Strike of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “No, it didn’t.”

  “There is something funny about this, Pearlie, like you said. And I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”

  The train cleared then, and no sooner had the train cleared, than a couple muzzle flashes lit up the night. One bullet hit a rail, sending up sparks, then ricocheted off into the night, screaming as it did so. A second bullet popped by Pearlie’s ear, coming so close he felt the air pressure of its passing.

  “Get down!” Pearlie shouted, and he and Cal leaped over to the opposite side of the railroad track, getting down behind the berm.

  “Who is shooting at us?” Cal asked.

  “I have a pretty good idea who,” Pearlie said. “What I don’t know is why.”

  From a distant part of the yard, they could hear another switch engine, working the cars.

  “Emerson, is that you?” Pearlie asked.

  “Oh, you figured that out, did you?”

  “What do you want? Are you planning on robbing us? Just how much money do you think people like us would be carrying, anyway?”

  “Oh, it isn’t what you are carrying,” Emerson replied. “It’s what you are worth to us dead—a thousand dollars.”

  “What are you talking about? Neither of us is worth a cent. There’s no paper out on us. You aren’t going to collect a cent from the law.”

  “It ain’t the law that’s payin’,” Emerson said.

  “What? Who is paying?”

  “What does that matter to you? You’ll be dead.”

  “What makes you think we’ll be dead?”

  “Because Battle and I are going to kill you.” Emerson laughed. “I’ll just bet you didn’t bring your pistols with you, did you? I mean, going to a nice business supper and all. Why would you?”

  Pearlie was quiet for a long moment, then, almost hesitantly, he said. “Uh, yeah, we did. We brought our guns.”

  Emerson laughed again. “I’m sure you did. I’ll tell you what. Just to show you what kind of men we are, we’ll kill both of you real quick. You won’t feel a thing.”

  A second train came by then, and once again Pearlie and Cal were separated from Emerson and Battle by the passing of a long line of freight cars.

  “Cal,” Pearlie said, standing up. “Let’s jump on this train.”

  Cal stood as well, and running alongside the moving cars until they matched its speed, Pearlie jumped in through the open side door of one of the boxcars. Then reaching down to grab Cal’s hand, he pulled him in.

  “Thanks,” Cal said, breathing hard from the exertion.

  Battle, come on!” Emerson said. “I just seen ’em jump onto this train!”

  Moving quickly, Emerson and Battle jumped onto the train and climbed to the top. That way, they would be able to see when Pearlie and Cal jumped off the train. They squatted down and waited as the train proceeded some distance, then stopped, preparatory to backing the assembled cars onto a sidetrack.

  “Let’s get out here,” Pearlie said, and he and Cal jumped down from the train.

  “Where do you reckon they are?” Cal asked.

  “Half a mile away by now,” Pearlie answered.

  No sooner had Pearlie spoken, than Cal let out a sharp exclamation of pain. Concurrent with Cal’s shout was the sound of a gunshot.

  “Where are you hit?” Pearlie yelled.

  “In the arm.”

  There was a second gunshot and Pearlie saw the muzzle flash coming from the top of one of the boxcars. When the flash receded, he saw two men standing there.

  “There they are!” Cal shouted, having spotted them at the same time.

  “Yeah, I see ’em.” Pearlie fired twice, and had the satisfaction of seeing both men tumble from the top of the car. Gun at the ready, he ran to them. It was his hope they would still be alive so he could learn who had put a reward on Cal and him, and even more important, why?

  He didn’t get the opportunity to ask those questions, though. When he reached them, both were dead.

  Pearlie ran back to Cal. “You were hit. How bad is it?”

  “I think it was more of a crease than anything. I’ve felt around and I don’t feel a hole in my arm. Are they dead?”

  “Yeah, both of ’em.”

  “Who do you think wanted us dead? And why?” Cal asked.

  “Cal, my friend, I don’t have the slightest idea.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sugarloaf

  Smoke was currying his horse when Eddie, the young Western Union messenger, rode up. He didn’t see the rancher and headed directly for the house.

