Violence of the Mountain Man

by Johnstone, William W.

  Sally smiled. “If you are trying to make me blush right here in front of everybody, it isn’t going to work.”

  Smoke laughed again. “Sally, I gave up trying to make you blush a long time ago. It’s just that you don’t choose to wear dresses all that often. I mean, look at what you are wearing right now. I’m just wondering why you would even want another dress, is all.”

  “For your information, Mister Jensen, it just so happens that the dress I am buying this morning will not be for me,” Sally said. “It just so happens that Maria’s birthday is coming up this week, and this dress is for her.”

  “Oh, yes, Maria’s birthday,” Smoke replied. “I had forgotten about that. Yes, if this is for Maria, be my guest.”

  “Thank you, Mister Jensen, for your permission. Not that I needed it,” she added, though her smile and the twinkle in her eyes softened her words.

  After Sally stopped in front Lucy’s Dress Emporium, Smoke rode on down to Longmont’s, dismounted, then went inside. As was his custom upon entering any saloon, he stepped immediately to the side and pressed his back up against the wall. He stood there a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the lower light inside while he looked for possible trouble among the patrons. Even though he knew he was almost as safe in his friend’s restaurant as he was in his own house, he’d been hunted and tracked for more than half his life, and the habit of caution was so ingrained in him that when he was cautious, he didn’t even notice it.

  The owner of the saloon and restaurant, Louis Longmont, was sitting at his usual table in a corner. He smiled as he watched his friend go through his regular ritual. Louis 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 mustache. He was dressed in a black suit, with white shirt and a crimson ascot. He wore low-heeled boots, and a pistol that hung in tied-down leather on his right side. The pistol was nickel-plated, with ivory handles, but it wasn’t just for show, for Louis was snake-quick and a feared, deadly gunhand when pushed.

  Although Louis was engaged in a profession that did not have a very good reputation, he was not an evil man. He had never hired his gun out for money. And 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, Louis left Louisiana and came West with his parents. His parents had died in a shantytown fire, leaving the boy to cope as best he could.

  Louis had coped quite well, plying his innate intelligence and willingness to take a chance into a fortune. He owned a large ranch up 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, Louis explained it very simply.

  “If I left the business, I would miss it,” he said. Smoke understood exactly what he was talking about.

  Still standing just inside the door, Smoke glanced over and saw his friend smiling at him. He returned the grin, then moved across the floor to take a seat at Louis’s table.

  Louis was shuffling a deck of cards and dealing poker hands. He turned up three hands, studied them for a moment, then pointed to the hand that was still facedown.

  “If I were a betting man—and incidentally I am—I would bet on this as the winning hand,” he said.

  “What makes you think so? This one has a pair of aces,” Smoke said, pointing to one of the hands.

  “I think this will have three of a kind,” Louis said. “Small cards to be sure, but three will beat a pair of aces.” He turned up the cards to expose three sixes, a jack, and a queen.

  “I’m glad I didn’t bet,” Smoke said.

  “Did Miss Sally remain behind at Sugarloaf?” Louis asked as he picked up all the cards and folded them back into the deck.

  “No, Sally came with me. She will here shortly.”

  Louis’s smile broadened. “Ah, good, good. I am always glad to see you, my friend, but the lovely Mademoiselle Sally?” Louis raised his hand to his lips and, putting his thumb and forefinger together, made a kissing motion. “It is well known that Mademoiselle Sally’s beauty brings joy to a dreary world.”

  “Do I have to keep reminding you, Louis, that Sally is not a mademoiselle? We are married.”

  “Yes, mon ami, I know you are married,” Louis said, “but l’espoir est éternel. Hope is eternal,” he translated.

  Smoke laughed, and was still laughing when Sheriff Carson came into the saloon, breathing a little heavily from having walked down from his office.

  “Have I missed a joke?” he asked.

  “Alas, my gendarme friend,” Louis said. “The joke is on me.”

