Quest of the Mountain Man
Page 15
* * *
After their meal, which even Louis had to admit was quite good, though he put it down to the fact they were all about half-starved to death, they walked down the street to a small, two-story hotel named WINSTON’S.
Smoke took three rooms on the second floor facing the street, another precaution he’d learned over the years. The second floor made it harder for someone to sneak up on them or fire through an open window, and the windows facing the street let him monitor what was going on in town without exposing him to gunfire from an adversary.
* * *
Over at the jail, McCain held up his hand when Hammer argued about having to spend the night locked up with his men. “Now, hold on, Hammer,” Luke said. “First off, I don’t want Jensen getting suspicious about us having an arrangement. I don’t want him trying to telegraph any U.S. marshals until after we’ve seen the judge and gotten things fixed up.”
Hammer sullenly agreed McCain was probably right, though he did insist on the sheriff leaving the cell door unlocked and their guns out where they could get to them if Jensen or his men tried anything during the night.
McCain told him not to worry about that, and that he was going to have a deputy keep watch on Jensen’s hotel rooms through the night.
“Now, I’m gonna take five thousand dollars of your money and pay a little visit to Judge Fitzpatrick over at the courthouse,” Luke said.
“Five thousand dollars?” Hammer blurted out. “Hell, back where I come from, you could buy an entire town for that much money.”
Luke shook his head, disgust on his face. “Listen, Hammer. You and your men did kill over twenty Pinkerton agents in cold blood. That’s a lot for a judge to overlook, even one whose nose is always in a bottle. He and I are both gonna catch a lot of heat on this when you and your men end up walking out of here free and clear. I’m sure he won’t think it’s too much money when the federal marshals and the circuit court judge ream his ass out for finding for you in the upcoming trial, so pay him the money and keep your mouth shut!”
“You haven’t said what your share is gonna be yet,” Hammer said warily, his eyes narrowed and suspicious.
McCain smiled. “I think five will do me nicely, and at that you’re getting a bargain.”
“But that only leaves me and my men a little over two thousand dollars each, and we did all the work,” Hammer argued from his jail cell.
“Yeah, well, I could always let Jensen and his men have another go at you,” McCain said. “If he managed to kill most of your men, your share would be even bigger, Hammer, is that what you want?”
Hammer looked down at his feet and shook his head.
“And don’t forget, it was you and your men who killed a lot of Pinkertons and then managed to let yourselves be followed to my town,” Luke said, his voice hard. “Just be glad you’ll be walking out of here and able to rob another train rather than taking a short trip on a rope followed by a long dirt nap.”
“All right, all right,” Hammer said, tired of arguing with the sheriff. After all, he reasoned to himself, there was time enough after Jensen and his men had been taken care of to see about making a better deal. Hell, they’d killed over twenty men to get that money. Another couple, like a judge and a sheriff, wouldn’t be too hard.
* * *
The next morning, after McCain had visited Judge Fitzpatrick at his home the previous night and given him more money than he could make in two years on the bench, the sheriff summoned Smoke and his friends from the hotel. He walked with them over to the county courthouse, and ushered them into Judge Harlan Fitzpatrick’s courtroom at precisely nine o’clock in the morning.
Of the outlaws, only Hammerick was present in the courtroom when they entered. He was being watched over by one of the deputies from the day before.
After a moment, the judge entered from his chambers and proceeded to take his seat behind a high desk in the front of the room.
A bailiff advised everyone to rise and said the county court was now in order.
After everyone took their seats again, Louis leaned over and whispered into Smoke’s ear. “Look at the judge’s red nose and take a whiff. I can smell the whiskey on his breath all the way back here.”
Smoke nodded and whispered back, “It sure looks like he drank his breakfast, that’s for sure.”
The judge cleared his throat, and then he went into a coughing fit that turned his face red and made the veins on the side of his neck bulge out. For a moment, Smoke was afraid he was going to go into a fit of apoplexy right in front of them and die before he could hear the case.
