Strike of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Don’t be foolish,” Garneau said. “If you think by holding out on me I will raise the offer, you are sadly mistaken. Others have made the same mistake, only to ultimately sell to me for much less than my original offer.”

  “As I said, give me twenty-four hours to consider it,” Malcolm repeated.

  “Very well. I will give you until exactly this time tomorrow. If you have not made a decision by then, the offer will be withdrawn. Do you understand the consequences of that, Mr. Puddle? It means that you will be losing thirty-five thousand dollars.”

  Malcolm smiled. “No, I would be losing only ten thousand. I can easily get twenty-five thousand from anyone. And that is twenty-five thousand dollars more than I had last month.”

  Garneau had taken only a couple swallows from his lemonade, and he slammed the glass down angrily. “Twenty-four hours, Mr. Puddle. Not one minute longer.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m not sure that you do.” Garneau stood up and Templeton followed suit.

  Malcolm walked to the front door with them, then watched as they returned to their horses. Templeton had not spoken a word since he first introduced himself. As he mounted his horse, he kept his eyes on the young ranch owner, staring at him with a malevolent intensity.

  Malcolm found it disconcerting. He waited until the men left his ranch before he saddled his horse and rode over to report the visit to Smoke.

  Long Trek

  “I can’t believe Puddle would turn that offer down,” Garneau said angrily. “Why would he?”

  “Maybe he wants to be the hero,” Templeton suggested. “His uncle wouldn’t sell out, so Malcolm Puddle decides he won’t sell out either.”

  “I have to confess I hadn’t counted on that. I was sure he would sell out if I offered him enough.”

  “We’ve made a mistake in thinking Malcolm Puddle was the key here,” Templeton said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There is no way Puddle would turn that money down if he didn’t have someone behind him. And that someone is Smoke Jensen. He’s your real enemy, not Malcolm Puddle. I think it’s time we quit fooling around and get to the center of it. Take care of Smoke Jensen, and you won’t have any problems.”

  “And by take care of, you mean?”

  “Kill him,” Templeton said.

  “We have tried that, remember?”

  “We haven’t tried it with the right people. To kill someone like Smoke Jensen, we are going to have to hire someone who is even better than he is.”

  “And just who would that be, I ask you?”

  “Jeremiah Priest.” Templeton showed Garneau a copy of the Big Rock Journal. “You may read about him here.”

  BY DISPATCH TO THE JOURNAL

  Deadly Encounter in Palmilla, New Mexico Territory

  On the 5th instant, two men known for their skill with the pistol faced each other in a deadly confrontation in the Pair of Aces Saloon. It is not known what precipitated the engagement, but those who witnessed the fight say never have two pistols been so rapidly drawn, for only one to be so effectively engaged.

  As in all encounters there must be one who prevails, and one who fails. He who prevailed was Jeremiah Priest, and indeed, Mr. Priest walks among us today. The other participant in this deadly pas de deux was Coleman Wesley, a well-known bounty hunter. Mr. Wesley paid for his unfortunate encounter with Priest by forfeiture of his life, he being but a split second slower than his adversary.

  It is being said by those who witnessed the event, that nobody in the country could match Priest for the quickness of his draw, and the accuracy of his marksmanship.

  Garneau read the article, then looked back up at Templeton. “And you think this man”—he glanced at the article again to be sure of his name—“Jeremiah Priest, can take the measure of Jensen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, by all means, make arrangements for him to come.”

  “He won’t come cheap,” Templeton said.

  “How much?”

  “For someone like Priest? Ten thousand dollars.”

  “Ten thousand dollars?” Garneau said, the words exploding from his mouth.

  “You were going to pay more than that to Puddle for his ranch. Without Jensen behind him, you can probably get it for a couple hundred dollars.

  “But still, ten thousand dollars for one man is a lot of money.”

