Assault of the Mountain Man

CHAPTER FOUR

After the coach left, Smoke drove down Main Street, exchanging greetings with the citizens of the town he helped form. The Jensens were well-known and respected, and if everyone in town didn’t know them personally, everyone in town certainly knew who they were.

Sheriff Monte Carson was sitting on the boardwalk in front of his office, with a cup of coffee in hand. When Smoke and Sally rode past, he called out, “Howdy.”

Smoke grinned and tipped his hat and Sally smiled and waved.

“You going to stop in to Longmont’s?” Sheriff Carson called. Longmont’s Saloon, unlike many Western saloons, was a genteel and sophisticated place, in spite of being so far removed from a city of any size.

“Yeah, soon as I get a few things from the hardware store,” Smoke called back.

“I’ll join you then.”

“Good.”

“What am I supposed to do while you are visiting with all your friends in Longmont’s?” Sally asked.

“I figured you would want to stop by the general store,” Smoke said. “You always do that, when you come to town.”

“That’s true.”

“Then you can come on down to Longmont’s. They’re your friends too, and you know how Louis prides himself in keeping a place that is fit for ladies.”

“All right. The general store, then Longmont’s it is,” Sally agreed.

In front of the general store Smoke stepped down from the buckboard, helped Sally alight, then tied the two-horse rig up to a rail. He went inside with her and looked around at the goods piled on tables and stacked in shelves. The store smelled of cured meat, flour, spices, candle wax, and coal oil. A large counter separated the proprietors from the customers, and on that counter was a roll of brown paper, and a spool of string. Peg Johnson was behind the counter, tending to another customer.

“Hello Sally, Smoke,” Peg said. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

“No hurry.” Sally began looking through the dry goods.

“Sally, I’m going to leave the buckboard down at the hardware store while they load it. If you buy anything, just leave it here and we’ll pick it up on the way out of town,” Smoke suggested.

“All right. I’ll see you in few minutes.”

“You’ve been out of town, haven’t you, Sally?” Smoke heard Peg ask as he was leaving. He didn’t hear Sally’s response, because he was already climbing onto the buckboard.

Fifteen minutes later, with his order placed, Smoke spoke to Kendall Sikes, the owner of the Sikes’ Hardware Store. “Kendall, I’m going to leave my buckboard here, and if you would, please, have someone bring it down to Longmont’s when you have it loaded.”

“Be glad to, Smoke,” Kendall replied.

On the way to Longmont’s, Smoke passed a couple of the older citizens of the town, engaged in a game of checkers. There were at least five kibitzers of equal age watching the game and offering unwanted advice.

As was his custom, he entered the saloon and stepped immediately to the side, pressing his back up against the wall. He let his eyes adjust to the lower light inside while he looked for possible trouble among the patrons. He did it as a matter of habit, in every saloon he entered. In truth, it was not necessary in Louis Longmont’s saloon. He was as safe there as in his own living room. But it was a habit he had cultivated, and all good habits, he believed, should be continued without an interruption in the routine.

Longmont’s was truly one of the nicest establishments of its kind that Smoke had ever seen. It would have been at home in San Francisco, St. Louis, or New York. It had a long, polished mahogany bar, with a brass foot rail that Louis kept shining brightly. A cut glass mirror was behind the bar, and the artwork was truly art, not the garish nudes that were so prominent in saloons throughout the West. His collection included originals by Winslow Homer, George Catlin, and Thomas Moran.

Louis was sitting at his usual table in a corner. He was a lean, hawk-faced man, with strong, slender hands, long fingers, and carefully manicured nails. He had jet-black hair and a black pencil-thin moustache. He always wore fine suits, white shirts, and the ubiquitous ascot. Today it was a royal blue. He wore low-heeled boots, and a pistol that hung low in a tied-down holster on his right side. The pistol was nickel-plated, with ivory handles, but it wasn’t just for show. Louis was snake-quick and a feared, deadly gun hand when pushed.

He was engaged in a profession that did not have a very good reputation, and there had been times when he was called upon to use his gun. Those times, he did so with deadly effectiveness. He was also a man with a very strong code of honor, as well as a belief in right and wrong. He had never hired, nor would he ever hire, his gun out for money. While he could make a deck of cards do almost anything, he had never cheated at poker. He didn’t have to cheat. He was possessed of a phenomenal memory, could tell you the odds of filling any type of poker hand, and was an expert at the technique of card counting.