“This court will come to order,” Fitzpatrick said in a gravelly voice once he’d gotten control of his breath. He dropped his eyes to a sheet of paper in front of him and studied it.
After a moment, he looked up over the half-glasses perched on the end of his bulbous, vein-lined nose. “The sheriff has provided me with a telegram from a Mr. William Cornelius Van Horne, who is in charge of the Canadian Pacific Railroad. This telegram does say there was a train robbery in which many Pinkerton agents were killed and that you”—he cut his eyes to Smoke—“Mr. Jensen, and your companions were hired to apprehend the perpetrators of said robbery.”
Smoke turned his head and looked into Hammerick’s eyes, as if to say, “Got you.”
“However,” the judge went on in his deep voice, “the telegram does not state the name of any of the robbers, and the description given of the leader of said band of thieves could fit most any man here.”
“Your Honor,” Smoke said, standing up and addressing the judge.
“Yes, Mr. Jensen? You have a statement you’d like to make to the court?”
“Yes, sir,” Smoke answered. “Mr. Van Horne’s message doesn’t give a name because until we caught up with the robbers we did not know any of their names. However, there is a Pinkerton agent who can make a full identification of Mr. Hammerick here as the leader of the outlaws.”
Judge Fitzpatrick cleared his throat again and made a show of looking out at the courtroom over his spectacles. “And is this witness here in the court ready to make such an identification?” he asked. “If he is, let him come forward and be heard.”
“No, Your Honor,” Smoke said. “The Pinkerton agent, a Mr. Albert Knowles, was rather severely injured in the attack on the train, and will not be able to travel for several weeks at least.”
The judge pursed his lips and pretended to contemplate this turn of events. After a few moments, he spoke. “And you yourself and your companions were not witnesses to this alleged train robbery, and therefore cannot say with absolute certainty that Mr. Hammerick and his associates were the men who committed this dastardly crime?”
Smoke hesitated. This was not going well at all. Finally, he answered, “No, Your Honor, but—”
The judge banged his gavel on his desk, cutting Smoke off before he could explain. “Well, then.” The judge shook his head sadly, as if he were performing an arduous task against his will. “In that case, I see no alternative but to postpone this hearing until such time as this Mr. Knowles can be brought down here to make his identification.” The judge paused, and then he added, “I will reset the preliminary hearing for one month from today, at which time the circuit court judge and any necessary federal marshals can be present for the hearing.”
“But Your Honor—” Smoke again began.
The judge banged his gavel again. “The court has ruled,” he said quickly, staring at Smoke intently. Suddenly, the judge’s face paled and his eyes changed, as if seeing Smoke for the first time. He shook his head, got ponderously to his feet, and gathered his robes around him and disappeared through the door to his chambers with as much dignity as a man half-inebriated could manage.
The sheriff looked over at Smoke and shrugged his shoulders as he got to his feet and approached him. “I’m sorry about that, Jensen,” he said. “I’ll try to keep Hammerick and his men locked up until you can get your witness here, but I don’t know if
the judge will allow it. He may release them on bail until the time of the trial.”
Smoke just shook his head, his eyes boring into McCain’s. “Well, we can’t wait around here for a month, so I guess we’ll head on back to Canada and see what we can do about getting Mr. Knowles back here in time for the trial.”
“I think that would be best, Jensen,” Luke said. “And I’ll make sure that Hammerick and his men aren’t released until you’ve left town, just so there won’t be any . . . uh, altercations or disagreements.”
“But you will make sure they stay here in town until we get back, won’t you, Sheriff?” Louis asked suspiciously.
“Oh, I’m sure Judge Fitzpatrick will set bail high enough to insure they show up for the trial,” Luke said, smiling a completely insincere smile.
“I hope so, Sheriff,” Smoke said, his voice hard, “because as soon as we get back to Winnipeg, I’m going to make sure the governor of Minnesota as well as the U.S. marshals’ office is notified of what happened here today.”
