Strike of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  ELEVATION: 8,675 FEET

  Reaching into the overhead rack, Malcolm retrieved his bowler hat and a leather case in which he had his important papers, including the notarized limited power of attorney. He was wearing a tan suit, a dark brown vest, and a yellow, four-in-hand tie. He stepped down onto the platform, listening to the sounds the train made behind him; from the popping sounds of cooling bearings and journals to the rhythmic venting of steam from the actuating cylinder. He decided the first order of business would be to retrieve his luggage, then locate a hotel, and finally look up Dan Norton, the Big Rock lawyer with whom his lawyer had been in contact.

  The arrival and departure of trains was always an event of great interest in Big Rock, and it generally drew people who had no other reason to meet the train than to give vent to that interest. Two such characters were Curly Roper and Slim Taylor, cowboys who worked at the Long Trek Ranch. They’d ridden into town just after lunch, and had spent most of the afternoon drinking—first in Longmont’s Saloon. When they got a bit rowdy, Louis nicely asked them to leave. Nobody who knew him ever made the error of mistaking his gentlemanly request for weakness, for to do so could be a fatal miscalculation. They spent the rest of the afternoon in the Brown Dirt Cowboy, where rowdiness was more or less expected.

  Fairly well liquored up, they were at the depot watching the arriving and departing passengers.

  “Hey, Slim, take a look at that little feller that just got off the train,” Curly said. “He’s all slicked up like some kind of Eastern dude, ain’t he? Look at that hat he’s wearin’. What kind of hat would you call that?”

  “I don’t know what you call it, but it sure ain’t no sombrero,” Slim said.

  “I think I’m going to go over there and wear me that hat.” Curly started toward the man.

  Seeing the man coming toward him, Malcolm smiled. “Excuse me, sir, but would you happen to know where I might find a Mr. Dan Norton? I believe he is an attorney.”

  “He’s a what?”

  “A lawyer. I have secured his services.”

  Curly chuckled. “Have you now?” He pointed to the hat. “Tell me, what do you call that thing you’ve got on your head?”

  “Why, it is a hat, sir. Specifically, it is a bowler.” Malcolm took off his hat and held it out. “Would you like to examine it?”

  “Yeah,” Curly said with a little laugh. “Yeah, that’s what I want to do. I want to examine it.” He took the hat, looked at it for a moment, then took his hat off and put the bowler hat on.

  Malcolm cringed a bit. He was very fastidious in his personal hygiene, and the man looked as if he hadn’t washed his hair in months. Malcolm could almost feel the head lice. “I don’t mind you looking at it, but I would rather you not put it on.”

  “Well, that’s too bad, dude, because I’m already wearing it, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “Actually, there is,” Malcolm said calmly. “But I would rather not have an altercation on my first day in town. Especially as I intend to settle here.”

  “Do you now?” Curly asked. “And just what will you be doing here? Working in some fancy restaurant? We’ve only got one of those, that’s Delmonico’s, and they ain’t hirin’.”

  “Please, sir. My hat?”

  “Why don’t you take it off of me, dude?” Curly challenged.

  “I’d really rather not. As I said, I have no wish to get involved in an altercation on my first day in town.”

  “Alterca. . . . alter. . . . alter what? What is that?”

  “Altercation. You might call it a fight. I really don’t want to get into a fight, my first day here.”

  Curly laughed. “Yeah, I’ll just bet you don’t. But, dude, if you want this hat back, the only way you are goin’ to get it is if you take it off my head.” He sported a challenging grin. “Go ahead, take it off me.”

  “All right,” Malcolm said. “But remember, you invited this.”

  Malcolm reached for the hat with his left hand. and just as he knew he would, Curly brought both hands up to block him. That left his stomach open, and Malcolm drove his right fist into it, glad this finger had been only jammed, and not broken, in an earlier fight.

  Curly doubled over with a loud and involuntary expulsion of breath, bringing his head down in a deep bow. It was a perfect set up, and Malcolm wanted to hit him a second time, but he eschewed the opportunity and chose, instead, to pluck the hat from Curly’s head. He examined it closely for any signs of vermin before he put it back on his own head.