Louis was just past thirty. When he was a small boy, he left Louisiana and came West with his parents. They had died in a shantytown fire, leaving the boy to cope as best he could.

He had coped quite well, plying his innate intelligence, along with his willingness to take a chance, into a fortune. He owned a large ranch in Wyoming Territory, several businesses in San Francisco, and a hefty chunk of a railroad.

Though it was a mystery to many why Louis continued to stay with his saloon and restaurant in a small town, he explained it very simply. “I would miss it.”

Smoke understood exactly what he was talking about.

“Smoke, mon ami,” Louis said. “It is good to see you, as always. What will it be? Coffee, beer, wine, or whiskey?”

“It’s before noon,” Smoke replied. “I think a cup of coffee would be fine.”

“Make it two cups,” Sheriff Carson said, coming in behind Smoke.

“I just saw you drinking one cup,” Smoke teased. “Now you are going to drink two more?”

“No, I meant ...” Sheriff Carson laughed when he saw that Smoke was teasing. “I think there is a bit of leg pulling going on here.”

Andre, Louis Longmont’s French cook, brought two cups of steaming coffee, and put them on the table in front of Smoke and Sheriff Carson.

“Do you have any cream and sugar back there, Andre?” Sheriff Carson asked.

“Quelle sorte de cochon grossier detruirait du café merveilleux avec la crème et le sucre?” Andre asked loudly and angrily, as he stormed back into the kitchen.

“What the hell did he just say?”

Longmont laughed. “Trust me, Sheriff, you don’t want to know. Suffice it to say that he took umbrage with your request for cream and sugar, in a coffee that he has already declared to be marvelous.”

Sally had come in during the previous exchange, and she called out from the door. “Andre, j’aimerais une tasse de votre cafe sans cremez ou sucre.” The French rolled easily from her tongue.

Andre kissed the tips of the four fingers of his right hand, and opened them toward Sally. “Mme Jensen, la seule personne civiliseé dans cette terre sauvage.”

“Why, thank you, Andre. I try to be civilized”—Sally looked at Smoke and Sheriff Carson—“though sometimes, surrounded as I am with such creatures as these, it is difficult.”

Carson looked over at Smoke. “Have we just been put down?”

Smoke laughed. “Monte, you are a married man just as I am. Haven’t you learned by now, never to ask such a question?”

“How is the roundup going?” Sheriff Carson ignored Smoke’s question.

“We’re just getting started,” Smoke replied. “Cattle got scattered from here to hell and back during the winter. I’ve got all hands out finding them, rounding them up, as well as digging them out of sink holes.”

Sally laughed. “Pearlie’s favorite task,” she said sarcastically.

“So, how is the law business going?” Smoke asked.

“Got a new dodger in yesterday,” Sheriff Carson said. “For a man named Bill Dinkins.”

“Bill Dinkins? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”

“He got his name known somewhat back in Kansas,” Sheriff Carson said. “Then when it got too hot for him there, he came here. Last month he and three others tried to hold up the bank in Buffalo.”

“Tried to? He didn’t succeed? What happened?”

“The whole town got down on ’em, that’s what happened. When they came out of the bank, they ran into a hornet’s nest. Half the town was armed and shootin’ at them, and they were shootin’ back. And here’s the thing. Dinkins run out on his men. He could have gone back, helped them get remounted, then ridden on out. The shootin’ wasn’t that accurate, for all that there was a lot of it. All three of his men were shot down in the street, though they went down game. Dinkins ran, and now there’s a nice reward out for him.”

“How much money did he get from the bank?”

Sheriff Carson chuckled. “That’s just it. He didn’t get one red cent. Six men dead, for nothin’.”

“Six men?”

“According to the witnesses—customers in the bank—Dinkins got mad when the teller refused to turn the money bag over to him, so he shot him. There were two more of the townspeople killed outside the bank, plus all three of Dinkins’ men. That made it a total of six.”

“How much is being offered for Dinkins?” Smoke asked.

“Right now, just five hundred dollars. Like I said, he didn’t get one red cent.”

“But he did kill the teller?”

“Yes. In cold blood.”

