Assault of the Mountain Man

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Risco

In the three days since the train robbery, Dinkins and his men had been living lavishly on the money they had taken from the bank in Crystal and from the stagecoach.

With the increased prices of everything in town, they were paying a dollar for a glass of beer and twenty-five dollars for a bottle of whiskey. The women were charging them fifty dollars, but as long as the men had the money, they spent it, unaware the high prices had been fixed for them alone.

They had gotten very little money from the train robbery, and the money they had taken from the bank and the stagecoach was diminishing rapidly as they spent it foolishly and gambled unwisely. As they saw the money going, their attitude toward the citizens of Risco became more and more belligerent.

Thus it was that James Webb had a talk with Bill Dinkins.

Risco had neither mayor nor sheriff, but even a city without law had to have some sort of leader, and James Webb had assumed that role. A graduate of Washington University in St. Louis, Webb had studied for the law and had been a circuit judge in Missouri when he was caught taking bribe money to affect the outcome of a major case.

The date for the trial was set and Webb, because he was an important and influential figure, was given bail. There was no doubt in his mind that he would be sent to prison, where he’d face many of the hardened criminals he’d sent there. He was convinced that he would not live a year in prison, so he jumped bail. Abandoning his wife and two children, he headed west, winding up in the lawless town of Risco.

“What do you want to talk about?” Dinkins asked.

“You, and the men with you,” Webb replied. “You, Harley, and the Slater brothers are, well, to put it as delicately as I can, upsetting the equilibrium of our little town.”

“I tell you the truth, Webb, I don’t have an idea in hell what you just said,” Dinkins said.

“All right, let me reword it. Our little community is unique. We have neither law nor governing structure, and we ask no questions about anyone’s past. But, just because we have no law, does not mean you can behave any way you want while you are staying with us. No doubt, you noticed the corpse of the recently deceased Frank Marlow when you rode into town?”

“Yeah, it was kind of hard to miss.”

“That’s good. Mr. Marlow, you see, is an object lesson. We left him there as a reminder to others that there is a limit to our tolerance. He carved up and killed one of our whores. The rest of the town took umbrage with that.”

“Yeah, well, what are you talking to me for? We ain’t done nothin’ like that.”

“You have been, however, rather brutal with the ladies. And you have been belligerent to the ones who serve us here, the bartenders, the cooks, the clerks in our stores.”

“They have been charging us too much,” Dinkins said.

“I am sure you can understand there must be added costs to living here, and enjoying the freedom that we enjoy.”

“So, what you’re saying is you want us to be nicer to the hired help.”

“I’m just giving you a few words of advice,” Webb said. “You know, there are some people who don’t want you here at all. You have a string of murders behind you that might attract enough lawmen here that we won’t be able to discourage them.”

“Wait a minute. Are you telling me that among the horse thieves, cattle rustlers, bank, coach, and train robbers here, there ain’t none of them ever kilt anyone?”

“I am sure that quite a few of our citizens have killed,” Webb replied. “But generally they have killed because they were forced to. With you and your men, it is almost as if you have killed for no other reason than the pleasure it gives you.”

“Is that what you think?”

“It is, indeed. Oh, and one final thing, Mr. Dinkins. As a result of the string of killings you and your men have left behind, the reward money being offered now is fifteen hundred dollars for you, dead or alive. It is one thousand dollars for Mr. Harley, dead or alive, and five hundred dollars each for Frank and Travis Slater. That makes the four of you worth a total of thirty-five hundred dollars, and I must warn you, that sum is enough to tempt some of our citizens.”

“What you are saying is we should leave town. That is what you are saying, ain’t it?”

“Let us just say I am making a strong suggestion to that effect,” Webb replied.

Smoke removed his U.S. deputy marshal’s badge and put it in his saddlebag before he rode into town. It had been a long time since he was last in Risco, but as he rode down Outlaw Way, the main street of the little town, the years seemed to fall away. The town, inbred and festering, serviced by neither railroad nor stagecoach, had not changed. The purpose for which it existed meant it was better off remaining unheralded, unnoticed, and for the most part, unknown.

Looping Seven’s reins around the hitching post in front of the saloon, Smoke loosened the pistol in his holster, then pushed through the swinging doors to step inside. To his amazement, the man tending bar was the same one who had been tending bar when he was there last.

He stepped up to the bar, and when the bartender moved toward him, Smoke greeted him with a smile. “Hello, Dixon. Are you still watering the whiskey?”

Dixon, who appeared to be in his mid-sixties, was confused for a moment, then his face reflected recognition. “Buck West.” He smiled and stuck his hand across the bar. “I haven’t seen you in so long, I thought you had gone straight. Actually, I hoped you had gone straight.”

“So far I’ve managed to stay out of trouble,” Smoke said. When he was on the vengeance trail, and on the dodge because of it, Buck West was the name he was known by during his stay in Risco.

Like many of the other tradesmen in town, Dixon was not a wanted man, and had never committed a criminal act other than the technical crime of harboring wanted fugitives. Since all he was doing was tending bar, Smoke doubted if he could have been charged with that.

Dixon drew a beer without being asked, then put it in front of him. “Well, if you ain’t wanted, what are you doing here? Risco ain’t the kind of place someone visits for pleasure.”

“Maybe it’s for old time’s sake,” Smoke replied. “You know, to see you, and a few other old friends?”

“I doubt there is anyone here now that was here when you were, except for me. Most of the merchants make a killin’ here, sell out, and move on. And most of our residents—well, to tell you the truth, Buck, they don’t generally live that long. They wind up hung or shot. I’m surprised to see that you are still alive.”

“Sometimes I’m surprised myself.”