“That’s certainly your right, Mr. Jensen,” the sheriff said, though there was an element of uncertainty and fear lurking behind his eyes at Smoke’s threat.
“And we’ll also make sure the Pinkertons know where to find the men who killed so many of their agents,” Louis added, staring at the sheriff. “And I’ll tell you one thing, Sheriff McCain, I sure as hell wouldn’t want to have the entire Pinkerton organization mad at me. Those boys are known to play rough, if you get my meaning.”
McCain looked nervously over his shoulder at Hammerick, and then he nodded his head. “I certainly do get your meaning, Mr. Longmont, and I’ll be sure to pass it along to the judge just as soon as I can.”
“Be sure that you do, Sheriff,” Louis said. He turned abruptly, and he and Smoke and the boys started to walk out of the courtroom. Then Louis stopped and turned. “Because if something happens and those men aren’t here to stand trial next month, I wouldn’t give even odds on a bet that you or the judge live to see the summer.”
As McCain started to protest this attitude, Louis smiled and held up his hand. “No threat, Sheriff, just stating the plain facts.”
As they saddled up their horses at the livery, Smoke said, “The more I see of this town, the more I can’t wait to leave it.”
Louis looked at him over his saddle. “You think the sheriff and judge are in cahoots with the outlaws?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t go that far yet,” Smoke answered. “But then again, I wouldn’t be too surprised to find out that was the case either.”
21
After Smoke and his men left their hotel and went to the livery to get their horses, Sheriff McCain followed them at a distance to make sure they left town, and to make sure they didn’t stop at the telegraph office to send any telegrams to the U.S. marshals’ office.
Once he was sure they were on their way, he stopped back by the jail and picked up Hammer, and they headed for the judge’s chambers to thank him for what he’d done in court.
When they entered, they found Judge Fitzpatrick leaning back in his chair, sipping from a glass of amber liquid, an almost empty bottle of bourbon on the desk in front of him. The judge’s eyes were unfocused, and his thoughts seemed to be a thousand miles away.
In spite of the fact that the judge was clearly well on the way to being drunk, he had a worried look on his face, and a small sheen of sweat covered his brow in spite of the coolness of the room.
“Hey, Judge,” Luke called as they took seats in front of his desk. “Why the frown? Everything went just as we’d planned it, and Jensen and his men have already left town.”
Fitzpatrick turned bloodshot, bleary eyes on the two men sitting in front of him. He gave a sad, half grin and sighed heavily. “Dear Luke, you have no idea what you’ve done, do you, dear boy,” he asked grimly.
“What do you mean, Judge?” Luke asked, plainly nonplussed by the judge’s attitude. He’d thought everything went extremely well in the courtroom and that by the time Jensen and his friends returned from Canada, it would all be over.
Fitzpatrick leaned forward and slowly refilled his glass from the bottle on his desk. Then he sat staring at the liquor as he slowly swirled it around in the glass. Finally, he looked up, and Luke had the irrational thought that the judge was about to cry, so mournful was his expression.
“Why didn’t you tell me one of the men we were going up against was Smoke Jensen?” he asked.
Luke shrugged. “I didn’t think it mattered who it was as long as you made sure the letter of the law was on our side,” he replied. And then, after a moment when the judge didn’t say anything, he added, “And I did tell you one of the men’s names was Jensen, don’t you remember?”
The judge nodded slowly. “Yes, but you didn’t say his first name was Smoke,” he said in a voice so low McCain could barely hear him.
McCain asked, “What does that matter, and just who is this Smoke Jensen anyway that he’s got you so spooked?”
The judge grinned again, but there was no mirth in his smile. McCain thought it had the appearance of the smile on a corpse that the undertaker fixes before a funeral.
“Let me tell you men a story,” the judge began, his eyes staring into his drink as if he might find some solace there, “and then maybe you’ll understand why I’m not jumping with joy about the fact that I took five thousand dollars to betray my robes.”
