Justice of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Whitey Jones ran for his saddle, hunched over, expecting a bullet in his back the whole way. As he bent to grab his Greener shotgun, one of the raiders rode by, his pistol pointing at the albino.

  Whitey whirled, pointing his express gun just as the rider fired. The bullet grazed Whitey’s cheek and tore a chunk out of his left ear, spinning him around and snapping his head back, blood spurting into his eyes and blinding him momentarily.

  Zeke Mayhew, one of the men who’d joined Slaughter’s gang in Jackson Hole, snapped off two quick shots, and saw one of the riders flinch as one of his slugs hit home. He grinned and eared back the hammers for another shot as the man he’d hit leaned to the side and fired point-blank into his face. Mayhew’s head exploded in a fine, red mist as the .44-caliber bullet blew his brains into his hat.

  Two more explosions from the distant mountainside sent two more men to the ground, one dead and one with his left arm left dangling from a shattered bone. Milt Burnett screamed in pain as he grabbed his flopping arm and went to his knees, just as a gray and white Palouse rode directly over him, its hooves pounding his chest to pulp. He died choking on bloody froth from a ruptured lung.

  Whitey sleeved blood out of his eyes and rolled onto his stomach, pointing his ten-gauge at the back of a raider and letting go with both barrels. Just as he fired, Ben Brown, one of the men who’d been with Slaughter for several years, stepped between them, his arm outstretched as he aimed his pistol.

  Whitey’s double load of buckshot hit Brown square in the back, blowing him almost in half as he spun around, dead before he hit the ground.

  Swede, too far from his saddle to get his gun, pulled his long knife out and stood there, waiting as a rider rode down on him. He bared his teeth and screamed a defiant yell, holding the knife out in front of him.

  The rider’s eyes grew wide as he saw the man had no gun, and he held his fire, lashing out with his leg and catching Swede in the mouth with a pointed boot as he raced by, knocking out several of his teeth and putting out the man’s lights as his head snapped back and he somersaulted backward, unconscious.

  Jimmy Silber, thoughts of his thousand-dollar bonus still in his mind, fired pistols with both hands, crouched near the fire. When his guns were empty, he bent over to punch out his empties, but a sound made him turn his head.

  He looked up just as a young man on a gray horse rode toward him. The last thing Jimmy saw was a tongue of orange from the man’s pistol as the slug tore the left side of his face off and left him standing there, dead on his feet.4

  * * *

  Smoke shook his head at the memories, grinning to himself when he thought of how the boys had teased each other about the incident, even though both had been as close to death as it is possible to be . . .

  * * *

  As Smoke led his friends toward Big Rock, Louis twisted in his saddle and spoke to Pearlie, riding behind him. “How are you doing with that wound? Is it showing any signs or symptoms of suppuration?”

  Pearlie stretched his neck and moved his left arm around in a circle to see if there was any pain or soreness. He’d taken a bullet that skimmed along the skin over his his left shoulder blade, burning a furrow half an inch deep but not penetrating any deeper. Though the wound wasn’t serious, Smoke and the others were worried about infection.

  “No, Louis, it seems to be healin’ up right nice. A tad stiff, but no more’n you’d expect.”

  As he spoke, Pearlie noticed Cal had a wide grin on his face.

  “What’a you find so funny, Cal?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Oh, a thought just sort’a occurred to me,” the boy answered.

  “Since when did you start thinkin’, Cal?” Pearlie asked. “You ain’t got a brain in that empty head of your’n.”

  “Well, it just seemed kind’a funny to me,” he answered. “The four of us rode through them outlaws, guns blazin’ and goin’ off all around us, an’ you the onliest one got shot.”

  “So?”

  “So . . . maybe I ain’t the only lead magnet around now. It might just be that you’re gonna take my place as the one always seems to take a bullet ever’ time we git in a fight.”

  Smoke and Louis looked at each other, smiling. It was good to see the boys back to normal, bitching and arguing with each other as only the best of friends could.

  “I don’t see it that way, Cal,” Pearlie said.

  “Why not?”

  “Way I see it, this here bullet I took was probably headed for you, sure as hell, an’ I just sort’a got in the way.”

