Strike of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “How are you going to make the conditions right?”

  “I’ll pay someone to back your play.”

  “How much will you pay me?”

  “One thousand dollars, after it’s done,” Templeton said.

  Willard took the last swallow of his beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “All right. Let’s do it.”

  Big Rock

  Smoke and Sally had come into town in the spring wagon. Sally was planning on doing some shopping, stopping first at Foster and Matthews Grocery, then Goldstein’s Mercantile, and finally the dress shop.

  “Are we going to have any money left when you are finished?” Smoke asked.

  “Kirby Jensen, you have enough money to buy every store in this town. I imagine you’ll have some left when I’m finished.” Sally smiled. “Not much,” she teased. “But some.”

  Smoke stopped in front of the grocery store, then handed the reins to Sally. “I’ll let you keep the spring wagon so you have a place to put everything you’re buying. I’ll be at Longmont’s,” he added as he hopped down, then started up Front Street.

  “Tell Louis I said hello.”

  As he passed Murchison’s Leather Goods store, Tim stepped out to speak to him. “Smoke, I have those boots you ordered.”

  “Good, I’ll pick ’em up on the way back.”

  “No need, I saw you and Miz Sally come into town. I’ll just take ’em down and put ’em in your wagon.”

  “Thanks, Tim.”

  “Where’s Pearlie and Cal? I haven’t seen either one of ’em in coon’s age.”

  “I’ve got them both in Denver, running the abattoir for me.”

  Murchison chuckled. “I don’t suppose they are any too happy about that.”

  “All in all, I think they would rather be back on the ranch,” Smoke said. “And I expect I’ll have them both back before too much longer.”

  “Tell them I asked about them.”

  “I will.”

  Templeton had climbed up to the top of the McCoy Building, which was the highest building in town. From there, he had seen Smoke approaching the town, even when the wagon was still far out on Gold Park Road.

  He had a good view of Front Street by looking across the top of the Dress Shoppe, and he watched Smoke talking to Murchison in front of the leather goods shop. Templeton stayed there until he saw Jensen go into Longmont’s Saloon.

  Climbing down from the top of the McCoy Building, Templeton hurried down the street to the Brown Dirt Cowboy Saloon. There, he found Willard sitting at a table alone, drinking beer and dealing himself poker hands. His reputation was such that nobody would play cards with him. He looked up when Templeton approached his table. “Is he in town?”

  “He just went into Longmont’s. I knew he would go there, so I’ve got a man with a rifle up on the balcony. All you have to do is call Jensen out.”

  “Who’s goin’ to kill ’im? Me or the man up on the balcony?”

  “You’re goin’ to be the one that kills him,” Templeton said. “All my man is going to do is get his attention.”

  “How?”

  “Once you call him out, my man will cock his rifle. That’ll make Jensen look around. You said you wanted an edge? That’s the edge. When he looks around, that’s when you’ll kill him.”

  Willard smiled, giving him an even more skull-like appearance. “All right.” He stood and loosened the pistol in his holster. “I had me a plate of beef and beans a while ago. And this beer. You take care of my tab. And have the thousand dollars ready as soon as I do the job.”

  “I’ve got the money out in my saddlebag.”

  “I want to see it,” Willard said.

  Templeton nodded, then started back toward the door with Willard right behind him. When they reached Templeton’s horse, he opened the saddlebag flap.

  “You can look in. I don’t plan to flash that much money in public.”

  Willard looked into the bag, satisfied himself that the money was there, then nodded. “Don’t you be goin’ anywhere. I’ll be back for my money in a couple minutes.”

  Smoke was standing at the bar, having a drink with Sheriff Carson when Jake Willard stepped in through the front door. “Jensen! I’m callin’ you out!”

  There was a quick scrape of chairs and tables as everyone scrambled to get out of the way. Only Sheriff Carson didn’t move away from Smoke. The sheriff looked over at the bartender, who had ducked down behind the bar.

  “Poke, would you draw me another beer, please?” he asked in a calm voice.

