Assault of the Mountain Man

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Gothic

Smoke remained in the doctor’s office for the rest of the day, hoping Sally would regain consciousness. She did wake up a few times, but was so groggy she was incommunicative, just as Dr. Gunther said she would be.

Finally, as darkness fell, Smoke checked in at the Silver Lode Hotel, then went to the Silver Nugget Saloon. He and Cal took a beer to a table in the back. There was a buzz of excitement and anger in the saloon. Friends of the three men who were killed were airing their anger and their sympathy for the widows of Mr. Flowers, the banker, Mr. Deckert, the owner of the tobacco store who had tried, with a shotgun, to stop the outlaws, and Sheriff Tyson.

“What about the lady that was shot?” one of the men asked. “Has anyone heard how she is doin’?”

Cal started to answer, but Smoke put his hand out on Cal’s arm. “I don’t want to visit with anyone,” he said quietly.

“I hear she’s still alive,” someone else said. “She’s up in the doc’s office now.”

“I hope she pulls through all right. I mean it’s bad enough to kill the three men. But it just ain’t right to shoot a woman. No matter how you look at it.”

“You know about Nicole, don’t you?” Smoke continued in a quiet voice.

“Yes, I know about her. She was your first wife, and I know she was murdered.”

“I cannot let that happen again, Cal. God help me, it just can’t happen again.”

Cal had never seen Smoke this distraught. The thought of this strong man, the strongest man he had ever known, the man he respected and admired more than any other, being in such a state of despair, frightened him. He put his hand on Smoke’s shoulder.

“Smoke, I probably wouldn’t even be alive if it hadn’t been for Miss Sally. You know that better than anybody. Here I was, a dumb kid, and I actually tried to hold her up. Instead of shooting me, like she could have, or turning me over to the law, like she should have, she took me out to Sugarloaf, fed me the first good meal I had eaten in weeks, then offered me a home. I’m telling you, right now, that I know, as sure as God made little green apples, that Miss Sally is going to pull through this. I know she is.”

Smoke looked into the earnest and determined face of his young cowboy, then managed a smile. “I know it too, Cal.”

Cal nodded, pleased that his declaration seemed to have made some inroad into Smoke’s melancholy.

“Tell me about the people who did this,” Smoke said.

“Well sir, like you seen, one of ’em is dead,” Cal said. “I shot him as they was riding out of town. I fired a second time, but they was too far away, and to tell the truth, I was damn lucky to hit the first one.”

“Do we know who they are?”

“Mr. Martin, the bank teller, and Mrs. McKenzie, heard some of the names as they was talking to each other. The leader was someone named Dinkins. There was also someone named Parnell. That’s all we know.”

“Hey!” a man said loudly, just coming into the saloon and addressing all therein. “We just found out who the dead bank robber is!”

“Who?” half a dozen voices called.

“His name is John Putnam. He just got out of prison no more than a month ago,” the man with the news said.

“How do you know this, Chris?”

“Sheriff Carson come into town and he recognized him,” Chris said.

Smoke and Cal looked at each other.

“Monte is here?” Smoke asked.

“I guess so, from the way that fella was talkin’,” Cal said. “But I ain’t seen him yet.”

“Let’s see if we can find him,” Smoke suggested.

“Where do you think he might be?”

“My guess would be the sheriff’s office. Seeing as the local sheriff was one of the ones killed, I expect Monte has set up a temporary office there.”

The two men left the saloon, then walked down the street, dark except for the little squares of dim yellow light spilling through the windows of the occupied buildings. When they reached the sheriff’s office, they saw a black bow on the door of the office, put there in memory of the slain Sheriff Tyson. When they went inside they saw Sheriff Carson standing behind a desk, looking at an array of wanted posters which were spread out before him. Standing beside Sheriff Carson was the man who had been deputy to Tyson.

“Hello, Monte,” Smoke said as he and Cal stepped into the room.

Sheriff Carson looked up. “How is Sally?”

Smoke shook his head. “Not good, but she is still alive, and fighting it.”

“Do you know Thad Malcolm? He was Sheriff Tyson’s deputy. Thad, this is Smoke Jensen.”

Malcolm extended his hand. “We’ve never met, but I’ve heard a lot about you. All good,” he added hastily. Then the smile left his face. “I’m awful sorry about your wife, Mr. Jensen. I sure hope she pulls through all right.”

“Thank you, Deputy Malcolm.”

“Smoke, I’ve identified three of the people who did this.” Sheriff Carson pointed to the posters on his desk. “John Putnam. He’s the one that you killed, Cal.” Carson pointed to one of the other posters. “This is Cole Parnell. Putnam and Parnell were serving time together in the state prison at Cañon City. They were both released last month.”

