Butchery of the Mountain Man

CHAPTER NINE

Old Main Building

“I know that you ultimately settled near Big Rock,” Professor Armbruster said. “Sugarloaf Ranch is only a few miles away, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my ranch is just under five miles from Big Rock.”

“But the time of your story is, I believe you said, 1869?”

“Yes.”

“Big Rock was still quite new then, wasn’t it? I believe it was founded in 1860.”

“Yes, Big Rock is proud of its position in Colorado history,” Smoke said. He continued with his story and, as before, Professor Armbruster was able to lose himself in the narrative, so that he was actually there as an eyewitness to the events Smoke was describing.

Big Rock

The star on the man’s vest was still new because he had only been the sheriff for a short time. Before he moved to Big Rock to become their sheriff, Monte Carson had ridden the outlaw trail. It was mostly down in Texas, and most of the money he stole was from the carpetbaggers and reconstructionists who were taxing the ranchers and farmers to the point that more and more were having to sell out.

He was good with a gun too, and had demonstrated that skill many times, though almost always with someone who was also on the outlaw trail. The only exceptions had been when he killed Marcus Shardeen, a bounty hunter who was looking to take a dead Carson in for the reward, and Lou Bona, who, six months later, tried to do the same thing.

Carson looked again at the telegram he had received just this morning.

DREW CULPEPPER AND MARTIN DINGLE BELIEVED TO BE HEADED FOR BIG ROCK STOP BOTH MEN WANTED FOR MURDER STOP

Carson knew Culpepper; he had had a run-in with him two months earlier. Then it had been for getting drunk and throwing a rock through the front window of Murchison’s Leather Goods store, a dispute over a pair of saddlebags. Carson had forced Culpepper to pay for the damages, and Culpepper, before he left town, had uttered some threat about “getting even.” Carson didn’t know Martin Dingle, and had never even heard of him.

Laying the telegram aside, the sheriff walked over to the stove and, using a rag to protect against the heat, picked up the blue-steel pot to pour himself a cup of coffee. He drank it black, simply because it was easier that way, and holding the cup in his hand, he walked over to look through the front window, out onto Front Street. He blew into the coffee to cool it a bit before taking his first swallow.

Big Rock was a bustling town, primarily because of the gold mines in the area. When Smoke, Preacher, and Jackson rode into town they were treated to the sight of new buildings being erected, and the air was rent with the sounds of saws and hammers. There was a sawmill on the outer edge of town, and the ear-splitting screech of its steam-powered circular saw could be heard all over town. There were freight wagons moving up and down the streets, and the boardwalks on each side of the street filled with people conducting commerce.

“Coach comin’ in! Coach comin’ in!” someone shouted, and looking around Smoke saw a team of six horses coming into town at a gallop. The stagecoach behind the team was rocking left and right as it was pulled at a rapid pace north, up Tanner Street.

“Surely he didn’t run that team like that out on the road?” John asked.

Preacher chuckled. “No, they just like to make a point of arrivin’ and leavin’ at a gallop,” he said. “It calls attention to ’em, and makes some people think that maybe the whole trip is fast like that.”

They passed the Delmonico Café. “Now, that’s where we’ll eat after we have us a few beers,” Preacher said. “Ain’t no finer café in all of Colorado. ’Course, I ain’t et in ever’ café in Colorado.”

The three men stopped in front of Longmont’s Saloon. Preacher and Smoke dismounted, but John remained in his saddle.

“I appreciate what you men are doing,” John said. “And while I can buy my own beer, I’m not so sure I should be wasting money by eating in a restaurant. Especially if I’m going to have to buy a pack mule.”

“Don’t you be worryin’ none about that,” Preacher said. “When we take a feller in, he becomes our pardner. We ain’t goin’ to let you go thirsty, or hungry, or without a mule.”

“We’ll be buying all that we need,” Smoke said. “And you won’t be beholden to anyone. This is just the way we are out here.”

