Justice of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Pearlie noticed the man had a machete stuck through the rope in his pants.

  Gibbons nodded, smiling and grinning as sweat ran down from his forehead to drip off his chin.

  “Come on, Pearlie, let’s go out back and settle this.”

  Pearlie followed him out the back door, picking up Cal on the way. Once outside, he grabbed Gibbons and swung him around. “Are you gonna change that lyin’ statement you gave to Marshal Tilghman, or am I gonna have to beat the shit outta you?” Pearlie asked.

  Gibbons held up his hands, palms outward. “Pearlie, I’ll sign anything you want if you’ll get me out of here. These men are not very gracious losers, and I’m afraid they plan to do me bodily harm if they don’t win their money back.”

  A soft sound from behind him made Pearlie turn around. The Mexicans were standing there, both with large pistols in their hands. One of them held up a pair of aces. “You left these behind you, señor,” he said to Gibbons. “They fell out of your coat when you left the table.”

  “Why,” Gibbons said, his voice quavering at the sight of the cards, “those aren’t mine!”

  “Lying gringo,” the Mexican said, letting the hammer down on the pistol. It exploded, sending a .44 slug slamming into Gibbons’s chest, flinging him backward to land half in the privy, his head resting against the seat.

  Both Mexicans turned their pistols on Cal and Pearlie, who were standing there openmouthed at the suddenness of the violence.

  “Please be so kind as to not move, señors,” one said while the other walked over to Gibbons’s dead body and removed his hat. The man emptied the money out of it and set it gently back down on Gibbons’s skull.

  “Adios, señors,” the other said, and they took off running down the alleyway.

  “Goddamn!” Pearlie exclaimed, bending over Gibbons to check for signs of life. Finding none, he grabbed Cal and pulled him down the alley away from the direction the Mexicans took. “Let’s get the hell out of here before someone comes out and accuses us of killin’ Gibbons,” he said, breaking into a run.

  “But . . . but what about Smoke?” Cal said, jogging beside Pearlie as they rounded a corner.

  “We’re gonna have to find some other way to clear him,” Pearlie said. “’Cause Gibbons sure as hell ain’t gonna change his statement now.”

  * * *

  Pearlie and Cal walked back over to Main Street and entered Deputy Sheriff Johnny Walker’s office. As usual, Walker was sitting back in his chair with his feet up on his desk, sipping coffee out of a stained mug.

  “Howdy, boys,” he said, smiling. “You find that tinhorn yet?”

  Pearlie nodded. “Yeah, we found him. Trouble is, a couple of Mexes put a .44 slug in his chest. He’s lyin’ in the privy out behind the Black Cat Cantina.”

  Walker pursed his lips, staring at Pearlie. “I don’t suppose there’re any witnesses to say you boys didn’t do it, are there?”

  Cal shook his head. “Sheriff, you know we needed him to save our friend’s life. We wouldn’t’ve killed him.”

  After a moment, Walker nodded. “I suppose that does make sense.”

  “Are you gonna go over there and check it out?” Pearlie asked.

  “You say you’re sure he’s dead?”

  “Deader ’n a stone,” Pearlie said.

  Walker shrugged. “Then I don’t see no sense in botherin’ about it tonight. I’ll amble on over there at first light in the morning.”

  “Sheriff,” Cal said, “after the gunshot, no one even came out of the cantina to see what was happenin’.”

  The deputy laughed. “No, I don’t s’pect they did.”

  “Isn’t that a little strange?” Pearlie asked.

  “You boys know how many men get killed in that area ever’ night?”

  The boys shook their heads.

  “Enough so’s it not nothin’ anybody over there gets too excited about. Hell, they’ll probably go on using the privy too, after movin’ him to the side a bit, an’ not even say nothin’ about it.”

  “What do you suggest we do now?” Pearlie asked.

  “Seems to me, your only chance of helpin’ your friend is to find out who really killed the man in Fort Worth. Was it me, I’d go back there and see what I could dig up.”

  Pearlie looked at Cal. “He’s right, Cal.”