  A few feet away, Slim had been watching, amused by the way Curly was playing the Eastern dude. When he saw a punch double Curly over, he was shocked and angered. He started for his gun.

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” a calm but authoritative voice said. The warning was punctuated with the deadly sound of a .45 pistol being cocked.

  Slim looked around to see Sheriff Carson holding a pistol leveled toward him.

  “I wasn’t actual goin’ to shoot the little man, Sheriff,” Slim said. “I was just goin’ to keep him from hittin’ Curly any more. Me ’n Curly was just going to roust him around a bit, is all.”

  “It looks to me like you and Curly are the ones who got rousted. What are you doing down here at the depot, anyway? Are you going somewhere? Are you seeing anybody off or meeting anyone?” Sheriff Carson asked.

  “No, it ain’t nothin’ like that. We just like to watch the trains come ’n go, is all. Lots of people come down here to do that.”

  “Everyone else who comes down to watch the trains does just that. They watch the trains. They don’t harass the passengers. Now, if you and Curly don’t want to spend the night in my jail, I suggest you get on back to the Long Trek.”

  “We got the day off so we could spend time in town,” Slim complained.

  “You’ve spent all the time in town you’re going to. Now get going, the both of you.”

  “What about this fella, Sheriff?” Slim said, pointing to Malcolm. “Maybe you didn’t see what he done, but he hit Curly for no reason at all.”

  “That’s not quite the truth. I was watching everything, and I wouldn’t say it was for no reason at all, Sheriff. This fella here”—the town citizen pointed to Curly—“took the little fella’s hat and wasn’t goin’ to give it back. That’s when the little fella hit him.”

  “Little fella?” Sheriff Carson asked.

  The citizen chuckled. “Well, yeah, I guess he looks little. But he sure don’t hit like no little man, does he? He pure doubled that bigger fella over.”

  “See? Like he said, he doubled me over,” Curly said. “Are you goin’ to arrest him?”

  “Arrest him? Why should I arrest him? I may give him a medal,” Sheriff Carson replied. “Now you and Slim get on out of town like I told you. Otherwise, I meant it when I said you would spend the night in jail.”

  Grumbling, the two cowboys left the depot, with Curly still holding his hand over his stomach.

  Sheriff Carson chuckled, then walked over to Malcolm. “I saw Curly start to bother you and I figured I would come over here and put a stop to it, but you seem able to take care of yourself.”

  “I appreciate your assistance, nonetheless, Sheriff. Especially as it looked as if the other gentleman was about to withdraw his pistol. As you can see, I am not armed, so I would have been greatly disadvantaged.”

  “Yes, sir, I reckon you would be. If you want some advice, you probably should start wearing a pistol.”

  “Why? I don’t know anything about guns. I’ve never even fired one. I’ll just try not to get into any situation that is beyond being able to take care of it with my fists.”

  “That’s just it,” Sheriff Carson said. “These cowboys don’t have a lot of sense, but they do have a lot of pride. Getting whipped by someone who looks . . . and dresses . . . the way you do isn’t going to go down very well with them. I’m afraid you will always have someone like Curly or Slim to deal with.”

  “Do you think it would h
elp matters if I change the way I dress?”

  Sheriff Carson smiled. “Some Western duds would help, that’s for certain.”

  “Then I shall do that as soon as I see Mr. Norton.”

  “Norton. Dan Norton?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe he is an attorney here.”

  “He is, and a good one. Do you have an appointment with him?”

  “In a manner of speaking, I do. At least, I have been in communication with him by telegraph. Could you tell me where I might find him?”

  “I certainly can.” Sheriff Carson pointed south, across the track. “This is Front Street and the street that runs south away from it is Tanner Street. Go down Tanner Street one block until you get to Center Street. Turn left on Center, go by the BR Hotel and the stagecoach office, cross Ranney Street, and you’ll see the Dempster law office.”

  “Dempster? I think I’m supposed to see a Mr. Norton.”