  Smoke called out to him. “Eddie, are you looking for me?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Jensen, I am. I have a telegram for you.”

  Smoke washed his hands in a basin, dried them, then walked out to retrieve the telegram.

  “It’s from Pearlie,” Eddie said.

  “I hope there’s no problem at the plant.” Smoke gave Eddie a quarter, then read the message.

  ME AND CAL ATTACKED BY TWO HIRED KILLERS

  LAST NIGHT STOP CAL WOUNDED SLIGHTLY STOP

  KILLERS DEAD STOP NOT KNOWN WHO HIRED

  THEM STOP PEARLIE

  “Johnny wants to know if you want to send a message back,” Eddie said.

  “Yes, I do. Come on in. I’ll get it ready.”

  “Yes, sir,” Eddie replied. He followed Smoke into the house.

  Sally had just baked a batch of cookies and they were cooling on the table. “What is it about men? Do you have some sort of secret sense that tells you when there are cookies available?”

  “Oh, no ma’am. Nothin’ like that,” Eddie said.

  Sally chuckled. “Help yourself.”

  “Thank you,” Eddie replied, grabbing one of the cookies. It was still so hot he had to toss it from hand to hand for a second until it was cooled.

  Smoke sat down at the table to compose the return telegram.

  “Smoke, what is it?” Sally asked, concerned by the expression on his face.

  “Someone tried to kill Pearlie and Cal last night. Cal is hurt.”

  “Oh, Smoke! No! How badly?”

  “It’s hard to tell. Pearlie says it isn’t bad, but he would probably say that anyway, just to keep us from worrying about it.”

  “What if the men try again?”

  “They won’t.”

  Sally frowned. “How do you know they won’t?”

  “Because, according to Pearlie, they are dead.”

  “Oh, well, thank goodness for that. At least Cal and Pearlie are out of danger.”

  “Maybe not,” Smoke replied. “According to the telegram, someone was paying the men to kill them. Whoever that was is likely to try again.”

  “But why, for heaven’s sake? Who would want to kill Pearlie and Cal?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. I’m going to bring them both back home.”

  “Who will run the abattoir operation for you?”

  “Mr. Evans is about ready to take over. I’ll just have to trust that he’s ready.”

  Smoke wrote the message. Turn operation over to Lloyd Evans. Return home now. Smoke.

  “Here you go, Eddie.” He gave him the message, money to send it, plus a tip.

  “Thanks, Mr. Jensen. I’ll see that it gets sent right away.”

  Palmilla, New Mexico Territory

  In a sane world, a world where size and strength meant something, Jeremiah Priest would be someone you would pass on the street with hardly a second glance. He was a small man, barely five feet four inches, very thin, with a prominent Adam’s apple, a nose that seemed too large for his face, thinning blond hair, and pale blue eyes.

  But the world Priest occupied wasn’t sane. He was a shootist, a gunman whose draw was greased lightning and whose marksmanship was deadly accurate. Once people heard his name and associated the unimpressive looking man to the reputation he had acquired, even the biggest and strongest man quaked in his boots.

  Priest stepped out of the sunshine and into
the Pair of Aces Saloon. It was quite busy, but he found a quiet place by the end of the bar. He ordered a beer, then nursed it as he studied the dark haired, dark eyed man at the other end of the bar. A full mustache curved around his mouth like the horns on a Texas steer. He was leaning against the bar with his fingers wrapped around a shot glass.

  The man was Coleman Wesley, a bounty hunter who made a good living by chasing down wanted criminals. He turned them over to the law belly down across the saddle as often as they were upright. Wesley was deadly fast with a gun, and in all the outlaw camps and hideouts, his name was brought up as someone whose path you never wanted to cross.

  So far, Wesley hadn’t noticed the gunman, and probably wouldn’t have recognized him if he had. But he would know the name. Jeremiah Priest was a man who hired his gun out for money . . . a great deal of money.

