Justice of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  23

  Sally and Monte and Louis were less than ten miles out of Fort Smith when they saw a man riding a wagon coming toward them in the distance.

  Sally spurred her horse into a full gallop and raced toward the man.

  As she pulled the horse to a stop, she noticed the man was holding a Winchester Yellow Boy cradled in his arms, the hammer cocked.

  She grinned. “Are you Marshal Tilghman?”

  He glanced over her shoulder at Monte and Louis, who were just arriving, and moved the rifle a bit so it covered all three.

  “Yeah.”

  She inclined her head at the rifle. “Are you expecting trouble, Marshal?”

  “Expectin’ it or not, it usually seems to find me. Who are you an’ what can I do for you?”

  “My name is Sally Jensen, and I was told you were bringing my husband to Fort Smith to stand trial for murder.”

  Tilghman nodded and seemed to relax just a bit. “I was.”

  “What do you mean, was?” Sally asked, moving her horse a little to the side so she could see in the back of the cage. “Isn’t Smoke with you?”

  “No, ma’am,” Tilghman answered shortly.

  “Well, where is he?”

  “On his way back to Fort Worth, I ’spect.”

  “Marshal,” Sally said, her exasperation clearly showing in her voice. “Would you please tell me what’s going on?”

  “Mrs. Jensen, why don’t you get down off that horse and climb up here on the hurricane deck with me? That way I can tell you while I keep this wagon headin’ toward Fort Smith. I’m already a couple’a days late an’ I’d kind’a like to keep movin’.”

  Sally jumped down off her horse, handing the reins to Monte Carson, and climbed up on the wagon with Tilghman.

  He snapped the reins and got the wagon moving, setting his rifle in the boot next to his feet while he drove.

  “Now, Marshal, what about my husband?”

  “I’m fixin’ to tell you the damnedest story you ever heard, ma’am,” the marshal said, grinning as he glanced sideways at her.

  Sally shook her head. “Marshal, if you knew Smoke like I do, you’d know nothing you can say about him will surprise me.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, when Tilghman had finished telling Sally about the confrontation with Zachery Stillwell and his gang, and Smoke’s subsequent rescue of the marshal, Sally just nodded.

  “That’s just like Smoke. He never could stand to see an underdog get beaten without joining in to help.”

  The marshal glanced at her as if he didn’t much like being called an underdog, but then shrugged as if he knew what she’d meant by it.

  “So, you do believe my husband’s innocent of the charges against him, don’t you, Marshal?”

  Tilghman thought on it for a moment, then slowly nodded his head. “Yes, ma’am, I do. I just can’t see a man who did what your husband did for me bein’ a back-shooter.”

  He paused to build himself a cigarette, holding the reins between his knees while he put the tobacco in paper and licked it. Striking a match on the side of the wagon, he lit the cigarette, turning his head to the side to blow the smoke away from Sally.

  “Course, you understand that it don’t much matter what I think ’bout Smoke. Under the law he’s still a wanted man an’ I got to bring him in, soon’s I get these galoots to the jail in Fort Smith.”

  Sally nodded. “I understand you have to do your duty, Marshal Tilghman, but it is good to know you don’t truly believe Smoke is capable of shooting a man in the back.”

  “No, ma’am. I think that gambler fellow Gibbons was lyin’ when he said he saw Smoke do it. I just don’t know why . . . yet.”

  “So, you intend to question the gambler more about his accusations?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. I do. In fact, that’s top of my list of things to do, once I get Smoke back in custody.”

  “You plan to head back to Fort Worth as soon as you drop these prisoners off at the jail?”

  “Well, that’s a mighty long ride, ma’am. I’ll probably take the day to rest up, take a bath, an’ get some shut-eye ’fore I try to ride all the way back there.”

  Sally thought for a moment. “Marshal, doesn’t a train run between Fort Smith and Fort Worth?”

  Tilghman looked at her. “Yes, ma’am. The Southern Pacific makes a daily run down there.”

  “How about if we all go by train? We’ll get there much sooner, and you can sleep while the train’s taking us there.”

