Justice of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

Putting the glass to his eye, he aimed it at the horizon and braced his arm against the side of the wagon to steady his gaze.

  Smoke looked out between the bars and could see a cloud of dust, which looked to be about six or seven miles distant.

  “Company coming, Marshal?” he asked.

  Tilghman nodded without taking the glass from his eyes. “Yeah, an’ I don’t much think they’re friendlies.”

  “Indians or outlaws?” Smoke asked.

  Tilghman looked at him. “Probably a little of both. We’ve had some reports of some renegade Mescalero Apaches ridin’ with some cattle rustlers who’ve taken to hidin’ in the Nations. This is their stomping grounds so I’d bet it’s them.”

  “They got any reason to be mad at you?” Smoke asked.

  “Other than the fact they don’t much like anybody with a star on his chest, not that I know of,” Tilghman replied.

  Smoke craned his neck to look on all sides of the wagon. “Doesn’t seem to be any place nearby to make a stand.”

  Tilghman glanced over his shoulder at an outcropping of rock almost five miles ahead of them. “That’s the closest, but I don’t think I stand a Chinaman’s chance of makin’ it, leastways not while pullin’ this wagon.”

  Dynamite Dick looked up. “You could always leave the wagon an’ take off on your hoss, Marshal,” he said with a hopeful glint in his eye.

  Tilghman reached in his breast pocket and pulled out a large square of tobacco. Taking a long-bladed knife from a scabbard on his belt, he sliced off a quarter of the square and put it in his mouth. He chewed for a moment, looking off toward the dust cloud, then leaned over and spat a brown stream of tobacco juice into the dust of the trail.

  “Yep, I reckon I could, if I’s a mind to.”

  “Then you’re gonna leave us an’ run for it?” Shorty Robinson asked, not looking as happy about the prospect as Bodine had been.

  “Nope,” was Tilghman’s short answer.

  He stepped to his horse and pulled a bright yellow-sided carbine out of a rifle boot next to the saddle. It was an 1873-model Winchester, the one called the Yellow Boy.

  He jacked a shell into the firing chamber, placed a box of cartridges on the edge of the wagon next to him within easy reach, and settled in to fight the outlaws.

  Smoke made his way within the wagon until he was next to the marshal. “If you want some help, Marshal, I’d be glad to oblige.”

  Tilghman smirked. “Yeah, but then that’d kind’a be like askin’ the fox to guard the henhouse, wouldn’t it, Jensen?”

  “Have it your way, Marshal. Just don’t let your stubbornness get you killed.”

  * * *

  The group of outlaws, rustlers, and murderers crested a small ridge and their leader, Zachary Stillwell, held his hand up, bringing them to a halt. Jaime Gonzalez, his second in command, shaded his eyes with a hand, peering through the heat haze to the wagon in the distance.

  “What you make of it, Zach?” he asked.

  Zachary smiled grimly. “Why, Jaime, it looks like one of those wagons the U.S. marshals use to take prisoners over to visit the Hangin’ Judge in Fort Smith.”

  George Hungry Bear, a Mescalero Apache renegade, said, “That mean no gold or silver.”

  Zachary shook his head. “No, but there’s usually only the one marshal with the prisoners. It wouldn’t be too much of a chore to take him out and maybe get us some more men to ride with us.”

  Jaime looked around at the men riding with them. “Why for we need more men, Zachary? We got ten now.”

  “You want to hit that payroll train comin’ into Fort Worth next week, don’t ya?”

  Gonzalez nodded. “Yes. I hear it carry over a hundred thousand dollars.”

  Zachary smiled. “Then we’re gonna need a couple’a extra guns.”

  “That mean less money for us,” Hungry Bear observed.

  Zachary shook his head. “Not necessarily. Nobody says they have to survive the robbery. What happens to ’em after we got the gold won’t matter to nobody but them.”

  Gonzalez and Hungry Bear looked at each other and grinned. “Then, let us go free some prisoners,” Gonzalez said, whipping the rump of his horse with a short whip he carried on his left wrist.

  The ten riders spread out in a line as they galloped toward the wagon, pistols and rifles in their hands, whooping and hollering like Indians on the warpath.

  Tilghman calmly leaned to the side, spat in the dirt, shifted his chaw to his left cheek, and took deadly aim. The explosion of the Yellow Boy kicked back against his shoulder, and seconds later one of the attackers threw his arms in the air and catapulted backward off his mount.

