Assault of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Good-bye, boys.”

  “Putnam, don’t forget, you owe me two dollars.”

  “I’ll send it to you,” Putnam called.

  “No need to. You’ll be back inside in less than a month. You can just bring it to me.”

  Parnell and Putnam were taken to the warden’s office. Each was given a new pair of jeans, a denim shirt, and a wool coat. They took off their striped trousers and striped shirt to put on the new clothes.

  “Here’s five dollars apiece,” the warden said, sliding the money across the desk. “Both of you are young enough that you have your entire life ahead of you. I don’t want to see you back here again.”

  Neither Parnell nor Putnam answered. Dressed in their new clothes, they took the five dollars and put the money in their pocket.

  “I had a gun and holster when I checked in here,” Putnam said.

  “Yeah, I did too,” Parnell added.

  The warden nodded, then opened the bottom right drawer of his desk. “Here are your guns. No bullets. I would suggest you don’t use them for anything other than shooting varmints and the like.”

  “Don’t worry none about that, warden,” Putnam said as he strapped on his pistol belt. “I ain’t plannin’ on doin’ nothin’ that will get me back in here. No offense meant, but this here prison ain’t exactly a high class hotel.”

  The warden chuckled. “Why thank you, Mr. Putnam. I’ll take that as a compliment. It is our intention to make your stay here unpleasant enough that you will think twice before doing anything that might cause you to return.”

  Fifteen minutes later the two former prisoners walked through the door at the front gate. They heard the door slam shut behind them, a clanking of steel on steel.

  They stood for a moment, as if adjusting to the fact that, for the first time in five years, they could see from horizon to horizon without walls around them.

  “Damn,” Parnell said. “Damn, this feels good.”

  “Don’t it though?” Putnam replied.

  “What are you going to do now?” Parnell asked.

  “I’m going to find the nearest saloon and have a beer,” Putnam said. “No, not a beer, a whiskey. A real whiskey.”

  Bill Dinkins was sitting in the Red Dog saloon when he saw Johnny Putnam and another man come in. Dinkins knew that Putnam was getting out of prison today, and it was for that reason he had come to Cañon City. He watched as the two men stepped up to the bar to order drinks. Their new jeans and shirt, plus the five dollar bill each of them slapped down on the bar, telegraphed to everyone in the saloon that they were just-released prisoners. The other saloon patrons moved away pointedly.

  Dinkins chuckled at the reaction of the saloon patrons. They lived here, and saw prisoners released every week, and they reacted the same way to all of them.

  “Putnam!” Dinkins called.

  Hearing his name, Putnam turned toward the caller.

  Dinkins held up a half full bottle. “Save your money. You two boys are welcome to a drink at my table.”

  Putnam smiled, and tugged on Parnell’s arm. “Come on. This is an old pard of mine.”

  The two men picked up their five dollar bills and walked over to the table before the bartender returned with two shot glasses of whiskey. Seeing what happened, he shrugged his shoulders, then poured the whiskey back into the bottle.

  “Who’s your friend?” Dinkins asked as he handed the bottle to Putnam.

  “His name is Parnell,” Putnam lifted the bottle straight to his mouth, took several swallows, then passed it over to Parnell. “We both got out this morning.”

  “Where are you goin’ next?”

  Putnam shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t have a horse, I got only five dollars. Don’t seem to me like there’s many places I can go.”

  “You interested in a job?”

  “By job, do you mean the kind of job that got me in prison in the first place?” Putnam asked.

  “I can furnish each of you with a horse and saddle, and twenty dollars advance,” Dinkins said.

  “It is the same kind of job that got me in prison in the first place, isn’t it?” Putnam said.

  “You got ’ny better prospects?”

  “No, I don’t reckon I do.”

  “I don’t know about Johnny, but if the offer is for me as well, I’m in,” Parnell said.

  “Yeah,” Putnam said. “Like you said, we don’t have no other prospects.”

  “Come on down to the stable,” Dinkins said. “We’ll get the two of you mounted.”