  “Mr. Wesley,” Priest called.

  Wesley didn’t look around.

  “Wesley! I’m talking to you!” Priest called again. His voice was loud and authoritative, and everyone in the saloon recognized the challenge in its timbre. For a moment, all conversations ceased. Then the drinkers, seeing that Coleman Wesley had been challenged by a little pipsqueak of a man, laughed.

  Wesley looked up from his whiskey. “What do you want, little man?”

  “I want to kill you,” Priest said easily.

  There was a universal gasp of surprise. Nobody recognized Priest, but nearly all knew Wesley, and they wondered who would be foolish enough to brace him.

  “And why would you want to kill me?” Wesley asked without the slightest hint of apprehension.

  “Because I’m being paid to,” Priest replied as if that explained everything.

  “Who is paying you?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  Wesley tossed his drink down. “Because after I kill you, I’m going to kill whoever hired you.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You aren’t going to kill me.”

  For the first time, Wesley began to show a little emotion. Who was this little man who had challenged him with so little regard as to the bounty hunter’s reputation?

  Everyone moved away from the bar. Even the bartender left his position behind the bar and joined the others gathered against the back wall, as far away as they could get within the confines of the saloon.

  The long moment of absolute silence was broken only by the loud tick-tock of the Regulator clock that hung from the wall, just above the piano. Several glanced toward it to fix in their minds the exact time they watched Wesley kill the insolent stranger.

  Two men came in through the batwing doors.

  “So I told Johnson, you’ve done bought back the same horse you sold last month,” one of them said, and both laughed.

  They started toward the bar but stopped when they saw that the bar was completely empty except for the two men who were staring at each other. Everyone else in the saloon was standing as far back from the bar as they could. Nobody was sitting at a table, and nobody was talking.

  The new customers looked at each other. “What the hell is going on?” one asked.

  “I don’t know,” the other hissed. “But I’m not goin’ to get in the way.”

  They joined the other saloon patrons standing against the back wall.

  “Mister, if you walk out of this saloon right now, I’ll let you live.” Wesley smiled, though it wasn’t a smile of humor. “You can tell everyone you know that you once braced Coleman Wesley and lived.”

  “Now, why would I want to do that?” Priest wiped the foam from his lips with the back of his hand.

  “I didn’t figure you’d take my offer, but I thought I’d give you one last chance.”

  Priest set his beer mug down, then stepped away from the bar. He flipped his duster back so his gun was exposed. He was wearing it low, and kicked out, the way a man wears a gun when he knows how to use it. “Are you through talkin’, Wesley? Because if you are, I reckon it’s about time you and me got this thing settled.”

  “All right. It’s your call.” Wesley stepped away from the bar as well, and like Priest, wore his gun low and kicked out.

  “What might your name be, mister?” Wesley asked. “We’ll need it for the undertaker to carve into your headstone.”

  The gunman smiled at him. “The name is Priest. Jeremiah Priest.”

  Again, there was a gasp from those in the saloon. While few knew what the notorious gunman looked like, many had heard of him. A recent newspaper article had called him “the deadliest gunman in the West.”

  Wesley’s face, which had been coldly impassive, suddenly grew animated. His skin whitened and a line of perspiration beads broke out on his upper lip.

  The bounty hunter had been in shoot-outs before and he was fast. Maybe fast enough, especially if he had the edge of drawing first. Without another word he made his move, pulling his pistol in the blink of an eye.

  But Priest, whether reacting to Wesley’s draw or anticipating it, had his own pistol out just a split-second faster, pulling the hammer back and firing in one fluid motion. In the close confines of the barroom, the gunshot sounded like a clap of thunder.

  Wesley didn’t even get a shot off. The bullet from Priest’s pistol hit him in the middle of the chest, slamming him back against the bar before he fell. His unfired pistol clattered to the floor.

