Revenge of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Yes, sir,” the so-called sheriff said.

  An old whiskey-breathed and unshaven man checked Smoke’s hand and pronounced it unbroken.

  Smoke turned to Rex Davidson. “I am sorry about this incident, sir. I came in peace. I will leave others alone if they do the same for me.”

  Davidson looked first at the unconscious Brute, then at Smoke. “You start drawing me first thing in the morning. Sheriff Danvers?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “When Brute comes out of it, advise him I said to leave Mr. DeBeers alone. Tell him he may practice his sickening perversions on the slaves, but not on paying guests.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He once more looked at Smoke. “Breakfast at my house. Eight o’clock in the morning. Be there.”

  “Yes, sir,” Smoke replied, and did not add the “Majesty” bit.

  * * *

  “Does this place offend your delicate sensibilities, Mr. DeBeers?” Davidson asked.

  “Since you inquired, yes, it does.”

  It was after breakfast, and Davidson was posing for the first of many drawings.

  “Why, Mr. DeBeers?” For some reason, Davidson had dropped the “Jester” bit.

  “Because of the barbarous way those unfortunate people at the edge of town are treated. That’s the main reason.”

  “I see. Interesting. But in England, Mr. DeBeers, drawing and quartering people in public was only stopped a few years ago. And is not England supposed to be the bastion of civilized law and order . . . more or less?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “Well, this is still a young country, so it’s going to take us a while to catch up.”

  What an idiotic rationalization, Smoke thought. Louis Longmont would be appalled. “Yes, sir, I suppose you’re right.”

  “Don’t pander to me, Mr. DeBeers. You most certainly do not think I am right.”

  “But when I do speak my mind, I get slapped or struck down.”

  “Only in public, Mr. DeBeers. When we are alone, you may speak your mind.”

  “Thank you, sir. In that case, I find this entire community the most appalling nest of human filth I have ever had the misfortune to encounter!”

  Davidson threw back his head and laughed. “Of course, you do! But after a time, one becomes accustomed to it. You’ll see.”

  “I don’t plan on staying that long, sir.” Smoke looked at King Rex, checking for any signs of annoyance. He could see none.

  Instead, the man only smiled. “Why would you want to leave here?”

  Smoke stopped sketching for a moment, to see if the man was really serious. He was. “To continue on with my journey, sir. To visit and sketch the West.”

  “Ah! But you have some of the most beautiful scenery in the world right around you. Plus many of the most famous outlaws and gunfighters in the West. You could spend a lifetime here and not sketch it all, could you not?”

  “That is true, but two of the people I want to meet and sketch are not here.”

  “Oh? And who might those be?”

  “The mountain man, Preacher, and the gunfighter, Smoke Jensen.”

  The only sign of emotion from the man was a nervous tic under his right eye. “Then you should wait here, Mr. DeBeers, for I believe Jensen is on his way.”

  “Oh, really, sir! Then I certainly shall wait. Oh, I’m so excited.”

  “Control yourself, Shirley.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Sorry. Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Getting back to this place . . . The west, from what I have been able to see, is changing almost daily. Settling. Surely this town is known for what it really is?”

  Davidson met his eyes. “So?”

  “Do you think this will go on forever and ever? As the town becomes known outside of this immediate area, the citizens will eventually grow weary of it and demand that the Army storm the place.”

  “Ummm. Yes, you’re probably right. And I have given that much thought of late. But, young man,”—he smiled and held up a finger, breaking his pose—“this town has been here for twenty years and still going. How do you account for that?”

  “Well, when you first came here, I suppose there were no others towns nearby. Now all that has changed. Civilization is all around you and closing in. That, sir, is why I wanted to come west now, before the wild West is finally tamed.”

  “Ummm. Well, you are a thinking man, Mr. DeBeers, and I like that. There is so little intellectual stimulation to be found around here.” He abruptly stood up. “I am weary of posing.” He walked around to look at the sketch. “Good. Very good. Excellent, as a matter of fact. I thought it would be. I have arranged for you to take your meals at the Bon Ton Café. I will want at least a hundred of your sketches of me. Some with an outside setting. When that is done, to my satisfaction, then you may leave. Good day, Mr. DeBeers.”

