Violence of the Mountain Man

by Johnstone, William W.

  Davencourt nodded. “Good, good. Fifteen hundred I can handle,” he said. “And what if I said thirty dollars a head? How would that sound to you?”

  Smoke did a rapid calculation, then smiled. That was five dollars a head better than anything he could get at Big Rock. “That sounds good to me,” he said. “In fact, it sounds very good.”

  “Thank you, I thought you might like that,” Davencourt said. He smiled. “Also, Mr. Jensen, I do have to be honest with you. I know that the top price being offered by the Red Cliff processing company, which is who would handle cattle coming through Big Rock, is only twenty-five dollars a head. I offered you my top price, which is thirty dollars, to see if you would try and hold me up for more. If you had done that, I would have walked away from the deal. But you didn’t, which means you are an honest man. And I like doing business with honest men.”

  “Yes, I like dealing with honest men as well,” Smoke said, and even though he was smiling, the look in his eyes gave fair warning to Davencourt that he expected total honesty and fairness in the transaction.

  Davencourt stuck his hand out. “Fifteen hundred head, thirty dollars a head. Have your cows here one week from today, Mr. Jensen, and I’ll present you with a bank certified draft for forty five thousand dollars.”

  “I’ll be here,” Smoke said as he shook Davencourt’s hand.

  “Are you ready for your cherry pie, Mr. Jensen?” Mama Lou asked, returning to the table.

  “Yes, thank you, a piece of pie would be nice.”

  “Oh, cherry pie, you say?” Davencourt said. “Well, I have eaten my dinner, but there is always room for a piece of pie.” He rubbed his rather considerable stomach. “If you don’t mind, Miss Mama Lou, would you bring me a piece as well? And, maybe you could put some whipped cream on top of the pie. Oh, and bring me a cup of coffee with sugar and lots of cream.”

  “I’d be happy to,” Mama Lou said.

  Davencourt smiled across the table toward Smoke. “Some folks like to conduct business over a drink,” he said. “But I say, give me a good piece of freshly baked pie anytime and I’m just real easy to do business with.”

  Smoke chuckled. “I hope you never have to do business with my wife,” he said.

  “Oh? And why is that?” Davencourt asked as Mama Lou put the pie before him.

  “Because she is the smartest business person I’ve ever known, and she is the best cook I’ve ever known. I think that would be a dangerous combination for you.”

  Davencourt laughed out loud. “I think you are right, my friend,” he said as he forked a big piece of pie toward his mouth. “I think you are right.”

  Chapter Eight

  The three wooden coffins were standing upright against the front of Norman Prufrock’s undertaking establishment. Inside the boxes, their faces ashen with death, stood the bodies of Tucker, Rawlins, and Clay. But nobody knew who the bank robbers were, because the sign that was posted above the bodies read: DO YOU KNOW ANY OF THESE MEN?

  Tucker, Rawlins, and Clay were wearing the same clothes they had been wearing during the aborted bank robbery, though Mrs. Prufrock had washed them and had done a pretty good job of getting the blood out. She had made no effort to patch the bullet holes, though, and the shirts of Tucker and Clay, both of whom had been shot by Smoke Jensen, had a single hole over the heart. Rawlins, who had been shot down by the rest of the town, had several holes in his shirt and pants, as well as still visible bullet wounds in his neck, his left cheek, and over his right eye.

  Nearly the entire town had come to view the bodies during the day, including children of the town who were now scattered about, acting out the grizzly event, taking turns being the bank robbers and vying for the right to be Smoke Jensen. Even now, after nightfall, and with the bodies glowing in the reflected light of the street lamps, several of the townspeople were still hanging around in front of the undertaker’s, staring at the bodies, their morbid curiosity not yet satiated.

  “Bang, bang!” a child shouted.

  Another ran to the front of one of the coffins, then stood very still with his head tilted to one side like the body behind him.

  “Look at me!” he shouted. “I’m dead! I’m dead!”

  “You kids, get out of here!” Prufrock shouted, running out of his building to chase them away.