Sheriff Carson picked up another wanted poster, and showed it to Smoke. “This august gentlemen, and believe me, I use that term in the most contemptuous way, is one William Dinkins. According to Mr. Martin and Mrs. McKenzie, Dinkins is the one who killed Mr. Flowers and shot Sally. But, shooting unarmed people in a bank isn’t something new to him. Two months ago, he killed a teller in a botched bank holdup in Buffalo. Last year, Dinkins led a gang of outlaws who robbed the Tucumcari, New Mexico, bank and he shot a twelve-year-old boy who was holding his hands in the air. He is a real prince of a fellow,” Sheriff Carson added sarcastically.

“I’m going to get him, Monte,” Smoke said. “He shot my wife, and whether Sally lives or dies, I’m going to get Dinkins.”

A young man stepped into the sheriff’s office. “Excuse me, Sheriff. Do you know where I might find Mr. Smoke Jensen?”

“I’m Smoke Jensen.” Apprehension was apparent in his voice.

“Mr. Jensen, Doctor Gunther sent me to find you. He said to tell you Mrs. Jensen is awake and is asking about you.”

“Thank you!” Smoke practically shouted the words as he was already on his way almost before the boy could finish his report.

Smoke ran down the street to the doctor’s office and, as he had before, took the steps up the side of the hardware store two at a time. He barged into the office, again without knocking, but it didn’t disturb Dr. Gunther, who was expecting him.

“She is conscious,” Dr. Gunther said.

Smoke hurried to Sally’s side. “I thought I taught you to duck,” he said, taking her hand in his.

Sally smiled. “Smoke, what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? Did you think I would stay at the ranch, once I learned you had been shot?”

“I’ve been shot?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Oh, yes,” Sally said, her voice weak. “I’d nearly forgotten that.”

Smoke chuckled. “You’re quite a woman, Sally, if you can be shot and nearly forget it.”

“Oh! The two thousand dollars! I threw it! I don’t know what happened to it.”

“Tamara has it.”

“I’m glad.”

Smoke raised Sally’s hand to his lips and kissed it.

“Is that the best you can do?” she asked. “That’s the way you greet some old lady at a party.”

“I don’t want to do anything that will hurt you.”

“I’m not made out of glass.”

Smiling, Smoke leaned over to kiss her on her forehead, but when she pursed her lips, he knew she wanted a real kiss, so he obliged her.

“Maybe if the other folks would leave, I could climb up on the table beside you,” Smoke suggested.

Sally laughed out loud, then winced in pain and put her hand to her wound.

“Oh, Sally, I’m sorry,” Smoke apologized.

“Don’t be ridiculous. That was a perfectly outrageous thing for you to say.” She smiled. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Laramie

The saloon was relatively quiet, with only a couple tables full. A bar girl, finding the pickings slim, was leaning against the wall next to the piano, talking to the bald headed piano player. Wes Harley stood alone at the far end of the bar, nursing a drink. Four at a table were playing cards.

A couple cowboys came into the saloon, laughing and talking, brushing the dust from their clothes. When they noticed Harley, and the hairless skull that was his head, they stopped in mid-conversation to stare at him. He looked back with an unblinking stare of his own.

“What’ll it be, gents?” the bartender asked.

The cowboys continued to stare.

“You boys just goin’ to stand there and gawk? Or are you going to order?”

“Oh,” one of them said. “Uh, two beers.”

“Two beers it is,” the bartender replied. He turned to draw the beers. As soon as he put the beers in front of the two young men, they picked them up and held them to their lips, drinking with Adams apple bobbing swallows, until all the beer was gone. With a mighty sigh of satisfaction, they put the glasses back down and swiped the backs of their hands across their lips.

“One more,” one of the boys said.

“You boys have quite a thirst on you,” the bartender said. “Been ridin’ long, have you?”

“Yes, sir, we have,” the taller of the two answered. “We’ve been on the trail for nearly three weeks. Come up from Texas, we did.”

“Did you now?” The bartender put two new beers in front of them. “That’s a long ride. What brings you to Laramie?”

“We’re lookin’ to get on with a ranch up here.”

“Texas,” Harley hissed. He continued to stare into his glass as he spoke, not bothering to look over at the two young cowboys.

“You got somethin’ against Texas, mister?” one of the young men challenged.

“You rode a long way for nothin’,” Harley said. “If I was you, I’d turn around and head back. There ain’t no self-respectin’ rancher from Wyoming goin’ to hire trash from Texas.” He continued to stare into his glass.

“Mister, I don’t appreciate bad talk about Texas.” The young man’s level of irritation rose.

“You don’t have to talk bad about Texas,” Harley said. “All you have to do is mention the name. That’s bad enough.”

“Danny, leave it be,” the other boy said.

