“Don’t worry none, Marshal,” Cal said with a grin. “I’ll keep Pearlie under control.”
Thomas shook his head and began to eat his breakfast. “Go on an’ get outta here, you two, ’fore I come to my senses and arrest you both.”
15
After riding for ten miles, Zachary Stillwell held up his hand, signaling the men following him to halt.
“This looks like ’bout as good a place as any to make camp for the night,” he said, walking his horse up to a copse of cottonwood trees next to a small stream. “This is liable to be the only water ’tween here an’ the next town.”
Smoke got off Marshal Tilghman’s dun, which he’d been riding, and hitched the animal to a branch of one of the trees.
Stillwell’s gang now consisted of eleven men, counting the three he’d rescued from Tilghman’s cage along with Smoke. The mountain man was busy planning on how he could get away with an extra horse for the marshal without having to kill most or all of the outlaws. He wasn’t particularly concerned with saving their lives, being as how they weren’t men he respected, but in any gunfight, especially when the odds were so heavy against him, there was a chance he’d lose. And, he reasoned, if he lost, it would also mean the death of a man he did respect, Marshal Bill Tilghman.
George Hungry Bear went about building a campfire, while some of the others broke out cooking utensils and slabs of fatback bacon and dried pinto beans. Smoke took a deep pot down to the stream to fill it with water to cook the beans, noticing that Stillwell followed him.
As he squatted next to the slowly moving water, Stillwell built himself a cigarette and watched as Smoke filled the pot.
“You know, Jensen, I heard a lot about you over the years.”
“That so, Zach?” Smoke answered, glancing back over his shoulder at the man standing behind him.
“Yeah. I heard you was ’bout the fastest man alive with a short gun, an’ I also heard you never hesitated to send anybody who drew down on you to Boot Hill.”
“You heard right, Zach. A man calls the dance on you, someone has to pay the band, and so far, it hasn’t been me.”
“But what’s got me worried, Smoke, is that I never heard nothin’ ’bout you bein’ a robber. You had some paper on you over the years, mostly for murder of men who goaded you into it, but you were never wanted for robbery or rustlin’ or nothin’ like that.”
Smoke put the pot down on the ground and stretched his back, rubbing his buttocks where Tilghman’s saddle had made them sore.
“You’re chewing on something, Zach, so why don’t you just spit it out and say what’s on your mind?”
Smoke noticed Stillwell’s hand was resting near the butt of his pistol.
“I was just wonderin’ why you agreed to join us on our little trip to take down a train,” Stillwell said.
Smoke smiled, using the distraction to turn sideways so Stillwell wouldn’t see him loosen the rawhide hammer thong on his right-hand Colt.
“Well, Zach, if you’ll remember, I didn’t have a whole hell of a lot of choice in the matter. It was either ride with you and your men, or stay with the marshal and get my neck stretched by Judge Parker in Fort Smith.”
“So you’re sayin’ you don’t want to help with the train?”
“What I’m saying, Zach, is that I’ll ride with you to the next town. Then I’ll make my mind up whether to stay the course or not.”
“That don’t exactly clear my mind on you, Jensen.”
“I don’t really give a damn about your mind, Zach. That’s just the way it is.” Smoke inclined his head toward Stillwell’s Colt. “Now you can either draw that six-killer on your hip you’re playing with and go to work, or get out of my way so we can get some dinner cooked.”
Stillwell’s face blanched at the ominous threat in Smoke’s voice, as if he knew he was seconds away from death. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by what I was sayin’, Jensen,” he said quickly, moving his hand so it wasn’t near his pistol. “I just wanted to make sure you was on our side.”
Smoke bent and picked up the pot of water. “Whose side did you think I was on, Zach? The marshal who was taking me to be hung?”
Stillwell gave a shaky laugh. “No, I guess not.”
“Good. Then move aside so I can get us some beans cooking. I’m so hungry my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”
* * *
After a supper of fried bacon, pinto beans, and some pieces of jerked meat, washed down with boiled coffee and some whiskey a few of the outlaws had in their saddlebags, the men spread their ground blankets near the fire and stretched out to sleep.