  Tilghman jacked another shell in the chamber and muttered, “That’s one down.”

  “Nice shooting,” Smoke observed as he watched through the bars.

  Tilghman managed to get two more bandits before Zachary Stillwell got smart and pulled his men back out of rifle range.

  “What now, Zach?” Gonzalez asked. “We lost three men already, and we ain’t got nothin’ to show for it yet.”

  Stillwell motioned with his arm. “Two of you men circle around to the left, an’ another two circle to the right. Stay out of range until I give the signal, then start advancing in on the wagon afoot. That’a way you’ll make less of a target. Sooner or later, we’ll get ’em, ’cause he cain’t watch all sides at the same time.”

  An hour later, when all the men were in place surrounding the wagon, Stillwell held his pistol in the air and fired a single shot.

  The men began to creep up on the wagon, keeping low, and keeping up a steady stream of fire at the marshal, who moved quickly back and forth, snapping off shots when he got a glimpse of a head or a rifle barrel, but not hitting anything.

  After a second bullet pinged off a bar and ricocheted around inside the wagon, Smoke said, “You got to give it up, Marshal, else we’re all going to be picked off.”

  Tilghman sighed. “You’re right, Jensen. I don’t have no cause to put you men in danger any longer.”

  “Get on your horse and hightail it out of here,” Smoke said.

  “Uh-uh, I ain’t leavin’ you men to no desperadoes. Maybe they’ll be content with me an’ let you men go free.”

  Tilghman stepped out in the open, put his rifle in the dirt, and raised his hands over his head.

  Within a few minutes, the remaining seven outlaws were gathered around the wagon. “Keep a gun on the star-packer,” Stillwell told Gonzalez, who held his Colt pointed at Tilghman’s belt buckle.

  Stillwell walked up to the cage and peered through the bars. “What have we here?” he asked with a grin on his face. “Some bad desperadoes?”

  He got the key to the cage from Tilghman’s pocket and opened the door, standing back and wrinkling his nose as the four men climbed out.

  “Whew, but you’re a ripe bunch of monkeys,” he said.

  “You would be too if’n you’d rode a hundred miles in the back of that hot box,” Dynamite Dick Bodine said, grinning.

  “And who might you be?” Stillwell asked.

  “My handle’s Dynamite Dick Bodine.”

  Stillwell’s eyebrows raised. “The train robber?”

  “Yep, one an’ the same.”

  Stillwell nodded. “Good, we’re plannin’ a little job an’ your experience will come in mighty handy.”

  “Be glad to oblige you, mister,” Dick said, moving over to stand with the outlaws.

  “And how about you?” Stillwell asked the others.

  “Them two ain’t nothin’ but a card sharp an’ a street fighter,” Dick said, pointing to Mayhew and Robinson, “but that big galoot over there’s Smoke Jensen.”

  Stillwell stared intently at Smoke. “The Smoke Jensen?”

  Smoke looked steadily back at the outlaw. “One and the same,” he said drily.

  Stillwell walked up to stand nose-to-nose with Smoke. “I can use a man with your experience. You interested in joinin’ up with us?”

&nb
sp; Smoke grinned, but his eyes remained flat. “If it’ll get me out of this cage, I am.”

  Stillwell inclined his head toward Mayhew and Robinson. “What ’bout them? You think they’ll be any good to us?”

  Smoke shrugged, glancing around at the dead bodies scattered among the scrub brushes and saw grass nearby. “It appears to me you just lost three or four men. I’d think anybody dangerous enough to be in the company of the marshal over there would be an asset to whatever you have planned. Anyway, what’ve you got to lose? If they don’t work out, you can always get rid of them later.”

  Stillwell laughed and slapped Smoke on the shoulder. “I like the way you think, Jensen.”

  Smoke pointed at a large canvas bag lying up on the hurricane deck of the wagon. “You mind if I get my guns? The marshal’s got them stored in that bag there.”

  “Go ahead,” Stillwell said, turning his attention back to Marshal Tilghman. “I’ve got some business with the marshal here.”

  Smoke hurriedly grabbed his belt and holsters along with his large Bowie knife and scabbard out of the sack. He strapped the guns on in their usual manner, right one butt back, left one butt forward, and stuck the knife and scabbard onto the rear of the belt.