  “Sheriff, are you crazy?” Poke hissed. “Get out of the line of fire!”

  Sheriff Carson chuckled, then looked back toward Jake Willard, who was standing in the doorway with his arm crooked, just above his pistol.

  “Don’t you know who that is?” Sheriff Carson asked, pointing to Willard. “His name is Jake Willard, a two-bit outlaw who is hardly worth the reward that’s out on him. If he’s serious about this foolish notion of challenging Smoke, then he’s about to die. Now, how about the beer?”

  Poke rose up just enough to take the sheriff’s mug, then he drew another beer and handed it to him.

  “Thanks.” Carson blew the foam off, then turned and looked toward the gunman. “Willard, I’m glad you showed up. I have paper on you, and this keeps me from having to go look for you. Why don’t you just take your pistol out real slow and put it on the table there? I’ll take you on down the street to the jail and hold you until someone comes to get you.”

  “Do you really think I’m crazy enough to do that?” Willard asked.

  “No, I think you’re crazy enough to draw on Smoke and get yourself killed. And that’s fine with me. Either way, it ends for you today.”

  Willard went for his pistol, shouting a challenge. “Draw, Jensen!”

  Smoke beat the draw and fired a split second before Willard.

  The gunman fired twice. His first bullet plowed into the bar right beside Smoke, and his second punched a hole through the floor as he fell.

  Smoke stood in place, his pistol still ready, should Willard have any partners wishing to continue the confrontation. The smoke of the three discharges drifted toward the ceiling, joining the smoke of pipes, cigars, and cigarettes already gathered in a cloud.

  “Did you see that?” someone asked in an awestruck voice.

  “Well, yeah, I seen it. I’m here, ain’t I?”

  The response elicited nervous laughter from some of the others.

  Outside, Deekus Templeton heard the shots and waited a moment to see if Willard came out. When he didn’t, Templeton knew for certain it was Willard who had been shot. Joining the several curious people rushing into the saloon, he saw Willard lying dead on the floor. Tales of what happened were already buzzing around the saloon.

  Templeton looked down at Willard and shook his head. No one with a rifle was on the balcony providing back up, nor was there ever intended to be. He had told Willard that only to give him the courage to face Jensen. To be honest, Templeton didn’t think Willard actually had any hope of besting Smoke Jensen, but figured it was a chance worth taking, especially since no money would change hands unless he succeeded, and also, because it wasn’t his own life put at risk.

  Sally was just coming out of the dress shop when she heard shooting from the saloon. She knew, with a loving wife’s intuition, it involved Smoke. And though she knew Smoke could handle himself in any fair encounter, she also knew there were people who would think nothing of shooting him in the back. It was for that reason she hurried to join the others as they ran toward the saloon.

  Reaching the front porch she looked in over the swinging doors and saw Smoke standing just in front of the bar, still holding a smoking pistol. She breathed a sigh of relief to see that he wasn’t hurt, then rushed in to embrace him.

  “Are you all finished with your shopping?” Smoke asked calmly as he put his pistol away.

  “Smoke! I come in here to see that you have been
in a gunfight, and all you can say is whether or not I’m finished with shopping?”

  Smoke smiled. “I’m sorry. Am I not supposed to ask such a thing?”

  “You’re impossible,” Sally said with a laugh. She looked back toward the body, around which several had gathered.

  “Who was he?”

  “His name was Jake Willard.”

  “I’ve never heard of him. Is he someone who had a grudge for you?”

  “Evidently so,” Smoke said. “Though I don’t know why.”

  “He was over in the Brown Dirt a few minutes ago,” Templeton said. “I went over to talk to him, but he didn’t give me any idea he was going to do something like this.”

  “What were you talking to him about?” Sheriff Carson asked.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Sheriff. I was discussing the possibility of him working for the Long Trek.”

  “As a cowboy?” Sheriff Carson asked.

  “No, sir. As a private detective, so to speak, to see if we can’t get a handle on all the cattle rustlin’ that’s goin’ on.”

