Smoke laughed. “People out here on the frontier have a more pragmatic way of looking at things, Cal. I guess they figure this is where most of the cattlemen stay when they come to town, and gambling and women and whiskey is what they want most after some months on the trail pushing a bunch of stubborn beeves to the market.”
They walked through huge double doors into a lobby that was two stories high, with marble floors and polished oak countertops, with heavy overstuffed chairs situated around the room for customers to lounge in as they read the Fort Worth Star, a local paper, and had their morning coffee.
“Jimminy,” Cal said, staring around at the room. “I ain’t never seen such in all my born days.”
Though Pearlie tried to look bored with it all, it was plain that he too was impressed with the establishment.
Smoke walked up to the desk and stood there, waiting for a man in a black coat and starched white shirt to wait on him. The man, a snooty expression on his face, glanced at them and then turned around, fooling with some papers on a rear desk and ignoring them completely.
After a minute, Smoke cleared his throat. When the man turned, giving him a disdainful glance, Smoke smiled. “How about this, mister? I jump over this counter, grab you by the neck, and choke you until you learn some manners.”
“Why . . . I never . . .” the man started to say, until Smoke made as if to climb up on the counter.
The man cleared his throat and warily approached the boys. “Yes, sir. May I help you?”
“Reservation for three in the name of Smoke Jensen,” Smoke said mildly.
The attendant’s eyes widened and he swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving convulsively. “Did you say Smoke Jensen?” he asked.
“Your hearing is evidently as poor as your manners,” Smoke answered, his eyes hardening.
“Uh . . . yes, sir, Mr. Jensen. I have a suite on the top floor. Three bedrooms around a large sitting area.”
He pushed a notebook toward Smoke, who took a quill pen from the ink pot and signed his name.
“Where are the baths?” he asked. “My partners and I’ve been on a train for most of a week and we’d like to get cleaned up.”
“The baths are right down the hall from your room. There is an attendant there to take care of any of your needs.”
Smoke bent to pick up his valise and then stopped, staring in the man’s eyes. “And just what is your name?” he asked.
“Why . . . uh . . . it’s Jason, sir.”
As Smoke started to leave, Jason asked, “Why would you want to know my name, Mr. Jensen?”
Smoke growled out of the side of his mouth without turning, “I always like to know the name of a man I may have to kill.”
Walking up the stairs, Cal and Pearlie burst out laughing. “Why did you say that, Smoke?” Pearlie asked around a grin.
Smoke shook his head. “I never could stand pomposity in a man, or ill manners. Maybe it’ll make him think twice before he looks down his nose at a customer just because they’re dressed in buckskins.”
* * *
Down the street, at another fine hotel in Fort Worth, the Durango Kid was registering at the front desk.
“And how many men will be staying?” the clerk asked.
Durango looked over his shoulder, eyeing Curly Bob Gatling, Rawhide Jack Cummings, and Three-Fingers Juan Gomez.
“There’ll be three of us, since I suppose you don’t allow Meskins to stay here,” the Kid answered.
Gomez’s eyes narrowed and his lips turned white. “What you mean by that, Kid?” he asked.
“No offense, Juan,” the Kid said, “but you’ll have to stay down the street over that cantina. This hotel is for whites only.”
Gomez stared at the Durango Kid for a moment, then muttered, “Bastardo” under his breath as he bent and picked up his gear. “I not forget this, Kid,” he called over his shoulder as he walked out the door.
The Kid spread his arms. “Hey, Three-Fingers, it’s not my rule.”
Curly Bob shook his head. “You shouldn’t ought’a done that, Kid,” he said.
“Hell, you want to stay in a place that’ll take a Meskin?” he asked. “If you do, head on down to the cantina. I’m sure they’ll let you share a room with Gomez.”
“That ain’t it, Kid,” Curly Bob said. “You know Three-Fingers don’t like to be called a Meskin. His momma was half-white.”
The Durango Kid smiled. “So he says. Anyhow, if he don’t like bein’ called a Meskin, maybe he ought’a ride with somebody else stead’a me.”