  The three men stood up and started away from the table.

  “Don’t leave the whiskey behind,” Dinkins said. “It’s already paid for.”

  Parnell walked back to the table and grabbed the bottle.

  “Now, when we get to the stable, let me do the talking,” Dinkins said on the way out.

  “Hello, Mr. Kirkeby,” the teenaged hostler at the stable said. “Back to rent a horse again?”

  “Yes, and I’d like the same one if you don’t mind,” Dinkins said. “Oh, and I’ll need two more today. These men, Mr. Jones and Mr. Brown are thinking about investing in my mine. I want to take them out to show them what it’s like.”

  “When are you going to tell me where that mine is?” the young man asked.

  “Ha, you would like to know, wouldn’t you?” Dinkins wagged his finger back and forth.

  “I know it’s not too far, ’cause you’ve had the horse back within a couple hours every day.”

  “You’re too smart for me,” Dinkins said. “That’ll be two dollars apiece for the horses, right?”

  “Yes, sir, two dollars for a full day. And remember, no matter what time you bring ’em back, you’ll still be charged the two dollars.”

  “Yeah, I’ve already found that out by comin’ back early,” Dinkins said. “Think I can get a break on account I’m rentin’ three horses?”

  “No sir. Mr. Zigenhorn, he owns the livery, and he says I got to charge two dollars per day per horse, for ever’ horse that gets rented.”

  “Highway robbery,” Dinkins said as he counted out the money.

  Fifteen minutes later the three men left Cañon City, heading west.

  “When you said you would supply us with horses, I didn’t know you was talkin’ about rentin’ horses,” Putnam said. “Hell, how far can we go on rented horses?”

  “As far as we want, seein’ as I don’t plan on turnin’ ’em back in,” Dinkins said.

  Parnell laughed out loud. “Ha! That’s why you been rentin’ horses there, ain’t it? You planned all along to do this. You was just makin’ him trust you.”

  “Your friend is smart,” Dinkins said to Putnam. “Now, if you boys just pay attention to me and do what I tell you, you’ll have more money than you know what to do with.”

  “Ain’t possible,” Parnell said. “No matter how much money I have, I’ll always know what to do with it.”

  Big Rock

  Smoke drove a buckboard into town to pick up Sally. It would not only be good for carrying her luggage—Sally never traveled light no matter where she went—it would also be good for him to pick up a few supplies he needed.

  He was at least half an hour early for the train, but figured it would be better to be early than late. As he was checking the blackboard in front of the depot to get the latest telegraphic report on the train, he heard a familiar voice calling to him.

  “Smoke, I’m over here,” Sally said.

  Smoke looked at her with a shocked expression on his face.

  “Sally! What are you doing here?” He pointed to the blackboard. “According the schedule, the train isn’t due for another half hour.”

  “That train isn’t due for another half hour. But the train I was on arrived at midnight last night.”

  “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I changed trains in St. Louis. I should have known it would arrive here in the middle of the night. I just didn’t think it out.”

 
“You didn’t spend the night here, in the depot, did you?” Smoke asked anxiously.

  Sally laughed. “Of course not, silly. I stayed in the hotel. Tell me, Smoke, am I just going to stand here like a toad on a log? Or am I going to get a welcome home kiss?”

  Smoke laughed, then went to her where they embraced and kissed deeply and unashamedly, on the brick platform in front of the depot.

  “I had Mr. Anderson hold my luggage overnight for me.”

  “Good. But if you don’t mind, we’ll come back for it a little later. I have some things I need to pick up—some wire and fence posts.”

  Sally chuckled. “It’s roundup time and you’ve put the fencing off until the last minute, haven’t you?”

  “I have an excuse for it. I hate fences.” Smoke helped Sally into the buckboard.

  As they left the depot, they saw a stagecoach drawn up in front of the stage depot.

  “Smoke, drive over there,” Sally said. “I want to tell a friend good-bye.”

  Smoke drove over to where the coach was being loaded. Sally looked toward the passengers, smiled when she saw Tamara, and called her name.

