Strike of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “How much will that be?” Garneau asked.

  “That little bit of information comes under the heading of my legal fee,” Dempster said.

  “All right. How much is your legal fee?”

  “One hundred dollars.”

  “Come to the bank with me, and I’ll pay you.”

  Half an hour later, in exchange for the one hundred dollars he had received from Garneau, Dempster handed over a piece of paper. “Go to the county assessor and pay him the amount on this form, and he will hand over a deed of possession to you.”

  Garneau looked at the form. “What? This can’t be right!”

  Dempster chuckled. “Believe me, it is right. Do you see now, how advantageous it is for you to have a good lawyer?”

  “This says sixty-two dollars.”

  “That’s right. For sixty-two dollars you will own what was Babcock’s ranch.”

  Two days later, Charles Woodward saw black smoke curling into the sky and he called out to his wife. “Sue, it looks like there’s a fire over at the Babcock ranch.”

  “How in heaven’s name could a fire get started over there?” Sue asked. “There’s nobody there.”

  “I’m going to go check it out.”

  “Why? I mean if nobody is there, what difference does it make?”

  “I’m just curious, that’s all.”

  Woodward reached the Babcock place in about twenty minutes. He saw a wagon loaded with furniture he recognized from his many visits with the Babcocks. He also saw that not only the house was burning, but so were the barn, the implement shed, and the little building where the hired hands stayed during the season. Four men stood around, watching the buildings burn. They watched Woodward as he rode up and dismounted.

  Woodward recognized Templeton. “I was going to say that you did a good job of getting the furniture out before it was burned along with the house. But it looks like you took it out before the house caught fire.”

  “Of course we did,” Templeton said. “Just because we are burning all the buildings, doesn’t mean we have to burn the furniture too.”

  “Are you telling me that you burned the buildings?”

  “We sure did.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Once Colonel Garneau bought the ranch, he was only interested in the land,” Templeton said. “The buildings were just in the way.”

  “What do you mean Garneau bought the ranch? Bought it from who?”

  “You’ll have to ask the colonel that,” Templeton said. “All I know is, he now owns the place. And that means you are trespassing, by the way. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “I came to see about the fire.”

  “Well, you’ve seen about it. I suggest you get off the colonel’s property.”

  Disgruntled, Woodward returned to his home.

  “What caused the fire?” Sue asked as he came in the door.

  “Garneau caused the fire,” Woodward said. “Sue, that man Templeton, the one who works for Garneau, says Garneau owns the ranch now.”

  “What? How can that be possible? Why didn’t it pass to Loy’s younger brother? You know what store he set by that boy.”

  “I don’t know, but something is fishy here. I don’t know how Garneau got possession of the land, but I’d be willing to bet that it was something crooked. And I’ll tell you something else. I wouldn’t be surprised if Garneau didn’t have something to do with Loy and Millie gettin’ killed.”

  “Oh, Charles, don’t ever say that to anyone. Why, if it got back to Garneau that you were accusing him . . . I don’t know what he would do.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” Woodward said. “I’m going over to Humboldt’s, and see if he won’t call a meeting of all the small farmers and ranchers. I don’t know where Garneau is goin’ with all this, but I sure don’t like the looks of it.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Humboldt Puddle agreed to host a meeting, and word went out to every rancher and farmer whose land was adjacent to Long Trek Ranch.

  He was the oldest of the landowners, and his ranch, Carro de Bancada, consisted of four sections, making him the largest property owner of the group. Because of his age, property, and the fact that he was a natural leader, the others tended to look to him for direction. It was natural, then, that the meeting took place in his house.

  Otto Speer was the first to arrive. He was a German who had come to the U.S. just before the Civil War. He’d fought in the war on the side of the North, and after the war, brought his family to Eagle County to homestead a half section of land.

