Assault of the Mountain Man

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Elco

Smoke had been on the trail for two days, but so far he had no leads on where the bandits were, or even where they were going. He saw a small town rising ahead of him. He hadn’t happened on the town by accident. He knew it was there, and he knew, too, that the men he was looking for would be in a town somewhere. Because towns were few and relatively far between, he was prepared to search every town until he found them.

As he approached the town Smoke decided to get a haircut. He had to find someone talkative enough to engage in conversation if he was going to find out any information. He didn’t know anyone more talkative than a barber. He wasn’t in desperate need of a haircut, but he could use one.

Emerson Bates had his chair tipped back against the rip-sawed boards that made up the false-front of Wong’s Laundry. He liked sitting there, because he lusted after the Chinaman’s two daughters. Of course, he had never been able to act on his lust. They were not whores, and he could not get them to show any interest in him. At the moment, his feet were wrapped around the front legs of the chair and his hat was pulled down low over his eyes. The sun was almost dead overhead so there were no shadows on the street. It was the hottest time of the day which meant most citizens stayed out of the sun as much as they could.

Bates was a deputy sheriff and the only one out in the noonday sun. The other deputies and the sheriff were in the saloon drinking beer and playing cards.

Bates heard the hollow, clumping sounds of a single rider and looked toward the south to see a horseman coming into town. Tipping his chair forward Bates stood up and watched as the rider came farther into town. Just across the street from the Chinese laundry, the rider pulled up, then dismounted in front of Max’s Barbershop.

As Smoke was tying his horse off at the hitching rail, the barber stepped out through the door of his shop. “Yes, sir.” He smiled at his potential customer as he stood with a damp towel draped across his shoulder. “Would you be wanting a haircut and a shave?”

“Just a shave,” Smoke answered. “From the sign outside, you would be Max, I take it?”

“Yes, sir, Max Gibbs is the name, and this shop, such as it is, is all mine. And you would be?”

“Smoke Jensen.”

“Smoke Jensen! My, what a privilege it will be to serve you, Mr. Jensen. Yes, sir, I have read about you.” Max stepped back into his shop and invited Smoke in with the motion of his arm. “Please, step inside.”

The barber shop was very small, just barely large enough to accommodate the barber chair and a small, leather covered settee where customers could wait their turn.

“You’ll be wantin’ to wash some of the trail dust off your face, I expect,” Max said. “There’s a wash basin on that table there. Help yourself. That comes with the price of the haircut and shave.”

“Thanks,” Smoke said as he took advantage of the barber’s offer. “How much is a shave?”

“Shave and a haircut is two bits,” the barber answered. “But seein’ as you are just getting’ a shave, it will only be a dime.”

“Tell you what. I only want the shave, but suppose I pay you for both anyway.” Smoke flipped the barber a quarter.

“Thank you, sir! Here, have a seat.”

Smoke took his seat in the single chair.

“You just passing through, are you, Mr. Jensen?” Max picked up a cup and brush and began working up a lather.

“Yes. I came through Gothic a couple days ago. I guess you heard about what happened over there. I’m talking about the bank robbery.”

“Oh, indeed we have heard about it over here. It was in the newspa—” Max stopped in mid-sentence. “Oh, my, the lady who was shot. That was your wife, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“How is she, if I may ask?”

“Thank you for asking. She is much better.”

“Well, thank God for that,” Max said.

“I have,” Smoke replied.

“You know, to those of us over here, that bank robbery and the shooting was particular upsetting, considerin’ the Slater brothers.”

“Slater brothers?”

“Travis and Frank Slater. They used to live here. They was our neighbors, you might say. And now they are riding with Dinkins. I don’t tell you that as a point of pride, by the way. The truth is, them two boys never was no good. They was working for Chance Carter, a rancher just south of town. Mr. Carter had him a fifteen-year-old daughter, prettiest little girl you ever seen. Well, one day Mr. Carter an’ his daughter both turned up dead, and the Slater brothers both turned up missin’.”

“So you are saying that the Slater brothers killed Mr. Carter?” Smoke asked.

“Yes, sir, I reckon I am sayin’ that. Of course, we don’t none of us have no proof or nothin’ like that. But Frank and Travis Slater never was no count a-tall. Mr. Carter turned up dead, and them two no accounts turned up missin’.”

Smoke nodded. This was a good stop. Max had just supplied him with the last names of two people who were with Dinkins.

Max stretched the chair out, used a brush to apply the lather, then a straight razor to shave him. When that was done, he wrapped warm wet towels around Smoke’s face.

Bates had been waiting for just that moment. He walked into the shop. “Plannin’ on stayin’ in our town long?”

Smoke’s face was wrapped in the towels, but not his eyes. “I just stopped in for a shave. And that’s about done, I expect. Wouldn’t you say so, Max?”

“Yes, sir, just another moment to relax your face is all, I would say,” Max replied.

Smoke noticed a twinge of fear in the barber’s voice, but had no idea why.

