Strike of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  That missed blow left Toby open, and Malcolm sent a whistling right into Toby’s ear. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Sid was on his hands and knees, with his head lowered almost to the floor.

  “Sid! Sid! Get up and help me!” Toby shouted, trying, unsuccessfully, to connect with another roundhouse right.

  Malcolm danced over to Sid and kicked him in the side of the head. Sid went down and out.

  Toby roared in a rage and decided to quit trying to hit Malcolm, planning to get him in a bear hug instead.

  Malcolm knew if the big oaf got his arms wrapped around him, that would be the end of it. He would have only one shot and it had to be a good one.

  As Toby rushed toward him, Malcolm skipped to his right. Then, putting everything he had in his left fist, he drove it into Toby’s Adam’s apple. The big man gasped for breath and threw both hands over his throat. He dropped to both knees, his breathing coming in hoarse gasps.

  “Wow!”

  Looking toward the voice, Malcolm saw the café delivery boy. “Teddy, are you all right?”

  “Yes, sir. They held something over my nose, and it made me pass out. But I’m all right now. Wow, Mr. Puddle, you sure can fight.”

  Malcolm picked up the bottle and sniffed it. “Chloroform.”

  “I’m sorry I let them take the key away from me.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. I’m just glad you are all right. Do me a favor will you, Teddy? Run down to the corner, and tell Officer Casey what happened. Ask him to come here.”

  When the policeman showed up a couple of minutes later, Malcolm was sitting calmly at his desk, eating his dinner, while the two big men were sitting on the floor, one gasping for breath, the other holding his head.

  “Holy Mary,” the policeman said. “And would you be for tellin’ me what this is all about?”

  “Let’s just say I had some unwanted visitors,” Malcolm replied. “I think they were intent on robbing me.”

  “I used the call box to contact the station. There’ll be a paddy wagon here shortly. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “You should have seen him, Officer Casey. He whupped both of them,” Teddy said excitedly.

  “I should say he did,” Officer Casey replied.

  “Oh, I’d better get back. Mr. Wright is going to wonder what happened to me.”

  “Oh, Teddy, wait,” Malcolm called. “I didn’t tip you for bringing my supper.”

  Long Trek

  “I think it is time to move on to the next step,” Templeton said.

  “What step would that be?”

  Templeton smiled. “Now, Colonel, my job is not only to convince these people to sell to you, it is also to keep your name out of anything that might happen. Believe me, you will be better off if you don’t have any idea about the details of how I go about getting them to sell.”

  “Yes, yes,” Garneau said, nodding. “I think you are right.”

  “Now, I’m going to ask you to do something that is for your own good. I am told that you . . . uh . . . sometimes visit the girls at the Brown Dirt Cowboy.”

  “Is that any business of yours?” Garneau snapped.

  Templeton held both his hands out, palms forward. “It’s none of my business at all. But, if you ever had any interest in spending the night with one of the girls there . . . let’s say to have someone who could tell the sheriff where you were in case you had to establish an alibi . . . well, tonight would be that night.”

  Garneau stared at Templeton for a long moment. “I see. That is to keep my name out of whatever you have planned?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s it exactly.”

  “There is a young woman named Amy,” Garneau said. “I think spending the night with her could be quite pleasurable.”

  Garneau went into town by carriage. It was painted green and trimmed in yellow. On each door of the carriage was the fleur-de-lis, over which, written in yellow, was the name LONG TREK. Whenever he went to town his arrival was noticed, and it was no different this time.

  The carriage stopped first in front of Longmont’s, and the driver, after hopping down to open the door for Garneau, retook his position on the seat while Garneau went inside.

  “Monsieur barman, a drink for everyone present, s’il vous plaît.”

  With a cheer, patrons rushed to the bar to claim their drinks. Garneau spoke to no one, nor did he buy a drink for himself, though he did step up to the bar and pay for the drinks that had been delivered. After that, he left.