  He pulled both guns and opened the loading gates, checking to make sure they were still loaded—they were, six and six.

  Stillwell pulled his gun and approached Tilghman, grinning. “I’ve never kilt a U.S. marshal before,” he said, “but there’s a first time for ever’thing.”

  Smoke spoke up. “Hold on, Stillwell. That may be a type of trouble you don’t want.”

  Stillwell glanced back over his shoulder, a scowl on his face. “What do you mean, Jensen?”

  Smoke shrugged. “It’s just that whenever a U.S. marshal is killed, his friends never give up hunting down the men who did it. And more often than not, they end up getting their men.”

  “Yeah, but if we don’t get rid of ’im, he’ll just do the same thing,” Jaime Gonzalez said, still holding his pistol pointed at Tilghman’s gut.

  “Not necessarily,” Smoke said. “What if we break the wheel on that wagon, and leave the marshal afoot out here in no-man’s land? That way it’ll look like he broke down and lost the horses and died of thirst when they find his body . . . if the coyotes and wolves leave anything to be found at all.”

  Stillwell looked doubtful. “I don’t know . . .”

  “Plus,” Smoke added, “it’ll be more fitting for the son of a bitch to die slow and painful-like. A bullet’s too easy for him.”

  Tilghman’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Smoke, his expression looking as if he thought maybe he’d misjudged the mountain man after all.

  George Hungry Bear snorted through his nose as he laughed. “Jensen think like Indian. It be good to see how the lawman dies.”

  Stillwell smiled, as if that decided the matter. “All right. Hungry Bear, go over there and break the wheel on that wagon an’ unhitch those hosses. We’ll take all three of ’em with us until we reach the next town. Should be able to sell ’em for a little somethin’ for our trouble.”

  “Better unload the marshal’s pistol and leave it with him. Wouldn’t do for him to be found without any iron on him. By the time he reloads it from his belt cartridges, we’ll be out of range,” Smoke said.

  “Good idea,” Stillwell said, nodding toward Gonzalez to indicate he should do as Smoke said.

  While Gonzalez was busy unloading the marshal’s pistol, Smoke stepped up to put his face close to the marshal’s. “Thought you were going to see me hang, did you?” he asked, winking at Tilghman where no one else could see. He cut his eyes toward the outcropping of boulders and trees in the distance. “You be careful where you step out here, Marshal. You never know what kind’a snake is going to be in front of you.”

  Tilghman gave a slight nod to show Smoke he understood. “Yeah, Jensen,” he said, his voice bitter. “I wouldn’t want to step on any of your relatives.”

  Smoke laughed and swung up on the marshal’s bay horse. He tipped his hat as the others mounted up also. “See ya’ around, Marshal,” he said, smiling.

  “I hope so, Jensen, I hope so,” Tilghman said, his face grim.

  Gonzalez threw the marshal’s Colt in the dirt twenty yards away, and Stillwell and his gang put the spurs to their horses, leaving Tilghman standing in a cloud of dust.

  He walked over to his gun, brushed the dirt off, and reloaded it with cartridges from his belt.

  He watched the men ride off out of sight and shook his head. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Jensen. You’re playin’ a mighty dangerous game.”

  He pulled his hat down tight, grabbed a half-full canteen of water from the ruined wagon, and started walking toward the only shelter in sight.

  He figured he had about four or five miles to walk in boots that weren’t designed for walking just to get out of the sun and wind. Damn, he thought, some days it just don’t pay to get outta bed.

  14

  Cal and Pearlie were sitting in Aunt Ida’s Boardinghouse having breakfast when Marshal Heck Thomas approached their table, a grim look on his face.

  Pearlie looked up from his plate of bacon, eggs, wheat cakes, and sliced peaches. “Howdy, Marshal,” he said. “Pull up a chair and we’ll treat you to some good home cookin’.”

  Thomas shook his head as he pulled out a chair, and signaled Aunt Ida to bring him some coffee. “You boys might not be so generous when I tell you the news.”

  Cal put his fork down, a worried look on his face. “Why? What’s the matter, Marshal? Weren’t you able to get in touch with Judge Parker?”

  “Oh, I got in touch with him, all right.”

  “Then why the long face?” Pearlie asked, stuffing another forkful of wheat cakes in his mouth.