  “Colonel, you are relatively new here, so you don’t know all there is to know about Smoke Jensen. You are going to have to find someone who is good—very good—to take care of the man. Someone like Jeremiah Priest. And that is going to cost you.” Templeton smiled. “But the beauty of it is this; you won’t have to have to pay him one red cent unless he actually completes the job.”

  “Yes, that’s true, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “Very well, Monsieur. Find this man, Priest, and secure his services.”

  Sugarloaf

  Smoke was in the tack shed looking over the saddles and harness to determine if he needed to buy any new equipment, when he saw Malcolm come riding up. He stepped to the open door and called out to him. “Malcolm, I’m out here.”

  Malcolm turned his horse and rode over to the tack shed.

  Smoke chuckled. “You did that like a real Westerner.”

  “Did what?” Malcolm asked as he dismounted.

  “The way you rode over here instead of walked.” Smoke laughed again. “I once had an old cowboy tell me if God had wanted man to walk, He would have given us four legs.”

  Malcolm laughed as well.

  “What’s up?” Smoke asked. “Not that I’m not happy to have you visit, but I expect this is more than a social call.”

  “It’s not exactly a social call. I had a couple visitors today.”

  “Let me guess. Garneau and Templeton?”

  “Yes. They offered to buy me out.”

  “What was the offer?”

  “Thirty-five thousand dollars.”

  “Thirty-five thousand?” Smoke whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Yes, sir, it is. Especially considering my whole place, stock included, is worth somewhere around twenty-five thousand.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him to give me twenty-four hours before I had to give him an answer.”

  “I see.”

  “Smoke, like you said, thirty-five thousand dollars is a lot of money.”

  “Yes, it is. And I don’t think anyone would hold it against you, if you sold out to him.”

  “I would,” Malcolm said. “I would hold it against me.”

  Smoke didn’t answer.

  “I mean, I should hold out, shouldn’t I? Aren’t the other farmers and ranchers sort of depending on me to hold out?”

  “Malcolm, I can’t make up your mind for you,” Smoke said. “You have to make up your own mind.”

  “I . . . I just want to know that I am doing the right thing.”

  “Whatever you do will be the right thing,” Smoke said.

  Malcolm chuckled and shook his head. “That’s no help.”

  “Malcolm, let me put it this way. If you decide to sell out and go back to New York, I won’t hold any hard feelings toward you. This isn’t your world. You were drawn into it through no fault of your own.”

  “That’s true. And with thirty-five thousand dollars in cash, I could buy a small business in New York. Maybe meet a nice girl, get married, and have a family.”

  “That’s right,” Smoke agreed.

  “What if I decided to stay here?”

  “It could get rough.”

  “I know.”

  Smoke smiled. “But you wouldn’t have to face it alone. The other ranchers and farmers will be with you”—he paused for a moment—“and so will I.”

  “All right!” Malcolm said, letting out a loud breath of relief. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Tomorrow, when Garneau comes to see me, I’ll tell him, Je vous remercie, mais la répo
nse est non. Je ne vendrai pas.”

  “What?” Smoke asked, laughing.

  “Thank you, but the answer is no. I will not sell,” Malcolm translated.

  “I’ll be there when you tell him. I want to see his face.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Carro de Bancada

  Malcolm had invited his neighbors over for a “get acquainted” potluck dinner. As they arrived, he asked that they park their buggies, buckboards, spring wagons, and horses in the barn so they were out of sight. Smoke put his horse and wagon with the rest. He had come to stand with the young rancher against Garneau.

  “I know you may wonder why I asked you to keep your horses and conveyances out of sight,” Malcolm said when everyone was gathered in the keeping room. “Yesterday, Lucien Garneau made me an offer for my land. It was a very generous offer. And today he’s coming to hear my response to his offer.”

  The expression on the faces of Malcolm’s neighbors indicated their disappointment.

  “I am going to tell him no,” Malcolm said quickly, before anyone could say anything.

  “You’re a good man, Malcolm Puddle,” Woodward said.

  “When he arrives, I want him to be surprised to see you all here. I want him to know the resolve we all have, to keep our land.”

