Desolation
ELEVATION: 4,135 FT.
Clark found the presence of a railroad depot to be rather unusual, since there was obviously no railroad. Railroad Avenue continued on as a wagon trail running north and south out of town.
He saw at least two dozen people in town, mostly in little clusters of two or three men. He saw no women and no children, which he took as a good indication that this was the kind of town that had been described to him—an outlaw town.
At intervals all up and down Railroad Avenue, there were boards stretched across the dirt streets to allow people to cross when the roads were full of mud. There were obviously no street cleaners nor any kind of city sanitation workers for, unlike those towns where the horse droppings were picked up on a regular basis, this street was covered with manure and the stench was almost unbearable.
Clark stopped in front of a saloon that, in keeping with the theme of the town, was called the Railroad Saloon. Dismounting, he tied off his horse, then went inside.
There were several people inside the saloon and here, for the first time, Clark saw women. They were all wearing brightly colored ruffled skirts that came no lower than their knees. Under the bell-shaped skirts could be seen colorfully hued petticoats that barely reached their kid boots, which were adorned with tassels. Their arms and shoulders were bare, their bodices cut low over their bosoms, and their dresses decorated with sequins and fringe. One of them, seeing Clark come in, smiled and came toward him.
“My, what a handsome young man you are,” she said flirtatiously. “You don’t look anything at all like an outlaw.”
“Outlaw?” Clark replied.
For a moment the smile left the woman’s face. “Honey, you are an outlaw, aren’t you? Because if you aren’t, I would advise you to just keep on goin'.”
“How did you know I was an outlaw? Does it show in my face?” Clark asked.
The woman laughed at Clark’s question.
“Oh, honey, didn’t you know? Everybody in Desolation is an outlaw,” she said.
“No, I didn’t know.”
“Hey, you, Cindy,” a man called from a table near the back of the saloon. “Get the hell away from him. You are my woman!”
“I ain’t nobody’s woman, Jules Stillwater,” Cindy replied.
“You’re my woman until I tell you you ain’t my woman no more,” Stillwater called back. “Now, get me and my friends a drink.”
There were two other men sitting at the table with the one Cindy had called Stillwater.
One of the men sitting with him was a fairly large man with broad shoulders, but what stood out most about him was the disfiguring scar on his face. Half of one eyelid was missing, and part of his lip was cut away so that he couldn’t completely close his mouth. This fit exactly the description Clark had heard of Frank Dodd.
“Is that Frank Dodd?” Clark asked.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“I’d like to meet him.”
“Honey, believe me, you don’t want anything to do with him. If you think Stillwater is trouble, you ain’t seen nothin’ till you cross Frank Dodd.”
Clark smiled. “Well, I’ll just have to see to it that I don’t cross him, won’t I?”
Chapter Eleven
The town of Cloverdale was divided into three sections: the American section, the Mexican section, and the Chinese section. The large Chinese section was the result of Chinese having been the principal labor force for the building of the Western railroads. Original plans called for the Nevada Central Railroad to continue south until it connected with the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad at Columbus, but the Nevada Central ran out of money.
The cessation of railroad construction left a lot of Chinese laborers stranded, not only in Cloverdale, but throughout the West. Always an industrious people, the Chinese managed to find other means of employment. In Cloverdale, most sustained themselves by working in the mines, or doing menial labor. But many became merchants, providing unique services, not only to their own race, but to the other residents of the town as well. These services ran the gamut from laundries, to restaurants, to craft shops, to opium dens, to houses of prostitution, to Chinese saloons where specialized Chinese liquor, such as huangjiu and choujiu, were sold.
Andy Emerson enjoyed spending time in the Chinese section of town because he took pleasure in the game of fan t’an, which was a Chinese game of chance. In addition, he felt less intimidated in the Chinese section of town because he was small of stature, as were most of the Chinese. Another advantage to being there was that he was less likely to encounter Sheriff Wallace or any of his deputies.
