Assault of the Mountain Man

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sugarloaf Ranch

Sally was sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch of the house. Smoke, Pearlie, and Cal were hovering around her, offering to bring coffee or tea, whichever she might want, a shawl, a footstool, something to read, something to eat.

“For crying out loud,” Sally finally said with a laugh. “Don’t any of you have something else to do? What about the spring roundup? We do have a ranch to run, you know.”

“Yes ma’am. Right now seems like most of the work is findin’ cows and calves that’s got themselves bogged down in mud holes here and there,” Cal said.

“But we’ve brung in some hands for that,” Pearlie said.

“And we’ve got calves to brand,” Cal added.

“You’re turning all that over to temporary help?” Sally asked.

“No ma’am, we’re goin’ to be out there. Someone needs to be ram roddin’ it.”

“By someone, you mean you?”

“Yes, ma’am, I reckon so,” Pearlie answered. “That is, me and Cal.”

“Let me ask you this. Do you plan to actually participate in the roundup? Or is it your intention to spend all the time here, on the porch?”

“Oh, no ma’am, we ain’t goin’ to be spendin’ all our time here on the porch. Fact is, we’re goin’ right now,” Pearlie said. “We was just wantin’ to make sure that if there was some thin’ we could do for you, why we would be here to do it, is all.”

“Going to work would be doing something for me,” Sally said.

“Yes, ma’am.” Pearlie glanced over at Cal. “What are you standin’ around for? We got work to do. We can’t spend the whole day up here, just hangin’ around on the porch.”

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’,” Cal said, hurrying down the porch steps. “What I’m wonderin’ is when you are goin’ to get to work.”

The two young cowboys continued their arguing all the way out to the barn.

“You were a little hard on them, weren’t you, Sally?” Smoke asked with a chuckle, after Pearlie and Cal left.

“Well come on, Smoke, you saw them. Tiptoeing around me, trying to wait on me, like I was an invalid or something.”

“You are an invalid.”

“I’m not an invalid. I’m recovering from a gunshot wound,” Sally said. “You’ve had to recover from a few, I recall.”

“Yes, I have.”

“That’s a temporary thing. Besides, they need to keep themselves busy doing something on the ranch, so they won’t be worrying so much about me. Especially Cal, bless his heart. He feels personally responsible for what happened.”

“Cal feels responsible?”

“Yes.”

“Now what could possibly make him feel responsible ?”

“You know how he is, Smoke. He thinks he let me down because he wasn’t in the bank with me when it happened.”

“That’s foolish. No one expected him to spend every moment with you.”

“Of course it is foolish. But try telling him that.”

Smoke walked over to the edge of the porch and stood, looking out. It was still early morning and the rising sun had painted the clouds in brilliant crimson, sending its rays to turn to gold the sheer walls of the cliffs that protected Sugarloaf from the most severe winter blasts. The creek that watered his stock was glistening silver, the trees, vividly green, and in the clefts, rays of sunlight burned away the blue shadows.

“Are you enjoying the view?” Sally asked. “It is a beautiful view, I admit. But I have a feeling you are trying to come up with a way to tell me.”

“Tell you what?” Smoke replied.

“Tell me that you are going after them.”

Smoke turned toward her. “I have to do it, Sally. You know I have to do it.”

“If you remember, Smoke, that’s how I met you. You were coming after the men who had killed Nicole. I know you have to do it. And I know it would be useless for me to try and stop you.”

Smoke smiled, then walked over and leaned down to kiss his wife. “The only thing is, I’m concerned about leaving you here.”

“Don’t be concerned. I’m going to be fine. Besides, I have Pearlie and Cal here to watch over me. What more could you ask for?”

“I’m going into town. I need to visit with Sheriff Carson for a bit. I’ll come back here before I leave.”

Sally started to stand. “I’ll fix a little something for you to take with you.”

“No you don’t. You stay right there in that chair, and don’t even try to get up unless Cal or Pearlie are here to help you.”