  Gathering up his pencils and sketch pads, Smoke left the house, which was situated on a flat that sat slightly above the town, allowing Rex a commanding view. As he walked back to his tent, Smoke pondered his situation. Surely, Rex Davidson was insane; but if he was, would that not make all the others in this place mad as well?

  And Smoke did not believe that for a moment. More than likely, Davidson and Dagget and all the others who voluntarily resided in Dead River were not insane. Perhaps they were just the personification of evil, and the place was a human snake pit.

  He chose that explanation. Already, people who had committed the most terrible of crimes were saying they were not responsible for their actions because they had been crazy, at the time, before the time, whatever. And courts, mostly back east in the big cities, were accepting that more and more, allowing guilty people to be set free without punishment. Smoke did not doubt for one minute that there were people who were truly insane and could not help their actions.

  But he also felt that those types were in the minority of cases; the rest were shamming. If a person were truly crazy, Smoke did not believe that malady could be turned off and on like a valve. If a person were truly insane, they would perform irrational acts on a steady basis, not just whenever the mood struck them.

  He knew for an ironclad fact that many criminals were of a high intelligence, and that many were convincing actors and actresses. Certainly smart enough to fool this new thing he’d heard about called psychiatry. Smoke Jensen was a straight-ahead, right-was-right and wrong-was-wrong man, with damn little gray in between. You didn’t lie, you didn’t cheat, you didn’t steal, and you treated your neighbor like you would want to be treated.

  And if you didn’t subscribe to that philosophy, you best get clear of men like Smoke Jensen.

  As for the scum and filth and perverts in this town of Dead River, Smoke felt he had the cure for what ailed them.

  The pills were made of lead.

  And the doctor’s name was Smoke Jensen.

  11

  For one hour each day, Smoke sketched Rex Davidson; the rest of the time was his to spend as he pleased. He took his meals at the Bon Ton—the man who owned the place was wanted for murder back in Illinois, having killed several people by poisoning them—and spent the rest of his time wandering the town, sketching this and that and picking up quite a bit of money by drawing the outlaws who came and went. He made friends with none of them, having found no one whom he felt possessed any qualities that he wished to share. Although he felt sure there must be one or two in the town who could be saved from a life of crime with just a little bit of help.

  Smoke put that out of his mind and, for the most part, kept it out. He wanted nothing on his conscience when the lead started flying.

  He was not physically bothered by any outlaw. But the taunts and insults continued from many of the men and from a lot of the women who chose to live in the town. Smoke would smile and tip his cap at them, but if they could have read his thoughts, they would have grabbed the nearest horse and gotten the hell out of Dead River.

  Brute saw Smoke several times a day but
refused to speak to him. He would only grin nastily and make the most obscene gestures.

  Smoke saw the three who had shoved him around in Trinidad—Jake, Shorty, and Red—but they paid him no mind.

  What did worry Smoke was that the town seemed to be filling up with outlaws. Many more were coming in, and damn few were leaving.

  They were not all famous gunfighters and famous outlaws, of course. As a matter of fact, many were no more than two-bit punks who had gotten caught in the act of whatever crimes they were committing and, in a dark moment of fear and fury, had killed when surprised. But that did not make them any less guilty in Smoke’s mind. And then as criminals are prone to do, they grabbed a horse or an empty boxcar and ran, eventually joining up with a gang.

  It was the gang leaders and lone-wolf hired guns who worried Smoke the most. For here in Dead River were the worst of the lot of bad ones in a three state area.

  LaHogue, called the Hog behind his back, and his gang of cutthroats lived in Dead River. Natick and his bunch were in town, as was the Studs Woodenhouse gang and Bill Wilson’s bunch of crap. And just that morning, Paul Rycroft and Slim Bothwell and their men had ridden in.

  The place was filling up with hardcases.