  Although there was no legal division to the town of Frisco, there was a de facto division into an American and a Mexican section. On the Mexican side of the town, in a cantina called Pedro’s, an American sat alone at a table in the back. Conversations and laughter swirled around him, but he paid little attention. Instead, he just drank tequila, often refilling his glass from a bottle that he held clenched in his left hand.

  “Señor, do you want food?” Pedro asked, stepping up to his table.

  “When I want food, I’ll tell you.”

  “Sí, Señor,” Pedro replied, stung by the harsh reply.

  Reece Van Arndt was replaying the events of the day. The bank robbery had been his idea. He was the one who had recruited the men and he was the one who had made the plans. He didn’t personally take part in the robbery because being an albino meant he would be too easily identified. Even if he tied a handkerchief around the lower part of his face, he could still be identified.

  Van Arndt held his hands out and looked at them, wondering, perhaps for the millionth time in his life, why he had been so cursed.

  His plan would have gone off without a hitch had it not been for the fact that it occurred at the same moment Smoke Jensen happened to be riding into town. Van Arndt knew all about Smoke Jensen, and had even had a run-in with him once.

  Five years earlier

  Van Arndt and his gang had stopped the train by the simple expedient of building a fire in the middle of the track. Of course, there was always the chance that the engineer wouldn’t stop. He might get suspicious and plow on through the fire, so, to back up the fire, they had built up a pile of rocks and logs sufficient to derail the train.

  Van Arndt, who was sitting on his horse in the dark of a tree line about thirty yards away from the track, wondered if the engineer would stop. It would be much easier if he did stop, because then the robbery would be a simple thing. Van Arndt would take whatever was on the express car; then he would send a couple of men through the passenger cars to relieve the travelers of any money they might be carrying with them.

  Most of the time they wouldn’t get that much from the passengers, but from time to time they would find one who was well heeled. These would generally be businessmen who traveled with a great deal of money. Such people would be moving from one place to another, perhaps to buy a ranch or a business, or even a house. They tried so hard to look like all the other passengers, blending in so as not to call attention to themselves, but Van Arndt was particularly adroit at recognizing them. In fact, he enjoyed the game of finding them almost as much as the money he took.

  “She’s backin’ down, Van Arndt,” one of his men said, and the shower of sparks coming from the drive wheels as they slid along the track validated his observation.

  “Hell, I think I would almost rather see it run into the pile of rocks,” one of the other men said. He laughed fiendishly. “That would have made one hell of a wreck now, wouldn’t it?”

  The train came to a complete stop about ten yards shy of the burning pile, then sat there, venting steam and popping and snapping as bearings and journals cooled. Van Arndt could see the engineer, backlit from within the cab, lean through the window to look ahead.

  “What is it, Frank?” Van Arndt heard the engineer ask the fireman. “Can you see anything on your side?”

  Van Arndt didn’t know if the fireman answered or not. He might have, but he was too far away to hear.

  “Get up there,” Van Arndt said to the three men with him. “Get up there and blow the express door.”

  The three men with Van Arndt rode up to the train.

  “Here, what is this?” the engineer asked, seeing the three men ride up
so quickly. “What are you men doing here?”

  One of the three answered by shooting toward the cabin window, driving the engineer back. One of the others put a stick of dynamite, its fuse sputtering, into the jamb of the express door; then the three rode away quickly to avoid the blast.

  It took about five seconds for the fuse to burn down. Then the dynamite exploded. There was a loud noise, accompanied by a ball of fire and a billowing cloud of smoke as the door was blown off the hinges.

  A passenger from one of the dimly let cars stepped out onto the vestibule then, and looked out to see what was going on. Seeing the armed men heading back toward the express car, the passenger darted back inside.

  “It’s a holdup!” the passenger shouted excitedly. “They just blew the door off the mail car, and I seen some men on horses, holdin’ guns.”

  Van Arndt was so distracted by watching his men work that he didn’t notice someone step out from the rear of the train, then climb the ladder to the top of the car. There, lying down, the passenger used the center ridge of the car, not only for concealment, but also as a rest for his rifle.