“I don’t know if you think I am three years old or ninety years old,” Sally replied in frustration.

“Neither. I think you are wounded.”

Big Rock

Dr. Colton laughed when Smoke told him that Sally had wanted to fix something for him to have on the trail. “She would do something like that. For anyone else with a wound that severe, they would be soliciting all the sympathy and care they could get. For Sally, it is naught but a temporary inconvenience.”

Smoke and Dr. Colton were in Longmont’s Saloon. Louis, the dark-eyed Frenchman who owned the saloon, was sitting at the table with them.

“In France, we have a saying,” Louis said. “Pour un seul sang, je vais extraire. Ma vengeance sera sévère.”

“That sounds just real pretty, Louis,” Dr. Colton said. “What does it mean?”

“For one blood, I shall extract two,” Louis translated. “My revenge shall be severe.”

At that moment Sheriff Carson came in. He smiled when he saw Smoke. “I got it. It just came in by telegraph a few moments ago.”

“Thanks, Monte,” Smoke replied.

“You got what?” Louis asked.

“I sent a telegram to Phillip Wilcox in Denver. He is the U.S. marshal for Colorado. He has sent authorization to make Smoke a deputy U.S. marshal. That way, Smoke can go after the murderers and thieves who shot Sally, with universal authority.”

Sheriff Carson held up a badge. “I keep a couple deputy U.S. marshal badges in the office for just such a thing. Hold up your right hand.”

Smoke repeated the oath as administered by Sheriff Carson. “As a deputy United States marshal, I, Kirby Jensen, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.”

“Congratulations,” Sheriff Carson said as he pinned the badge onto Smoke’s shirt. “You are now an officer of the law.”

Mrs. Smoke Jensen Recovering

Mrs. Jensen has returned to her residence at Sugarloaf and is said to be recuperating in a marvelous fashion. All who know this wonderful lady are mouthing prayers of relief for the ongoing recovery.

While visiting in Gothic one week previous, Mrs. Jensen was in the Miner’s Bank when a band of brigands attempted to rob that institution. Encountering unexpected resistance due to the installation of a time lock safe, the bank robbers, said to be led by Bill Dinkins, gave vent to their frustration.

Dinkins fired his pistol twice inside the bank, one ball striking the bank owner, Mr. Kurt Flowers, with deadly effect. The second ball struck Mrs. Jensen, wounding her grievously. Before leaving Gothic, the brigands murdered two more of the town’s finest citizens, including Mr. Deckert, a merchant, and Sheriff Tyson. Both men were killed instantly.

Escape was not without some penalty however, as Mr. Calvin Woods, an employee of Mr. Smoke Jensen, who was present in the town at the time, having escorted Mrs. Jensen there, took the fleeing bandits under fire. He killed John Putnam with what the citizens of the town say was a shot of extreme range and magnificent skill.

As to the location of the remaining bank robbers, nothing is known. Smoke Jensen has been appointed a deputy United States marshal, and it is said that he will pursue the evildoers to the very gates of hell if need be.

Were the editor of this newspaper afforded the opportunity to speak with Bill Dinkins and the evildoers who accompany him, he would feel the obligation to issue a warning. Smoke Jensen is not only a man of steely nerve, dogged determination, and deadly skills with firearms, he is also cloaked in the armor of righteousness. He has, in the course of his life, dispatched many a bad man to stand before that final judge of all mankind.

To Mr. Dinkins, and all who ride with you in your nefarious transgressions, I issue this warning. Beware, for truth and justice, when pursed by a man such as Smoke Jensen, will triumph.

Gunnison, Colorado

Like many other towns in the county, Gunnison began its life because of the silver that was dug out of the nearby mountains. When the silver played out, the town survived because a railroad served the area ranchers. Like many Western towns, it was divided into two sections, a rough collection of saloons and shanties, and legitimate businesses and homes. The Hard Rock Saloon was in the rougher section of town. Inside, occupying a table at the back, sat Bill Dinkins, Cole Parnell, Travis Slater, and his brother Frank.