  “Then let’s go,” Cal said. “Smoke don’t have too much time left.”

  20

  Sally, followed by Monte Carson and Louis Longmont, walked right by the clerk guarding the door to Judge Isaac Parker’s chambers.

  “Hey, miss, you can’t do that . . .” the young man began, starting to rise from his chair.

  Sally, without pausing, turned steel-hard eyes on the boy and pointed her finger at him. “Sit!” she said, putting her hand on the door and pushing it open.

  The young clerk stared openmouthed at Louis and Monte as they followed Sally into the room. Louis glanced back over his shoulder with a sympathetic look at the man. “Women,” he said, and shrugged as he walked into the room.

  Parker looked up from his desk, tilting his head to see over the half-glasses on his nose. “What is the meaning of this interruption of my work?” he asked imperiously.

  Undaunted, Sally strode right up to the front of his desk and stood there, staring down at the judge. He was in his mid-thirties, dark-haired, and wore a dark gray suit coat and vest over a white shirt and black bow tie. His face appeared stern and his visage was serious, and Sally thought to herself, Here is a man who thinks he is doing God’s own work. He’ll be pompous and take himself too seriously, I’ll bet. “My name is Sally Jensen, and I’ve come to talk to my husband.”

  The judge shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t handle visitation of prisoners, ma’am. You’ll have to speak to the Superintendent of Jails. Didn’t my clerk inform you of that fact?”

  “I’m afraid the young man didn’t have a chance to inform us of anything, Your Honor,” Louis said.

  Parker cut his eyes to Louis. “And just who might you be?” he asked.

  Louis gave a short bow. “I’m Louis Longmont, Your Honor. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Parker’s eyes roamed to Monte Carson, who took off his hat and held it in both hands in front of him. “I’m Monte Carson, Judge. Sheriff of Big Rock, Colorado.”

  Parker steepled his hands under his chin and glared at the group standing in front of his desk.

  “I presume you all have some reason for being here?”

  “We’ve been to the Superintendent of Jails, Judge Parker,” Sally said, “and he said there is no one in jail by the name Smoke Jensen.”

  “Ah, so you’re Smoke Jensen’s wife,” Parker said, his eyes softening a little. “I’ve heard a great deal about your husband, especially in the last couple of weeks.”

  Sally held her chin up high. “Then you know Smoke couldn’t possibly have shot a man in the back.”

  The judge leaned forward. “I notice you didn’t say your husband couldn’t possibly have shot the man, just that he didn’t do it in the back.”

  Sally looked at the judge as though he was a simpleton. “Of course he could have shot the man, given adequate provocation. My husband is a famous shootist, Judge, and this is the West. On occasion, men come up to Smoke to try and get a reputation, or to prove their bravery. Most times, he can talk them out of trying his hand with a gun, but sometimes it just isn’t possible and he has to kill them. He regrets it, but he simply does not instigate confrontations, and he is so proficient with firearms that he does not need to shoot anyone in the back.”

  “I see,” the judge said, leaning back in his chair. “So your husband has killed many men, Mrs. Jensen?”

  Sally’s eyes became flat, and she gave him a look that would curdle milk. “As have you, Judge Parker.”

  Parker looked offended. “Surely you’re not comparing me to a gunfighter?”

  “No,” Sally said simply, “a gunfighter shoots in self-defen
se and puts his own life on the line, while you hide behind those law books on your shelves and make your judgments with no risk to yourself.” She hesitated. “But the end result is the same, one man left alive, one man left dead.”

  Sally regretted her words almost immediately. She could tell by the hurt look on the judge’s face that he was wounded by her accusation, and remembered hearing that he often shed tears when sentencing a man to die by hanging.

  He looked off out his window, which overlooked the scaffold in the distance on which so many men had died by his pronouncements.

  “Please, Mrs. Jensen, take a seat,” he finally said, waving his hand at a group of chairs near his desk.

  Sally, Louis, and Monte sat down, waiting to see what Parker had to say.