  Van Arndt heard a shot fired from inside the baggage car. That was followed almost immediately by more shots from outside the car, the gun blasts lighting up the darkness with their muzzle flashes.

  “No, no, don’t shoot no more!” a muffled voice called from inside the car. “You done kilt the guard!”

  “Throw out the money pouch, or we’ll kill you too!” one of the robbers shouted.

  Van Arndt saw the money pouch being tossed from the train. Then, just as the money pouch hit the robber’s hands, Van Arndt heard the sound of a rifle shot. A bullet plowed into the robber’s chest, raising a little spray of blood, which flashed pink against the ambient light of the train and the fire. The robber was knocked from his horse, and he lay flat on his back with both arms spread out to either side. The money pouch lay on the ground beside him.

  “Muley!” Van Arndt shouted from the darkness. “Get the money pouch and let’s get out of here!”

  One of the other riders leaned over to pick up the money pouch, and a second round was fired. This bullet caught Muley in his elbow, leaving the arm dangling loosely from a few ragged tendons. With a scream of pain, Muley rode off, leaving the money sack where it lay.

  “Van Arndt, I seen the muzzle flash! He’s on the…”

  That was as far as the third robber got before another shot brought him down.

  Van Arndt hesitated for a long moment, trying to decide whether to make a try for the money pouch or to turn and run. He hesitated too long, because he suddenly felt his horse go down under him, tossing him to the ground. By the time he stood up, half a dozen armed men were running toward him from the train.

  “Put your hands up, mister, now!” one of the men shouted.

  Van Arndt had no choice but to respond. He was taken prisoner and put into the baggage car, and after the track was cleared, taken to the nearest town, where he was turned over to the sheriff.

  It wasn’t until his trial that Van Arndt learned who the man was who climbed onto the top of the train to stop the robbery. It was Smoke Jensen, and Van Arndt’s run-in with him wound up costing him five years in prison.

  The events of today represented the second time Jensen had spoiled one of Van Arndt’s robbery attempts. Also, by a strange coincidence, the second time it had gotten his partners killed. It was too bad Van Arndt didn’t know Smoke Jensen was coming to town today. If he had known that, he would have made plans to ambush the son of a bitch and kill him.

  “Señor, would you like to have a good time with Rosita?” a bar puta asked, interrupting Van Arndt’s musing.

  Van Arndt was wearing wide-brimmed hat and staring into his glass. Because of that, the brim of his hat covered his face so that Rosita had not yet gotten a good look at him. When Van Arndt looked up, Rosita gasped in surprise and shock at the white face and pink eyes.

  “Madre de Dios, eres usted un fantasma?”

  Van Arndt laughed at the effect he had on her.

  “Why, yes, honey,” Van Arndt replied. “I am a ghost.”

  Rosita hesitated.

  “You aren’t going to change your mind on me, are you now?” Van Arndt asked. “I would be really angry with you if you changed your mind. If you change your mind, I will haunt you in your sleep.”

  “No, Señor,” Rosita stammered. She crossed herself. “I beg of you, do not haunt my sleep.”

  Rosita was trapped now, damned if she did and damned if she didn’t. She had no choice but to smile and try to keep her fear from showing.

  “I will go with you, Señor,” she said.

  Over at the Railroad Hotel, Smoke Jensen went to bed with the satisfaction of knowing that his trip had been successful. One week from now, he would deliver fifteen hundred head of cattle to the loading pens here in Frisco, Colorado.

  Lying in bed, he listened to the sounds drifting up from outside: the low rumble of men’s voices, the soft, seductive replies of the women, interspersed with occasional guffaws of laughter. Through the open window he could hear piano music from the saloon, and from the Mexican part of town, the sound of a trumpet. Hollow hoofbeats echoed from a horse being ridden slowly up the street, and from far off came the mournful wail of a coyote. Gradually, the sounds subsided and, one by one, the lights across the town were extinguished until at last it lay as a cluster of dark buildings, visible only because of the silver wash of the three-quarter moon. Despite the fact that Smoke had been engaged in a life-and-death struggle earlier in the day, his conscience was clear and he drifted off into a peaceful, non-dreaming sleep.