“Yes, well, here’s the thing, mister,” Bates said. “We got law in this town. And we don’t take to strangers comin’ in and breakin’ the law.”

“Have I broken the law by getting a shave?” Smoke asked.

“It ain’t the shave I’m talkin’ about.”

“I see. And you enforce the law, do you?”

“I do indeed,” Bates said. “Do you see this star? That means I’m a deputy sheriff.”

“Your mama must be real proud,” Smoke said calmly.

Bates blinked a few times at the response. This wasn’t going the way he had planned. “The point is, mister, I am a deputy. And bein’ as I’m a deputy, well, sir, that means I can collect taxes when they’re due. And right now, you owe this here town two dollars in taxes.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s to pay for the protection we give you while you are here in town,” Bates said.

“I’ll protect myself.”

“Mister”—Bates’ voice reflected his growing anger and frustration—“you ain’t payin’ much attention to me, are you? Now I’m goin’ to say it real slow so’s maybe even someone as dumb as you can understand. You owe the city of Elco two dollars, and I aim to collect it.”

“I told you, deputy, I don’t live here, I don’t plan to live here, and I don’t need your protection.”

“Bates, there ain’t no call for you to come in here and be talkin’ to my customer like this,” Max said. “He told you, he’s just passin’ through. Now why don’t you just go away and leave us alone?”

“Stay out of this, Max,” Bates said coldly. “Unless you want to get hurt.”

With Bates’ attention diverted by the barber, Smoke pulled the apron off.

When Bates looked back toward him he saw that Smoke was holding a pistol. “What the hell?” Bates said with a gasp. “You’re pulling a gun on an officer of the law?”

“Maybe you didn’t notice.” Smoke jerked the thumb of his left hand toward his badge. “I’m also an officer of the law, a deputy United States marshal. And like I said, I don’t need your protection.”

“Oh. You should have told me you was a lawman like me. Of course, bein’ as you are a lawman, why, there ain’t no tax due. Sort of a professional courtesy, you might say.”

“I accept your courtesy.” Smoke got out of the chair, put his pistol back in the holster, then turned to reach for his hat, which was on the hat rack in the corner of the little room.

“Marshal, look out!” Max suddenly shouted.

Smoke spun around, drawing his pistol as he did so. He saw Bates standing in the doorway with his own gun drawn.

Seeing Smoke’s rapid reaction to Max’s warning, the expression on Bate’s face changed from one of triumph, to one of shock. He thumbed back the hammer on his pistol, but it was too late. Smoke fired, and the bullet tore through Bates’ heart, leaving a quarter-sized exit hole just beside his left shoulder blade.

Hearing the shot, several people came running toward the barbershop.

Smoke noticed some of the men had stars pinned to their vest or shirt, but he had no idea which one was the sheriff.

“Who did this?” one of the men demanded. From the authoritative tone of his voice, Smoke realized the man had just answered his question.

“I did,” Smoke said.

“Mister, you are under arrest.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean, you don’t think so? Mister, you just killed one of my deputies!”

“Bates drew first, Sheriff Cooper,” Max said. “In fact, he was goin’ to shoot Marshal Jensen in the back.”

“Marshal?” the sheriff asked. “What kind of marshal?”

“I’m a deputy United States marshal.”

“Why would Bates try to shoot you in the back?”

“Bates was tryin’ to make Marshal Smoke Jensen pay him two dollars for tax,” Max said.

The expression on Sheriff Cooper’s face changed dramatically. “Did the barber just call you Smoke Jensen?”

“Yes.”

“Well, uh, Marshal Jensen, I don’t know exactly what sort of scheme Deputy Bates was trying to run, but I assure you, we don’t collect a tax from people who are just passing through our fair city.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Smoke said. He turned to Max. “Thank you for the shave.”

“Hastings,” Sheriff Cooper said, speaking to one of his deputies. “Get Gustafson up here to take care of this body.”

“Yes, sir,” Hastings answered.

“Sheriff Cooper, I wonder if you could tell me anything about the Slater brothers?” Smoke realized he had an advantage over the sheriff. He was positive Cooper not only knew Bates was shaking down strangers for tax money, but that he was probably behind it. Whereas Cooper might be reticent to talk about the Slater brothers under ordinary circumstances, he would welcome the discussion as a diversion from his own crooked dealings.

Cooper had photographs of Travis and Frank Slater. “These here pictures was took by Fred Dysart. He runs the picture shop here.” Cooper handed the first photograph to Smoke. “This one is Frank Slater. He is the oldest.”

Frank had a high forehead, thin hair, beady eyes, and a handlebar mustache.

Cooper gave Smoke the second photograph. “And this one is Travis.”

Travis had his head tilted to one side. He was clean shaven, and his hair was neatly combed.

Smoke studied the pictures for a couple of minutes, then handed them back.

“Marshal Jensen, about Bates and the tax,” Sheriff Cooper said. “We are collecting taxes as a way of raising money, but I don’t know why he tried to shoot you. I ain’t never authorized nothin’ like that.”