  With a glance toward the coach to make certain she wasn’t going to be left behind, Tamara hurried over to the buckboard.

  “Smoke, you remember Tamara Gooding, don’t you? Only, it is Tamara McKenzie now.”

  “Yes, I do remember you,” Smoke said to the attractive young woman. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  “Thank you,” Tamara said.

  “I’ll be coming over in a couple more weeks,” Sally said.

  “Sally, are you sure you want to do this?” Tamara asked, her voice displaying her anxiety.

  “I am positive I want to do it.”

  “Ma’am, if you’re goin’ on this coach, you need to get aboard now,” the driver called.

  “I’ll write to you,” Tamara shouted over her shoulder as she hurried to board the coach, the last passenger to do so.

  “Heah, team!” the coach driver shouted, snapping his whip with a pop that could be heard all up and down Main Street.

  Smoke held his own team back until the coach pulled out. “Want to do what?” he asked as he got his own team underway.

  “Invest in a restaurant,” Sally said, without further clarification.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After the coach left, Smoke drove down Main Street, exchanging greetings with the citizens of the town he helped form. The Jensens were well-known and respected, and if everyone in town didn’t know them personally, everyone in town certainly knew who they were.

  Sheriff Monte Carson was sitting on the boardwalk in front of his office, with a cup of coffee in hand. When Smoke and Sally rode past, he called out, “Howdy.”

  Smoke grinned and tipped his hat and Sally smiled and waved.

  “You going to stop in to Longmont’s?” Sheriff Carson called. Longmont’s Saloon, unlike many Western saloons, was a genteel and sophisticated place, in spite of being so far removed from a city of any size.

  “Yeah, soon as I get a few things from the hardware store,” Smoke called back.

  “I’ll join you then.”

  “Good.”

  “What am I supposed to do while you are visiting with all your friends in Longmont’s?” Sally asked.

  “I figured you would want to stop by the general store,” Smoke said. “You always do that, when you come to town.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Then you can come on down to Longmont’s. They’re your friends too, and you know how Louis prides himself in keeping a place that is fit for ladies.”

  “All right. The general store, then Longmont’s it is,” Sally agreed.

  In front of the general store Smoke stepped down from the buckboard, helped Sally alight, then tied the two-horse rig up to a rail. He went inside with her and looked around at the goods piled on tables and stacked in shelves. The store smelled of cured meat, flour, spices, candle wax, and coal oil. A large counter separated the proprietors from the customers, and on that counter was a roll of brown paper, and a spool of string. Peg Johnson was behind the counter, tending to another customer.

  “Hello Sally, Smoke,” Peg said. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  “No hurry.” Sally began looking through the dry goods.

  “Sally, I’m going to leave the buckboard down at the hardware store while they load it. If you buy anything, just leave it here and we’ll pick it up on the way out of town,” Smoke suggested.

  “All right. I’ll see you in few minutes.”

  “You’ve been out of town, haven’t you, Sally?” Smoke heard Peg ask as he was leaving. He didn’t hear Sally’s response, because he was already climbing onto the buckboard.

  Fifteen minutes later, with his order placed, Smoke spoke to Kendall Sikes, the owner of the Sikes’ Hardware Store. “Kendall, I’m going to leave my buckboard here, and if you would, please, have someone bring it down to Longmont’s when you have it loaded.”

  “Be glad to, Smoke,” Kendall replied.

  On the way to Longmont’s, Smoke passed a couple of the older citizens of the town, engaged in a game of checkers. There were at least five kibitzers of equal age watching the game and offering unwanted advice.

  As was his custom, he entered the saloon and stepped immediately to the side, pressing his back up against the wall. He let his eyes adjust to the lower light inside while he looked for possible trouble among the patrons. He did it as a matter of habit, in every saloon he entered. In truth, it was not necessary in Louis Longmont’s saloon. He was as safe there as in his own living room. But it was a habit he had cultivated, and all good habits, he believed, should be continued without an interruption in the routine.