  Louis stepped up to the bar. “Tell me, Poke, did he pay for everything?”

  “Yes, sir, he did.”

  “I wonder what that was all about? Why would he come in here, buy drinks for the house, then leave?”

  “I don’t know,” Poke replied. “But now that you mention it, it is rather strange, isn’t it?

  Two blocks away, the carriage stopped in front of the Brown Dirt Cowboy Saloon. Again the driver hopped down to open the door for Garneau. “Shall I wait here for you, Colonel?”

  “No. Go board the team in the livery and park the carriage there for the night.”

  “No need on you wastin’ your money doin’ that, Colonel. If you’re goin’ to spend the night in town, I can drive back out to the ranch and come back to pick you up in the mornin’. I don’t mind doin’ that. Just tell me what time you want me to come back.”

  “Monsieur Calloway, I want you to do exactly as I tell you to do,” Garneau said sharply. “Board the horses in the stable and park the carriage out on the street where it can be seen. Do you understand that? I want the carriage out where it can be seen.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand that,” Calloway said, though the expression on his face indicated he had no idea why Garneau had made such a strange request.

  “Here is money for boarding the team, for your dinner, and for your accommodations for the night. You may stay at the hotel of your choosing.”

  “I suppose I’ll stay at the Big Rock Hotel. It’s the closest to the stable.”

  “Very good. You may call for me tomorrow morning at eight o’clock,” Garneau said.

  Leaving the driver to carry out his instructions, Garneau stepped into the Brown Dirt Cowboy and, as he had over at Longmont’s, bought a round of drinks for everyone in the house.

  As everyone was happily drinking, Garneau called Amy over to him. “My dear, I should like to engage your services for the evening.”

  Amy smiled. “I’ll be with you soon, Colonel. I’ve already told another man I will spend a little time with him. He’s first.”

  “Who is the man?”

  “He’s just a customer. His name is Paul, and he works at the wagon yard.”

  “Point him out for me, if you would, please.”

  “Oh, Colonel Garneau, you aren’t going to cause any trouble, are you?”

  “Not a bit, my dear. Please, bring your young man over to see me.”

  “All right,” Amy said with some hesitation.

  A moment later a young man, barely in his twenties, came over to see Garneau. “You wanted to talk to me?”

  “I do, indeed. I want Amy’s services for the entire night. I want to ask you to engage another putain.”

  “Another what?”

  “Putain, uh, prostituée. Another young woman.”

  “But I want this one,” Paul said.

  “Would this convince you to change your mind?” Garneau handed Paul a twenty-dollar bill.

  Paul looked at it, then smiled broadly when he saw the size of it. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I reckon this could make me change my mind. Sorry, Amy.”

  “That’s all right, Paul,” Amy said. “There will be other times for us.”

  “Yeah,” Paul said, the smile still on his face. “There will be other times.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Drexler farm

  On a low hill, Templeton sat in his saddle, looking down upon the farm of Herman Drexler. The house and barn were clearly visibl
e in the moonlight. There was no bunkhouse; Drexler’s farm was too small for him to have employees. Drexler, his wife, and his young son worked the farm by themselves.

  There was no movement in or around the house, which was good. Templeton reached down to make certain the can tied to the saddle horn was secure as he rode down toward the barn. He stopped on the opposite side from the house, so if someone happened to be looking out the window they wouldn’t see him.

  Dismounting, he reached up to take the can down. Opening the lid, he started splashing the liquid onto the wide, weathered boards. From inside the barn he heard a horse whickering in curiosity. When the can was empty he tossed it aside, then lit a match and held it against one of the soaked boards. The kerosene caught quickly and flames spread up that board, then leaped over to the other boards that had been splashed with kerosene.

  He heard the whinny of a horse inside the barn as he remounted, then rode away, keeping the barn between him and the house. After he had ridden a couple hundred yards away he turned back for another look. The entire backside of the barn was ablaze, and flames had leaped up to the roof, which was also burning.