“I’ll ask you again, what are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for some people. And I was sort of hoping I might find them here.”

“Have you turned bounty hunter, West? Are you looking to cash in on the reward for someone? Because I can’t help you, you know that. If I turned someone over to a bounty hunter, my life wouldn’t be worth a wooden nickel.”

“I’m not a bounty hunter, Dixon,” Smoke said. “This is personal.”

“Do you see that man sitting over there, reading?”

Smoke had seen him when he first came into the saloon. In fact, he had checked everyone out when he first came in, not only to see if he might recognize the Slater brothers, or Harley, but to make certain there was nobody who might recognize him.

“Yeah, I saw him when I came in.”

“His name is Webb. He’s a judge.”

“A judge? Here?” Smoke asked, surprised by the pronouncement.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t say he was an honest judge,” Dixon said with a little chuckle. “But, he sort of runs things here, or at least, keeps things even. Maybe you seen the corpse hangin’ from the tree when you come into town.”

“I did see it. Smelled it too.”

“Yeah, some of the people are already com-plainin’ about the smell. Anyway, Judge Webb is the one that held the trial and sentenced him to hang. So, if you got somethin’ personal against someone here, I’d suggest you talk to the judge.”

“All right, I will. Thanks,” Smoke said. “Oh, what does the judge drink?”

“Whiskey. Blended,” Dixon said.

“Pour me a shot.”

Carrying his beer and a shot of whiskey, Smoke walked over to Webb’s table. “May I join you for a few minutes, Your Honor?”

Webb looked up from his book. “Please do not call me Your Honor. There is no longer anything about me that is honorable.”

“All right.” Smoke put the glass of whiskey in front of Webb and, with a nod of thanks, Webb picked it up and tossed it down.

“Now, sir, what can I do for you? But I must tell you before we begin to talk, that as I am not a conventional outlaw—I do not steal or rob—my only source of income is the money I get by providing legal advice.”

“I’m not asking for legal advice per se,” Smoke said. “But I am perfectly willing to pay you for engaging in this conversation.”

“Per se? My, one does not often hear language like that here. It is refreshing. Are you an educated man, sir?”

“My wife is a schoolteacher. She has done what she could to educate me.”

“You are also married. I must say, you are an unusual specimen for this settlement. What can I do for you, Mister ...” He left the word blank for Smoke to fill in.

“When I was in this town before, folks knew me as Buck West.” Smoke nodded toward Dixon. “That is how Mr. Dixon addressed me a few moments ago. I’m going to tell you my real name, Judge, and in doing so, I am, in a manner of speaking, putting my life in your hands.”

“Are you a lawman?” the judge asked.

Smoke shook his head. “Not by profession, though from time to time I have been deputized. My name is Smoke Jensen.”

The judge was silent for a moment. “So you are the famous Smoke Jensen.”

“Yes. And I’m here to—”

“You don’t have to tell me why you are here, Mr. Jensen. I know why you are here.”

“You do?”

“We may be isolated, but from time to time newspapers find their way here. I am aware that your wife was shot, either by Dinkins, or one of the men with him. I expect you are after them.”

“Yes,” Smoke said. “But not for any reward. My quest is a personal vendetta.”

“And what do you want from me, Mr. Jensen? Do you want some legal action, similar to that which was dispensed to Frank Marlow?”

“Frank Marlow?”

“The gentleman hanging from the cottonwood tree.”

“Not exactly.”

“I see. You want to dispense your own justice, do you?”

“Yes. And what I want from you, Judge, is your permission. This is your town, and as long as I am in your town, I am willing to play by your rules.”

“Interesting,” Webb said. “All right, you have my permission. You do know, do you not, that Wes Harley is one of the men who is associated with Bill Dinkins?”

“I have heard that. But he had no hand in shooting my wife.”

“That doesn’t matter. I expect that you are not going to be able to get to Dinkins, without first going through Wes Harley. And I think you would find him to be quite a formidable adversary.”

“I have never seen him, but I have heard him described,” Smoke said. “Is he in this room now?”

“He is not. I believe he is visiting in one of the cribs out back.”

“Thank you. I guess that means I’m going to have to take care of him first.”

Smoke stood up then, and looked out over the men, and the few women, who were in the crowded saloon. Pulling his pistol, he shot it into the floor. The sound of the gunshot got everyone’s attention, as he expected it to.

“Folks. I have a bone to pick with Wes Harley. I have reason to believe he is out back with”—he looked at one of the women, whose face reflected her fear, and smiled at her—“with a lady friend. If one of you would be so kind as to summon him, please tell him I will be waiting for him in the street out front.”

Wanda watched as the tall, handsome cowboy pushed his way through the bat wing doors. She recognized him, having seen him once, several years ago. She knew if there was anyone in the country who could face up to Wes Harley, Buck West would be that man. And that, she would like to see.

She went out behind the saloon to Emma’s crib, which was the second from the end, and knocked on the door.

“Who is it?” Emma called.

“Emma, honey, it’s me. Wanda. Is Mr. Harley in there with you?”

A second later the door opened, and Harley stood there, wearing only his pants and boots. Wanda had never been with Harley and for a second, she was struck dumb seeing just how hairless his body was. Even though Emma had said, “He doesn’t even have hair around his pecker. You should see him. He is as hairless as a baby,” she really wasn’t prepared for what she was seeing.

“What is it?” Harley asked gruffly. “What do you want?”

“There is someone who wants to meet you in the street,” Wanda said.

“What do you mean, meet me in the street?”

“I think he wants to have a gunfight with you.”

To her surprise, Harley smiled. “Well now, a gunfight. Good. It was getting a little boring around here. Who is it?”

“I don’t have any idea,” Wanda lied.