  “How about a round of beers on me?” Smoke said. “I’m heading down to Frisco and could use one for the trail.”

  “Why Frisco?” Louis asked as he signaled the bartender.

  “Yes, Mr. Longmont?” the bartender called to him.

  “Bring us three beers, will you, Andrew?”

  “Yes, sir, right away.”

  With the beers ordered, Louis turned his attention back to Smoke. “You were about to tell us why you were going to Frisco.”

  “I’m going there to meet a cattle buyer named Davencourt. Turns out he has a contract to supply beef to the army, and I figure he is going to be in the market.”

  “But can’t you sell your beef here? To C.D. Montgomery, or one of the other buyers?”

  “I could,” Smoke said. “But Davencourt is paying more, providing I deliver the cattle to the railhead in Frisco.”

  “I see,” Longmont said. “Do you think he will pay enough to make it worth your while to take your cattle to Frisco?”

  “I think he will. At least, that’s what I intend to find out with this trip.”

  “That sounds smart to me,” Carson said. “No wonder Sugarloaf is the most successful ranch around. You are always on top of things.”

  “Ha, don’t give me credit for this,” Smoke said. “This was all Sally’s idea.”

  “Yes, I know. She is not only beautiful, she is also very smart,” Louis said. He sighed. “Ah, what a woman.”

  “Oh, say, Smoke, do you remember a fella by the name of Van Arndt?” Carson asked. “Reece Van Arndt?”

  “Yes, I remember him,” Smoke said. “As I recall, he tried to hold up a train a few years ago.”

  “As you recall,” Carson said with a chuckle. “Tried is right. He tried, but he didn’t succeed because of you, my friend. His gang was killed and he wound up going to prison.”

  “Good place for him,” Smoke said.

  “I would agree with you,” Carson said. “Unfortunately, he is no longer there. I got a wire a few days ago from Warden Parker at the prison.”

  “Don’t tell me Van Arndt has escaped.”

  Carson shook his head. “He didn’t escape, he was let out. He served his time and is now a free man. The warden thought you might like to know that.”

  “Why would he think that?” Smoke asked. “Has Van Arndt made any specific threats?”

  “I don’t know and Warden Parker didn’t say,” Carson replied. “All I know is that his telegram just said that I should advise you that Van Arndt has served his time and has been released. If you want to know the truth, I expect Parker is just being extra cautious is all.”

  “I don’t fault him for his caution and I appreciate you bringing me the information,” Smoke said. “I’ve had a passel of people after me in my life—so if somebody new is added to the bunch that call themselves my enemy, it’s always good to know his name.”

  “Smoke Jensen, let’s just see how good you really are with a gun! I’m callin’ you out, you son of a bitch!”

  The loud shout and angry challenge got the attention of everyone in the saloon, and
all talking stopped in mid conversation as the other patrons looked up to see what was going on.

  Looking toward the sound of the voice, Smoke saw Lucas Keno standing just inside the door. There was an expression of rage and hatred on the cowboy’s face, and he was holding a pistol leveled at Smoke.

  “What are you doing, Keno?” Smoke asked.

  “Cal and Pearlie have both told me that you are the best with a pistol they ever saw. So, I was just wonderin’ how good you really are. Because, you see, I’m pretty good myself. And what I thought is, we’d just see which one of us is the best in a fair fight.”

  “It’s hardly a fair fight when you are already holding a gun in your hand,” Longmont said.

  Keno smiled, an evil, mirthless smile.

  “Well, now, you see, the way I look it, that’s what is going to make it a fair fight,” he said. “I figure if you really are as good as ole’ Cal and Pearlie say you are, then I might just need me an advantage.”

  “That’s quite an advantage, Keno,” Sheriff Carson said. “In fact, it is so much an advantage that if, by some wild chance, you would happen to kill Smoke or anyone else in here, it would be considered murder in the first degree. We hang people for that in this state.”