“All this jawin’ is makin’ me thirsty,” Rawhide Jack Cummings said. “How’s ’bout we head on over to a dog hole an’ git some whiskey an’ check out the women in this here town?”
“Sounds good to me,” Kid said. “Let’s dump our gear in our rooms an’ see what the local nightlife is like.”
On the way to a saloon, they stopped by the cantina at the end of Main Street and asked Gomez if he wanted to join them.
“You sure you want a Meskin to go with you?” he asked, a sarcastic tone to his voice.
“Aw, come on, Juan,” Kid said, trying to make amends. “You know I didn’t mean no disrespect. It’s just I didn’t want any trouble at the hotel.”
“All right,” Gomez said grudgingly, “let us go get drunk and forget about it.”
“Now you’re talkin’, podna,” Curly Bob said, throwing his arm around Gomez’s shoulders and leading him down the street toward the array of saloons and whorehouses on the block.
6
Smoke and Cal and Pearlie finished dinner at the Cattleman’s Hotel, Pearlie topping his meal of steak and potatoes and canned peaches with a thick slice of apple pie covered with a slab of cheese.
“You think you can still walk after all that food?” Smoke asked.
Pearlie smiled as he wiped a piece of cheese off his chin. “Sure. This little snack was probably enough to get me through the night too.”
“Smoke,” Cal said.
“Yeah?”
“How about you takin’ us out to see the sights? I ain’t never been in no big-city saloon or gamblin’ halls before.”
Smoke pursed his lips. “I don’t know, Cal. Sally’d kill me if she thought I was leading you young’uns astray.”
“Heck-fire, Smoke,” Pearlie interrupted. “What Miss Sally don’t know won’t hurt her none.”
Smoke laughed. “You mean, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt me none.”
“Please, Smoke. I don’t know when I’ll ever get another chance like this,” Cal pleaded.
Smoke held up his hands. “All right, but only on one condition.”
“Anything!” Cal said, his eyes lighting up at his chance to see the town.
“You boys have got to promise me you won’t do any gambling, no matter how much you want to.”
“Why, that’s easy, Smoke. You done won all our money on the train,” Pearlie said, a mischievous look in his eyes.
Smoke took a wad of bills out of his pocket and doled it out to Cal and Pearlie. “You know I wasn’t going to keep this, didn’t you, Pearlie?”
Pearlie shrugged. “Well, let’s just say I hoped you weren’t.”
Smoke threw some money down on the table and grabbed his hat. “Well, boys, I guess it’s time to further your education, though not in a way Sally would approve of.”
He stood up. “Let’s go see what Hell’s Half Acre has to offer.”
* * *
The Durango Kid, Curly Bob Gatling, Rawhide Jack Cummings, and Three-Fingers Juan Gomez entered the Silver Dollar Saloon, pushing through the batwings and strutting into the place as if they owned it. They were more than a little drunk, this being the third bar they’d visited.
The Kid walked up to a table occupied by a couple of cowboys, who also were well into their cups and had two rather buxom ladies of the night sitting with them.
Kid stepped in front of the younger of the two and laid his hand on the butt of his pistol. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I think you’
re sittin’ at our table.”
The young man glanced up at Kid with bleary eyes. “What the hell you talkin’ ’bout, mister? We been here all night.”
Gomez stepped around the table to stand behind the cowboy, slipping his Colt Navy out of his holster and holding it where no one could see, the barrel against the boy’s backbone. “I don’t think you heard my pardner. You at our table, gringo!” he growled in a low voice.
The other man at the table started to get up, until Rawhide Jack put his hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down in his chair. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, podna,” he whispered in his whiskey-rough voice, his eyes glittering madly.
“Come on, Jake,” the first man said, his face pale with fear. “I think we’ve had enough for one night.”
Jake glanced at the four men standing over them. “Yeah, there’s plenty of other places we can spend our money.”
As the two men got up to leave, one of the girls whined, “Hey, fellahs, what about us?”
Kid bent down and stroked her cheek with his hand, a leer on his face. “Don’t you worry none, pretty lady. We’ll take good care of you.”
Mollified somewhat, she glanced at her friend across the table and shrugged. “Hell, any port in a storm, I always say.”