  Tilghman frowned. “That’d be a right nice idea, ma’am, ’cept the U.S. Marshals Service don’t pay for no train rides. They expect us to use horses to get back an’ forth.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Marshal. I’ll pay your fare. It’s important for me to find Smoke before someone else tries to arrest him and causes him to do something that might get him in more trouble than he’s already in.”

  Tilghman smiled at her and slapped the reins to get the horses to move faster.

  “You’re right intent on takin’ care of your man, ain’t you, ma’am?”

  “You’re damned right, Marshal. So get those horses moving, because we’re burning daylight.”

  “Gid’yup!” the marshal yelled at the horses, grinning as they took off at a slow lope, pulling the wagon as fast as they could.

  * * *

  Cal and Pearlie were riding southeast down the trail toward Fort Worth, talking about what they were going to do when they got there.

  “Our only chance now is to talk to the men with the Durango Kid on the night he was killed. Maybe they’ll know somebody who might have had it in for the Kid enough to shoot him in the back like that,” Pearlie said.

  The road from Jacksboro to Fort Worth was narrow and not much traveled, so Pearlie and Cal took notice when they saw a lone rider approaching them from a distance on the trail.

  “Looks like we got company coming,” Cal said.

  “Yeah,” Pearlie answered. He pulled a pocket watch from his pants pocket and looked at the time. “Hell, it’s almost noon. Why don’t we stop for a bite to eat? Maybe he’d like to join us.”

  Cal looked at Pearlie. “Don’t tell me you’re offerin’ to share your grub with a stranger.”

  Pearlie shrugged. “Why not? ’Fore we left, I had that German lady fill my saddlebags with enough food for three or four men for the trip.”

  Cal laughed. “Well, since you usually eat enough for two, that don’t leave a whole lot for him an’ me.”

  “You’ll just have to make do,” Pearlie said. “Besides, I want to see what the news outta Fort Worth is, see if this man’s heard anything ’bout Smoke or the killin’.”

  Cal and Pearlie pulled their horses off the trail, and Cal began to gather some rocks to make a fire while Pearlie got his saddlebags off his horse and began to unload the sack lunches the lady at the Hofbrau had prepared for them.

  He had a package of cold fried chicken, a container of German potato salad, and three cans of sliced peaches spread out on his ground blanket when the man on the horse pulled abreast of them.

  Cal had the water in the coffeepot boiling, and was just adding in spoonfuls of coffee when he looked up to see the man slow his horse.

  “Jimminy,” Cal whispered to Pearlie, “that’s one of the galoots was at the table with the Durango Kid the night he was killed.”

  Pearlie nodded, turning his back to the man so he wouldn’t hear. “Be careful and keep your hand next to your gun in case he recognizes us,” Pearlie said. “I’m gonna invite him to sup with us.”

  “They were all pretty drunk that night,” Cal said. “I doubt he’ll remember us, since it was the Kid did all the talkin’ to Smoke.”

  “Just keep your guns loose,” Pearlie said, “just in case.”

  He straightened up and turned to face the man on the trail. “Howdy, mister. We’re just about to take a noonin’. Care to join us?”

  Rawhide Jack, tired and dusty from being up all ni
ght and on the trail all morning, welcomed the chance to get out of the saddle and take a break.

  “Don’t mind if I do, mister,” he called, turning his horse’s head off the trail to ground-rein it next to Cal’s and Pearlie’s mounts under a nearby tree.

  Jack dusted off his butt and stretched as he walked over to the fire. “You gents headed toward Fort Worth?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Pearlie said. “We’ve just come from Jacksboro, on our way to see the big city.”

  Jack squatted next to the fire and took the cup of coffee Cal handed him with a nod of thanks. “Boy, this sure smells good after sucking in trail dust all day.”

  “You comin’ from Fort Worth?” Cal asked, an innocent expression on his face.

  “Yep.”

  Pearlie lay on his left side on the edge of his ground blanket and began to eat the chicken. “Got some fried chicken here, if ’n you want some,” he offered.

  Jack’s eyes lit up. “Sure do,” he said, sitting cross-legged across from Pearlie. “I’m so hungry I’d almost trade my hoss for some.”

  “Dig right in,” Pearlie said, winking at Cal, who stayed over by the fire so he’d be behind Jack.