  Woodward arrived next. He was from Georgia and had fought for the South. When the war ended, there was little left for him to go back to, so he, his wife, and daughter had come to Colorado to homestead. Despite the fact that they had fought on opposite sides, Woodward and Speer were friends. Lucy, who was a very pretty eighteen-year-old, came to the meeting with her parents and offered to look after the youngsters who came.

  Herman Drexler was next to arrive. He and his wife had come to Colorado from Pennsylvania. They had a twelve-year-old son named Jimmy. Even though Drexler and his wife came by spring wagon, Jimmy rode Duffy, the horse he had gotten for his birthday. He wanted to show Duffy off to the others.

  Jimmy showed Duffy first to the two young boys of Chris Logan, giving them a ride, one at a time. Logan had been a first sergeant in the Seventh Cavalry, making Custer’s last scout with him. He was with Reno during the battle, and thus avoided the fate that befell so many of his friends. Logan’s nearest neighbor was Marvin Butrum. Butrum was also married, with two young daughters, and on occasion Logan and Butrum discussed whether or not their children would marry each other when they grew up.

  Tom Keefer was the remaining neighbor. He had a spotted past, and though his neighbors may have wondered about him, he proved to be affable and helpful, so no one questioned him. Nobody knew he had once been a road agent down in Texas, and it was money he stole from a stagecoach shipment that gave him the start he’d needed in Colorado. Keefer wasn’t married.

  Puddle had been married when he came to Colorado, but his wife, Martha Jane, had died two years ago without ever having borne a child. Because he lived alone, the wives of his neighbors brought food so there was a potluck dinner before the meeting. Finally, when the last biscuit had been buttered and the last pork chop eaten, Puddle invited the men into his parlor to talk.

  “I’m goin’ to have to do somethin’,” Logan said. “Ever since Burt Daniels sold out to the Frenchman, my stock has been cut off from water. Frying Pan Creek ran through Daniel’s land and on to mine. Me ’n Daniels had us an arrangement where we was sharin’ that water. Daniels always made certain the creek was flowin’, but the water has stopped, and I believe the Frenchman has blocked it, of a pure purpose.”

  “What are you doin’ for water now, Chris?” Otto Speer asked.

  “I’m keeping the waterin’ troughs filled with water from my well, but I’m afeared the well’s goin’ to run dry.”

  “Tell you what, you can run your cattle across my range. I’ve got plenty of water,” Speer said.

  “That’s damn neighborly of you, Otto,” Logan said.

  “And that’s how we’re goin’ to get through this,” Humboldt Puddle said. “If we’re good neighbors to each other, and help each other out when it’s needed, the Frenchman will get the idea that he can’t just buffalo us like he’s tryin’ to do.”

  “Hell, the man has more land now than anybody else,” Woodward said. “What does he want to do? Own the entire county?”

  “He doesn’t have more land than anyone else,” Keefer said. “That’s the problem. Smoke Jensen has the most land, and I’ve heard it said the Frenchman won’t stop until Long Trek is bigger ’n Sugarloaf.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen. He’s locked in now. He can’t grow any bigger.”

  “Not unless he gets our land,” Puddle said. “And that’s what he’s after now. He wants to bu
y us out . . . or force us to leave.”

  “Well, he’ll play hell gettin’ my land,” Woodward said. “’Cause I ain’t sellin’.”

  “No, and sell my land werde ich nicht tun,” Speer said.

  “What did he just say?” Logan asked.

  “He said he would not sell his land,” Woodward said.

  “Well I’m willin’ to stay as long as all the others are,” Drexler said.

  “I’d like to see us all make that pledge,” Puddle said. “I think if we stay together, the Frenchman will quit trying, and will leave us alone.”

  “I’m willin’ to make that pledge,” Logan said, and he stuck his hand out. One by one the others extended their hand, until an eight-armed star was formed.

  Geneva, Switzerland

  For five months Inspector Laurent had conducted a diligent search and inquiry of every bank in France, looking for a major depositor, but none could be found. When he was about to report to General Moreau that he had come to a dead end, he got a break. He received a letter from the director of France’s international currency exchange.