  “You’re damn right!” Keefer said and he and the others applauded.

  The meal was served then and, after the meal, the women began cleaning up while the men gathered once more in the keeping room. Cigars were lit and brandy was passed around as they discussed the situation.

  “I’ve heard talk of Garneau putting together an army over at his place,” Speer said.

  “Why would he do that?” Logan asked.

  “For intimidation,” Woodward said. “But if we don’t allow ourselves to be intimidated, it will fail.”

  “Here he comes.” Smoke chuckled. “And he’s not alone.”

  “Oh, he probably has Mr. Templeton with him,” Malcolm said.

  “Yes,” Smoke replied. “Templeton and four others.”

  “Four others? You mean there are six of them?”

  “Yes. Apparently, he wasn’t prepared to take no for an answer.”

  “That’s not the only thing he isn’t prepared for,” Malcolm said. “I don’t expect he is prepared to see all of us here.”

  “Chris,” Woodward said. “Tell the ladies and the children to stay in the back of the house.”

  “All right,” Logan said.

  The men waited until they heard footsteps on the front porch, followed by a knock on the door.

  “Come in, Colonel Garneau,” Malcolm called. “The door is unlocked.”

  The door opened and Garneau, Templeton, and the four other men went into the house.

  “Monsieur Puddle, your twenty-four hours are up,” Garneau said. “What is your . . . ?” His voice trailed off in shock to see so many men gathered in the room, one of who was Smoke Jensen.

  “What is this?” Garneau asked.

  “Oh, it is too bad you weren’t here earlier, Colonel Garneau. You could have eaten with us. All my neighbors came over to welcome me. They brought food, and we had a fine meal.”

  “I . . . uh . . . came to hear your response to my offer.”

  “Yes, well, as I said yesterday, Colonel, your offer was most generous. But, now that I have met all my neighbors, I feel I would be doing them a disservice if I ran out on them. Again, I thank you for the generous offer, but I must decline.”

  “You are making a big mistake, Monsieur Puddle. When next we do business, and we will do business again, you will find my offer to be much less generous.”

  “Oh, I don’t see much possibility of our ever doing business, Mr. Garneau,” Malcolm said, purposely not using the military title. “By the way, please don’t visit again, uninvited and unannounced. It does make for an awkward situation.”

  Nobody said a word until Garneau and those with him rode away. Then they broke out in laughter and self-congratulations.

  “Did you see the expression on his face when he saw all of us here?” someone asked, and Keefer imitated it, opening his eyes and mouth wide as he looked around the room. His antics brought more laughter.

  As the others made preparations to leave, Lucy Woodward came over to speak to Malcolm. He had noticed the pretty young woman when she first arrived, and was pleased she had come over to speak to him.

  “I’m glad you are going to stay out here and not go back to New York,” Lucy said.

  “I’m glad too,” Malcolm said. “There’s nothing in New York for me.” He made the pointed statement to let her know there were no women in his life.

  “I don’t know if anyone has told you, but every month there is a dance at the Dunn Hotel.”

  “Really? Well, that’s very good to know.” Malcolm smiled.

  Lucy smiled back, nodded, and quickly followed her parents to their wagon.

  Smoke and Sally had come in a spring wagon so they could meet Pearlie and Cal when their train came in. Leaving Puddle and the others, they drove straight to the depot.

  “Hello, Smoke, Miz Sally,” Phil Wilson greeted when they arrived. “Are you going somewhere or meeting someone?”

  “We’re meeting Pearlie and Cal,” Smoke said. “They’re coming home today.”

  “I’ll bet those two boys will be happy to get back to Sugarloaf,” Wilson said. “You goin’ to sit in the wagon or come into the depot?”

  “I reckon we can come in.” Smoke hopped down, tied off the team, then went around to help Sally down.

  “I just made some coffee,” Wilson said. “Come on in and share a cup with me.”

  They followed him inside the depot. A woman and a small girl, about four years old were waiting for the next train.