  “You sayin’ you took lead that was meant for me?”

  Pearlie nodded. “Yeah, so that means you owe me for savin’ you the misery of gittin’ shot again.”

  Cal stared at Pearlie through narrowed eyes. “If ’n that’s so, an’ I ain’t sayin’ it is, mind you, I bet I know what you think I ought’a give you for savin’ me.”

  “What’s that, Cal?”

  “I bet lettin’ you have my share of the first batch of bear sign Miss Sally makes when we git home would square things.”

  Pearlie pursed his lips as he considered this. “Well, now, that just might make things right between us.”

  Cal shook his head, grinning. “Forgit it, Pearlie. I been thinkin’ on those bear sign for the past hundred miles. The worst thing ’bout bein’ away from home all these weeks has been missin’ Miss Sally’s cookin’, so you ain’t gittin’ none of my bear sign, no, sirree!”5

  * * *

  Cal looked up from making himself a cigarette and saw the distant look in Smoke’s eyes and the slight grin on his face. “What you thinkin’ ’bout so hard, Smoke?” he asked, licking the paper and trying to roll the cigarette as expertly as Pearlie did.

  Smoke came out of his reverie and shook his head. “Just thinking on how glad I am to be here with you boys,” he answered.

  “Well, if you’re so glad to be with us,” Pearlie said, “how about takin’ a drink or two of whiskey and joinin’ in the fun?”

  Smoke picked up his glass and held it up. “Don’t mind if I do. Here’s to us, boys, let’s let her rip!”

  7

  As the evening wore on, Cal and Pearlie became more and more excited by the activities of the saloon, especially the women who were constantly approaching the table and asking if the boys would like to buy them a drink.

  Finally, Smoke realized his presence was inhibiting Cal and Pearlie from having a good time. “Boys,” he said, “I think I’ll just mosey on back to the hotel and give you some space to maybe do some entertaining on your own.”

  Cal and Pearlie glanced at one another. Then Pearlie grinned. “All right, Boss Man. We’ll see ya bright an’ early in the morning to see ’bout gettin’ them beeves.”

  As Pearlie said this, the man at the next table cocked an ear. He leaned over the back of his chair and said, “Did I hear you men were interested in buying some livestock?”

  Smoke glanced at him, immediately realizing this was no regular cowboy, and he very much doubted he was a rancher either. He wore clothes that were too fancy and had his pistol tied down low on his leg, more in the manner of a gunny than a cowman.

  Smoke nodded, however, not wanting to be rude, especially to a man who looked half drunk. “Yes. We’re in the market for some bulls. Why do you ask?”

  “Well,” the stranger said, rubbing his chin, “I got some prime beef on the hoof down at one of the corrals on the edge of town. Don’t rightly know how many bulls there are in the bunch, but I’d be happy for you to take a look an’ see if they interest you.”

  Smoke considered this for a moment, then said, “I assume you’ve got a bill of sale for the animals.”

  The man’s face darkened and he got up from his chair. “Why’d you ask a damn-fool question like that, mister? You implyin’ I’m a rustler?”

  As he spoke, the man let his hand fall to his pistol butt.

  Smoke gently unhooked the hammer-thong off his Colt and stood and faced the man. “I don�
�t know what you are, mister. All I know is you asked me if I wanted to buy some cattle and I asked you if you had a bill of sale. If that bothers you, it’s just too damned bad, ’cause it means you’re either a poor businessman, or a thief, and in either event I don’t think I’d care to do business with you.”

  “Do you know who you’re talkin’ like that to, mister?” the man asked.

  “No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” Smoke answered. “Loudmouths always seem to think they’re more important than they are.”

  “I’m the Durango Kid,” Kid said, his jaw thrust out belligerently, “an’ I aim to kill you for talkin’ to me like that.”

  “You make a move toward that smoke wagon, and you’ll be dead before you clear leather,” Smoke said calmly, his eyes flat and deadly.

  The threat in them must have given Kid some warning, because he asked, “Just who are you, mister?”

  “I’m Smoke Jensen.”

  “Holy shit,” Rawhide Jack Cummings said from behind Kid. “You don’t wanna mess with Smoke Jensen, Kid. I hear tell he’s faster’n greased lightning.”