  “Smoke, have you had any problem with cattle rustling?” Sheriff Carson asked.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Neither has anyone else in the county, as far as I know. At least, nobody else has filed any complaints about it.”

  “When the Colonel met with the Cattlemen’s Association no one else seemed to have a problem, either,” Templeton said. “And I think I’ve got that all figured out, as to why.”

  “Why?” Sheriff Carson asked.

  “I think it might be because Colonel Garneau is new. And he’s a Frenchman. The rustlers probably think he is an easy target. Only they’ve got another think comin’. I’m makin’ it my business to hire men who can deal with them.”

  “Like Jake Willard?”

  Templeton shook his head. “I didn’t hire him. As it turns out, I reckon it was a good thing I didn’t.”

  The next day an article appeared in the Big Rock Journal:

  Shootout n Longmont’s Saloon

  INITIATOR OF THE DEADLY ENCOUNTER KILLED

  Jake Willard, who fancied himself a man of considerable skill with a pistol, learned to his sorrow yesterday that his skill was not the match of Smoke Jensen. Accosting Mr. Jensen while he stood at the bar having a beer and engaged in peaceful conversation, Willard proved to be inadequate to the task he had set for himself. Smoke Jensen, in a move that was lightning swift, pulled his .44 and energized the ball that ended Jake Willard’s life of crime. There was a one thousand dollar reward for Jake Willard, but Smoke Jensen, in a move of great generosity, has donated the money to the Holy Spirit Orphanage.

  As there was no one to mourn Jake Willard, he was put unheralded, and with naught but the gravedigger in attendance, into a pauper’s grave this morning.

  Garneau read the article with interest, but made no connection between the incident and the conversation he had held with Templeton a few days earlier. He was not aware the attempted assassination had been concocted by the gunman.

  The colonel read a few more articles, thinking he should keep up with the local news. He was about to put the paper down when he noticed something under a column with the heading INTERNATIONAL INTELLIGENCE BY CABLE.

  NEW MYSTERY FROM FRANCE

  Deceased Soldier Not Who They Thought

  It has been some time since the charred remains of a French soldier were found near Dijon, France. Those remains were initially identified as Captain Pierre Mouchette. It was suspected that Sergeant Antoine Dubois had murdered Captain Mouchette, and absconded with as much as two and one half million francs. It is now known that the body found was not that of Captain Mouchette, but Sergeant Dubois himself. The inescapable conclusion is that Mouchette, in all violation of the honor of his office, the fiduciary responsibility to the army he served, and the betrayal of the sergeant who served him, is the murderer and thief.

  The current location of the wretched Captain Mouchette is not known.

  Garneau was disturbed that his ruse had been discovered, that the authorities in France knew it was Sergeant Dubois’ body they had found, and that they had deduced he was the thief and murderer. But he found succor in the fact that the article clearly stated his whereabouts was unknown.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Brooklyn, New York

  Malcolm Theodore Puddle was a shipping clerk for the Brooklyn Transit Company. It wasn’t a job he particularly liked, but it paid well, and he was conscientious about his work. He was handling a bank shipment of ten thousand dollars in cash that had been delivered to him by an armed messenger. Malcolm had to stay beyond his usual quitting time, because the money could not be out of his sight until it was put on board one of the car floats, a barge that ferried railroad cars across the Hudson River.

  Earlier, he had stepped into Henry’s Café and arranged to have his dinner brought to him that evening. But it was getting close to seven and still no dinner. He was beginning to wonder if Henry had forgotten. Since it was something Henry had done for him many times, Malcolm decided he must have just gotten very busy at the last minute.

  Sixteen-year-old Teddy Cline had the pork chop, roll, and a baked potato in a covered dish and started out the back door of the café. He didn’t mind delivering the supper meal to Mr. Puddle, because Puddle always tipped well. The café was very busy, and he had gotten away late, so he hurried through the alley, which was the shortest distance between the café and the terminal. He could save time that way, but it always made him just a little uncomfortable.

