Strike of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Malcolm fired again, continuing to fire until the pistol was out of bullets.

  “Here,” Smoke said. “Reload and fire again.”

  “Are you sure I’m not just wasting your ammunition?”

  “It’s not exactly a waste. Even though you aren’t hitting anything yet, you are getting a feel for the gun. And that is important.”

  Malcolm emptied the pistol two more times, then after reloading, he hit one of the cans with his first shot. “I hit it!” he yelled excitedly.

  “Can you do it again?”

  “I don’t know. That may have just been luck.”

  “No,” Smoke said. “It wasn’t luck. Look at the can, then feel the pistol lining up with it.”

  “Kinesthetically,” Malcolm said.

  “Kinesthetically,” Smoke agreed.

  Malcolm stared at the can, then “felt” the pistol lining up with it, and pulled the trigger. The can flew off the post.

  “Wow!” Malcolm said. “I can’t believe it!”

  He shot four more times, hitting two more cans. The next time he reloaded, he hit five out of six cans.

  “I’m beginning to get the feel for this now,” he said.

  “Don’t lose the feel. We’ll do some more shooting tomorrow,” Smoke said. “But now, I promised Sally we would go into town. Johnny McVey is giving a piano concert at the Reasoner Theater.”

  “Who is Johnny McVey?”

  “He’s one of the bartenders at Longmont’s,” Smoke said, as if that statement needed no further explanation.

  Smoke, Sally, and Malcolm rode into town, then stopped in front of Lambert’s, a restaurant, which proudly boasted it was the home of tossed rolls.

  “What is a tossed roll?” Malcolm asked.

  “You’ll see,” Sally said with a grin as they dismounted.

  “Who wants a hot roll?” someone shouted as soon as they stepped in through the door.

  “Here!”

  Malcolm saw someone throw a roll, and it sailed across the room, caught by someone at one of the tables. No sooner had the three of them taken their table, than three rolls came flying toward them. Throughout the meal the rolls were tossed around, and there was a great deal of shouting and laughing.

  “What do you think of the place?” Smoke asked.

  “It’s . . . interesting,” Malcolm said.

  “We have three restaurants in town, and since we have a population of less than five hundred there’s no way all three could survive unless each of them carved out their own niche,” Sally said. “This one is sort of a participatory restaurant, with tossed rolls and all the interplay between the waiters and the customers. The City Pig specializes in barbeque beef, pork, and chicken. But my personal favorite is Delmonico’s.”

  “Delmonico’s? There is a restaurant by that name in New York.”

  Smoke chuckled. “And in half the towns of the West, all of them trying to emulate their New York namesake.”

  “And while our Delmonico’s isn’t as large or as grand as the one on fifty-six Beaver Street, it does feature the finest cuisine in town . . . if not in the entire valley,” Sally said.

  After dinner they rode together to the Reasoner Theater to attend the concert.

  “Smoke, did you say the pianist tonight is a bartender?”

  “Yes. He tends bar for Louis Longmont.”

  “Is he a good pianist?”

  “I’ve never heard him play, but Louis has. He is the one who set up the concert. Louis wouldn’t do that unless he thought McVey was good enough.”

  “Good evening Monsieur and Madame Jensen.”

  “Mr. Garneau,” Smoke replied.

  “The gentleman with you?”

  “This is your neighbor, Malcolm Puddle,” Smoke said.

  “Monsieur Puddle, please allow me to express my sympathy to you for the loss of your uncle. It was a tragic thing.”

  “Yes, it was,” Malcolm said.

  “I would like to call on you sometime soon, neighbor to neighbor,” Garneau said.

  Malcolm nodded.

  “Come, before all the good seats are taken,” Sally said.

  “Good evening to you, sir,” Malcolm said with a nod of his head as he joined Smoke and Sally.

  Inside, the theater was illuminated only enough to allow the audience to find their seats. The stage was bare except for the piano, and it was held in a spotlight from a carbon arc lamp.