  Longmont’s was truly one of the nicest establishments of its kind that Smoke had ever seen. It would have been at home in San Francisco, St. Louis, or New York. It had a long, polished mahogany bar, with a brass foot rail that Louis kept shining brightly. A cut glass mirror was behind the bar, and the artwork was truly art, not the garish nudes that were so prominent in saloons throughout the West. His collection included originals by Winslow Homer, George Catlin, and Thomas Moran.

  Louis was sitting at his usual table in a corner. He was a lean, hawk-faced man, with strong, slender hands, long fingers, and carefully manicured nails. He had jet-black hair and a black pencil-thin moustache. He always wore fine suits, white shirts, and the ubiquitous ascot. Today it was a royal blue. He wore low-heeled boots, and a pistol that hung low in a tied-down holster on his right side. The pistol was nickel-plated, with ivory handles, but it wasn’t just for show. Louis was snake-quick and a feared, deadly gun hand when pushed.

  He was engaged in a profession that did not have a very good reputation, and there had been times when he was called upon to use his gun. Those times, he did so with deadly effectiveness. He was also a man with a very strong code of honor, as well as a belief in right and wrong. He had never hired, nor would he ever hire, his gun out for money. While he could make a deck of cards do almost anything, he had never cheated at poker. He didn’t have to cheat. He was possessed of a phenomenal memory, could tell you the odds of filling any type of poker hand, and was an expert at the technique of card counting.

  Louis was just past thirty. When he was a small boy, he left Louisiana and came West with his parents. They had died in a shantytown fire, leaving the boy to cope as best he could.

  He had coped quite well, plying his innate intelligence, along with his willingness to take a chance, into a fortune. He owned a large ranch in Wyoming Territory, several businesses in San Francisco, and a hefty chunk of a railroad.

  Though it was a mystery to many why Louis continued to stay with his saloon and restaurant in a small town, he explained it very simply. “I would miss it.”

  Smoke understood exactly what he was talking about.

  “Smoke, mon ami,” Louis said. “It is good to see you, as always. What will it be? Coffee, beer, wine, or whiskey?”
/>
  “It’s before noon,” Smoke replied. “I think a cup of coffee would be fine.”

  “Make it two cups,” Sheriff Carson said, coming in behind Smoke.

  “I just saw you drinking one cup,” Smoke teased. “Now you are going to drink two more?”

  “No, I meant ...” Sheriff Carson laughed when he saw that Smoke was teasing. “I think there is a bit of leg pulling going on here.”

  Andre, Louis Longmont’s French cook, brought two cups of steaming coffee, and put them on the table in front of Smoke and Sheriff Carson.

  “Do you have any cream and sugar back there, Andre?” Sheriff Carson asked.

  “Quelle sorte de cochon grossier detruirait du café merveilleux avec la crème et le sucre?” Andre asked loudly and angrily, as he stormed back into the kitchen.

  “What the hell did he just say?”

  Longmont laughed. “Trust me, Sheriff, you don’t want to know. Suffice it to say that he took umbrage with your request for cream and sugar, in a coffee that he has already declared to be marvelous.”

  Sally had come in during the previous exchange, and she called out from the door. “Andre, j’aimerais une tasse de votre cafe sans cremez ou sucre.” The French rolled easily from her tongue.

  Andre kissed the tips of the four fingers of his right hand, and opened them toward Sally. “Mme Jensen, la seule personne civiliseé dans cette terre sauvage.”

  “Why, thank you, Andre. I try to be civilized”—Sally looked at Smoke and Sheriff Carson—“though sometimes, surrounded as I am with such creatures as these, it is difficult.”

  Carson looked over at Smoke. “Have we just been put down?”

  Smoke laughed. “Monte, you are a married man just as I am. Haven’t you learned by now, never to ask such a question?”

  “How is the roundup going?” Sheriff Carson ignored Smoke’s question.

  “We’re just getting started,” Smoke replied. “Cattle got scattered from here to hell and back during the winter. I’ve got all hands out finding them, rounding them up, as well as digging them out of sink holes.”