Like most men riding the owl-hoot trail, they didn’t take the saddles off their horses, but just loosened the belly straps in case they had to make a quick getaway if trouble arrived.
Smoke waited until midnight, when the coals of the fire were almost completely out, before he made his move. He gathered his blanket and moved to Tilghman’s horse.
Drawing his Bowie knife, he made the rounds of the gang’s horses, quietly cutting each belly strap almost all the way through.
When he was done, he took the reins to one of the horses that had been pulling Tilghman’s wagon, along with the marshal’s horse, and slowly walked away from the camp.
The moon had set so the night was dark, illuminated only by starlight, as he made his way across the prairie grass back toward where they’d left Marshal Tilghman.
He was still walking, almost a hundred yards from camp, when the sharp crack of a stick behind him made Smoke turn around.
Stillwell stood twenty feet away, a pistol in his hand, his teeth gleaming dully in the faint starlight.
“I knowed you wasn’t to be trusted, Jensen,” he said. “Now bring them cayuses back to the camp an’ we’ll see what we’re gonna do with you.”
Without another word, Smoke drew and fired all in one fluid motion, crouching as he did so. His gun went off at the same time as Stillwell’s, and he heard the buzz of the slug as it passed through the brim of his hat.
Stillwell’s head snapped back, a black hole appearing in the center of his forehead as the back of his head exploded in a fine red mist, with brains and bone and blood flying around the exiting bullet.
Smoke swung into the saddle and spurred Tilghman’s horse into a gallop, hanging on to the reins of the wagon horse so it would follow.
Stillwell’s gang jumped out of their bedrolls at the sound of the shot and made for their horses. They didn’t know what was going on, but they knew it meant trouble. As they climbed into their saddles and started to ride away, one after the other hit the dirt as the cut belly straps gave way and they tumbled to the ground.
Smoke smiled at the sight, looking back over his shoulder at the confused melee the men made, scrambling around on foot trying to catch horses running wild with fear.
“That ought to keep them off my back trail until I can get to Tilghman,” Smoke muttered as he leaned over the saddle horn and rode as fast as his horse could run.
* * *
It was full morning before Smoke arrived at the outcropping of rock and boulders where he’d indicated Tilghman should wait for him.
“Yo, Marshal Tilghman,” Smoke called as he approached the hillock, still leading the horse behind him.
He stopped the horses seventy-five yards from the boulders, well out of pistol range, just in case the marshal was feeling trigger-happy after the events of the day before.
Tilghman stuck his head up from behind a rock, his pistol in his hand.
“That you, Jensen?” he called.
“Yeah,” Smoke called back.
“You alone?”
Smoke smiled. He was sitting on a horse out in the open, with nothing around for miles.
“You see anyone else, Marshal?” he answered.
Tilghman stood up on top of the boulder. “Then come on in.”
Smoke shook his head. “Not while you’re holding that Colt. Throw it down on the ground.”
> “Now why should I do that?” Tilghman asked, not moving to release the gun.
“Because if you don’t, I’ll just turn these horses around and head on back to Fort Worth by myself, leaving you an awfully long walk back to town.”
Tilghman considered his options for a moment, discovered he really didn’t have any, and finally threw his pistol off the outcropping.
Smoke walked the horses up to the base of the hillock and got down out of the saddle. He picked Tilghman’s Colt up and dusted the dirt off it while the marshal climbed down from his perch on the boulders.
When he got down, he walked over to Smoke. “Why’d you ask for my gun?”
“I didn’t know just what sort of frame of mind you’d be in, so I figured better to be safe than sorry.”
The marshal’s eyes narrowed as he saw the hole in Smoke’s hat. “You have some trouble with that outlaw?”
Smoke nodded. “Yeah, Stillwell wasn’t too keen on the idea of me bringing you your horse back.”
“You kill him?”
“I didn’t stop to check, but unless he can live without half his skull, yeah.”
“What about the others?”