“The hell I will,” Danny said. “You don’t want any part of this, Andy, you just stand aside. But I don’t figure on lettin’ this hairless son of a bitch talk bad about Texas and not do nothin’ about it.”

“Tell you what,” Andy said. “Looks to me like we’re just gettin’ off on the wrong foot here. If we’re goin’ to work up here, we can’t be makin’ enemies the first day. Bartender, give our new friend here a beer, on me.”

“Mr. Harley?” the bartender asked uneasily. “Do you want another beer?”

“Not if some Texas trash bought it,” Harley replied.

“What is it with you, mister?” Danny asked angrily. “Here my pard is tryin’ to be real friendly with you, and you’re actin’ like that. You know what? Somebody needs to take you down a notch or two. And I might just be that somebody.”

“Danny, come on, we don’t want no trouble on the first day we are in town, do we?”

Danny continued to stare at the skull face of Harley, but Harley showed no expression of any kind, no anger, fear, or anxiety. Danny was a little surprised how the man could be so confrontational, and yet show no expression. Perhaps with no hair, and his skin drawn so tight across the bones of his face, it might be that the man could not show expression even if he wanted to.

“It’s too late for that, sonny boy,” Harley asked. “You done stepped into it. You got more trouble than you can handle.”

“More than I can handle?” Danny said angrily. “I’ll show you how much I can handle. I’m about to whip you like a rented mule!” He put up his fists.

Harley turned toward the two young men and showed his first expression. He smiled, though it was a smile without mirth.

“You don’t understand, do you, boy?”

“Oh, I understand all right. I understand that I’m going to leave you with a broken nose, black eyes, and a fat lip. As ugly as you are, that can only improve your looks.” Danny laughed at his own joke.

“Uh-uh,” Harley said. “If we’re going to fight, it’s going to be for real.” He stepped away from the bar, flipped his jacket back, exposing a pistol which he wore low, and kicked out, in the way of a gunfighter.

“Mr. Harley, there is no need for this now,” the bartender said. “I’m sure these boys would apologize to you if you asked them for it.”

“Aplogize? Apologize to this ... walking scarecrow? Why the hell should we apologize?” Danny asked.

“Cowboy, don’t you know who this is?” the bartender asked, his voice reflecting his shock. “This is Wes Harley.”

“Wes Harley? Is that name supposed to mean something?” Danny asked.

“Oh, God in heaven, you don’t know do you?” the bartender said.

“Don’t know what?”

“Who Wes Harley is,” the bartender said.

“I expect you’re talkin’ about this skull-faced piece of cow dung here,” Danny said.

“Danny, come on, let’s go,” Andy said. “I don’t have a good feelin’ about this. This ain’t worth one of you dyin’ over.”

“It ain’t goin’ to be one of us, sonny,” Harley said. “It’s goin’ to be the two of you.”

“You’re crazy, mister,” Andy said. “We just come in here for a drink. We’re goin’ to leave now and just pretend none of this happened.”

“It’s too late,” Harley said.

“We ain’t drawin’ on you,” Andy said.

“Oh, I think you will,” Harley said. “The fiddler is already playin’ his tune, the dance has started, and here we are, the three of us, standin’ out on the dance floor.”

“Mister, you are crazy,” Andy said. “We ain’t goin’ to get into no gunfight with you.”

“Yeah, you are,” Harley said, his voice a quiet sigh.

Andy turned to the others in the saloon. “Do you people see what’s going on here? Are you goin’ to let this happen?”

“It ain’t our fight, boy,” one of the others said.

“Danny?” Andy’s voice broke in fear. “We can’t do this.”

“Looks to me like we don’t have no choice,” Danny replied.

Danny started his draw and seeing that, Andy drew as well.

With a smile that made his face look even more skeletal, Harley drew, the gun appearing in his hand as if by magic. Danny was so shocked at the speed of the draw that he hesitated for an instant. Had he not hesitated, he might have had a chance, but Harley got two shots off so fast it sounded as if it were only one. Danny pulled the trigger on his pistol, but the bullet went into the floor. Andy didn’t even get a shot off.

Harley was calmly sipping his whiskey by the time one of the sheriff’s deputies arrived.

“I might have known it would be you,” the deputy said.

“They drew first.”

“I’m sure they did. Just as I’m sure you goaded them into it,” the deputy said.

“I might have teased them a bit about bein’ from Texas,” Harley said. “Didn’t know they was goin’ to take it so hard.”

The deputy stepped over to look down at the two young cowboys.

“Damn, Harley, they’re just kids. Who are you going after next? Grade school kids?”

“Won’t be any of your concern who it is, Deputy. I got a telegram today, offerin’ me a job.”

“Somewhere else, I hope.”

“Yeah, somewhere else,” Harley said.