That was not the case today, though. Sheriff Wallace, who was frequent visitor to the Fangzi Lei Shi, or House of Pleasure, had just finished his visit with one of the whores. The visit had not gone well—he didn’t get the whore he wanted, and the one he got would not respond to his specific requests, even when he hit her.
Angry and unfulfilled, he stopped at the Chinese saloon for a glass of huangjiu, and was even more irritated when he saw Emerson playing the Chinese gambling game of fan t’an. The fact that Emerson not only understood the game, but was good at it, annoyed Wallace, who had never quite caught the hang of it.
“What are you doing here, Emerson?” Wallace asked.
Startled at the unexpected sound of the sheriff’s voice, Emerson jumped, knocking the pieces off the board. The t’an kun, or operator of the game, called out in angry Chinese.
“Ha!” Wallace said. “You pissed off the Chinaman.”
“No, Sheriff, you did,” Emerson said.
The game operator said something else in Chinese, and Emerson replied in the same language.
“You can speak that gibberish?” Wallace said, surprised to hear Emerson and the Chinese man in conversation.
“Yes, and it isn’t gibberish. It is an ancient and honorable language.”
The Chinese man put his hands together and made a slight bow toward Emerson, who returned the salute.
At that moment, another Chinese man showed up, and he began shouting angrily at Wallace.
“What the hell is he jabbering about?” the sheriff asked.
“He says you broke the jaw of the young lady you were with,” Emerson said.
“Young lady, hell. She’s no lady. She’s a whore.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to beat her,” Emerson said.
“Who the hell are you to tell me what rights I have and don’t have?” Wallace replied.
“It’s just common decency.”
“Tell you what, Emerson. Why don’t I just throw you in jail again?”
“For what? I haven’t done anything. I’m not even drunk.”
“You’re gamblin', aren’t you?”
“So what?”
“You can’t gamble in this town unless you are gamblin’ at a place that has a license. Woo doesn’t have a license. None of the Chinamen do.”
“Neither does the Gold Strike Saloon have a gambling license, but folks play poker there.”
“That’s different. Poker is a private game. The saloon doesn’t have anything to do with it. The Chinaman runs this game.”
Emerson stood up and shook his head. “You just won’t leave me alone, will you?” he asked. “All right, I’ll go back to the ranch.”
“No, not the ranch,” Wallace said. “I told you, you are going to jail.”
“I don’t think I want to do that,” Emerson said.
It was mid-afternoon by the time the train reached Cloverdale. Cloverdale was at the end of the line for the Nevada Central Railroad, and at the far end of the depot there was a roundhouse that would be used to turn the engine around for its return trip. Smoke Jensen stepped down from the train, then walked up to the attached stock car as his saddle and rifle were off-loaded and his horse led down the car ramp.
“Is this your horse, mister?” the stationmaster asked.
“Yes. I’m Kirby Jensen.”
Smoke used hi
s real name because it drew less attention than the sobriquet by which he was more widely known.
“You going to take him now, or do you want to put him up?”
“I would like to put him up for a while, if you can recommend a place.”
The stationmaster smiled. “Yes, sir, I certainly can recommend a place. We have a livery here at the depot if you’d like to leave him here.”
“My saddle and my rifle?”
“We can take care of those too.”
“Good,” Smoke said. He took out two dollars and gave it to the stationmaster. “I’ll be back before this runs out.”
Smoke’s conversation with the stationmaster was interrupted by a loud yell coming from the other side of the train, which was still sitting at the station.
“There he goes, Sheriff!” a man’s voice sounded. The shout was followed by the sound of gunshots, and Smoke instinctively drew his pistol, then moved quickly to the rear of the train to see what was going on.
A figure suddenly appeared on the railroad track, having run up the slight grade on the other side. He was a small man, dressed as a cowboy and with a bushy, walrus-type mustache. The young cowboy looked back into the direction from which he had come, and Smoke saw terror in his eyes.