“I left them on foot chasing down their mounts, with no belly straps to keep the saddles on.”
Tilghman looked off in the distance, toward where Smoke had left the outlaw gang. He nodded, as if thinking to himself. “Then I guess I’ll just have to go after them then.”
“Marshal, there are nine hard cases out there. Don’t you think you ought to get some help before you try to apprehend them?”
“In this job, Jensen, a man learns not to rely on getting others to help him.”
“Well, it’s your funeral.”
Tilghman shrugged. “That possibility comes with the badge. You gonna give me my pistol back?”
Smoke stared at the marshal. “If you give me your word not to try and arrest me before I have a chance to clear my name.”
“I don’t make deals with murderers, Jensen. You should know that.”
“I’m not a murderer, Marshal. I just need a little time to prove it.”
Tilghman rubbed his chin whiskers. “I guess I owe you that, at least. Tell you what, Jensen. I’ll go after the others first, but once I have them in custody, I want you to know I’m coming after you.”
Smoke nodded. “Fair enough, Marshal.”
He climbed down off Tilghman’s horse and handed him his pistol. “Your rifle’s still in the boot, and all your ammunition is in your saddlebag.”
“What about you?” Tilghman asked.
Smoke inclined his head toward the wagon horse standing nearby. “I’ll ride that one on into Fort Worth. I’ve got to have a word with that tinhorn who lied about seeing me shoot the Durango Kid.”
“There ain’t no saddle on that bronc,” Tilghman said.
“It’s better than walking,” Smoke said. “Besides, I’m used to riding without a saddle. It won’t be a problem.”
Tilghman reached his hand out. “Good luck, Jensen. I hope you find the proof you’re looking for, ’cause after all you’ve done, I’d sure hate to be the one to put a rope around your neck.”
Smoke shook his hand. “Me too, Marshal.”
Tilghman climbed into his saddle and touched the brim of his hat. “One way or another, Jensen, I’ll be seein’ you.”
Smoke nodded as Tilghman jerked his horse’s head around and trotted off toward the outlaw band.
16
Louis Longmont took Sally Jensen’s elbow and helped her up the steps to board the train. As she stepped aboard, she dropped her purse and he bent to pick it up.
“Whoa, Sally. What do you have in here, stones?” he asked, a quizzical expression on his face.
She smiled slightly and opened the purse for him to look inside. Nestled there was a chrome-plated Smith and Wesson .36-caliber short-barreled pistol.
He glanced up at her. “You planning on robbing this train?”
“No,” she answered, “but if anyone thinks they’re going to hang Smoke Jensen without having to first deal with his wife, they are sadly mistaken.”
Louis looked back over his shoulder as Monte Carson kissed his wife Mary good-bye. Both men were accompanying Sally on the train ride to Fort Smith, Arkansas. They were planning on appearing as character witnesses for Smoke when he came to trial before Judge Isaac Parker. Sally, however, was planning on doing more than that in the event it became necessary. She intended to break Smoke out of jail if the judge refused to listen to reason and sentenced him to hang.
After they’d gotten seated and the train began to move, Louis opened a window next to his seat and took out one of his trademark long, black stogies. He raised his eyebrows at Sally to see if she minded, and she shook her head.
He scratched a lucifer on his pants leg and put the fire to the cigar, inhaling deeply and blowing the smoke toward the open window.
“Do you think the judge will listen to us and believe Smoke is innocent?” Sally asked Monte.
The lawman slowly shook his head, a worried expression on his face. “Not from what I’ve heard. The word is Judge Parker is a man who believes fully in the law, spelled with a capital L. If he’s got a witness who says he saw Smoke shoot a man in the back, then the judge is gonna sentence him to hang, no doubt about it.”
“But, Monte, you and Louis both know if anyone says that about Smoke they must be lying,” Sally protested.
He nodded. “Of course we know that, Sally. The trick is going to be to convince the judge the man, whoever he is, must be lying for some reason known only to him.”
Sally patted her purse, giving Louis a knowing look. “Well, if the man is in Fort Smith, and he intends to lie about my husband, then I might just have to have a word with him before the trial.”