  And to make matters worse, Smoke knew a lot of the men who were coming in. He had never ridden any hoot-owl trails with any of them, but their paths had crossed now and then. The West was a large place but relatively small in population, so people who roamed were apt to meet, now and then.

  Cat Ventura and the Hog had both given Smoke some curious glances and not just one look but several, and that made Smoke uneasy. He wanted desperately to check to see if his guns were behind the privy. But he knew it would only bring unnecessary attention to himself, and that was something he could do without. He had stayed alive so far by playing the part of a foolish fop and by maintaining a very high visibility. And with only a few days to go, he did not want to break that routine. He spent the rest of the day sketching various outlaws—picking up about a hundred dollars doing so—and checking out the town of Dead River. But there was not that much more to be learned about the place. Since he was loosely watched every waking moment, Smoke had had very little opportunity to do much exploring.

  He was sitting before his small fire that evening, enjoying a final cup of coffee before rolling up in his blankets, for the nights were very cool this high up in the mountains, when he heard spurs jingling, coming toward him. He waited, curious, for up to this point he had been left strictly alone.

  “Hello, the fire!” the voice came out of the campfire-lit gloom.

  “If you’re friendly, come on in,” Smoke called. “I will share my coffee with you.”

  “Nice of you.” A young man, fresh-faced with youth, perhaps twenty years old at the most and wearing a grin, walked up and squatted down, pouring a tin cup full of dark, strong cowboy coffee. He glanced over the hat-sized fire at Smoke, his eyes twinkling with good humor.

  He’s out of place, Smoke accurately pegged the young cowboy. He’s not an outlaw. There was just something about the young man; something clean and vital and open. That little intangible that set the innocent apart from the lawless.

  “My first time to this place,” the young man said. “It’s quite a sight to see, ain’t it?”

  Smoke had noticed that the cowboy wore his six-gun low and tied down, and the gun seemed to be a living extension of the man.

  He knows how to use it, Smoke thought. “It is all of that, young man, to be sure.”

  “Name’s York.”

  “Shirley DeBeers.”

  York almost spilled his coffee down his shirtfront at that. He lifted his eyes. “You funnin’ me?”

  Smoke smiled at his expression. “Actually, no. It’s a fine old family name. Is York your first or last name?” he inquired, knowing that it was not a question one asked in the West.

  York looked at him closely. “You new out here, ain’t you?”

  “Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I am. How did you know that Mr. York?”

  The cowboy’s smile was quick. “Just a guess. And it’s just York.”

  “Very well.” Smoke noticed that the young man’s eyes kept drifting to the pan of bacon and bread he had fixed for his supper. There were a few strips of bacon left, and about half a loaf of bread. “If you’re hungry, please help yourself. I have eaten my fill and I hate to throw away good food.”

  “Thanks,” York said quickly and with a grin. “That’s right big of you. You don’t never have to worry ’bout tossin’ out no food when I’m around.” He fixed a huge sandwich and then used another piece of bread to sop up the grease in the pan.

  Smoke guessed he had not eaten in several days.

  When York had finished and not a crumb was left, he settled back and poured another cup of coffee. Smoke tossed him a sack of tobacco and papers.

  York caught the sack and rolled and lit. “Thanks. That was good grub. Hit the spot, let me tell you. Anything I can do for you, you just let me know. Most”—he cut his eyes suspiciously—“most of the hombres around here wouldn’t give a man the time of day if they had a watch in every pocket. Sorry bastards.”

  “I agree with you. But you be careful where you say things like that, York.”

  York nodded his agreement. “Ain’t that the truth. Say, you don’t neither talk like nor look like a man that’s on the dodge, DeBeers.”

  “On the dodge?” Smoke kept up his act. “Oh! Yes, I see what you mean now. Oh, no. I can assure you, I am not wanted by the authorities.”

  York studied him across the small fire, confusion on his young face. “Then . . . what in the hell are you doin’ in a place like this?”

  “Working. Sketching the West and some of its most infamous people. Mr. Davidson was kind enough to give me sanctuary and the run of the place.”