  “To hell with him,” Kid growled, glancing over his shoulder at his friends, as if to make sure they were backing his play. “I’ll kill him where he stands.”

  Smoke gave a lazy grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “You want to tell me your real name, or do you want Durango Kid on your marker on boot hill?” he asked.

  An uncertain look crossed Kid’s face. He’d never met anyone he couldn’t intimidate before, and he suddenly became concerned that just maybe he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

  Cal and Pearlie, still sitting at the table, had their hands on their pistol butts, not to protect Smoke from Kid, because they knew he could handle the gun slick, but to guard against Smoke being shot in the back by one of Kid’s friends.

  Three-Fingers Gomez stepped up to whisper in Kid’s ear, “Maybe you better take this outside, Kid. Fewer witnesses.”

  Kid thought for a moment, then turned and sat back down at his table, saying, “I’m not through with you yet, Jensen.”

  Smoke shook his head. He looked down at Cal and Pearlie. “You boys be careful, and I’ll see you back at the hotel later.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cal said, his face relaxing now that the threat of imminent violence had passed.

  When they saw Smoke leaving the table, two girls in revealing dresses ambled over to the table and sat down across from Cal and Pearlie. “You boys lookin’ for some company?” one of them asked, a coquettish look on her face.

  “Well, I do believe we are,” Pearlie answered, signaling the bartender for another couple of glasses.

  Walking toward the batwings, Smoke accidently bumped a poker player’s back as he brushed past his chair. Without looking back, Smoke mumbled an apology and continued on his way.

  Max Gibbons, the gambler Smoke had braced and had thrown off the train, looked up, his face scowling as he recognized the mountain man.

  He threw in his hand and gathered up his chips, raking them into his hat. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, “I’ll be back shortly.”

  He slipped his bowler hat on his head and followed Smoke from the building, not sure why, but hoping for some chance to avenge himself to occur.

  As Smoke walked through the batwings, Kid watched him with eyes that glittered hate. “I’m gonna go outside an’ take care of that hombre,” he whispered to his friends. “Watch those men he was with and make sure they don’t do nothin’ to interfere.”

  He stood up and walked toward the bar. When he got there, he glanced back to make sure Cal and Pearlie weren’t watching, then slipped out the back door, unnoticed in the crowded room.

  Smoke walked a few feet down the boardwalk, pausing to stop and build himself a cigarette, smiling to himself at the way Cal’s eyes had lit up when the “hostesses” of the saloon asked him to buy them a drink. “Well,” he muttered to himself, “the kid’s got to learn the facts of life sometime. Might as well be now.”

  He didn’t notice Max Gibbons standing in the shadows just outside the doorway to the saloon, staring at him with undisguised hatred.

  He ducked his head and applied a lucifer to his cigarette. As he blew out the match, a voice came from the darkened recesses of the alleyway next to him.

  “Hey, Jensen! You ready to settle our differences now?”

  Smoke whirled, crouching, his hand dropping toward the butt of his Colt as he tried to see into the blackness in front of him.

  The Durango Kid stepped forward into the scant light from lanterns on the front wall of the Silver Dollar Saloon. He had his pistol in his hand, held at waist level, the hammer already cocked back. “I’m gonna kill you, Jensen, an’ then ever’body will know who the fastest gun in the West is,” Kid growled, his voice low and menacing.

  Smoke’s hand twitched. He knew he’d have to draw as fast as he ever had to stand a chance against a man with his gun already drawn and leveled.

  Just as he started to make his play, twin gunshots sounded from deep darkness behind the Durango Kid, and the gunman’s eyes opened wide and he uttered a sharp scream as the front of his chest exploded in an eruption of blood and bone caused by a bullet passing through his back and exiting out the front of his shirt.

  The Kid’s body was thrown forward to land sprawled face-downward in the dirt of the alleyway, dead before he hit the ground.

  Smoke filled his hand with iron and stared into the alley, noticing a dark figure hightailing it out the rear of the passageway and around the corner of the saloon. Seconds later he heard the back door of the Silver Dollar open and close.