  Twelve-year-old Jimmy Drexler awakened in the middle of the night to see the walls of his bedroom glowing. For a moment he was confused as to what was causing the glow, then he heard the whinny of horses. Jumping out of bed, he ran to the window and saw that the barn was on fire.

  “Papa! Mama!” he shouted. “The barn is on fire! The horses!”

  His shouts awakened his father, who, from his bedroom, had no visual indication of the fire. “What is Jimmy yelling about?” he asked groggily.

  Jimmy came running into his parent’s bedroom. “Papa! The barn is on fire!”

  “What?” Drexler shouted, leaping up from the bed. Running to the window he could hear the panicked whinnying of the horses trapped inside the barn.

  “I’ve got to save Duffy!” Jimmy shouted.

  “Jimmy, don’t you go into that barn!” Mary Drexler shouted.

  “I’ve got to, Mama! Duffy is in there!”

  Drexler didn’t bother to put on pants over the long johns he was sleeping in, but he did pull on his boots. He rushed outside, just in time to see Jimmy running into the barn. By that time, the barn was fully involved in flames.

  “Jimmy, no!” Drexler screamed. He ran to the door of the barn intending to drag his son out, but the flames were so intense he couldn’t go any farther. “Jimmy get out of there!” he screamed at the top of his voice. But his scream was drowned out by the loud crash of the blazing barn falling in on itself, and Drexler had to leap away to avoid having the barn collapse on him. He stood in numbed shock, looking at the fire which he knew was a funeral pyre for his son.

  As the sun came up the next morning, the air was full of the smell of smoke and the odor of burned flesh. Several of Drexler’s neighbors, drawn by the smoke, were at the Drexler house. The women were in the house comforting Mary Drexler. The men were outside with Drexler, looking at the blackened and smoldering remains of the barn. The bodies of the horses and the cow were easily seen as they were large enough to stand out.

  It took a while before they actually located young Jimmy’s body. They found his charred remains on the ground, his arm toward one of the charred horses as if he had been holding a rope to lead him out. If there had been a rope, it had been totally consumed by the fire.

  “What ever possessed him to run into the barn when it was on fire?” Woodward asked.

  “He ran in to save the horses,” Drexler said. “His horse.”

  “He was a brave young man,” Keefer said. “Not much comfort there, I know. But you can be proud of his courage.”

  “I don’t want his mother to see him like this,” Drexler said as he looked at the blackened remains.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get him out of there, and in a nice coffin before she has a chance to see him,” Humboldt Puddle said.

  “Mr. Puddle? Drexler? Come here. You might want to see this,” Woodward called.

  The two men answered the call.

  “What is it, Charles?” Puddle asked.

  Woodward pointed. “That’s a kerosene can. There’s no doubt in my mind but that this fire was started.”

  “Started by who?” Drexler asked.

  “Who has been trying to run the rest of us out of the valley?”

  “The Frenchman,” Puddle spit out.

  Garneau was awakened the next morning by a buzzing fly. He waved at it a couple times trying to ward it off, until finally he was fully awake. He watched the fly until it landed, then, cupping his hand he swung it over the fly, catching it when it flew up. He pulled both wings off, then lowered the sheet covering Amy, exposing her naked breast. He put the fly on her nipple and watched with interest as it crawled over her breast.

  Amy twitched and groaned, then suddenly slapped at her breast, sitting up quickly.

  “What?” Garneau asked as if he had just been awakened by her activity. “What’s wrong? What are you doing?”

  “I don’t know,” Amy said. “Something was crawling on me.”

  “Mon Dieu, you gave me quite a start there, waking me like that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Ce n’est rien. It is nothing. It’s time to get up anyway. Amy, ma chère, because you provided me with such a delightful night, I would like you to be my guest for breakfast at Delmonico’s.”