“Someone like that, the reward can only go up,” Smoke said.

“Yeah, I’m pretty much thinkin’ that myself,” Carson replied.

Smoke and Sally visited with their friends until noon. When Dr. Colton came in to have his lunch Louis insisted they all have lunch, on him.

“Not me,” Sheriff Carson said, holding up his hand. “The wife will be fixin’ a big lunch for me. She would be some disappointed if I didn’t come home for it.”

“You could eat just a little here,” Louis invited, “then go home for lunch.”

“Yeah, I guess I ...” Sheriff Carson shook his head. “No, I better not. But I thank you for the invite.”

“Tell us about New York, Sally,” Louis said after Sheriff Carson left. “It has been so long since I was there.”

“Oh, New York is wonderful. So many huge buildings, four, five, and six stories high, elevated trains whizzing all through the city, electric wires, telephone service. Surely, there is no place in the world like New York.”

“You talk almost as if you would rather you and Smoke lived there,” Dr. Colton said.

“Oh, no.” Sally put her hand on Smoke’s arm. “I am living exactly where I want to live. Remember, I came West of my own accord, and I have never regretted one moment of it.”

“She met with the president of the United States,” Smoke said proudly.

“The president? You met the president?”

“It isn’t that big of a deal,” Sally said. “He and my father were very good friends at one time.”

“What do you mean, that isn’t a very big deal? I think it is a huge deal,” Dr. Colton said.

Laramie, Wyoming

At the remark made by the young man, all conversation in the Rocky Mountain Beer Hall ceased.

Wesley Harley was an ugly man. He was bald, not because of age, but because some anomaly in his genetic makeup left him completely devoid of body hair—none on his head, no eyebrows or eyelashes, no mustache, and no hair on his arms, chest, or anywhere else. His face was narrow, and his skin was drawn so tight across his high cheekbones he looked almost like a skeleton.

He had been leaning against the bar, with both his hands wrapped around the beer in front of him. He turned toward the young man who had spoken to him.

“What did you say?”

“You heard what I said,” the young man, barely out of the teens, said. His words were loud and precisely spoken. “I said you murdered my pa, and I intend to see you brought to justice for it.”

“Do you now? And just how do you plan to do that?”

“By telling the law. I am going to the sheriff right now. I am going to tell him what you did, and I am going to tell him where to find you.”

“You don’t understand, do you, boy?” Harley said. “The sheriff knows where I am. Hell, all the sheriffs in the West know where I am. They just don’t want no part of me.”

“It ain’t right,” the boy said. “You murdered my pa, and I ain’t goin’ to let you get away with it.”

“Well, now, since I done told you that the sheriff don’t want nothin’ to do with me, if you are lookin’ for justice, seems to me the only way you goin’ to get that justice is if you do it yourself. But before we get on with it, who is it I’m supposed to have kilt?”

“I don’t believe this. You mean you can’t even remember the name of someone you killed?”

“Sonny, I’ve kilt so many of ’em, they all sort of blend in. What was your pa’s name? And where is it I was supposed to have kilt him?”

“His name was Conyers. Enoch Conyers,” the boy said.

“Oh, yeah,” Harley said. “I remember him. He was cheatin’ at cards.”

“My pa never cheated at anything!” the boy said resolutely.

“Yeah, I recollect now. He wasn’t cheatin’. He accused me of cheatin’. I called him out on it.”

“And you killed him,” the boy said.

“You ought not to start somethin’ you can’t finish.” Harley chuckled, but it was a laugh without genuine mirth. “Sort of like what you’re doin’ now, ain’t it, boy? You’ve started somethin’ you can’t finish.”

The expression on the boy’s face changed from one of anger, to fear when he realized what he had gotten himself into. Then, even the fear gave way to resignation.

“Let’s do it, boy,” Harley said, his voice sounding almost bored.

With a defiant scream, the boy went for his gun. He had it but halfway out of the holster when Harley fired at him. The bullet hit the boy in the heart, killing him before he could even react to it.

Only one shot had been fired, and because Harley put his pistol back in his holster as quickly as he had taken it out, some in the saloon didn’t even know where the shot had come from.

The sheriff held an inquest that very afternoon, and because there were enough witnesses who saw what actually happened, no charges were filed.