Strike of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Mr. Jensen,” Calloway said. “We didn’t just happen to come this way. Colonel Garneau wanted me to give you a message. After the others and I found out what happened to Curly, we decided to quit Garneau. At first, I wasn’t even goin’ to bring you the message, but we talked it over and figured you probably should be told.”

  “What is that?”

  “Priest is in town waitin’ for you. It is Colonel Garneau’s intention to have Priest kill you. With you out of the way, he intends to take over the whole valley. Sugarloaf, too.”

  “He’s not going to be able to do that if I kill Priest, is he?” Smoke asked.

  “Have you ever seen Priest in action?” Taylor asked.

  “No.”

  “Well, I have. I’ve seen some awful fast gunmen in my day. I know you’re fast, ’cause I’ve seen you. But I feel I ought to tell you, Mr. Jensen, that I think Priest is a mite faster.”

  “There’s always that possibility,” Smoke agreed.

  “You also should know that Priest is settin’ himself up an edge,” Gately added.

  “What kind of edge?” Malcolm asked.

  “Merlin Mathis. He’s goin’ to be somewhere that’ll give him a chance to take a shot at you.”

  “Plus, Garneau is in town his ownself,” Anderson added. “So, really, you got three of ’em to worry about.”

  “What about the others?” Woodward asked. “What about the army he’s put together? Will they be in town as well?”

  “There ain’t that much left of the army.” Taylor said. “If Garneau gets his way, and Smoke Jensen is kilt, what’s left of the army—them that ain’t already been kilt—will more ’n likely stay with him. But if it winds up that Priest and Mathis was to happen to get kilt, I doubt the others will stay with Garneau. Since we left this mornin’, I can tell you that Garneau ain’t got no cowboys left at all.”

  “And you say Priest is in town now?”

  “Yes, sir, he is.”

  “Smoke,” Sally said anxiously.

  Smoke reached over to put his hand on hers. “Listen, where are our manners?” He smiled broadly.

  “You men go tie your horses off somewhere and sit down to eat with us. As you can see, we have plenty of food.”

  “And it’s good, too,” Cal said. “I’ve done been sampling it.”

  Taylor looked quickly toward the others as if determining whether or not the invitation was from all of them.

  “Yes,” Woodward said, nodding his head and smiling at the Long Trek riders. “Smoke is right. You boys get down off your horses and come join us.”

  “We’ll eat first, then I’ll go into town,” Smoke said. “I don’t like to work on an empty stomach.”

  The men dismounted, secured their horses, and joined those who were celebrating Lucy’s safe return and the engagement announcement of Lucy and Malcolm.

  Big Rock

  By midafternoon, nearly everyone in town was aware of the possibility of an upcoming gunfight between Smoke and Priest. To a person, they wanted to see Smoke triumph, and not just figuratively. They actually wanted to see the gunfight go down. To that end, nearly three hundred people were out on the streets when Smoke, Sally, Cal, Pearlie, and Malcolm rode into town.

  “You folks wait here at Longmont’s,” Smoke suggested to the others.

  “Where is Priest?” Cal asked.

  “I expect he’ll be here soon enough,” Smoke said. “As soon as he gets word I’m in town.”

  Priest was waiting in the Brown Dirt with Garneau when one of the citizens of the town came into the saloon.

  “You was waitin’ on Smoke Jensen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he just come into town. He’s over on Front Street, standin’ out in front of Longmont’s.

  Priest smiled, then glanced over at Garneau. “Here’s where I earn my money.”

  “Let me go first,” Garneau said. “I want to be in position to watch this.”

  “All right.” Priest smiled. “I don’t mind performing before an audience.”

  “Well, you’ve got a good one today,” the man who brought the message of Smoke’s arrival said. “Looks to me like damn near the whole town is linin’ both sides of Front Street.”

  Priest waited until Garneau left, then looked over at Mathis. “Get in position.”