  As Jack ate, he stared at Pearlie for a moment. “You look kind’a familiar. I ever seen you before?”

  Pearlie shook his head. “Nope, not that I recollect.”

  “How ’bout some of that tater salad?” Jack asked.

  Pearlie handed the bowl over to the man and continued to munch on a chicken leg.

  “How’re things in Fort Worth?” Pearlie asked. “Plenty of action there?”

  “’Bout all you could want, an’ then some,” Jack said with a grin. “Prettiest girls I ever seen in all my born days.”

  “What hotel you stay at?” Pearlie asked.

  “The Star, but it’s kind’a expensive for my tastes,” Jack answered. “There’s plenty more won’t take all your drinkin’ money to let you have a bed.”

  Pearlie laughed, shifting his body a bit so he could get at his pistol quickly if need be.

  “Is it pretty rough over there? We heard the other day a man got back-shot outside one of the saloons.”

  Jack’s eyes dropped and his face became more serious. “There’s some trouble, if you go to the wrong places. Were I you, I’d stay in the nicer saloons. Not so much gunplay there.”

  “How ’bout that cowboy got shot?” Cal called from behind him. “You see it?”

  Jack swiveled his head to glare at Cal. “Why you so interested in one shootin’? Hell, there was three men killed in gunfights the week I was there.”

  Suddenly, Jack stiffened and he stared harder at Cal. “You look mighty familiar to me too. I know you boys from someplace.”

  Pearlie eased his pistol out of his holster and had it pointed at Jack when he turned back around. “Yeah, we do know you, mister. We were sittin’ with Smoke Jensen the night your pardner, the Durango Kid, got hisself shot dead.”

  Jack’s hand moved toward the gun in his holster, until Pearlie thumbed the hammer back on his Colt. “I wouldn’t do that if ’n I were you, mister, ’less you wanna meet up with the Kid sooner than you planned to.”

  “Goddamnit,” Jack said, slumping where he sat. “I knew I’d seen you boys before. I just couldn’t remember where.”

  Cal eased up behind Jack and lifted the man’s pistol from his holster, then moved around to sit across from him.

  “Now, you gonna tell us what you know about that night, or are we gonna have to make you tell us?” Pearlie asked, his voice low and hard, his eyes flat and dangerous.

  “Hell, you were there too,” Jack said. “You know as much about it as I do.”

  Pearlie shook his head. “No, sir, I don’t think so. Our friend Smoke Jensen has been accused of shootin’ the Kid in the back, an’ we know for a fact he wouldn’t do somethin’ like that. Now, you know the Kid better’n we do, so you probably know who had reason to shoot him.”

  Jack stared at the ground before him. “I don’t know nothin’,” he said sullenly.

  Pearlie winked at Cal. “Cal,” he said, “go add some wood to the fire, get the coals nice an’ hot.”

  Cal winked back. “Yeah?”

  “Then get that brandin’ iron outta my saddlebags. I can see we’re gonna have to do some powerful persuadin’ to get this man to talk.”

  Jack’s eyes flicked up. “What? What do you mean, branding iron?”

  Pearlie shrugged. “We’re out here twenty miles from nowhere. Won’t nobody hear you scream, an’ I do intend to get the truth outta you, one way or another.”

  “Wait just a minute,” Jack pleaded. “You can’t just go around brandin’ a man to make him talk.”

  Pearlie glanced down at his pistol, pointed at Jack’s chest. “Oh? Well, Mr. Colt here says I can do just about anything I want to do out here.”

  “But if I tell you who shot the Kid, he’ll kill me.”

  Pearlie’s heart beat faster at the man’s admission he knew who had shot the Durango Kid. “And if you don’t tell me, you’ll spend the next couple of hours in more pain than you can imagine.”

  Jack’s face fell and he slumped again. “All right. It was Three-Fingers Gomez who shot the Kid.”

  “Who is Three-Fingers Gomez?” Pearlie asked.

  “He was the Mex sittin’ with us that night at the Silver Dollar.”

  “Why’d he shoot the Kid?” Cal asked from behind Jack.

  “The Kid had been ridin’ him pretty hard all week, makin’ him stay down in Mexican Town, not lettin’ him have a fair share of the money we were gonna get from selling our cattle.”