Louis grinned. “We’ll all have a talk with him, Sally, and don’t you worry. If he’s lying, Monte and I will make him admit it, one way or another.”
* * *
At that moment, Cal and Pearlie were riding slowly into the city limits of Jacksboro, Texas. Jacksboro, though much smaller, was a town not unlike Fort Worth and twenty-odd miles to the northwest. Built around the cow business also, but on a much smaller scale, the town consisted mostly of cattle pens, butchering houses, hotels, brothels, saloons, and eating establishments.
The streets were awash with horses, buckboards, children, dogs, and men and women. Many people were walking up and down the wooden boardwalks that lined the dirt streets.
“Jimminy,” Cal said as he looked up and down the streets wide-eyed. “I ain’t never seen so many people in one place at one time just rushin’ around in a hurry like.”
Pearlie nodded, following Cal’s gaze. “Yep. They all runnin’ round like they got to be someplace in a hell of a hurry. Wonder what the rush is all about.”
“How do you ’spect we’ll ever find Gibbons in all these people?” Cal asked. “There must be twenty or more saloons an’ gamblin’ houses.”
“We’ll just have to start at one end of the town an’ make our way up an’ down the streets till we find the bastard,” Pearlie answered. “Sooner or later, he’ll show up. Tinhorns cain’t hardly stay away from the poker games. They like a man with a powerful thirst for liquor. They always find someplace to get what they need.”
“You want to start now?” Cal asked, eyeing the sun, which was nearing the horizon in the west.
“Naw. Let’s find a hotel and grab some grub an’ maybe a hot bath. My butt cheeks feel like they done growed to this saddle, an’ I’m afraid I smell worse’n some of those beeves walkin’ down the street over yonder,” he said, inclining his head to where a couple of punchers were slowly driving ten head of cattle right down the middle of Main Street.
After they’d gotten rooms at the Star Hotel on Main Street, and partaken of a hot bath in the communal bathing room on the third floor, the boys went to the nearest restaurant and sat down to have some dinner.
The diner was called th
e Hofbrau, and was run by a heavyset German woman who spoke with a thick, almost guttural accent. Pearlie had to ask her several times what the different items on the menu were, and he finally just let her decide what he should have—“as long as there’s plenty of it,” he added as she walked toward the kitchen.
After stuffing themselves on pot roast, German potato salad, and two slices of Dutch apple pie, washed down with a pot of coffee that was so strong Cal said he didn’t think it needed a cup, they made their way toward the deputy sheriff’s office, just off Main Street.
When they walked through the office door, the first thing Cal and Pearlie noticed was the large number of iron-barred cells in the rear of the building, almost all of which were filled with prisoners.
“Seems like the deputy sheriff does a right smart business in this town,” Pearlie observed.
Most of the men appeared to be cowboys, probably just off cattle drives, who looked as if they’d partaken of too much cheap whiskey and not enough food.
“Can I help you gents?” a tall, lean man asked from the side of the room. He was sitting behind an oak desk, scarred with numerous spur marks, with his feet up on the edge of the desk and a long, black cigar protruding from his lips. He was dressed in black pants, with a black vest over a boiled white shirt, and had a thin string tie in a bow at his neck. He had a long, handlebar moustache that reminded Cal of pictures he’d seen of Marshal Wyatt Earp in Tombstone, making Cal wonder if the resemblance was calculated on the deputy sheriff’s part.
“Howdy,” Pearlie said, striding up to stand before the desk.
The deputy sheriff nodded, his eyes watching Cal and Pearlie closely as if he were trying to figure out if they were here to cause him some sort of problem.
“Somethin’ I can help you with?” the deputy asked again.
Pearlie nodded. “Are you Deputy Sheriff Johnny Walker?”
The man nodded, his right hand resting on the butt of his Colt, ready for trouble.
“U.S. Marshal Heck Thomas told us to look you up,” Pearlie said. “He said you might be able to help us find a man.”
Justice of the Mountain Man Page 10