  “We’re goin’ to see Nana,” the little girl announced happily.

  “Ellen Genoa, you don’t need to tell everyone that,” the little girl’s mother said.

  “Oh, but I’m glad you did tell me, Ellen Genoa,” Sally said, smiling at the little girl. “Because I think that is very exciting.”

  “Mama, she’s glad.”

  “That’s because she is a very nice lady,” Ellen’s mother said.

  Smoke and Sally went back into the office, where Phil Wilson filled three cups with coffee, then handed a cup to each of them. “Say, Smoke, what’s going on out in the valley? I hear the Frenchman has already run Butrum and Drexler off their property. Is that right?”

  “I’m afraid it is right.”

  “What is he going to do, just keep on until he runs ever’one out of the valley?”

  “I don’t think so. I think he’s probably gone about as far as he’s going to go. The other settlers are standing up to him.”

  “Look here, you don’t think this is going to break out into a range war, do you? I’ve been hearing reports the Frenchman has hired him a bunch of guns, and they are all out at his place now. He says it’s to combat cattle rustling, but I haven’t heard anyone complain about cattle thieves.”

  “The only thievery going on around here is Garneau’s stealing of land.”

  “So, what’s going to come of all this?”

  “I’m not all that sure where it’s going,” Smoke replied. “I suppose we’re just going to have to wait and find out.”

  At that moment, they heard the whistle of the inbound train and, shortly afterward, the chugging sound of the approaching engine. Sally and Smoke moved out onto the depot platform to greet their two arriving hands, though of course, they were much more than mere cattle hands. They were practically members of the family.

  Cal was the first one down, jumping from the train even before it had come to a complete stop. Pearlie was right behind him. Seeing Smoke and Sally, they walked over to them quickly.

  “Welcome home, boys,” Sally said, greeting each of them with a hug. Smoke shook hands with each of them.

  “How is the abattoir going?” Smoke asked.

  “Smoke! You asked ab
out that stupid processing plant before you ask about Cal’s arm?” Sally scolded.

  “My arm’s fine, Miss Sally,” Cal said, moving it around. “The bullet didn’t do nothin’ more ’n just sorta put a crease in it. Heck, I’ve been hurt worse gettin’ hung up on barbed wire.”

  “The plant’s going great,” Pearlie said. “And you made a smart decision, turning it over to Beans. He’s a good man.”

  “Turning it over to who?” Smoke asked, puzzled by Pearlie’s comment.

  “Lloyd Evans. Ever’one calls him Beans,” Pearlie said. “And he knows that business from top to bottom. He used to work with de Mores, when he had his plant up in Dakota Territory.”

  “Say,” Cal said. “As long as we’re in town, why don’t we go over to Lambert’s and have somethin’ to eat. One of his rolls would be real good about now.”

  “Tell me, Cal, is there ever a time when one of Mr. Lambert’s rolls wouldn’t be good? Or Miss Sally’s? Or anybody’s rolls for that matter?”

  “No,” Cal replied seriously. “I can’t think of such a time.”

  With their luggage thrown into the back of the spring wagon, they walked across the street to Lambert’s. Several of the patrons greeted them when they went inside. Those who knew Pearlie and Cal had been gone for a while welcomed them home.

  “Here you go, Cal! Welcome home!” Lambert shouted from across the room, throwing a roll even as he greeted him.

  Cal caught the roll easily, and had it half eaten by the time they took their seats at a table.

  “Hey, Smoke, who is that fella over there in the corner?” Pearlie asked. “He’s starin’ at us, and it don’t look none too friendly.”

  In the corner of the restaurant, a well-dressed man was sitting alone.

  “That, Pearlie, is Mr. Lucien Garneau, though he likes to call himself Colonel Garneau.

  “Is he a colonel?”

  “Certainly not in the U.S. Army,” Smoke said. “Whether or not he was ever a colonel in the French Army, we have only his word for it. And so far he has not proven himself to be a man whose word I’m inclined to take.”

  “Does he live here, now?”