  Suddenly, the street was filled with onlookers as men and prostitutes poured out the batwings of the saloon, to stand in a group looking down at the body of the Kid.

  Marshals Bill Tilghman and Heck Thomas pushed their way through the crowd, guns drawn, and stepped to Smoke’s side.

  “I’ll take that pistol, Jensen,” Tilghman said, his Colt pointing at Smoke’s belly.

  Smoke let the pistol hang by his finger and handed it to the lawman. “Someone shot him from behind,” Smoke said. “I saw him run up the alley and enter the saloon by the back door.”

  Thomas squatted and examined the two bullet holes in the Kid’s back, then used the toe of his boot to flip the Durango Kid over onto his stomach, where a single exit hole of one of the bullets could be seen.

  “Somebody drilled him in the back twice, that’s for sure,” the lawman said, glancing over his shoulder at Smoke.

  Max Gibbons stepped to the front of the crowd, grabbing Tilghman by the shoulder. “Jensen did it, Marshal. I saw him,” he said, his eyes fixed on Smoke with undisguised satisfaction.

  “The tinhorn’s lying, Marshal,” Smoke said angrily, “and if you give me five minutes with him alone, I’ll make him admit it.”

  Tilghman shook his head. “The only place you’re goin’ is to the local lockup until I can get you to Fort Smith, Jensen, where Judge Parker will listen to all relevant testimony . . . an’ then sentence you to hang by the neck until you’re deader’n that fellow on the ground.”

  Smoke took a step toward Gibbons, who rapidly backed away, until Tilghman grabbed his arms and pulled them behind him.

  “Marshal,” Smoke protested, “check my pistol. It hasn’t even been fired.”

  “He reloaded it, Marshal,” Gibbons said hurriedly. “I saw him do it.”

  Pearlie elbowed his way through the crowd to stand before Tilghman and Thomas. “Marshal, Smoke Jensen didn’t shoot nobody in the back. He don’t have to, since he can outdraw anybody in the country.”

  “We got a witness, mister,” Tilghman said, inclining his head toward Gibbons, who dropped his gaze when Pearlie and Cal turned to stare at him.

  He put his hand on Smoke’s shoulder and pulled him down the street toward the local jail. “You’ll have a chance to say your piece at the trial,” Thomas said to Pearlie as he followed Tilghman and Smoke down the street.
<
br />   Smoke turned his head to Pearlie and cut his eyes toward Gibbons, indicating Pearlie should have a talk with him. Pearlie nodded, his eyes flat and angry. “I’ll get to the bottom of this, Smoke,” he called, then turned and followed Gibbons as he tried to disappear into the crowd.

  8

  The next morning, Pearlie showed up at the jail and asked to speak with Smoke.

  Sheriff Billy Jackson pursed his lips, thinking on it for a moment. “I’ll have to see that shootin’ iron, boy,” he drawled, holding out his hands.

  Pearlie unstrapped his belt and holster and handed them over.

  “I’ll give ya’ five minutes,” the sheriff said, hanging Pearlie’s gun on a hat rack. “If ’n ya’ want more’n that, you’ll have to ask the marshal.”

  Pearlie nodded and followed the sheriff through an iron-clad door into a back room where Smoke lay on a cot, his hands behind his head, apparently asleep.

  After the sheriff left, Pearlie walked to stand with his hands on the iron bars of the cell. “Smoke,” he called softly, “wake up.”

  Smoke blinked his eyes open and sat up, yawning.

  “How can you sleep at a time like this?” Pearlie asked.

  Smoke shrugged. “There’s not much else to do in here, Pearlie. What did you find out?”

  “We followed Gibbons to his hotel room. Cal’s sitting in the lobby now, makin’ sure he don’t leave town till we get a chance to talk to him.”

  “Why didn’t you ask him about it last night?”

  “That Marshal Thomas an’ Tilghman were with him most of the night, takin’ down his statement an’ writin’ it all up legal like.”

  Smoke made himself a cigarette and stared out the barred window of the cell thoughtfully for a while as he smoked. Finally, he whirled around. “You know, Pearlie, there was something not right about those gunshots last night, and I’ve been trying to put my finger on it.”