  After a moment, he spoke, his eyes soft now with none of their former arrogance. “First of all, Mrs. Jensen, I’ll tell you what I tell all of the men I sentence to hang. It is not me that is killing these men, it is the law, the law they broke when they murdered or raped or robbed someone. I am only its instrument, carrying out the justice demanded by the men who wrote the laws in the first place and by the society which demanded a code of conduct that, if broken, must be punished.”

  “I know that, Judge Parker, and I apologize if I offended you. But you must also realize that I am fighting for my husband’s life. He’s a man I know as well as one can know another human being, and I know that he could not have done the crime of which he is being accused.”

  “Then he will be set free, Mrs. Jensen. On that you have my word.”

  “Excuse me, Judge,” Louis interrupted, “but it is not as simple as that. You and I both know that innocent men have been convicted of crimes they did not commit. That is a fact, and that is what we aim to prevent if we can help it.”

  Before the judge could respond, Monte leaned forward in his chair. “Judge, we heard someone had given testimony that he saw Smoke shoot the man in the back. Is that true?”

  Parker looked at a stack of papers on his desk and thumbed through them looking for a copy of the wire he’d received. “Ah, here we are,” he said, holding up a telegram. “You are right, sir, there is such a testimony on record.” He read further for a moment, then added, “However, Marshal Heck Thomas says he has evidence the man was lying in his statement and is taking steps to get it revised.”

  The three visitors looked at each other, relief on their faces. “There, Judge, I told you so,” Sally said.

  He held up his hand. “Hold on a moment, Mrs. Jensen. As I told Marshal Thomas in a reply to his telegram, the original statement will hold if the witness does not recant his testimony. That is the law.”

  “So, even though a sworn peace officer of this court tells you the witness is lying, you’re still going to rely on perjured testimony?” Louis asked, disgust in his voice.

  The judge spread his hands. “I have no choice, Mr. Longmont. As I said, it is the law.”

  “Then the law is in error,” Louis said angrily.

  Sally, trying to head off a confrontation, said, “May we see my husband, Judge Parker?”

  “Oh, I thought you knew,” he answered.

  “Knew what?” Sally asked.

  “There has been some delay in his arrival here. Marshal Bill Tilghman was bringing him, along with three other miscreants, overland by caged wagon, and he has failed to arrive on schedule.”

  “What has happened to them?” she asked, a worried look on her face.

  “I do not know, Mrs. Jensen. We have received no word from either Marshal Tilghman or any other law enforcement officers concerning these prisoners.”

  “Well, what are you doing about it?”

  The judge looked uncomfortable, and wouldn’t meet Sally’s eyes as he replied, “Mrs. Jensen, you have to realize, our U.S. marshals each cover thousands of square miles of wilderness territory. They go out alone, and come back alone. We simply do not have the manpower to provide them with adequate backup. They are, in a very real sense, on their own out there.”

  “Do you really expect me to just sit here and wait to hear if my husband is alive or not?” Sally asked, rising from her chair.

  For the first time in the meeting, the judge grinned, slightly. “No, Mrs. Jensen. After meeting you, I am quite sure that is the last thing a lady such as yourself would do.”

  He bent his head and scribbled a quick note. “If you will give this to one of the marshals in the main office, one of them will show you on a map the route Tilghman would most likely take to bring your husband here from Fort Worth.”

  He leaned back, still smiling. “And then, you may go out to meet him, or to see what might have befallen him on the trip here.”

  She took the note and turned without another word, hurrying out the door.

  Louis took the time to tip his hat at Judge Parker. “Thank you for your courtesy, sir.”

  Parker’s eyes remained on Sally’s back as she left the room. “She is quite a woman, isn’t she?” he murmured, almost as if to himself.

  Louis smiled. “She is that, all right!”

  “This Jensen fellow may or may not be a murderer, but after meeting his wife, I’d say either way, he is one of the luckiest men in the world.”

  Louis nodded. “You are right, Judge. They just don’t make them like Sally Jensen very often.”

  Louis paused when he got to the door. “In fact,” he added, looking back over his shoulder, “I’m quite sure she is unique among women.”