  “Really? You want to take me to Delmonico’s? Mr. Brown serves breakfast here, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. Biscuits and some sort of sauce that I think is called gravy. Food that is hardly fit for a cochon, and certainly not fit for human consumption. At Delmonico’s, we can have a baguette with jam and butter, and café crème, which is what a proper breakfast should be.”

  When they stepped into Delmonico’s a short while later, everyone seemed to be engaged in quiet conversation.

  Garneau ordered their breakfast.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll have it right out,” the waiter said.

  After the waiter left, Garneau spoke to someone at the table nearest his. “Tell me, Monsieur, everyone seems quite subdued this morning. Why is that? Has something happened?”

  “You mean you haven’t heard about it?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “It’s the Drexler boy.”

  “The Drexler boy? I beg your pardon, who is the Drexler boy?”

  “Jimmy Drexler. He is the son of Herman Drexler, a farmer just out of town. Or rather I should say he was the son of Herman Drexler.”

  “Was? Oh, I see. You are saying the boy died?”

  “He didn’t just die. He was burned to death.”

  “Oh, heavens!” Amy said. “How horrible!”

  “Yes, ma’am, I reckon it was. You see, the thing is, their barn caught on fire last night, and young Jimmy . . . well, for some reason, he ran into the barn. Most likely, it was to save the horses. Anyway, the barn fell in on him, and, as I say, he was burned to death.”

  “What a terrible thing,” Garneau said as their breakfast was delivered. He smiled broadly. “Ah, the baguette looks wonderful.”

  Big Rock

  Although Garden of Memories Cemetery was between St. Paul’s Episcopal Church and Ranney Street Baptist, it wasn’t affiliated with any specific denomination. It was crowded on the morning they what was left of young Jimmy Drexler was laid to rest. Mary Drexler, wearing a black dress and a long black veil sat in a chair next to the open grave, clutching a tear soaked handkerchief in one hand, while with the other hand she squeezed Herman’s hand.

  Sue Woodward stood behind Mary, with her hand resting on Mary’s shoulder. Over one hundred people attended the funeral—a considerable number of townspeople, nearly all of the county ranchers and farmers, including Smoke and Sally, and some of the original cowboys who had worked on Long Trek when George Munger owned it. Conspicuous by his absence was Lucien Garneau.

  The pallbearers lowered the pine box, which had been closed for the entire s
ervice, into the open grave, then pulled the ropes back up. Pastor E. D. Owen from the Ranney Street Baptist Church stepped up to the grave. “For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God in his wise providence to take out of this world the soul of our deceased brother, Jimmy Drexler, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; looking for the general Resurrection in last day, and the life of the world to come.”

  He invited Mary and Herman to drop the first handfuls of dirt onto the coffin. As she heard the dirt fall onto the pine box, Mary let out a sob and turned to bury her head in Herman’s chest. They stepped away as several others dropped dirt onto the coffin.

  “Someone set fire to Drexler’s barn, there’s no doubt about that,” Doc Urban said later that afternoon after several of the town folk and some of the county people gathered in Longmont’s. “In my mind, whoever burned the barn also killed the boy. Jimmy set a world of store by that horse of his. Duffy, he called him. I remember the day he got him. He rode all the way into town just to show his horse off.”

  “I remember that too.” Mark Worley was a self-employed contractor who did carpentry work around town. He was also a part-time deputy to Sheriff Carson. He sat at a table with Smoke, Doc Urban, and Louis Longmont.

  “How do you know it was arson?” Longmont asked, lifting his wineglass to his mouth.

  “Because they found an empty kerosene can behind the burned out barn.” Doc Urban took a swallow of his wine before he spoke again. “That arrogant Frenchman did it. Of that, I’ve no doubt.”

  “Whoa, hold on. I am French!” Louis protested.

  “You aren’t French, Louis. You are a Coon Ass Cajun from Louisiana,” Doc Urban said, chuckling.

  “But my heritage is French,” Louis said.

  “Is it?” Doc Urban challenged.

  “Well, Coon Ass Cajun French,” Louis admitted with a smile.