A shot came from the other side of the track, and the cowboy fell, sliding on his back headfirst down the railroad embankment on the near side. Smoke ran over to him and saw bubbles of blood coming from his mouth. He was trying hard to breathe, and Smoke could hear a sucking sound in his chest. He knew then that at least one bullet had penetrated his lungs.
“Oh, damn,” the cowboy said. “Oh, damn, I’ve been kilt, haven’t I?”
Smoke looked up to see two men, both wearing badges, standing on the tracks at the top of the embankment. One of the men was holding a smoking gun in his hand. Putting the pistol in his holster, he came down from the tracks to look at the man he had just shot.
“What about it, Sheriff Wallace? Is he dead?” the other badge-wearing man called from the top of the tracks.
Even as the question was asked, the cowboy drew his last, gasping breath.
“Yeah,” the sheriff replied. “He’s dead.” The sheriff glanced over at Smoke. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I just got off the train,” Smoke replied.
“I didn’t ask how you got here. I asked who you were, and I expect an answer.”
The train whistle blew then and with a rush of steam, a squeak of brakes being released, and a rattling of couplings, it started toward the roundhouse.
“The name is Kirby,” Smoke said. As his name was Kirby Jensen, he wasn’t lying, but he did give the sheriff a name by which few knew him, doing so because he thought that, for the time being, it might be best to stay in the shadows.
“Did you know him?” Sheriff Wallace asked, nodding toward the dead man. “Reason I asked, I’m not going to have to deal with you trying to get revenge for him or anything, am I?”
“I’ve never seen the man before,” Smoke said.
“Well, you’re lucky,” the sheriff said. “His name is Andy Emerson. He rides—that is he rode,” Wallace corrected, “for Milt Poindexter. The son of a bitch has been nothing but trouble for the last year. I’ve had him in jail more often than not.”
“Why did you shoot him?”
“Because he ran when I ordered him to stop,” Sheriff Wallace said.
“He isn’t armed.”
“He ran,” Wallace repeated, as if that was all the explanation he needed.
“What difference does it make if he ran? It’s not like he was going to get away from you, is it? You know his name, you know where he works.”
“Mister, you are that close to interfering with the law,” Wallace said, obviously irritated by Smoke’s comments.
By now, a crowd began to gather around Emerson’s body, as many of the people who had been at the depot were drawn to the scene by the excitement. Smoke, not wanting to be a part of the circus, drifted away.
As Smoke walked back to the depot, he saw a paper boy standing at the edge of the platform, selling newspapers.
“Get your News Leaf here!” the boy was shouting. “Paper, paper, Clover dale News Leaf here!” The boy looked up at Smoke. “Is Mr. Emerson dead?” the paper boy asked.
“Yes.”
“I’d better get back to the newspaper office and tell Mr. Cutler. He’ll be a’ wantin’ to write a story about it, I reckon.” Then, reverting to his entrepreneurial spirit, he turned his attention to Smoke, a potential customer. “You just get into town?”
“Yes.”
“Then I expect you’ll be wantin’ a copy of the News Leaf. It’ll give you all the news of the town, and it’ll also tell you all about the hangin'.”
“The hanging?”
“Yes, sir, come Friday, there’s goin’ to be a hangin’ right here in town. Why, if you was to walk down the street a bit, you’ll see the gallows. It’s goin’ to be some thin’ to see, I’ll bet.”
“Are you going to watch it?” Smoke asked.
The smile left the boy’s face. “No, sir,” he said. “I reckon Mr. Cabot done what they said he done. I mean, he was caught red-handed by them folks that was on the train and all. But he was always just real nice to me. Bought a paper from me ever’ week. And once he give me a quarter tip for no reason at all. I think watchin’ a hangin’ might be excitin’ and all that, but I ain’t in no particular mind to see Mr. Cabot hang.”
“I’ll take a paper,” Smoke said.
“Yes, sir. That’ll be five cents.”
“Five cents? Most papers cost only two cents.”