  “And you believed him?”

  Smoke only smiled.

  “Yeah. You might look sorta silly—and I don’t mean no o-fence by that, it’s just that you dress different—but I got a hunch you ain’t dumb.”

  “Thank you.” Smoke was not going to fall into any verbal traps, not knowing if York was a plant to sound him out.

  The cowboy sipped his coffee and smoked for a moment. “You really come in here without havin’ to, huh?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Weird. But,” he shrugged, “I reckon you have your reasons. Me, now, I didn’t have no choice at all in the matter.”

  “We all have choices, young man. But sometimes they are disguised and hard to make.”

  “Whatever that means. Anyways, I’m on the hard dodge, I am.”

  He tried to sound proud about that statement, but to Smoke, it came across flat and with a definite note of sadness.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, York. Is it too personal to talk about?”

  “Naw. I killed a man in Utah.”

  Smoke studied him. “You don’t sound like a man who would cold-bloodedly kill another man.”

  “Huh? Oh, no. It wasn’t nothin’ like that. It was a stand-up-and-face-him-down fight. But the law didn’t see it thataway. I guess near’bouts all these people in this lousy town would claim they was framed, but I really was.” He poured another cup of coffee and settled back against a stump, apparently anxious to talk and have somebody hear him out. “You see, I bought a horse from this feller. It was a good horse for fifty dollars. Too good, as it turned out. I had me a bill of sale and all that. Then these folks come ridin’ up to me about a week later and claimed I stole the horse. They had ’em a rope all ready to stretch my neck. I showed ’em my bill of sale and that backed ’em down some. But they was still gonna take the horse and leave me afoot in the Uintahs. Well, I told ’em that they wasn’t gonna do no such a thing. I told ’em that if the horse was rightfully theirs, well, I was wrong and they was right. But let me get to a town ’fore they took the horse; don’t leave me in the big middle of nowheres on foot.”

  He sighed and took a swal
low of coffee. “They allowed as to how I could just by God walk out of there. I told them they’d better drag iron if that’s what they had in mind, ’cause I damn sure wasn’t gonna hoof it outta there.

  “Well, they dragged iron, but I was quicker. I kilt one and put lead in the other. The third one, he turned yeller and run off.

  “I got the hell outta there and drifted. Then I learned that I had a murder charge hangin’ over my head. That third man who run off? He told a pack of lies about what really happened.

  “Well, bounty hunters come up on me about two or three months later. I buried one of them and toted the other one into a little town to the doc’s office. The marshal, he come up all blustered-up and I told him what happened and added that if he didn’t like my version of it, he could just clear leather and we’d settle it that way.”

  He grinned boyishly. “The marshal didn’t like it, and I’ll admit I had my back up some. But he liked livin’ moreun gunfightin’. So I drifted on and things just kept gettin’ worser and worser. I couldn’t get no job ’cause of them posters out on me. I heard about this place and sort of drifted in. I ain’t no outlaw, but I don’t know what else to do with all them charges hangin’ over my head.”

  Smoke thought on it. He believed the young man; believed him to be leveling as to the facts of it all. “Might I make a suggestion?”

  “You shore could. I’d rather live in hell with rattlesnakes than in heaven with this bunch around here.”

  Smoke couldn’t help it. He laughed at the young man’s expression. “York, why don’t you just change your name and drift. And by the way, do you still have the horse in question?”

  “Naw. I turned him loose and caught me up a wild horse and broke him. He’s a good horse.”

  “Well then, York, drift. Change your name and drift. Chances are that you’ll never be caught.”

  “I thought of that. But damn it, DeBeers, I ain’t done nothin’ wrong. At least, not yet. And York is my family name. By God, I’m gonna stick with it. I’m doin’ some thinkin’ ’bout linkin’ up with Slim Bothwell’s bunch. They asked me to. I guess I ain’t got no choice. I don’t wanna hurt nobody or steal nothin’ from nobody. But, hell, I gotta eat!”