  Over on the Mexican side of the town, Van Arndt stood in a splash of moonlight, looking down at the woman on the bed. Rosita’s eyes were open but unseeing. Blood spread out from her slit throat, staining the pillow. Van Arndt, who was still holding a bloody knife in his hand, reached under the pillow and took out his roll of money.

  “Bitch,” he whispered in the dark. “You picked the wrong man to steal from.”

  Van Arndt wiped the blade of his knife off on the bedsheet, leaving smears of blood that, because they were illuminated only by the splash of moonlight that spilled in through the open window, looked black rather than red.

  When Van Arndt returned to the hotel ten minutes later, the lobby was dark except for a dimly glowing lantern that sat on the front desk. The lobby was in deep shadow and though he could see the sofas and chairs, he had to look twice before he saw that someone was sleeping on one of the sofas.

  At first, Van Arndt thought the sleeping figure might be the night clerk. Then he saw that it was just someone who had come in off the street. Glancing back toward the front desk, he saw that the night clerk was sitting in a chair, but the chair was tipped back against the wall and the occupant’s eyes were closed. Van Arndt could hear a soft, fluttering snore coming from the night clerk’s lips.

  Van Arndt started toward the stairs, then stopped and walked back over to the desk. Making certain the clerk was still asleep, Van Arndt turned the registration book around and ran his pasty white finger down the list of names. If Smoke Jensen was still in town, it was likely that he would be staying here at this very hotel, since this was the only place where lodging could be secured.

  Byron Davencourt

  Ed Meeker

  Kirby Jensen

  John Caldwell

  Abner Smith

  Who the hell is Kirby Jensen? Is that Smoke Jensen? He drummed his fingers lightly on the registration book for a moment, then saw an envelope lying on a table behind the desk. The name on the envelope was “Smoke Jensen.”

  Van Arndt smiled. That answered his question.

  Checking the guest named Kirby Jensen again, Van Arndt saw that he was upstairs in Room Six. By a fortuitous coincidence, Van Arndt was right next door, in Room Four.

  Behind the counter was a board filled with hooks. Each hook had a key or, in case the room wasn’t occupied, two keys. Moving as quie
tly as he could, Van Arndt leaned over the counter and lifted the key from the hook for Room Number Six.

  If you aren’t the right one, I’m sorry, Van Arndt thought. But I don’t intend to take any chances. I’m going to kill you whether you are Smoke Jensen or not.

  With the key in hand, Van Arndt went up the stairs to the second floor. The hallway ran down between facing doors. Even-number rooms were situated on the left, while odd-number rooms ran down the right side. The hallway was illuminated by half a dozen wall-mounted kerosene lanterns, all of which hissed as they burned. From two of them, little coils of black smoke worked up through the chimney. The doors to each of the rooms were painted brown, the rooms identified by the brass numbers that were attached to the middle of the upper frame.

  The hall was partially carpeted by a long, narrow rug that ran down the middle of it, leaving approximately six inches of uncarpeted and unfinished wood to either side. The runner was wine-colored and decorated with woven baskets of flowers and fruit. A roach was crawling along the unpainted wooden floor beside the rug and as Van Arndt approached, it scurried through the gap under the door of Room Number Five.

  As he moved up the hallway, approaching Room Six, the one that he believed to be occupied by Smoke Jensen, Van Arndt reached up to extinguish each of the lanterns, causing the shadows to grow longer. By the time he reached Room Number Six, the hallway was dark except for the ambient light of the moon that spilled in through the open window at the end of the hall. The window allowed for a slight breeze to cool the hallway, but the breeze did not come without a price, for it also brought in the pungent aroma of a street that was literally filled with horse apples.

  Stopping in front of the door to Room Six, Van Arndt quietly slipped the key into the keyhole, then turned it slowly to minimize the sound of the tumblers.

  Smoke was sound asleep, dreaming of Sally and Sugarloaf, when something penetrated his dreams—something that was amiss.