“Yes, sir, folks keep tellin’ Mr. Cutler that, but he says that as long as he’s the only newspaper in town, he figures he can charge whatever folks will pay for it.”
Smoke chuckled as he handed the boy a nickel. “I guess he has a point,” he said.
The boy handed him the paper, which consisted of a single sheet that was printed on both sides. As promised, the lead story concerned Bobby Lee Cabot.
Hanging on Friday
At ten o’clock of the morning on Friday the 31st instant, Sheriff Herman Wallace, duly armed with a death warrant signed by His Honor Judge Jeremiah Briggs, will escort Bobby Lee Cabot to the gallows, there to affix a rope around his neck for the purpose of dispatching his soul to eternity.
Cabot is paying the ultimate penalty of death by hanging for his part in the robbery of the Nevada Central Train on the night of 21st ultimate. The robbers, believed to be the Frank Dodd gang, relieved the Nevada Central Messenger of $5,120.00, said money being transferred from the Bank of Reno to the Bank of Cloverdale. Although the messenger, August Fletcher, cooperated in every way, he was shot down in cold blood by the robbers. Mr. Fletcher was married and the father of four. He was a deacon in his church, and it is said of him that no finer man ever walked the streets of Cloverdale. A trial, fairly conducted, and with the verdict delivered by the unanimous vote of twelve men, good and true, has determined that the life of this wonderful man was cut short by the evil doings of Cabot.
The execution of Bobby Lee Cabot is to be publicly conducted with no restrictions applied as to who may attend. All who love justice are invited to be present at the hour appointed. A great crowd present to witness Cabot being delivered into the hands of Satan will send a signal to all who would contemplate duplicating Cabot’s foul deed.
After reading the story Smoke perused the advertisements finding one for a hotel.
DEPOT HOTEL
Fremont Street, Cloverdale, Nevada
WILLIAM R. CHAMBERLAIN
Proprietor
This hotel is situated by the railroad track and it is
but a step from our establishment to the cars
of Nevada Central on one side, and the
Nevada Overland Stage Coach Depot on the other.
All the appointments of a First-Class Hotel
are herein supplied.
Connected to this Hotel is
a First-Class Restaurant,
where one might find Pig’s Feet, Ham,
and Other Delicacies.
Folding the paper up and sticking it in his pocket, Smoke left the depot, stepping out onto Fremont Street. Seeing the gallows at the far end of the street, Smoke decided to walk down for a closer inspection.
“You here for the hangin'?” someone asked as he passed one of the business establishments.
Looking toward the sound of the voice, Smoke saw an old, white-haired man sitting on a chair that was tipped back against the front of the apothecary. The man was whittling on a stick.
“Maybe,” Smoke said.
“It’s goin’ to be quite a show,” the white-haired man said. He turned his head and expertly spit a stream of tobacco over the boardwalk and into the dirt between the two buildings. “It’s a shame they’re hangin’ the wrong fella, though.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Hell, it was Frank Dodd that done the actual shootin'. They was two or three folks that was on the train that night that seen ever’thing. This here fella they’re about to hang wasn’t doin’ nothin’ but sort of standin’ back. But the judge said that don’t matter. He was there so that makes him as guilty as Dodd.”
“Do you know the man they are going to hang?” Smoke asked.
“I seen him around a few times,” the white-haired man replied. “Always seemed like a decent sort to me. Don’t seem to me like he would be the kind to get hisself mixed up with someone like Dodd. Course, you never can tell about some folks. What you see in ‘em ain’t always what they really are.”
“I have to agree with you,” Smoke said.
“He tried to say in his trial that he wasn’t really ridin’ with Dodd, that he was hooked up with him only so he could set a trap for him for the law.”
“Do you believe that?” Smoke asked.
The old man spit again. “Don’t reckon it makes no never mind what I believe,” he said. “I wasn’t on the jury, and the jury didn’t believe none of it.”
Shootout of the Mountain Man Page 11