  Mathis nodded, then stepped out front and pulled a rifle from his saddle sheath. He hurried down Center, cut in between the post office and the McCoy building, then stepped in between Kathy’s Dress Shop, and Earl’s Barbershop. He pressed up against the wall of the barbershop and looked across the street. He saw Smoke in the road in front of Longmont’s. Garneau was standing on the boardwalk in front of the newspaper office. Looking to his right and down the street, he saw Priest approaching Jensen.

  Most of the crowd got out of the street then, going into the buildings that fronted the street in order to see what was going on. A few of the braver ones stayed outside, though they did step back. One of those who remained outside was Lucien Garneau.

  Priest stopped a few yards away from Longmont’s and smiled. “Well, now, you’re here. I have to tell you, Jensen, I wasn’t sure you had the guts to face me. I admire you for that.” The smile left his face. “But this is where it all ends for you.”

  “It may. But whatever happens between you and me, it will definitely end for your boss.”

  “Ha! Are you saying you are going to kill Garneau?”

  “That is exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Priest!” Garneau shouted. “What are you saying? What are you doing? He means it. Can’t you see that?”

  “Oh, yes, I see that. But Jensen knows that I mean it too. Go ahead, Jensen. Kill Garneau.”

  “If he’s dead, who pays you?” Smoke asked.

  “Oh hell, I’m not worried about that,” Priest replied. “I’ve already got half the money I was going to get. But this here thing between me ’n you ain’t about money anymore. I can’t leave town without killing you. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “That’s probably true,” Smoke said. “But that’s your problem.”

  “Not just my problem,” Priest said. “We’re going to have to deal with it, both of us, right here, right now. You can see for yourself, Jensen, ever’one wants to see us shoot it out. Well, what they really want to see is you kill me.” He chuckled, then took in the crowd with a wave of his hand. “I almost feel bad about disappointin’ them.”

  “Well, I’ll try not to disappoint them. I’ll kill you, right after I kill Garneau.”

  “Look, either kill him or quit talkin’ about it. I really don’t care which. Then, let’s you and me settle this thing, once and for all.”

  “Malcolm?” Smoke called.

  “Yes, Smoke?”

  “Keep an eye on Garneau while I take care of Priest.”

  “I’ll be happy to do that,” Malcolm said, pulling his pistol and pointing it at Garneau.

  Smoke turned toward Priest. The crowd backed away even farther to give the two men more room.”

  “Ever since I first heard of you, I’ve been wonderin’ which one of us was the fastest,” Priest said. “I reckon we’re about to find out.”

  “Smoke, across the street!” Malcolm shouted.

  Smoke looked around to see that Mathis was raising a rifle to his shoulder. Smoke drew and fired, and Mathis dropped the rifle, then tumbled forward.

  Smoke knew, without having to look, that Priest was taking advantage of the distraction to draw. Smoke fell to his stomach an instant before Priest fired, feeling the concussion of the bullet as it passed less than an inch over the top of his head.

  Smoke returned fire from his position on the ground, and Priest caught the ball high in his chest. The gunman fired a second time, but it was more a convulsive than an aimed shot, and the bullet went into the dirt.

  Priest took a couple of staggering steps toward Smoke and tried to raise his pistol, but it fell from his hand
s. He smiled, then coughed, and flecks of blood came from his mouth. He breathed hard a couple times. “I was sure I was faster than you.”

  “Looks like you were wrong,” Smoke said easily as Priest fell to the ground.

  Someone leaned down and put his hand to Priest’s neck. He looked up at the others. “He’s dead.”

  Sherriff Carson, who had watched the whole thing, walked over to Garneau. “You are under arrest.”

  “For what?”

  “For conspiracy to murder.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  One month later

  Robert Dempster was tried and found guilty of fraud and grand larceny. He was currently in jail, awaiting transportation to the state prison in Cañon City.

  Lucien Garneau was tried and found guilty of conspiracy to murder. He was sentenced to hang. A gallows had been constructed at the east end of Front Street, right in front of the blacksmith shop. It was visible from the window of Garneau’s jail cell.