He hesitated and shook his head, “In fact, I doubt very seriously if I’ll live long enough to spend a tenth of it.”
McCain looked at Hammer and shrugged, wondering what was going on.
“What are you talking about, Judge Fitzpatrick?” Hammer asked. “This Jensen fellow is just another of those old coots they call mountain men that like to live up in the mountains and kill beaver and such for a living.”
Fitzpatrick snorted and downed his drink, immediately pouring himself another one. “You couldn’t be more wrong, Mr. Hammerick.” The judge leaned back and held his glass with both hands, resting it on his paunch as he slowly rocked in his swivel chair.
“Now, as I said, let me tell you a story, and then maybe you’ll understand.” He hesitated and stared at the ceiling for a moment, as if gathering his memories.
“Many years ago,” he began, “I was just out of law school and my first job was working in a small town in Idaho named Rico. It was mainly a mining camp, and I kept myself busy filing claims for miners and settling disputes over who filed first and elementary things like that. Then one day, two men drifted into town, one older and the other barely out of his teens. Their names were Preacher and Smoke Jensen. I was in a bar, just making conversation, and asked them why they’d come to Rico, since they didn’t look like miners. The young one, Smoke, said they were looking for the men who’d killed and robbed his brother and then killed his father when he went looking for them.”
The judge paused in his tale to take a sip of whiskey, and to take a cigar out of the wooden box on his desk and light it. And then, with smoke trailing from his nostrils, he continued. “Well, I didn’t have much to say to that since at that time Rico was plumb full of outlaws and brigands, and the old man named Preacher asked me where the nearest general store was. I told him we didn’t have a store, but there was a trading post down the street a ways and that I’d be glad to point it out to him.
“After a while, we finished our drinks and he and the young fellow got on their horses and rode down the street, me walking alongside to show them the way. When we got there, I pointed the place out to them and stopped to build myself a cigarette, and the damnedest thing happened . . .”
* * *
Smoke and Preacher dismounted in front of the combination trading post and saloon. As was his custom, Smoke slipped the thongs from the hammers of his Colts as soon as his boots hit dirt.
They had bought their supplies and turned to leave when the hum of conversation suddenly died. Two rough-dressed and unshaven men, both wearing guns, blocked the door.
Smoke laid his purchases on the counter. “I do,” he said quietly.
“Which way’d you ride in from?”
Preacher had slipped to his right, his left hand covering the hammer of his Henry, concealing the click as he thumbed it back.
Smoke faced the men, his right hand hanging loose by his side. His left hand was just inches from his left-hand gun. “Who wants to know—and why?”
No one in the dusty building moved or spoke.
“Pike’s my name,” the bigger and uglier of the pair said. “And I say you came through my diggin’s yesterday and stole my dust.”
“And I say you’re a liar,” Smoke told him.
Pike grinned nastily, his right hand hovering near the butt of his pistol. “Why . . . you little pup. I think I’ll shoot your ears off.”
“Why don’t you try? I’m tired of hearing you shoot your mouth off.”
Pike looked puzzled for a few seconds; bewilderment crossed his features. No one had ever talked to him in this manner. Pike was big, strong, and a bully. “I think I’ll just kill you for that.”
Pike and his partner reached for their guns.
Four shots boomed in the low-ceilinged room, four shots so closely spaced they seemed as one thunderous roar. Dust and bird droppings fell from the ceiling. Pike and his friend were slammed out the open doorway. One fell off the rough porch, dying in the dirt street. Pike, with two holes in his chest, died with his back against a support pole, his eyes still open, unbelieving. Neither had managed to pull a pistol more than halfway out of leather.
All eyes in the black-powder-filled and dusty, smoky room moved to the young man standing by the bar, a Colt in each hand. “Good God!” a man whispered in awe. “I never even seen him draw.”
Preacher moved the muzzle of his Henry to cover the men at the tables. The bartender put his hands slowly on the bar, indicating he wanted no trouble.