  “I know. I just told you about Dempster’s office so you wouldn’t get confused. Mr. Norton’s law office is in the building after Dempster’s. It’s the McCoy Building. You can’t miss it. It’s the biggest office in town. He’s on the top floor.

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, and a word of caution?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “It looks to me like you are pretty handy with your fists. I’d be a bit more careful in using them if I were you. You might wind up hitting someone with your fists, and, like Slim was about to, he might respond with a gun.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff, for the warning. And for coming to my assistance.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Malcolm followed Sheriff Carson’s directions, and a few minutes later was standing in front of a two-story redbrick building. An outside stairway climbed up the left side of the building and hanging from an arm that protruded from the side of the building was a sign. Painted on the sign were a clinched hand with one finger pointing up the stairs and the words Dan S. Norton, Atty. at law.

  Malcolm climbed the stairs, then knocked on the door at the top. It was opened by a man who wasn’t any taller than he was. Like Malcolm, he was wearing a suit, and he had freckles and thinning hair.

  “Mr. Norton?”

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Norton, my name is Malcolm Puddle. I believe you and I have communicated.”

  A big smile spread across Norton’s face and he stepped back from the door, then made a sweeping, inviting motion with his arm. “Indeed we have, Mr. Puddle, indeed we have. Come in, sir, please come in.”

  Inside the office, Malcolm was offered a seat. Then Norton went over to a bar where he picked up a decanter of whiskey. “May I offer you a drink?”

  “I don’t drink whiskey, but when we have completed our business, I would be glad to buy you a beer.”

  “It’s a deal,” Norton said, sitting down across the desk from Malcolm. “Now, Mr. Puddle, what can I do for you?”

  “First, I would like to make certain my uncle’s will has been probated, and that I am, indeed, the heir to his ranch. The Carro de Bancada I believe it is called.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Puddle, that you are the heir to your uncle’s ranch, and the deed to the Carro de Bancada has already been transferred to your name. For it to be validated, however, you will have to show the tax clerk that Smoke did have your power of attorney to pay the taxes in your name.”

  “I beg your pardon. Smoke? I gave no authority to anyone named Smoke.”

  “I’m sorry. In all our communications with you, we referred to him as Kirby. Kirby Jensen, and indeed, that is his real name. But everyone who knows him calls him Smoke. Even his wife.”

  “I appreciate him doing that for me, and I should like to see him so I can repay the money. I’ve got the money right here. Two hundred dollars, I believe it was?”

  Norton smiled broadly. “Yes, but you don’t need to worry about reimbursing Smoke. That’s already been taken care of.”

  “I beg your pardon? How was it taken care of?”

  Norton opened the middle drawer of his desk and pulled out an envelope. “It has not only been taken care of, but you have eight hundred dollars left over.”

  “What? Mr. Norton, I assure you, sir, I have no idea what you are talking about. I have sent no money here, either by wire or post.”

  Norton chuckled, then held up his hand. “Perhaps you had better let me explain. It seems that your uncle killed one of the men who went to the ranch to kill him. That man was a known outlaw, and there was a one thousand dollar reward posted for him, dead or alive. Since your uncle was unable to collect, I convinced the sheriff to allow me to hold the money in escrow for you.”

  Norton counted out eight one-hundred dollar bills.

  Malcolm smiled. “Oh, wow, I certainly didn’t expect this. And you say Mr. Jensen has already been paid back?”

  “Yes. I’ll tell you what kind of man Smoke is. Three of the attackers were killed at Carro de Bancada. Smoke killed two and could have claimed all three, since nobody was there to dispute him. But he said your uncle had killed one, and, by rights, the money should go to you.”

  “I can’t wait to meet Mr. Jensen.”

  “You will. He will be your neighbor, and I’m sure that, as a neighborly thing, he and Sally will invite you over for a meal. You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted her cooking. Come, we’ll go see the clerk now, show him the power of attorney, and everything will be all squared away.”

  “Thank you. You have been most helpful. I do hope to pay for your services.”

  “We’ll work something out,” Norton said. “I’m not going to try and get all my money up front. I hope to make you a client, so I can bleed you for a long time.”