  The hearing lasted less than an hour. There was no shortage of witnesses willing to testify, enjoying their proximity to such an event. All testified that it was a fair fight. Some even said they believed Wesley started his draw first. No charges were filed, as it was a case of justifiable homicide, justifiable by reason of self-defense.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Carro de Bancada

  Malcolm was pumping water when two men came riding up toward him. He recognized one of them as Garneau, but he had never seen the other one. Although their presence made him a bit nervous, especially as he wasn’t wearing his pistol, he smiled at them in order to maintain his composure. “Hello, gentlemen,” he said by way of greeting. “Colonel Garneau.” He looked at the other rider. “And I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting you.”

  “The name is Templeton. Deekus Templeton,” the other rider said in a gruff voice.”

  “Well, climb down from your horses. I’m about to make some lemonade. Why don’t you come in out of the sun?”

  Garneau and Templeton followed Malcolm into the house. It still reflected Humboldt Puddle’s personality . . . the unit flag of the First Sharpshooter Regiment, to which Puddle belonged, framed photographs of his parents, who were Malcolm’s grandparents, and antlers and game heads he had taken in hunts all hung on the walls. A dining table and chairs Humboldt had built with his own hands still sat in the kitchen.

  Malcolm had squeezed the lemon and mixed it with sugar earlier. He added cool water, stirred it, and the lemonade was done. He poured three glasses, then gave a glass to each of his visitors.

  “Merci,” Garneau said, taking the glass.

  “Vous êtes les bienvenus,” Malcolm replied.

  “Parlez-vous français?”

  “Yes, I speak French. I found that in my old job as shipping clerk, and in dealing with shipments to foreign countries, learning other languages was beneficial to my work.”

  “I’m impressed,” Garneau said. “Did you enjoy the work you were doing? Working as a shipping clerk?”

  “Not particularly.” Malcolm took another swallow of his lemonade and studied the two men over the rim of his glass. He knew it wasn’t just a neighborly visit, and he was pretty sure he knew what they wanted, but he decided to wait and let them bring up the subject.

  He didn’t have long to wait.

  “Monsieur Puddle, how would you like to return to New York with enough money that you could live quite comfortably for several years? You wouldn’t have to return to a job that, by your own admission, you don’t particularly like.”

  “And how would I do that?”

>   “By selling your ranch to me,” Garneau said.

  Malcolm figured that was what the Frenchman’s trip was all about, so he wasn’t surprised. He was interested, though, in finding out how much money Garneau was willing to offer him. He remembered Mr. Norton telling him his land and stock were worth about twenty-five thousand dollars. “How much would you offer?”

  “Thirty-five thousand dollars,” Garneau said without hesitation.

  Malcolm spit out the drink of lemonade he’d just taken. “Thirty-five thousand dollars?” he repeated.

  “It is a very generous offer,” Garneau said.

  “It is more than generous,” Malcolm replied.

  Garneau smiled. “Then, may I conclude that you accept the offer?”

  Malcolm thought about it for a moment, remembering Smoke had told him the other ranchers were holding out because his Uncle Humboldt had held out. But, he also knew some of the ranchers who had sold or had been forced off their land wound up getting much less than their properties were worth.

  Malcolm looked at Garneau and realized buying Carro de Bancada would give him entrée to the remaining ranchers. “Did you offer my uncle this much money?”

  “The offer I made to your uncle was quite generous,” Garneau replied.

  “And he refused?”

  “Yes. He believed he had some obligation to his neighbors. You, of course, having but recently arrived in the valley, have no such obligation. And, because the amount I am offering you is generous, very generous, I’m sure you are intelligent enough to accept.”

  “Give me twenty-four hours to consider it,” Malcolm replied.

  “Twenty-four hours? Why would you need twenty-four hours? Do you not understand that what I have just offered you is much more than this miserable piece of land is worth?”

  Malcolm shook his head. “Anything of value is worth exactly what someone is willing to pay for it. The fact that you are offering me thirty-five thousand dollars means this land is worth thirty-five thousand. If it is worth that to you, it is worth that to me.”