  After Louis and Monte and Sally had gone, Parker got a fresh sheet of paper and began writing a telegram to be sent to Marshal Heck Thomas in Fort Worth.

  “Marshal Thomas, I have come to believe you may be correct in proposing Jensen’s innocence. Spare no expense in investigating the aforementioned affair. I want to get at the truth in this matter.”

  He signed it at the bottom and called in his clerk to get it sent at once.

  21

  Dolly, the prostitute Smoke had talked to about the Durango Kid’s men, waited until the bartender began to shut the Silver Dollar Saloon down before making her move.

  She checked the loads in the derringer in her garter, then made her way down Main Street to the Star Hotel. She knew the men who’d been riding with the Durango Kid were staying there, but hadn’t mentioned the fact to Smoke Jensen, thinking she might be able to get more money from the men by not telling of their whereabouts than from the big, handsome cowboy who’d braced her in the saloon.

  Dolly, on her own since the age of fourteen when her stepfather raped her and then threw her out of the house, had learned the hard way that a girl had to take care of herself, because sure as hell no one else was going to do it.

  When she stepped through the door of the Star, the clerk, dozing at the main desk, woke up and scowled at her. “We don’t allow no whores in here,” he said in a nasty tone of voice.

  Dolly glared at him for a moment, then forced herself to smile. After all, the one thing she’d learned in her years earning a living on her back was that a smile would get most of what she needed from most men.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she said, laying it on thick, “I have personal business with some of your guests. I am in possession of information they urgently need. I’m sure they would be most . . . upset if you kept me from seeing them.”

  “What guests?” the man asked suspiciously.

  “Misters Juan Gomez, Jack Cummings, and Bob Gatling,” she answered sweetly.

  Evidently the man knew whom she was talking about and didn’t want to anger them. As he remembered, they were indeed hard-looking men.

  “Top of the stairs on the left, Rooms 302 through 304,” he said, immediately laying his head back down on the desk and resuming his nap.

  Dolly climbed the stairs, looking around at the lavish furnishings of the elegant hotel. It wasn’t often . . . Hell, it was never that she got to see such opulence. She felt sure she’d been right in her decision not to tell the tall man about where these men were staying. If the
y could afford this hotel, then they could afford to pay her a lot of money to keep their secret. The thought she’d be walking into danger never entered her mind. In her profession, danger was an everyday occurrence and was accepted as the price of doing business.

  She knocked on the door to Room 302, fluffing her hair a bit to make herself appear more attractive.

  A gruff voice, slurred a bit by too much alcohol, called out, “Who is it?”

  “A friend,” Dolly answered in as sweet a voice as she could manage.

  After some rumbling noises inside, indicating the man was putting on his pants and boots, the door opened a crack. One eye peered out, checking the corridor behind Dolly to make sure she was alone before opening the door fully.

  Three-Fingers Juan Gomez opened the door and stepped out into the hall, a Colt hanging from his right hand. “What do you want? I didn’t order no girl.”

  “I have some information I thought you might like to have,” Dolly said. “It concerns your friend who was killed the other night.”

  “Yeah? What is it?” he asked.

  Dolly glanced up and down the hall. “I don’t believe you’d want me to go into it out here in the corridor where just anyone could overhear.”

  Gomez considered this for a moment, then stepped aside, letting her into his room. She crossed the small space and took a seat in a chair by the window, arranging her skirts as she sat so she could get to her derringer quickly if the need arose.

  “All right, tell me,” he said gruffly, flopping on the bed, putting his feet up, and crossing his hands behind his head as he lay back against the pillows.

  “Well,” Dolly said, dropping her gaze demurely, “the information is rather important, and I was hoping you’d offer to pay me for my trouble in bringing it to you at such a late hour.”

  Gomez smiled cruelly. “I ain’t payin’ you nothing, girl. Now you tell me what you got to tell me or I’ll just have to beat it outta you.”

  Dolly smiled, causing Gomez to assume a worried expression. He wasn’t used to women not being afraid of him when he threatened them.