  On the day he was to be hanged, Inspector Laurent presented himself before Sheriff Carson. “Sheriff, I am Inspector André Laurent of the French Military Police. I have tried, without success, to extradite your prisoner back to France.”

  “Oh. Well, I have to tell you, Mr. Laurent, if you were to take the Frenchman away from us now, there would be a lot of very upset folks. You see, he has been responsible for quite a few people getting killed since he came to Colorado.”

  “I do not doubt that, Sheriff. Before he left France, he committed murder, and he stole two and one half million francs from the French Army.”

  Carson let out a low whistle. “Damn! How much money is that in American?”

  “One half million dollars.”

  “That’s how he was able to buy so much land,” Carson said. “Yes, I can see why your government would want him. But, if it’s any consolation to you, he has been sentenced to hang, and he will hang this very afternoon. You can watch him, if you like. We can furnish an affidavit signed by the judge that the sentence was carried out. That should satisfy your government.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it will. May I see him?”

  “Sure, I don’t see why not. He is in back. I’ll take you to him.”

  Laurent followed the sheriff into the back of the jail. When they reached the back corner, the prisoner was staring out the window toward the gallows.

  “Garneau, you have a visitor,” Sheriff Carson said.

  “When you address me, Sheriff, you will address me as Colonel the Marquis Garneau,” the prisoner said. “You may hang me, Monsieur, but you will not rob me of my honor.”

  “Vous ne pouvez pas être dépouillé de l’honneur, Mouchette, parce que vous êtes dépourvu de tout honneur!” Laurent said. To Sheriff Carson he added, “I will translate for you, Sheriff. I told him he cannot be robbed of honor, because he is devoid of honor. He is neither colonel nor marquis. And his name isn’t Garneau. It is Mouchette, Pierre Mouchette.”

  “Qui êtes-vous? Who are you?” Garneau asked.

  “I am Inspector André Laurent of the Gendarmerie Nationale. I have come to see justice done for the murder of Sergeant Dubois and for the theft of two and a half million francs. Did you really think you would get away with it, Mouchette?”

  “Ha! I did get away with it. There will be no guillotine for me.”

  “The guillotine is quick and painless. Hanging is a much slower, and more agonizing, way to die.”

  Involuntarily, Garneau-Mouchette lifted his hand to his neck.

  Laurent turned to Sheriff Carson. “Will there be some sort of reading of the pronouncement from the gallows?”

  “Yes, the judge’s order and authorization must be read.”

  “Please, Monsieur Sheriff, when you read the orders, do not dishonor France by calling this imposter a colonel and a marquis. And could you add that he is also being executed for murdering an innocent soldier who was under his command?”

  Sheriff Carson nodded. “I don’t know how the judge is going to like that, but I’ll do it for you.”

  He was no longer thinking of himself as Garneau. It was as Mouchette he was born, and it would be as Mouchette that he would die. As he stood on the gallows floor, his arms tied to his sides, his legs tied together, he looked out at the faces of the people drawn to the event. Some of them reflected a sense of fear and horror, others morbid fascination, and still others, an obvious show of satisfaction that he was paying for his crimes.

  Near the back of the crowd he saw Amy, the whore from the Brown Dirt Cowboy, and recalled the night he spent with her. He smiled and nodded. Amy looked away.

  He had seen his coffin when he climbed the steps, but it was beneath the gallows floor and he couldn’t see it any longer.

  A camera had been set up on a tripod. The photographer was taking pictures. He had just taken one, because he was removing the plate and replacing it with another.

  “Hey, Garneau, when you hit the bottom of the rope, are you going to dance for us?” someone shouted.

  Mouchette didn’t answer. He had already vowed to himself that he would not perform for them. He would exhibit no emotion whatsoever.

  A priest approached him. “Mr. Garneau, I am—”

  “My name is Mouchette. Pierre Mouchette.”

  The priest looked toward Sheriff Carson, who was also standing on the gallows floor. “I don’t understand. I thought the man I was to minister to was named Garneau.”

  “Garneau was his assumed name, Father. His real name is Mouchette.”