“What’re you girls drinkin’?” asked Rawhide Jack.
“Whiskey. What else?” one answered.
Kid pulled out a wad of bills and handed it to her. “Then why don’t you mosey on over to the bar an’ get us a bottle or two an’ some glasses, honey?”
After the women left, the men took seats around the table, sitting so they could see the rest of the room. Life on the owl-hoot trail had taught them to be cautious in new towns.
Curly Bob scratched his chin. “How much money you think we’re gonna git for them beeves we got stashed in that corral ’cross town, Kid?”
Kid looked at the many cowmen in the room, all spending money as if it grew on trees. “I figure we’ll get ’bout eleven thousand dollars, give or take.”
“What’s that apiece?” Rawhide Jack asked. “I never was too good at doing sums.”
“That’ll be three thousand for you and Curly Bob and me, an’ two thousand for Three-Fingers,” Kid answered as he pulled a small cloth sack out of his pocket and began to build himself a cigarette.
Juan Gomez’s eyes widened. “Why for I only get two thousand, Kid?”
Kid cut his eyes at the Mexican. “’Cause you didn’t help much with the brandin’ on the way down here, Juanito.”
Gomez’s face flushed red. He held up his left hand with only three fingers on it. “You know I cannot use running iron with this hand,” he snapped.
Kid shrugged. “That ain’t my problem, Three-Fingers. I only know we three did most of the work on the trail down here, so it stands to reason we get most of the money.”
Gomez started to stand up out of his chair, his hand falling toward his Navy pistol. “Why, you son of a . . .”
He stopped when Kid’s Colt Army appeared from under the table, pointed at his gullet. “Now don’t go gettin’ that Meskin temper of yours all fired up, Juan. I’m still the ramrod of this outfit, an’ if I say you get two thousand, you get two thousand. Comprende, compadre?”
Gomez stared at the pistol in Kid’s hand for a moment, as if he were going to draw anyway, but the flat, hard look in Kid’s eyes told him he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him dead if he tried.
Finally, he sat back down, his hands on the table, his eyes glittering hate. “We will see, Señor Kid, we will see,” he whispered through a voice tight with anger.
Rawhide Jack slapped Gomez on the shoulder. “Come on, Juan. Lighten up an’ enjoy the night. We don’t get to a town like this very often.”
“Yeah, podna, take it easy,” Curly Bob said. “Hell, we may get more’n eleven thousand for them beeves anyway.”
The conversation stopped as the two whores returned to the table, both carrying bottles of whiskey with no labels on them.
“You boys ready to party?” one asked.
Kid eased the hammer down on his Colt and slipped it in his holster. “Hell, yes!” he shouted, grabbing one of the girls and pulling her onto his lap.
None of the Kid’s men noticed two men sitting across the room at a table by themselves, drinking beer and watching their every move.
* * *
Smoke and Cal and Pearlie ambled down Main Street, trying to make a choice of the many saloons they passed. As they came to the Silver Dollar, Cal, who was getting impatient to see the inside of a big city saloon, said, “How ’bout this one, Smoke?”
Smoke shrugged. “One’s about as good as another,” he answered, leading the way through the batwings.
Smoke stepped to the side as he entered, his back to the wall as he surveyed the room and let his eyes get accustomed to the smoky light after the darkness of the street. He’d been too many years looking over his shoulder for someone trying to make a name for himself by killing the famous Smoke Jensen not to be overly cautious when entering barrooms.
As his eyes roamed over the patrons, he noticed Heck Thomas and Bill Tilghman sitting at a corner table to his left. The two men didn’t see him enter, their attention being on someone else at the other end of the room.
Pearlie noticed the two marshals also. “Hey, Smoke. There’s them two lawmen who braced us in Fort Smith. Wonder what they’re doin’ here.”
“Me too, Pearlie. It sure doesn’t look like they’re having much fun, does it?”
Cal brushed past Smoke and Pearlie. “There’s a table over yonder, Smoke,” he said, as two men at a table off to the right got up from their chairs and walked toward the stairs with a couple of women on their arms.
“Let’s get it,” Smoke said, glad the table was across the room from the lawmen. He didn’t want to have to put up with any more questions from them tonight.