“You reap what you sow,” Smoke said.

“Yeah, well, I think we’ve raised enough money now, I’m probably going to stop it.”

“Alvin Marsh, the state attorney general, is a friend of mine,” Smoke said. “I’m sure that when he sends some of his people down here to have a look around, he will appreciate that you have stopped taxing strangers.”

Crystal, Colorado

The Crystal River, a fast flowing stream that broke white over the rocks, set up a roar that could be heard, twenty-four hours a day, all over the town of Crystal. It was impossible for the streets to run parallel, or at right angles to each other. The result was a swath, cut by the river through the pass, along which a couple roads had been fashioned. On either side of the roads the buildings stood as if hanging on to the side of the mountain.

An industrious town, supported by the silver that was extracted from two producing mines, the citizens were sure that someday Crystal would be one of the largest communities in Colorado, if not in the entire West.

Thaddeus Walker, Raleigh Jones, and Emerson Teasdale were having breakfast together at Wilson’s Café. Businessmen, they were vocal advocates of the town, and so convinced of its future they were about to engage in a new venture. They were going to build a hydroelectric plant on the Crystal River. Bringing Crystal into the modern age of electricity would, they believed, not only bring about growth, but insure it would survive far into the future, even if the silver played out.

They had calculated it would cost ten thousand dollars to build the plant, and they were putting in two thousand dollars each. As soon as the bank opened, they were going to present their plan to the loan officer at the Bank of Crystal, to secure the rest of the money.

A year earlier Thaddeus had visited his brother in Appleton, Wisconsin, where the first hydroelectric generator had been put in use. He convinced Jones and Teasdale they could not only put in an electric power plant in Crystal, they could sell “electric subscriptions” for enough money to pay them back for their investment, then continue to make money for years to come.

It had not been a hard sale. Jones, who owned the dairy, and Teasdale, a partner with Walker in a silver mine, were entrepreneurial enough to see the benefits. They walked into the bank to take the final steps to bring it about.

Unfortunately, Walker, Jones, and Teasdale were not the only entrepreneurs with an eye on Crystal. There were five others who also saw Crystal as the key to a financial windfall, though their entrepreneurial experiment was criminal in its intent. Dinkins, Harley, Parnell, and the two Slater brothers rode down the street to the bank. Leaving Travis and Parnell to hold the horses, Dinkins, Harley, and Frank lifted bandannas to cover the bottom of their faces as they rushed in through the door. There were three customers inside the bank.

“You three!” Dinkins shouted. “Down on the floor!”

Frightened by the masked gunmen who had just entered the bank, the three customers did as they were told.

“You,” Dinkins said, pointing his pistol at the teller. “Listen real careful to what I am goin’ to say. I want you to empty your cash drawer, then I want you to go over to that safe, open it up, and give me all the money in there. If you tell me you can’t open it, I am going to shoot you dead. Now, do you understand me?”

The teller, who was shaking visibly, nodded.

“Let me hear you say that you understand what I just told you,” Dinkins said.

“I-I understand,” the bank teller said, barely able to choke the words out.

“Good for you.” Dinkins handed a cloth bag to the teller. “Now, empty your cash drawer into this bag, then go over there, open the safe, and empty it as well.”

With his hands shaking so badly he could scarcely hold on to the money, the bank teller did as he was instructed. When the cash drawer was emptied, he moved over to the big safe and opened it rather easily. Taking bound packets of money from the safe, he dropped them into the cloth bag.

As he handed the bag of money to Dinkins, there was a loud commotion outside the bank.

“Don’t go in there!” a voice shouted. Dinkins recognized it as Parnell’s voice.

“What do you mean, don’t go in there? What the hell is going on here?” another voice yelled gruffly.

A gunshot followed.

As Dinkins, Harley, and Frank Slater started toward the front door, distracted by the gunshot outside, Thaddeus Walker pulled his gun. He fired, but missed. Harley spun around, and in three quick shots, killed all three of the bank customers.

“Let’s go,” Dinkins called.

Outside, the man Parnell had frightened off by a gunshot was running down the street, away from the bank. The citizens of Crystal, who but a moment earlier had been going about their daily commerce, watched as five horseman galloped out of town, firing their pistols indiscriminately. Most dived to the ground as the bullets flew, but a man stepped out of the gun store, and raising a rifle to his shoulder, fired.

One of the galloping horses went down, leaving an outlaw without a horse. He yelled at those galloping away, but they didn’t come back for him. Turning, he saw at least a dozen men running toward him, all of them armed. He threw up his hands. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” he shouted. “I give up!”

“Get a rope!” one of the men shouted. “We’ll string the son of a bitch up right here, and right now!”

“No!” called a man wearing a badge. “We ain’t goin’ to have no lynchin’s in this town. We’re goin’ to try this man legal!”

There were several groans, and the outlaw nodded. “Thanks, Sheriff.”

“Then we’ll hang you,” the sheriff concluded.

The groans changed to cheers.