  * * *

  “Smoke? Smoke? Smoke? Are you all right?”

  When Smoke opened his eyes he saw Sally, Pearlie, and Cal looking down at him.

  “Why are you asking me if I’m all right?”

  Sally’s smile was one of relief. “Because you are lying on your back in the middle of the street.”

  * * *

  Pearlie, Cal, Kate, Rusty, Dolly, and Mayor Cravens were at Dr. Pinkstaff’s office as he treated the wound in Smoke’s side.

  “How is he, Doc?” Pearlie asked.

  “Well, he lost a lot of blood; that’s why he fainted,” Dr. Pinkstaff replied.

  “I didn’t faint,” Smoke replied. “That’s what women do when they see a mouse, or something.”

  “Well, if you didn’t faint, what were you doing lying in the middle of the street?” Sally asked.

  “I just . . . I just went to sleep rapidly,” Smoke said.

  Dr. Pinkstaff laughed. “If he’s still got a sense of humor, he’ll be just fine. I’m giving him a saline transfusion and he’s going to need some rest until his blood builds back up. And you’ll need to keep the wound clean.”

  “What do you mean by rest?” Smoke asked.

  “By rest, I mean rest. I don’t want you on your feet just yet. I’m going to keep you here for a while.”

  “How long is a while? I plan to be up and about by Tuesday.”

  “If you do what I tell you, I think I can promise you that you’ll be back on your feet by then. I’m going to give you a solution of chloral hydrate to help you sleep tonight.”

  “Wait a minute,” Smoke said. “That stuff will knock me out, won’t it?”

  “Yes, but I think it is necessary. At least for tonight.”

  “I’m not going to take it.”

  “Yes, you are,” Sally insisted.

  * * *

  “Bustamante is dead?” Atwood said.

  “Yeah,” Hicks said. “Welch has him down at the undertakin’ place now, and he wants to know if you are goin’ to pay for his buryin’.”

  “No, why should I pay for it?”

  “I guess he thinks you should pay for it ’cause he worked for you.”

  “I paid for Pardeen, Creech, Warren, Reed, and Clinton because they were good men who had worked for me for a long time. Bustamante was only here for a few days, and he did nothing while he was here except possibly kill Clinton. I see no reason to pay for his burying.”

  Hicks laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I told Welch.”

  “How is Jensen?”

  “From what I hear he was cut up pretty bad,” Hicks said. “He’s most likely goin’ to spend the night in the doctor’s office.”

  Hick’s words caused a broad smile to spread across Atwood’s face, and he struck his open hand with his fist.

  “We’ve got ’im!” he said. “If he is in the doctor’s office tonight, he is helpless!”

  “Want me to take care of ’im?” Hicks asked.

  “Yes, and if you are successful, I guarantee you, you will be amply rewarded.”

  * * *

  It was two o’clock when Cal came to relieve Pearlie at the doctor’s office. Sally had stood watch until midnight, and Pearlie from midnight until two.

  “How’s he doing?” Cal asked.

  “He’s in there sleeping like a baby,” Pearlie said.

  “It’s probably the first good night’s sleep he’s had since we left home,” Cal said.

  “There’s coffee on the stove,” Pearlie said as he left.

  Cal looked in on Smoke, then took a seat. After several minutes he started getting very sleepy, and remembering Pearlie’s reminder of the coffee, he went into the other room to pour himself a cup. He took a sip, then walked back to his guard position and saw someone standing over Smoke’s bed.

  “Pearlie, what are you . . . ?” It wasn’t Pearlie!

  The intruder turned and fired at Cal, who had leaped to one side as soon as he realized it wasn’t Pearlie. Cal fired back, and the intruder went down. Hurrying to him, Cal looked down, then kicked the weapon away.

  That action wasn’t necessary. The man Cal shot was dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Smoke was fully recovered by election day, and he, Pearlie, and Cal were watching the polling place to make certain that there was no intimidation of the voters. Sally, Kate, Sue Ellen, Dolly, and the Pretty Girls had set up a table near the polling booth, and they were serving lemonade and cookies. Cletus and Doodle, having just voted, were availing themselves of the refreshments offered.

  “These cookies is so good, I think I’ll vote two or three times,” Cletus said.

  “Don’t even joke about that, Cletus,” Mayor Cravens said. “We’re going to win this election, hands down, and I don’t want even a whisper that could give them a challenge.”

  “No, sir, I won’t say nothin’ like that no more,” Cletus said. “Long as I can have me some more of these cookies.”

  “Of course you can, Cletus,” Kate said. “But leave enough for the others to be able to enjoy as well.”

  “What about them fellas?” Doodle asked, pointing to a group of men. “You aren’t going to give them any cookies and lemonade, are you?”

  Doodle was pointing toward Marshal Willis and his deputies.

  “Of course we will,” Sally said with a broad smile. “These refreshments are for everyone who votes. Would you like a cookie, Marshal?”

  “Yeah,” Clark said, starting toward the table.

  “Clark!” Willis said sharply, shaking his head.

  “No,” Clark said. “We don’t want none of your damn cookies.”

  “That would be ‘we don’t want any of your damn cookies,’ to be correct about it,” Pearlie said.

  “Why, yes, Pearlie, that’s very good,” Sally said with an approving
smile.

  Willis, Clark, Booker, and Walker voted, then walked back down to the marshal’s office. A few minutes later, the four men were seen riding out of town.

  “Ha!” Rusty said. “Looks to me like Willis and his deputies have given up. They’re leaving town!”

  * * *

  “They’re goin’ to win that election, Mr. Atwood,” Willis was saying half an hour later. “There ain’t no way they ain’t goin’ to win.”

  “What time will the voting poll close?” Atwood asked.

  “They said they’re goin’ to keep it open till five o’clock.”

  “Then we haven’t lost the election.”

  “Yeah, we have, you don’t have no idea how many has already voted. And you know damn well they’re votin’ to get rid of the taxes.”

  “The votes have to be counted to make the election official, don’t they?”

  “Well yeah, but . . .”

  “All we have to do is see to it that they aren’t counted.”

  “How are we goin’ to do that?”

  “You let me worry about that.”

  * * *

  When Slim Pollard dismounted, he walked over to the refreshment table where Smoke stood talking with some of the townspeople.

  “You can’t vote, Slim,” Cletus said, “on account of you don’t live in town. I wish you could, though, I’ve got a feelin’ you’d do the right thing.”

  “Yeah, well, I hope I’m doin’ the right thing now,” Slim said. “I’m leavin’; I can’t ride for the Eagle Shire no more. Atwood just ain’t a man I can work for.”

  Doodle laughed. “Hell, Slim, you just now learnin’ that?”

  “Well, I don’t know, maybe I have know’d about it for a while, ’n always before I kinda turned my head away from it. But I can’t look away from what he’s got planned now.”

  “What he has planned now? And just what would that be?” Smoke asked.

  “He plans to come into town to stop the election.”

  “Stop it? How does he expect to do that?” Smoke asked. “The election is half over already.”

  “He plans to kill as many townspeople as he can, then he’s goin’ to steal the ballot box before the votes can be counted.”