  Two hundred people filled the Reasoner Theater to hear the bartender give his first concert. The audience applauded as Johnny McVey walked out onto the stage. He looked nothing like the man who dispensed drinks in Louis Longmont’s establishment. He was wearing a white shirt and black bow tie, a formal black jacket with tails, striped pants, and a black cummerbund. He approached the piano bench, flipped the tails back from his swallow-coat, and took his seat at the piano.

  The auditorium grew quiet as McVey sat before the keyboard for a long moment as if composing himself. Then he began to play Beethoven’s Piano Sonata no. 26 in E-flat major (“Les Adieux”), and the music spilled out into the theater, caressing the collective soul of the audience.

  Sally reached over to put her hand in Smoke’s, and as he looked toward her he saw tears in her eyes as she was reacting to the beauty of the music.

  Smoke thought of the incongruity of the moment. There on stage was a man whose skilled hands upon the keyboard were filling the theater with beautiful music. And yet, but a short time ago, those same hands were holding a double-barrel shotgun and threatening to kill, if necessary, three men.

  But, it was easy enough to put that image out of his head so, like Sally, he could enjoy the music.

  The next day, the Big Rock Journal carried a story of the concert performed by Johnny McVey on the night before.

  Wonderful Concert

  JOHNNY MCVEY DISPLAYS HIS VIRTUOSITY ON THE PIANO

  To the patrons of Longmont’s Saloon, Johnny McVey may appear to be nothing more than a bartender. And though he is a bartender par excellence, last night he proved to the citizens of Big Rock that he is much more.

  Johnny McVey is a pianist of the first order. Performing on stage in the Reasoner Theater last night, he held the audience spellbound. It was a magical display, and with his skill he managed to resurrect the genius of the composer so that, to the listening audience, Johnny McVey and Ludwig Beethoven were one and the same.

  Citizens of Big Rock know the Reasoner Theater is the scene for good entertainment, from the classical music prowess of Mr. McVey, to the elocutions of learned men and women, to the presentation of the latest plays, performed by traveling troupes of actors. Every citizen owes a degree of debt to Mr. James Reasoner for having the foresight to build his theater in Big Rock.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Denver

  Jack Emerson was at Nippy Jones’ Saloon, having a drink with Bud Lane, when Lane told him something he had just learned. “I know someone who will pay a thousand dollars to anyone who can do a certain job for him.”

  Emerson frowned. “A thousand dollars? That’s a lot of money.”

  “I reckon it is, but I ain’t about to try and collect it. In the first place, it’s blood money.”

  “What do you mean, blood money?”

  “Just what I’m asayin’. They’s two men here in Denver this feller wants dead.”

  “Who is it? And who is wantin’ ’em dead?”

  “The two men the feller is wantin’ kilt is named Pearlie and Cal. They’re workin’ over at the abattoir, runnin’ it for Smoke Jensen. And as far as who it is that’s awantin’ ’em kilt, it’s Deekus Templeton.”

  “Deekus Templeton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Yeah, I know him.” Lane looked around the saloon to make certain he couldn’t be overheard before he made the next comment. “Me ’n him pulled a job together once. We held up a stagecoach up in Wyoming. Got twenty-five hundred dollars.”

  “Can this Templeton be tru
sted to pay off?”

  “Well yeah, I reckon he can, but Jack, don’t tell me you’re actually thinkin’ about doin’ it.”

  “A thousand dollars is a lot of money. If I could be sure this Templeton person would actually pay off . . .”

  “Well, I’ll tell you this. I know where to find him. I expect you could persuade him to pay off . . . if you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah,” Emerson said with a smile. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  Armed with the information about the reward money being paid to anyone who killed a couple men named Pearlie and Cal Wood, Emerson contacted Nelson Battle.

  “Who wants ’em dead, and why?” Battle asked.

  “I’m told it’s a man named Deekus Templeton who wants ’em dead. I don’t know why, and I don’t care. All I know is, he’s payin’ a thousand dollars for it.”