  “Your cattle?” Pearlie asked with scorn. “You mean the cattle you stole?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I mean,” Jack answered, completely defeated now.

  Pearlie pointed at the chicken on the ground blanket. “Go on an’ eat your fill, mister, ’cause when you finish you’re gonna go back to Fort Worth with us an’ clear our friend’s name.”

  “But then the marshal will put me in jail.”

  Pearlie shrugged again. “Better’n being branded, ain’t it?”

  24

  Smoke walked around Fort Worth, checking with the desk clerks at most of the hotels near the center of the city. He figured the Durango Kid and his cohorts would probably have stayed somewhere near the Silver Dollar Saloon, where he’d first seen them. The problem was, none of the clerks would tell him if men fitting their description were staying at their hotels. They all said it was against hotel policy, but Smoke thought they just didn’t want any trouble in their places.

  Finally, discouraged that he’d ever find the men unless he ran into them on the street or in a saloon or bar, he returned to the Silver Dollar, hoping Dolly had been able to find something out about their whereabouts.

  He bought a mug of beer from the bartender and told him if he saw Dolly, to send her over to his table. He found one that was empty in a corner of the room, where he could sit with his back against the wall, as usual. He did this both out of long-standing habit, and because he wanted to keep an eye out for the three men as well as for Marshal Heck Thomas. He didn’t know if Thomas would believe that Tilghman had let him go or would try to re-arrest him.

  He was on his second beer when he saw Dolly at the bar, talking to the bartender. She glanced over at him, stared a moment as if trying to decide whether to speak to him or not, then finally shrugged and walked over to his table.

  “Hello, Dolly,” Smoke said. “Grab a seat.”

  “Uh, Mr. Jensen, I’m a working girl. I got to keep circulating or the boss man will get mad.”

  “That’s all right. I guess you don’t have any news for me anyway.”

  She looked down at him, noticing he was looking discouraged. She stepped around the table and pulled up a chair next to him. “Listen, Smoke, if you’d like to . . . hire my services, we could go up to my room and talk for a while.”

  He smiled at her. “Don’t think I’m not attract
ed, Dolly. You are a right handsome woman. But I’m a married man who loves his wife very much. I have never strayed and I’m not about to start now.” He hoisted his beer glass to her. “So, thanks, but no.”

  Dolly was touched. She’d been with hundreds of men, a lot of them married, and she respected a man who wouldn’t think of cheating on his wife. It was something she didn’t often see.

  She chewed on her lip for a moment, thinking about what she should do. “You really want to talk to those men, huh?”

  He looked into her eyes. “Dolly, I’m a wanted man, wanted for a murder I didn’t commit. If they can’t help me clear it up, then in all likelihood, I’m going to hang for something I didn’t do.”

  He took another drink of his beer. “It’s either that or go to running for the rest of my life. Either way, my life is over if I don’t discover who did kill the Durango Kid.”

  Dolly made up her mind. She glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone could hear her, then leaned over close to Smoke. “I know where they’re staying,” she whispered.

  Smoke was about to ask her where when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something that didn’t make sense. He turned his head to see four Mexicans enter the saloon. The men were hard-looking gunnies, all wearing pistols tied down low on their legs, two of them carrying rifles.

  The Silver Dollar was a high-class saloon right in the center of the wealthiest part of Fort Worth. Men like this just didn’t come here to drink or to gamble. The hair on the back of Smoke’s neck stirred when he saw them stand in the doorway, looking around as if searching for someone. He knew instinctively it was him they were looking for.

  “Dolly,” he said urgently, “get the hell away from here!”

  “What?” she asked with a surprised expression on her face.

  When one of the men in the group saw him and said something to the others, pointing his finger in Smoke’s direction, Smoke shoved Dolly aside and flipped the table up on its edge, ducking behind it.

  The first man drew a pistol and started walking toward Smoke, firing at the table as he approached.

  Smoke drew his right-hand Colt and rolled to the side just as several slugs punched their way through the thin wood of the table. He came to rest on his stomach and aimed and fired in one fluid motion. His first bullet took the Mexican in the forehead, blowing the top of his scalp off and showering surrounding tables and gamblers with blood and brains.