  “’Cause he said what I overheard Gibbons say don’t amount to a hill of beans in a court of law.”

  “What?” Cal exclaimed. “But you heard him admit that Smoke didn’t shoot that outlaw.”

  “That’s right, Cal, but the judge says that don’t count under the law. Seems Gibbons’s written statement will stand until and unless he says he lied while under oath.”

  Pearlie waved his fork in the air. “Then, that’s no problem, Marshal. We’ll just traipse on over to the hotel where that tinhorn is stayin’ and make him tell the truth.”

  “I only wish it were that easy, Pearlie,” the marshal said as he poured a tablespoon of sugar into his coffee and took a tentative sip.

  “Believe you me, Marshal,” Pearlie persisted, “Cal an’ me can be mighty persuasive when the need arises.”

  Thomas smiled. “I don’t doubt it, Pearlie. Remember, I know from experience just how persuasive you an’ Cal are.” He hesitated, then said, “I might as well come right out with it. I went over to Gibbons’s hotel myself, just to brace him with what I heard an’ see if he’d agree to amend his statement.”

  “What’d the bastard say?” Cal asked.

  Aunt Ida interrupted the conversation by appearing at the marshal’s elbow, a stern look on her face.

  “You gonna order some food or just sit there slopping down my coffee?” she asked.

  The marshal chuckled and said, “Sure, Aunt Ida, you know I always eat here when I’m in town.”

  She was somewhat mollified, and her expression softened.

  “I’ll have three hens’ eggs, scrambled with sweet cream, half a pound of bacon, fried crisp, an’ a short stack of those wheat cakes Pearlie’s wolfin’ down.”

  “That’s what I like ’bout you, Marshal,” Ida said. “You eat like a man, not like some greenhorn from back East.”

  As she turned to go, she winked back over her shoulder. “I’ll even throw in some of those tinned peaches for you since you been such a loyal customer.”

  An impatient Pearlie said, “Go on, Marshal, What’d the bastard say?”

  Thomas looked at Pearlie. “Nothin’. Seems he must’ve heard about our little eavesdropping session the
other night, ’cause he packed his bags an’ took off during the night.”

  “Took off?” Cal asked. “How’d he do that? He came in on the train with us.”

  “I asked the desk clerk who was on duty when he left. He said Gibbons had a surrey he’d rented from the livery stable.” The marshal smiled grimly. “Guess the tinhorn don’t like to ride horses.”

  “Did the clerk say which way he headed when he left town?” Pearlie asked.

  The marshal cocked an eye at Pearlie. “Why? You figgerin’ on goin’ after him?”

  “Marshal Thomas, Smoke Jensen is not only the best friend Cal and me got, he’s the best man we know. We aim to clear his name if we have to follow that son of a bitch all the way to San Francisco.”

  Thomas sighed. “Well, the clerk said he headed northwest outta town, toward Jacksboro.”

  “Jacksboro?”

  “Yeah. It’s another cow town ’bout twenty miles from here. Not as big or as famous as Fort Worth, but every bit as cantankerous. If you go there after Gibbons, you’d better ride with your guns loose. The place is a haven for every footpad and murderer in the area, and they don’t exactly take to strangers, ’specially if you’re not someone riding the owl-hoot trail.”

  Pearlie glanced at Cal. “Finish those eggs, Cal. We got places to go an’ we’re burnin’ daylight sittin’ here.”

  Thomas held up a hand. “Pearlie, let me warn you. If you do manage to find Gibbons an’ get him to admit he lied, you got to do it in front of a peace officer or it won’t count in court. The deputy sheriff of Jacksboro is an old friend of mine. Name’s Johnny Walker. You tell him you’re workin’ with me on this murder an’ he’ll be more than glad to help. You get him to put in writin’ that Gibbons changed his testimony, an’ I’ll be able to get Judge Parker to listen.”

  Pearlie stood up and grabbed his hat. He held out his hand to Thomas. “Thanks for your help, Marshal. We’ll let you know soon’s we find Gibbons an’ get him to talk.”

  Thomas took Pearlie’s hand. “If you get him to talk,” he said.

  “Oh,” Pearlie replied, “the sumbitch’ll talk, all right, or he’ll never talk to anyone again.”

  Thomas grinned. “Now, Pearlie, don’t go doin’ nothin’ rash. I don’t want to have to come after you on another murder charge.”