  “A thousand dollars? That’s good money,” Battle said.

  “You’re damn right it’s good money.”

  “Do you know this man, Templeton? Can he be trusted?”

  “I don’t know him, but I know Bud Lane, and I trust him. He knows Templeton, and says he will pay off.”

  “These two men we’re supposed to kill. Do you know how to find ’em?” Battle asked.

  “Not hard to find ’em. They’re right in Denver, runnin’ the Jensen abattoir.”

  “How are we going to do it? You got ’ny ideas?” Battle asked.

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve got it all planned out,” Emerson said. “We’re going to go see ’em and let on like we are cattlemen. We want to run some of our cows through there. We’ll invite them out to supper, then, when they don’t suspect anything, we’ll kill ’em.”

  “Yeah,” Battle said. “That sounds like a good idea. It’ll be the easiest five hunnert dollars I ever made.”

  The abattoir was easy to find. It was adjacent to a big railroad marshalling yard and at least five thousand cattle were penned up outside the buildings that made up the complex. One building was where the cows were led in, one at a time, then maneuvered down a narrow chute until they reached a place where they could go no farther. A powerfully built shirtless man stood on a platform just above the animal. Once the animal was in place, he used a sledgehammer to strike it a mighty blow between the eyes. Almost instantly a tackle and pulley arrangement lifted the dead steer up, and it travelled down an overhead steam-operated conveyor track as men removed the hide, head, and feet. By the time the steer reached the end of the conveyor track the denuded carcass had already been split into two halves. Those halves were then sent into the next building where they were packed in ice, awaiting shipment by refrigerated cars to markets back east.

  In front of the building, Emerson approached a man in a long white coat spotted with blood. “I’m looking for two men, Pearlie and Cal. Could you tell me where I might find them?”

  “Pearlie and Cal? You’ll find them both back there,” the man said, pointing to two who were standing at the back of the building, watching the operation.

  Emerson and Battle walked toward them.

  “I thought this Pearlie feller was supposed to be a gunman,” Battle said. “There ain’t neither one of ’em even wearin’ a gun.”

  Emerson smiled. “We’ll try and keep ’em that way.”

  “We’ve been here for over six months now. How long do we have to stay here and watch over this business?” Cal asked.

  “Smoke said we wouldn’t be here forever. Just until the operation is goin’ smooth. Then he’ll hire someone to manage it,” Pearlie replied. “He wants us here until everything is going well, and I figure we owe him that much. Don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. But I don’t mind tellin’ you, this place is beginnin’ to give me the willies,” Cal said.

  “What do you mean, give you the willies?”

  “Well, think about it, Pearlie. What have we done our whole lives but take care of cows? We feed ’em, we make sure they have water, we keep the wolves and big cats away from ’em. We protect them.

  “And now what are we doing? We’re leadin’ ’em down a long chute to slaughter. And because we’ve took care of ’em for their entire lives, they trust us. They go along, thinkin’ ever’thing is goin’ to be just fine, then, bam!” Cal hit himself in the forehead with the heel of his palm. “We kill ’em! It just don’t seem right to me, is all. It’s like we’re double-crossing them or something. I can see it in their eyes.”

  “Cal, you eat steak, don’t you? Roast beef?”

  “Well, yeah, I eat it.”

  “Where do you think it comes from?”

  “I know it comes from cows . . .”

  “Cows that we have taken care of for all their lives,” Pearlie said.

  “Yeah,” Cal said. “Well, if you put it like that, I guess you’re right. But it still gives me the willies, killin’ ’em like that. I mean, when they are so trustin’ an’ all.”

  “I wonder what these men want.” Pearlie said, looking toward the two men who were approaching. “Yes, sir, can we help you gentlemen?”

  “We were told you two men are in charge here.”

  “That’s right.”