  The priest nodded, then turned back to the prisoner. “I am Father Sharkey, an Episcopal priest. May I minister to you?”

  “I am Catholic, Père Sharkey. Or I was when I was a boy and actually went to church.”

  “It’s the same God.”

  “Yes, well, it’s a little late for all that, isn’t it?”

  “With God time is both instantaneous and eternal.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Father Sharkey began reading from the Book of Common Prayer. “O Father of mercies, and God of all comfort; we fly unto thee for succor in behalf of this thy servant who is now under sentence of condemnation. The day of his calamity is at hand, and he is accounted as one of those who go down into the pit.”

  Sharkey made the sign of the cross. “Unto God’s gracious mercy and protection we commit thee. The Lord bless thee, and keep thee. The Lord make his face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee. The Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace, both now and evermore. Amen.”

  Sharkey looked over at Sheriff Carson and nodded. Carson walked with him to the thirteen steps that led down to the ground. The priest continued down the steps.

  The sheriff looked at the crowd. “I am instructed to read the death warrant issued by the court of Eagle County, Colorado.”

  He began reading the judge’s warrant of execution. “For the crime of accessory to the murder of Humboldt Puddle and others, and for the murder of Sergeant Antoine Dubois, Pierre Mouchette, also known as Lucien Garneau, is to be hanged by the neck until pronounced dead by the attending physician in pursuance to the instructions contained in this warrant. Let no one present question this warrant.”

  A moment later, the sheriff went over to Mouchette, holding a black hood in his hand. “Are you ready?”

  Mouchette chuckled. “Suppose I told you that I needed about forty more years before I was ready. Would you wait?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Wait, before you put it on, let me find Laurent in the crowd. I know he is here. Where is he?”

  “He is standing just to the right of the foot of the steps,” Sheriff Carson said.

  “Laurent, tell those with whom I served that I died like a soldier,” Mouchette shouted.

  “I shall,” Laurent answered.

  Mouchette watched as the hood came down over his face, realizing that, as of that very second, he had seen the world for the very last time. He could see some light coming through the hood, but n
othing else.

  With the outside world gone, he saw—as real and present as it had been in his youth—a small boat upon the Seine. A man was rowing the boat, and a pretty woman, holding a red parasol against the sun, was sitting in the bow.

  “Look, Mama, the woman in the small boat is holding a red parasol,” he had said then, and, quietly, he mouthed those same words again. “Rechercher, Maman, la femme dans le petit bâteau est la tenue d’une ombrelle rouge.”

  He held on to that peaceful and innocent scene as he felt the rough texture of the rope when the noose was fitted over his head, and the knot pushed up against the back of his neck.

  “May God have mercy on your soul,” Sheriff Carson said, speaking so quietly only Mouchette could hear him.

  Mouchette heard Sheriff Carson’s footsteps as he walked back across the gallows floor.

  He heard the pealing of church bells.

  He heard the whistle of an approaching train.

  He heard the sound of the trapdoor opening, then felt his stomach leap up into his . . .

  EPILOGUE

  Smoke and Sally were in a spring wagon, driving back to Sugarloaf after having attended the wedding and reception of Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm Puddle.

  “It was nice of Laurent to sign a quit claim on behalf of the French government for Garneau’s land,” Sally said. “Now it belongs to the state of Colorado, but I’m wondering what is going to happen to it?”

  “The ranchers and farmers who have land adjacent to his are going to buy as much of it as they can afford to enlarge their own holdings. I expect I’ll buy the rest. That way, we aren’t likely to ever run into any more Mouchettes. Or Garneaus, for that matter.”

  “What about Frying Pan Creek? What will become of it?”

  “It will remain property of the state. That way nobody can ever dam it up again or use it as a weapon against other landholders.”

  “Good idea.” Sally moved closer to Smoke, took his upper right arm in both her hands, then leaned her head against his shoulder. “Wasn’t the wedding beautiful?”

  Smoke chuckled. “You say that about every wedding you’ve ever attended.”