“I shall be in your debt then, and I fully intend to discharge that debt at my earliest opportunity,” John insisted.

“I have no doubt but that you will,” Smoke replied with a friendly smile. He held his hand up in invitation. “Now come on in before the beer goes stale.”

What only Preacher and Smoke knew was that Smoke’s father, Emmett, lay buried in a place called Brown’s Hole, up in the northwest corner of Colorado, near the Idaho line. And buried right beside him was several thousand dollars in gold. Though he didn’t show it in the way he lived, because he was always moving around, and staying in the mountains mostly, and avoiding towns and civilization, Smoke was a very wealthy man.

They tied up their animals in front of the saloon. A sign on the front of the saloon featured a beer mug containing a golden brew with a white foamy head. Beneath the sign were the words: COLD BEER HERE.

That was all the invitation they needed, and they pushed their way through the batwing doors to step inside. It was so dark that they had to stand there for a moment or two until their eyes adjusted. The bar was made of burnished mahogany with a highly polished brass footrail. Crisp, clean white towels hung from hooks on the customers’ side of the bar, spaced every four feet. A mirror was behind the bar, flanked on each side by a small statue of a nude woman set back in a special niche. A row of whiskey bottles sat in front of the mirror, reflected in the glass so that the row of bottles seemed to be two deep. A bartender with pomaded black hair and a waxed handlebar mustache stood behind the bar, where he was industriously polishing glasses.

“Is the beer really cold, like the sign says?” Smoke asked.

The bartender looked up at him, but he didn’t stop polishing the glasses.

“Any colder and the glass would freeze to your lip,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice.

“Good. Two beers,” Smoke said.

“Just two? There are three of you. What does the other one want?”

“I reckon they’ll be orderin’ for themselves,” Smoke said. “The two beers are for me.”

“I’ll have two,” Preacher said. “How about you, John?”

“As I said earlier, it has been a month of Sundays since I had a beer, so I think two beers would go a long way toward alleviating that situation,” John said.

The bartender chuckled, filled six mugs of beer, and set them in front of the three men.

“If all my customers were like you boys, I could get rich real quick, close this place down, and go on to California,” a tall, well-dressed man said, from his table near the piano.

“The sign out front says Longmont’s Saloon. You would be Mr. Longmont, would you?” Smoke asked.

“I am, sir, Louis Longmont, proprietor of the finest wines, beers, and whiskeys, at your service. And you gentlemen would be?”

“I’m Smoke Jensen. This is John Jackson. And the old gentleman is Preacher.”

“Preacher?” Longmont smiled. “I do believe I’ve heard of you, Preacher. Folks say you were here as soon as Jedediah Smith, Jim Bridger, and Kit Carson.”

“Jedediah Smith welcomed me to these mountains. I welcomed Bridger and Carson,” Preacher said.

“What’s in California?” John asked.

“Beg your pardon?”

“You said if you got rich you would close this place and go to California. What’s out there?”

“I’m afraid I can’t actually tell you that,” Longmont said. “I started out for California, but I never quite made it. I stopped here for a while and I haven’t left. But I expect I’ll get there someday.”

“Why would anyone ever want to leave?” Preacher asked. “I’ve been to a lot of places, never found a place I like better ’n these mountains.”

“Oui,” Longmont said. “I will confess that there’s something about the mountains that gets in a man’s blood.”

Smoke picked up the first beer and took a long drink before he turned to look around the place. A card game was going on in the corner and he watched it for a few minutes, drinking his beer while Preacher and John were carrying on a conversation behind him.

“Pilgrim, you’ll be in good hands with Smoke,” Preacher said. “I never knew anyone that learned as fast as he did.”

“I appreciate it,” John said.

“And here’s another thing. You make this boy your friend, and you’ll have a loyal friend for the rest of your life. And out here, one of the first things you learn is that the most valuable thing a man can have, is a loyal friend.”