  “We’re cattlemen from up in Wyoming. Always before, we’ve shipped our cattle back to the eastern markets while they’re still on the hoof. But I’ve been told the best way to do it now, is to get them processed here first.”

  “Yes, sir, that is the absolute truth of it. Doin’ it this way brings you about a ten percent higher profit,” Pearlie said.

  “My name is Emerson, this is Battle. I wonder if we could buy you two gentlemen supper tonight and talk about bringing our cattle here?”

  “You don’t have to buy our supper just to do business with us,” Pearlie said.

  “But you are welcome to,” Cal added quickly.

  “Great!” Emerson said. “Suppose we meet you at Little Man’s Restaurant at nine o’clock tonight.”

  “Nine o’clock?” Cal said. “Ain’t that awful late to be eatin’ supper?”

  “Unfortunately that’s the earliest we can do it,” Emerson said. “I’m afraid we have some other business to take care of, first.”

  “Are you sure you want to meet at Little Man’s?” Pearlie asked. “That’s way on the other side of the marshalling yard. I know a lot of the yard workers take their breakfast and lunch there, but I’ve never known anyone to eat supper there. I’m not sure it’s even open for supper.”

  “Oh yes, it’s open. We’ve eaten there several times since we came down here. They set a fine supper table,” Emerson said.

  “All right,” Pearlie said. “Little Man’s at nine o’clock. We’ll see you then.

  Because they were staying in Denver for an extended period of time, Pearlie and Cal had rented a small house. That evening both men took a bath then got dressed in what Cal called their “business” suits.

  “This is another thing I don’t like about bein’ here,” Cal said as he pulled his shirt collar away from his neck. “We have to get all dressed up like some sort of dandy. Why couldn’t we just wear regular clothes?”

  “These are regular clothes for businessmen,” Pearlie said.

  “Yeah, well, I ain’t a business man. I’m a cowboy. And what I want to know is, why this business of eating supper so late? Who eats supper when it’s so dark you can’t see ten feet in front of you?”

  Pearlie chuckled. “I think the high toned people eat their supper real late, only they don’t call it supper, they call it dinner.”

  “Ha. Dinner is what you have in the middle of the day,” Cal said.

  “You ready to go?” Pearlie asked.

  “Ready. I’ve starving to death here, and you ask me if I’m ready to go eat.”

  The two men reached the front door, then Pearlie stopped and stretched out his hand to stop Cal. “Hold it.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got a funny feeling about this.”

  “I’ve got a funny feeling too, only i
t’s a big hollow space in the pit of my stomach. It’s called being hungry.”

  “Wait a minute.” Pearlie started back toward his bedroom.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get my gun. I think you should get yours too.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it, Cal. I told you, I’ve got a funny feeling. I can’t explain it, but I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.”

  “All right. You’re the old man here. If you got a feeling, who am I to argue with you?”

  The two men returned to their respective rooms, then met a moment later at the front door, both of them armed.

  Little Man’s was about a half mile from their cabin, on the other side of a large, crisscrossing network of tracks. It wasn’t convenient to ride horses over this ground. The elevated tracks, the rails, and even the gravel and ballast could injure a horse in the middle of the night. They started across the marshalling yard, their feet making crunching sounds as they walked across the ballast and coal clinkers strewn about. In addition to the sound of their footfalls, they could hear the switch engines in the yard, making up freight trains for dispatch.

  “Damn, it’s dark out here,” Cal said.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “Pearlie? You know that funny feeling you had?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’ve got it too. What do you say we just turn around and go back toward town?”

  “I thought you were hungry.”

  “I am hungry. But we can stop at the first café we see.”

  The sound of one of the switch engines grew louder as it approached. Passing them, the headlamp threw a beam ahead, and in the beam they could see, for just a moment, the little building that housed Little Man’s Restaurant. Then the train came between them and the building, so until all the cars passed, they could see nothing.

  “Did you see the restaurant building?” Cal asked.

  “Yeah, I saw it.”

  “Did it look like it had any lights on?”