Parnell had been reading the newspaper, and he slapped it down on the table with an angry snarl. “Son of a bitch, they know who we are.”

“Who knows who we are?” Dinkins asked.

“The law knows who we are.” Parnell pointed to the paper. “It says right there, that the Bill Dinkins’ gang held up the bank and killed the bank president, some merchant, and the sheriff.”

“Don’t forget the woman,” Frank said. “Dinkins kilt her, too.”

“She ain’t dead,” Parnell said.

“How do you know she ain’t dead?” Travis asked.

“Hell. ’Cause it says right here in the newspaper,” Parnell said. “It says she is recuperatin’ just fine.”

“Then that’s prob’ly how they found out who we was,” Travis said. “She prob’ly told the law ever’thing.”

“That ain’t the bad thing,” Parnell said.

“What is the bad thing?” Travis asked.

“This ain’t just any woman that you shot.” Parnell looked directly at Dinkins. “Maybe you don’t know it, but the woman you shot is married to Mr. Smoke Jensen.”

“Smoke Jensen?” Dinkins replied. “That ain’t good.”

“Damn right, it ain’t good,” Parnell said. “Ac-cordin’ to this here newspaper, he’s done got hisself deputized, and he aims to come after us.”

“Deputized? Hell, that don’t mean nothin’. All we got to do is leave the county, and he can’t come for us.”

“Uh-uh. That won’t work. He’s been deputized a United States marshal, and that means he can go anywhere he wants,” Parnell said.

“Yeah, well if he does come after us, he just may be bitin’ off more than he can chaw,” Dinkins said. “I’ve sent word for someone to join us.”

“What do we need someone else for?” Travis asked.

“We lost Putnam, didn’t we? I figure on replacing him.”

“I know’d Putnam when we was in prison together,” Parnell said. “It’s goin’ to take a good man to replace him.”

“The man I’ve got comin’ is worth five Put-nams,” Dinkins said.

“Who would that be?” Frank asked.

“You’ll see when he gets here,” Dinkins said mysteriously.

“When will that be?” Travis asked.

Dinkins twisted around in his chair and looked up at the clock. “The train gets here at two. We got less than an hour to wait now, I reckon.”

He stood on the platform for just a minute, looking around. Behind him the train was a symphony of sound, from the bubbling water in the boiler, to the venting of steam, to the snapping and popping of heated journals and bearings. Nobody came to meet him, but he wasn’t expecting anyone. A child who saw him was frightened by his skull-like head, and turned his face into his mother’s skirt and clutched it about him.

Harley waited on the platform until his horse was led down the ramp from the cattle car, then walked down to claim him.

“Yes, sir, here is your mount, as fresh as he was when he boarded the train.” The groom held the horse’s reins in one hand, while his other hand was palm up for the expected tip.

Harley ignored the groom’s palm and, without a sound, mounted, and rode away. It took but a minute to ride from the depot to the saloon where he dismounted and tied his horse to the hitch rail. He glanced up and down the street as if making certain there was no potential threat, then pushed his way through the swinging bat wing doors.

He was wearing a gun strapped low on his right hip, and once inside, he stepped away from the door so he wasn’t back lighted. He paused for a moment. Only when his eyes were fully adjusted to the dimmer light, did he walk over to the bar.

“You know who that is?” Dinkins whispered to the others.

“Can’t say as I do,” Parnell said.

“That is Wes Harley. I reckon you’ve heard of him, ain’t you?

“I’ve heard of ’im,” Travis said. “He’s a—”

“He’s a gunfighter,” Dinkins interrupted, intending to keep control of the conversation.

“He’s supposed to be fast,” Travis said.

“He’s not just supposed to be fast, he is fast,” Dinkins said.

“I don’t believe that is him,” Parnell said.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well think about it. What would someone like that be doin’ here?”

“He’s here ’cause I asked him to be here,” Dinkins said.

“What?”