  “Yeah, I reckon it is a big advantage, ain’t it?” Keno replied, his smile growing larger. “I tell you what I’ll do for you, Jensen. I’ll give you a chance to stand up and face me. And I won’t shoot until I see you start to pull your gun.”

  Smoke smiled, and his smile was broad and genuine.

  “What are you smiling at, you son of a bitch? Don’t you understand what’s goin’ on here?”

  Now Sheriff Carson and Longmont were smiling as well.

  “Have you all gone crazy?” Keno asked, his voice rising in pitch as his frustration and anger intensified. Smoke was showing no fear, and that wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. “I’m the one that’s holdin’ the gun here. Or ain’t you people noticed that?”

  “Oh we’ve noticed all right,” Smoke said. “Drop the gun, Keno. Drop the gun and you might live.”

  “What are you talking about?” Keno asked, still confused by the strange reaction. “Why would I do a foolish thing like that?” Keno asked.

  “Because if you don’t drop your gun right now, I will be forced to put a .32-caliber ball in your head,” a woman’s calm and well-modulated voice said.

  Sally’s words were augmented by the deadly double click of the cylinder being engaged as the hammer was being pulled back by her thumb.

  “Hi, Sally,” Smoke said easily. “Do you want a beer?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Sally replied. “Louis, tell Andrew to draw one for me while I shoot Mr. Keno in the back of his head for not dropping his pistol when I told him to.”

  “No! No!” Keno said. “I’m dropping it, I’m dropping it. Don’t shoot!” He opened his hand and the pistol fell to the floor with a loud thump.

  “Damn,” Sheriff Carson said. “I walked all the way down here. Now I have to put Keno in jail before I can even have a beer.”

  “Darlin’, pick up Keno’s gun and bring it to me,” Smoke said.

  Stepping around Keno, Sally reached down to pick up his pistol; then she took it over to the table. The wooden pistol grip was still shattered from the impact of the bullet when Smoke had shot it a few days earlier. Smoke held it out toward Keno.

  “Damn, you haven’t gotten that fixed yet?” he asked. “I thought you were supposed to be so all-fired good with a gun. Nobody who is good with a gun would let one stay in such a bad condition as this.”

  Smoke removed the cylinder and slipped it into his pocket. Then, using his pocketknife, he extracted the firing pin. After that, he walked over and dropped the gun into a half-full spittoon.

  “No need to put him in jail, Sheriff, he didn’t actually do anything,” Smoke said, handing the empty cylinder to Carson. “Suppose you hold on to this for a couple of days.”

  “All right,” Carson said, taking the cylinder from Smoke.

  “You don’t have to be doin’ me no damn favors,” Keno said.

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong, Keno, I’m not doing you any favors,” Smoke said. “I’m just telling you straight out to get out of my sight and stay out of my sight. Because next time I see you, I’ll kill you.”

  Smoke delivered the words in an even, calm, and cool voice. That had the effect of making the threat much more frightening and believable than if he had spoken the words in anger.

  Keno stood in the door for a moment longer, as if trying to digest the words.

  “What?” Keno said. “Sheriff, did you hear that? This man just threatened to kill me.”

  “Yes, I heard the man,” Sheriff Carson said. He made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Get out of here, now, before I kill you myself.”

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere without my pistol.”

  Carson pointed to the spittoon where Smoke had deposited Keno’s pistol.

  “There it is,” Sheriff Carson said. “Fish it out, and it’s yours.”

  Keno walked over to the spittoon, looked down into it, hesitated for a moment, then, making a face of disgust and revulsion, stuck his hand down into the little brass pot. A few seconds later, he pulled his pistol without the cylinder out, and with it, and his hand, dripping a brown, slimy oozing liquid, walked quickly out of the saloon.

  Keno was chased from the saloon by the laughter of nearly a dozen customers.