  Monsieur Inspector Laurent,

  I am informed that you have been making inquiries of all banks and financial institutions with regard to large and unexpected monetary deposits. In accordance with your investigation, I can tell you we have recently received a transfer of two and one half million francs from the Swiss National Bank. The paperwork accompanying the transfer indicated this amount was the result of a transaction with one Antoine Dubois.

  I hope this information will be of some assistance to you in your investigation.

  Most sincerely,

  Jean Arnaud

  Minister of Finance

  That was it! Laurent knew Dubois was dead. If someone made a money exchange in Geneva using the name Dubois, it had to be Mouchette!

  Two days after Laurent received the letter, he stepped off a train in Geneva, Switzerland, then went straight to the Swiss National Bank.

  “Yes, Monsieur Inspector, a French gentlemen by the name of Antoine Dubois did present exactly two and one half million francs for monetary exchange.”

  “Was this the man?” Laurent asked, showing the bank officer a photograph of Pierre Mouchette.

  The bank official looked at the photograph. “Oui, Monsieur, I believe this may be the man. But he was not in uniform. He said he was a French businessman. He exchanged the francs for American dollars.”

  “Merci, Monsieur, you have been a great help.”

  When he left the bank, Inspector Laurent wore a big smile. He had traced Mouchette to Switzerland. Mouchette had exchanged two and one half million francs, which was the exact amount of money taken, and had passed himself off as Sergeant Dubois. It was all the evidence Laurent needed. That the bank official identified the photograph was but corroboration of what he already knew.

  Mouchette had made the exchange for American dollars. That could only mean he had gone to America. It would be harder to find him, but Laurent was convinced that he would find him. And he would take him back to France to face the guillotine.

  Sugarloaf Ranch

  Sally and Smoke were in the kitchen. She laughed as she read a letter from Cal.

  “What is it?” Smoke asked from the table where he sat drinking a cup of coffee.

  She read aloud. “Miss Sally, me and Pearlie don’t mind being here in Denver all that much, what with there being a lot to do and we know that Smoke needs us over here. But what is so hard is that we ain’t had nary one bite of your bear sign in so long we’ve near ’bout forgot what they taste like. Could you cook some up and put ’em in a box, then put ’em on a train and have ’em sent here. Wouldn’t take more ’n a day to get ’em here by train, and more ’n likely they’d still be good to eat when they got here.”

  Smoke laughed. “I’ll tell you what is hard.”

  “What’s that?”

  “For you to read that letter exactly as Cal wrote it. I mean with bad grammar and all. It had to be almost more than you could do.”

  Sally laughed as well. “It did hurt me to misuse grammar. But I thought if I didn’t read it exactly as Cal wrote it, it would lose something.”

  “Are you going to make some bear signs for them?”

  “Now, how can I turn down a heartfelt request like that? Yes, I’m going to make some for them.”

  “Uh, would you, uh . . .”

  Sally laughed again, interrupting Smoke in mid-request. “Of course I’m going to make a few extra.” Sally looked through the window.

  “Oh, there’s Mr. Puddle coming up the road. I wonder what he wants.”

  “Only one way to find out.” Smoke stepped out onto the porch to meet Puddle. “Hello, Humboldt. Climb down and come on into the house for a cup of coffee.”

  “Thank you.” Puddle swung down from the saddle. He was in his mid-fifties, with a full head of gray hair and a gray beard. He wasn’t a very big man, but he managed to project a persona bigger than his physical stature.

  Sally greeted him when he came in. “Hello, Mr. Puddle. Welcome to Sugarloaf. Why don’t you and Smoke go on into the parlor,” she invited. “I’ll bring you some coffee.”

  “Thank you kindly, Sally,” Humboldt replied, taking advantage of his age to address Sally so.

  “What’s on your mind, Humboldt?” Smoke asked when the two men were seated.