The back door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a badge, stepped through the door. Smoke recognized Sheriff Monte Carson, and he started to speak to him, but saw that the sheriff’s attention was directed to a table in the corner of the room.

“Culpepper,” Sheriff Carson said. “I heard you were in town. I didn’t think you’d be dumb enough to come to my town. Not after killin’ those two men down in Pueblo.”

The man Carson was talking to, one of the cardplayers, stood up slowly, then turned to face the sheriff.

“What gives you the idea this is your town? And anyway, am I supposed to be afraid of some small-town sheriff like you?”

Because the situation had the look of an impending gunfight, the remaining cardplayers jumped up from the table and moved out of the way.

“You had to know that if you were going to come back to Big Rock, I was going to find out about it, and put you in jail.”

“You ain’t puttin’ me in no jail, Sheriff.”

“You’re either goin’ to jail, or you’re goin’ to die, right here, and right now,” Sheriff Carson said.

Culpepper smiled. “Sheriff, have you considered the possibility that you might be the one dyin’?”

Smoke was watching the drama play out before him, when he heard something, a soft squeaking sound as if weight were being put down on a loose board. Looking up toward the top of the stairs, he saw a man aiming a shotgun at Sheriff Carson. Carson didn’t see him, because the man was behind the sheriff.

“Sheriff, look out!” Smoke shouted. When he shouted the warning, Sheriff Carson turned quickly, drew, and fired. The man at the top of the stairs fired the shotgun wildly, and the heavy charge of buckshot tore a large hole in one of the tables. Sheriff Carson’s shot had been right on target, and the man with the shotgun dropped his weapon and slapped his hand over the wound in his chest. He stood there just for a second as blood spilled between his fingers. Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell, belly down, headfirst, sliding down the stairs, following his clattering shotgun to the ground floor.

The sound of the two gunshots had riveted everyone’s attention to that exchange, including Sheriff Carson, and while his attention was diverted from him, Culpepper took the opportunity to go for his own gun.

“Don’t do it, Culpepper!” Smoke yelled, and Culpepper turned his gun toward Smoke. The saloon was filled with the roar of another gunshot as Smoke drew and fired at Culpepper, even though Culpepper already had his gun in his hand.

Smoke’s shot hit Culpepper between the eyes, and he fell back on the table that was still covered with cards and poker chips. He lay there, belly up with his head hanging down on the far side while blood dripped from the hole in his forehead to form a puddle below him. His gun fell from his lifeless hand and clattered to the floor.

“What’s goin’ on in here?” a new voice asked. “What’s all the shootin’?”

When Smoke turned toward the sound of the voice he saw a man standing just inside the open door. Because of the brightness of the light behind him, Smoke couldn’t see him clearly enough to identify him.

“Get out of the light,” Smoke ordered.

“You don’t tell me what to do, I . . .”

Smoke pulled the hammer back and his pistol made a deadly metallic click as the gear engaged the cylinder.

“I said get out of the light, or I’ll kill you where you stand.”

The figure moved out of the light. When he did, Smoke saw that he was wearing a badge. He put his pistol away.

“It’s all right, Emile,” Sheriff Carson said to his deputy. “Put your gun away. This man just saved my life.”

Emile Harris put the gun away, then advanced farther into the saloon. He looked first at the man lying at the foot of the stairs, then at the other man, spread out on the card table with his head dangling over the edge.

“Damn, what happened here?” he asked.

“What happened here is that these two men made the mistake of thinking they could run roughshod in our town,” Sheriff Carson said.

“And you killed both of ’em?”

“No, just that one,” Carson replied, pointing to the man at the bottom of the stairs. “That one, I presume, is a man named Dingle. This is Culpepper. Carson pointed toward Smoke. This man killed Culpepper.”

“Would you really have shot me if I hadn’t moved out of the light?”

Smoke picked up his beer and took a drink before he responded.

“Yeah,” he said.