“He’s the one I was telling you about. He’s the one I asked to join us. He’ll be with us when we hit the bank in Crystal.”

“You really think we need someone like that to hold up the bank in that little town?” Parnell asked.

“If people like Smoke Jensen are going to start coming after us, it would be good to have someone like Harley on our side,” Dinkins said.

Harley stepped up to the bar and slapped a coin down.

“Whiskey,” he grunted. “The good stuff.”

“Oh, sorry, mister, but you are just a little too late for any of our good stuff. That miner down there at the other end of the bar just bought our last bottle of blended whiskey. But I think you’ll find our trade liquor ain’t that bad.”

Harley turned to look at the young miner, who had just poured himself a glass from the bottle. “Mister, I’ll be askin’ you to sell that bottle to me.”

The miner shook his head. “Friend, I been bustin’ up hard rock all week, just a’ thinkin’ about comin’ in here for a good bottle of whiskey. I aim to keep it for myself.”

Harley put some money on the bar and slid it toward the cowboy.

“Mister, don’t you hear good?” the miner asked. “I told you, I ain’t sellin’ my whiskey.”

“Either pick up the money, or go for your gun,” Harley said.

“What?”

“I said, pull your gun or give me the bottle.”

“I ain’t even wearin’ a gun. What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“You.” Harley looked toward Travis Slater. “You’re wearin’ a gun. Give it to the miner there.”

“All right.” Travis pulled his pistol from his holster by thumb and forefinger, carried it over to the miner, and held it out toward him.

The miner held up his hands, as if pushing Travis away. “I don’t want your gun.”

“Put it on the bar, then back out of the way,” Harley said.

Travis did as Harley directed.

“You’re armed now,” Harley said. “Pick it up.”

“Mister, are you serious?” The miner’s voice was high-pitched and cracking with fear. “You really aimin’ to throw down on me over a bottle of whiskey?”

“For God’s sake, give him the bottle, boy,” the bartender said.

“I paid for this bottle, and there ain’t nobody goin’ to buffalo me into givin’ it up. I don’t know who you are, mister, but I ain’t givin’ you my bottle, and I ain’t goin’ to pick up this pistol.”

Harley pulled his gun and fired. Pink mist sprayed from the miner’s earlobe and he slapped his hand up to the side of his head with a howl of pain. By the time the smoke cleared, the pistol was back in Harley’s holster.

“Give me the bottle,” Harley ordered.

With his left hand still pressed against his ear, the miner shoved the bottle down the bar with his right. “Here. Take the goddamn bottle.” He reached for the money.

“Uh-uh. That ain’t your money now. You didn’t take it when I give you the chance.”

The miner stared at Harley through terror-stricken eyes. Keeping his hand pressed against the side of his head, he rushed out of the saloon.

Harley picked up the bottle. Carrying it and Travis’s pistol with him, he walked over to join Dinkins and the others at his table. “I thank you for the loan of the pistol.” He held the gun across the table. Raising the bottle to his lips, he took a couple swallows, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked over at Dinkins. He smiled. “Hello, Little Brother.”

“Brother?” Frank Slater said. “You two are brothers?”

“Yeah.” Dinkins reached over to shake hands with Harley.

“How come you ain’t got the same last name?”

“We got the same mama, but different daddies,” Dinkins said.

Harley took another swallow from the bottle. “We think.”

“You think?” Parnell asked, clearly confused by the strange answer. “What do you mean, you think? Do you have different daddies or not?”

“Mama was a whore,” Dinkins said. “She didn’t always keep track of the men she slept with.”

“When you sent for me, you said you had somethin’ in mind,” Harley said. “What is it?”

“Banks,” Dinkins replied. “Startin’ with one over in Crystal, tomorrow.”

“Banks?” Parnell asked.

“You didn’t think we was goin’ to do only that one in Gothic, then quit, did you?” Dinkins asked.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know. I mean the first one sure didn’t turn out well now, did it?” Parnell said.