  Chapter Six

  Frisco, Colorado

  It was late afternoon when Tucker, Rawlins, and Clay rode into Frisco. They had purposely chosen this time because they figured that the nearer to closing time it was when they held up the bank, the fewer chances there would be for any of the citizens of the town to be present. Also, by the end of the day the tellers would be tired and less responsive, which should make the outlaws’ job easier. The three men were wearing long, white dusters, and hats that were pulled low. Dismounting about half a block away from the bank, they stood there for a moment, looking up and down the street.

  “Anyone see anything that looks unusual?” Tucker asked.

  “Looks normal to me,” Rawlins said.

  “See any law?”

  “No. No law,” Clay said.

  “Check your guns.”

  The three men pulled their weapons and spun the cylinders, then put the weapons back in their holsters.

  “All right, Rawlins, you wait here with the horses,” Tucker said. “When you see us come out of the bank, you bring the horses up to us fast. Do you understand me? Because I swear, if you ain’t in front of the bank by the time we reach the street, I’ll shoot you myself.”

  “I’ll be there,” Rawlins said.

  “You’d better be.” Tucker looked over at Clay and nodded. “Are you ready?”

  “I’m ready,” Clay said.

  “Then, let’s go.”

  Tucker and Clay moved down to the front of the bank, looked up and down the street, then at each other.

  Tucker nodded. Then the two men pulled their bandannas up to cover their faces and stepped into the bank.

  In addition to the two tellers, there were two customers in the bank, a woman who was in front of one of the teller windows, and a man who was standing at the table, filling out a deposit slip.

  “Everybody put your hands in the air!” Tucker shouted.

  “Oh, my God! It’s a bank robbery!” one of the tellers said.

  “You,” Tucker said. “Put all the money in this bag.”

  Tucker handed the teller a cloth bag and he started scooping money up from the cash drawer.

  “From the safe,” Tucker said.

  “The safe? There’s no money in the safe,” the teller said.

  Tucker pointed his pistol at the other teller. “Mr. Bank Teller, I know that there is one hundred thousand dollars in the safe, and I am going to kill this man right now unless you empty the safe like I told you to.”

  “For God’s sake, Geo
rge, do it!” the second teller shouted, his voice edged with panic.

  The teller took the bag, then walked to the back of the bank where there sat a large safe that was black with gold trim. Opening the safe, George began filling the sack with bound stacks of bills. It took but a moment to empty the safe. Then he brought the bag back and handed it to Tucker.

  “Very good,” Tucker said. Tucker looked over at Clay. “Let’s go.”

  As the two men started out of the bank, the one male customer who was in the bank drew a gun from somewhere. Neither Tucker nor Clay had noticed it when they came into the bank, because the customer was not wearing a holster.

  “Drop that money!” the bank customer shouted.

  Tucker fired at the customer. Then he and Clay dashed outside, both of them turning to fire back toward the bank as they left.

  “Rawlins! Where the hell is Rawlins?” Clay shouted. “That son of a bitch is supposed to be here!”

  “Here he comes,” Tucker said, pointing to Rawlins, who was approaching them at a rapid trot, leading two more horses.

  “Did you get the money?” Rawlins shouted.

  “Yeah,” Tucker answered, holding up the cloth bag as he and Clay swung into the saddles.

  “One hundred thousand dollars!” Rawlins shouted happily. “Son of a bitch! One hundred thousand dollars!”

  “Shoot!” Tucker shouted.

  “At what?” Rawlins asked.

  “At the town! Shoot up the town! Get everyone off the street!”

  The three men, shooting as they galloped away from the bank, were rewarded by the sight of all the townspeople scattering to get out of their way. “Get off the street if you don’t want to get shot!” one of the bank robbers cried out, and he punctuated his shout by firing a couple of shots down the street. The shots had the effect he wanted, because everyone scattered.

  A third man suddenly appeared from the alley that ran between the bank and the neighboring apothecary. He was riding one horse and leading two others. Leaning down, he handed the reins to the two bank robbers and, quickly, they climbed into the saddles. Mounted now, they started shooting up the town in order to keep people off the street.