They took their seats at a table next to four men who were entertaining two women, and who evidently were feeling no pain, for there were two empty whiskey bottles on the table and they were starting on a third.
As they sat down, one of the men at the table next to them glanced over at Smoke and grinned drunkenly. Smoke smiled back and tipped his hat.
Pearlie got up and walked to the bar, returning after a few minutes with a small bottle of whiskey and a pitcher of beer.
“Who’s the beer for, Pearlie?” Cal asked, reaching for the whiskey.
Pearlie slapped his hand. “It’s for young pups who aren’t old enough to be drinkin’ whiskey, Cal.”
“Hell. A man old enough to get shot ought’a be old enough to drink whiskey if ’n he wants to,” Cal protested.
“Speakin’ of that,” Pearlie said as he poured himself and Smoke a small drink, “you ain’t been shot in over a month. That ought’a be a record for you.”
Cal took a drink of his beer, sleeving the foam off his lips with the back of his arm. “I wouldn’t want’a talk too much ’bout that, Pearlie. As I remember it, you were the last one in this group to take a bullet.”
Pearlie rubbed his side, a rueful expression on his face. “Don’t remind me. It still hurts when the weather changes.”
Smoke leaned back in his chair, thinking about how Pearlie had gotten shot, and how close he’d come to losing his friend . . .
* * *
Jim Slaughter was in the process of folding up his ground blanket and sleeping bag when he heard what sounded like hoofbeats coming from the mountain slope on the east side of the camp.
He straightened up, his hand going to the butt of his pistol, and looked toward the sound. He could see nothing through the heavy morning mist, which hung close to the ground like dense fog. Though the sun was peeking over the horizon, it shed little warmth and even less light through the haze.
He glanced over his shoulder toward the campfire, and saw that most of his men were still milling around, grabbing biscuits and beans and coffee, most of them still half-asleep at this early hour.
Damn, he thought, we’re easy targets out here with no sentries left to stand guard. “Whitey,” he called, pulling his pistol and grabbing his rifle from his saddle boot on the ground.
“Yeah, Boss?” Whitey answered from over near the fire.
Before he could reply, four shapes materialized out of the fog like crazed ghosts on a fierce rampage, orange blossoms of flame exploding from the guns they held in their hands.
Their faces were covered with bandannas and their hats were pulled low over their faces as they rode straight into the knot of men around the campfire, shooting as fast as they could pull the triggers.
David Payne, a gunny from Missouri who’d ridden with Quantrill’s Raiders, drew his pistol and got off one shot before a bullet took him in the throat and flung him backward into the fire, scattering embers and ashes into the air.
Jim Harris, a tough from Texas who’d fought in the Lincoln County War, had his gun half out of his holster when two slugs tore through his chest, blowing blood and pieces of lung on the men next to him. He only had time for a surprised grunt before he hit the ground, dead.
Slaughter’s men scattered as fast as their legs could carry them, some diving to the ground, others trying to hide behind trees or saddles on the ground as the marauders galloped through camp.
An ex-Indian scout called Joe Scarface managed to get his rifle cocked, and was aiming it at one of the riders when an explosion from the direction of the mountainside was followed immediately by a large-caliber bullet plowing into his back between his shoulder blades, which lifted him off the ground like a giant hand and threw him face-down in the dirt, a hole you could put your fist through in his chest.
“Goddamn!” Slaughter yelled, glancing over his shoulder. They were under attack from all sides, it seemed. He dove to the ground behind his saddle as one of the riders, a big man with broad shoulders on a big, roan-colored horse with snow-white hips, rode right at him.
Slaughter buried his face in the soft loam of the ground, and felt rather than saw the bullets from the big man’s pistols tear into his saddle and the ground around him as the giant Palouse jumped over him. Miraculously, he was not hit.
“Shit!” he said, spitting dirt and leaves out of his mouth. He recognized that horse. It was the one Johnny West had been riding in Jackson Hole. So he was one of the bastards who’d been killing his men all along, he realized. The son of a bitch had played him for a fool.
Justice of the Mountain Man Page 4