  “What?”

  Norton laughed. “I’m teasing, my boy. I’m merely teasing.”

  Malcolm laughed. “Oh, by the way, what does the name mean?”

  “Smoke?”

  “Well, that too, but I imagine Mr. Jensen will tell me that in due time. No, I’m talking about my uncle’s . . . I mean, my ranch. If I’m going to be a ranch owner, I should at least know what Carro de Bancada means.”

  “It means saddle,” Norton said.

  They came to a big building on the corner of Center and Sikes Streets.

  “Here’s the courthouse,” Norton said. “The clerk is inside.”

  Don Pratt looked up when the two men went inside. “Hello, Mr. Norton.”

  “Hello, Don. This is Malcolm Puddle.”

  Pratt smiled. “I had a feeling you would show up in person.”

  “I have a notarized copy of the power of attorney to validate the one I sent by wire.”

  “All right. Let me see it, and I’ll sign off on this, then turn the deed over to you.”

  “What are you going to do with the ranch, Mr. Puddle?” Norton asked.

  “I haven’t decided yet. Why do you ask?”

  “You will, no doubt, be visited by Lucien Garneau or his agent, offering to buy you out.”

  “What is the land worth?”

  “It’s twenty-five hundred and sixty acres, and the last land transaction I dealt with was five dollars an acre. Though in your case it might be worth a little more because your uncle did a lot of work on the land. For example he dug a canal from Frying Pan Creek to provide water. in addition to the land, your uncle has three hundred and twenty-five head of prime Herefords. They are worth at least thirty-five dollars a head.” Norton did some figuring. “With land, cattle, and improvements to include house, barn, machine shed, and smokehouse, I would say the Carro de Bancada is worth somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-five thousand dollars.

  “Wow,” Malcolm said. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Garneau is a shrewd businessman so, no doubt, if he makes an offer, he probably won’t offer that much.”

  “If he seriously wants it, he will,” Malcolm said.

  He finished his business about the ranch and stopped next at Goldstein’s Mercantile.

  “Yes, sir, may
I help you?” Gary Goldstein asked, greeting him as he stepped through the door and into the store.

  “I need some”—Malcolm recalled Sheriff Carson’s description of the apparel—“western dudes.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Goldstein asked with a puzzled expression on his face.

  “Oh, I think that is duds,” Malcolm corrected. “I need some western duds.”

  “Very good, sir. Do you have anything specific in mind?”

  “Look at me,” Malcolm said, taking in his clothing with a wave of his hand. “Would you agree these make me stand out?”

  Goldstein laughed. “Yes, sir, I have to say that your clothes, elegant looking though they are, do make you stand out.”

  “Well, what I have in mind, specifically, is clothes that don’t make me stand out.”

  “Leave that to me, I’ll take care of it for you.”

  Half an hour later, Malcolm left the mercantile wearing boots, blue denims, a white cotton shirt, and a white Stetson hat. He was carrying a bag in which he had three more outfits just like the clothes he was wearing, plus the clothes he had been wearing when he went into the store.

  When he returned to the Dunn Hotel, he was met by the sheriff and another man as soon as he stepped into the lobby.

  “Mr. Puddle?” Sheriff Carson called him out with a smile. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  “Do these clothes make me fit in?” Malcolm asked with a smile.

  “Well, I don’t know that you entirely fit in, but the clothes do help,” Sheriff Carson said. “You said you wanted to meet Smoke Jensen. Here he is.”

  “Mr. Jensen,” Malcolm said with a big smile and an extended hand. “How nice to meet you, and to thank you in person for what you have done.”

  “The name is Smoke. Your uncle was a good friend.”

  “I can certainly see that he made friends,” Malcolm said. “And for that I am most grateful.”

  “I see that you have taken a room here at the hotel,” Smoke said. “But if you would like to ride out to your ranch, I’ll be glad to take you there.”

  “Ride out? What would I ride? I don’t have a horse.”

  “Yes, you do. I brought your uncle’s riding horse into town. It’s put up over at the livery.”