  “Smoke, just how much do you know about this fella, Garneau?” Puddle asked.

  “Not too much,” Smoke said. “He doesn’t seem to be a man you can get friendly with.”

  “You got that right. You know, don’t you, that he has taken over Babcock’s place.”

  “Yes, I heard that he had.”

  “Do you know how he got that ranch?”

  “I haven’t heard, but I expect he pulled some sort of deal,” Smoke said.

  Puddle grunted. “I’ll say he did. He paid the taxes on it. That’s it, Smoke. He paid the sixty-two dollars tax on the land, and got title to it. And you know the real ironic thing? They found sixty-two dollars in the sugar bowl in Loy’s house. He had the money for the tax and was going to pay it.

  “I read in the paper that it was a murder suicide,” Smoke said.

  “You’ll never get me to believe that,” Puddle said. “Not in a thousand years would I believe that.”

  “I didn’t know Babcock that well.”

  “Well, believe me, he wouldn’t do a thing like that. It just seems damn convenient to me that both he and Millie wind up dead, and Garneau winds up with title to their property. He’s already bought out Daniels, and he’s been tryin’ to buy ever’one else out, but I’ve managed to hold ever’one together so far.”

  “I don’t doubt it. You’re a man people listen to,” Smoke said.

  “Yes, sir. But here’s the thing. Am I right in tellin’ ever’one else to hold on? I mean, when you get right down to it, it ain’t none of my business. And even if Garneau didn’t have anything to do with killin’ Babcock, it is still gettin’ pretty ugly.”

  “How?”

  “Well, you take Logan’s property for example. Once Garneau got his hands on Daniels’ ranch, he damned up Frying Pan Creek. Daniels was lettin’ it go on through so’s Logan had water, but now he has none.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “No sir, it ain’t. And I’m afraid it’s goin’ to get worse. I guess what I’m wantin’ to hear from you, Smoke, is if I’m doin’ the right thing by keepin’ ever’one together.”

  “What are the others saying? Are they wanting to sell out?”

  “No, sir. We had a meetin’ at my house, and ever’one came. And ever’one of ’em said they was plannin’ on stayin’.”

  “Then you aren’t forcing them into anything, Humboldt. You are leading them. And any successful group has to have a good leader. I’d say you’re doing the right thing.”

  Puddle smiled. “Thank you, Smoke. To be truthful with you, I think I rode over here just to hear you say that.”


  Sally came into the room then. “My first batch of bear signs will be out shortly, Mr. Puddle. I do hope you will stay long enough to have one.”

  “Miz Jensen, if that’s the delicious thing I been smellin’ ever since I got here, I ain’t likely to leave ’less I get told to leave.”

  Sally chuckled. “We’re not about to do that.”

  “Then yes ma’am, it’ll be a pleasure to stay.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Long Trek

  “Colonel, I’m goin’ to be gone for a few days,” Templeton said. “I’ll check in with you when I get back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m goin’ to take care of what could be a problem for us. Believe me, you’re better off not knowin’ anything about it.”

  “All right. I won’t interfere,” Garneau said.

  Red Cliff, Colorado

  Templeton was in town to meet with a man named Jake Willard. A tall man with a narrow face and a badly burned, disfigured cheek, he was a gunman who killed for money. Templeton had money, and he wanted someone killed.

  He found him sitting in the back of the Moosehead Saloon, drinking beer and dealing poker hands to himself. “Willard.” Templeton pointed to a chair. “May I sit down?”

  Willard nodded, and Templeton took a seat.

  “Didn’t you once tell me you would like to go up against Smoke Jensen?”

  “If the conditions are right.”

  “By conditions, do you mean money?”

  “Money is one of the conditions I mean. I would also like to have an edge. A man is a fool if he goes into a gunfight without an edge, especially if it’s ag’in someone like Smoke Jensen.”

  “Suppose I get something set up for you where the conditions are right? Would you be interested?”