  Suddenly two men stepped out in front of him, and his worst fears were realized.

  “What do you want?” Teddy asked. “I don’t have any money. I don’t have anything you want.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” One of the men pointed to the covered plate. “We’ll just take the supper you are carrying.”

  “No!” Teddy said, pulling the dish away as one of the men reached for it. “This is for Mr. Puddle over at the terminal.”

  “Yes, well, see, we want to meet Mr. Puddle, and we figure taking him his dinner will do it for us.”

  “You don’t need to take him his supper. Mr. Puddle is a very nice man. If you want to meet him, all you have to do is go see him.”

  “How are we going to do that? The office is closed and the door is locked. We figured if we had his meal, when we knock, he would open the door to us. Isn’t that how you get in?”

  “Ha!” Teddy said. “I have a key. He left it with me earlier today when he ordered his meal.”

  “You’re lyin’.”

  “No, I’m not. It’s right here, see?” Teddy lifted the lid on the covered dish, and there, beside the pork chop, roll, and baked potato was a key.

  “We’ll just take that key.” The man pulled a cloth from his pocket and held it over Teddy’s nose and mouth. Teddy smelled a cloying odor, then everything went black.

  “How long will he be out?”

  “Long enough for us to get the money and be out of here.” The man put the handkerchief and chloroform back in his pocket.

  “Do you have enough of that stuff left to take care of Puddle?”

  “Yes.”

  Malcolm Puddle was playing solitaire as he waited on his supper. Glancing up at the clock, he saw that it was getting close to eight. The car barge would leave at eight-thirty. If he had known it was going to take this long, he would have waited until after he got the money shipment on board, then gone to the café to eat.

  He had just put a red seven on a black eight, when he heard the front door open. “Teddy,” he called. “What has taken you so long, I’m about starved.” He looked up, saw two men coming into the office, and didn’t recognize either one. He stood up and backed away from the desk. “Where’s Teddy?”

  “Oh, he’s back at the café. They got real busy and my friend Toby and I were coming this way anyway, so he gave us your supper. Oh, and the key,” the man added, smiling and holding the key out toward Puddle. “He t
old me to be sure and give the key back to you.”

  Something about the two men made Malcolm feel a little wary of them, but he gave no indication. “Thank you. You can put the food and the key there on the desk.”

  “I’d rather not. Ol’ Henry now, he was real particular about tellin’ us to put the key directly in your hands, and if you don’t mind, that’s what I plan to do. Put it right in your hands.”

  Both men stepped around the desk toward him, and Toby took a cloth and a small bottle from his pocket. Malcolm had no idea what it was, or what Toby had in mind, but he didn’t like it. “I told you, put the food and the key on the desk. Except for deliveries, no one is allowed in here.”

  “Ah, deliveries. You mean like the ten thousand dollars delivered to you today?”

  Malcolm realized his suspicions were well founded, and he moved away from the desk into an open area.

  “Grab him, Sid,” Toby said.

  Malcolm stood five-feet-nine-inches tall and weighed 155 pounds. Sid and Toby were longshoremen, over six-feet tall with a good two hundred pounds of muscle. They didn’t expect any problem with Malcolm.

  But they got it. Malcolm was a middleweight boxer who had twenty-three fights under his belt, and not one loss.

  As Sid approached, Malcolm snapped a quick, hard, left jab to the dock man’s nose. He felt the nose go under the blow, and Sid let out a yell of pain. Enraged, he raised both hands over his head and rushed toward the clerk. Malcolm ducked under the upraised arms, then sent a hard right into Sid’s solar plexus. With a painful expulsion of breath, Sid fell to the floor with the breath knocked out of him.

  Toby watched in disbelief as the little clerk of a man handled Sid.

  “Why, you little creep!” Toby swung a powerful, roundhouse right, which Malcolm danced away from. The dock man swung again, and missed again when Malcolm bent back at the waist to let the fist fly by him.