Savagery of The Mountain Man

Chapter Fourteen

When Lenny York stepped into the jail that night, he was carrying a tray covered with a cloth.

“What have you got there?” Deputy Wilson asked.

“I brought the prisoner his supper,” Lenny said.

“Who told you to do that? The marshal didn’t leave me no money to pay for the prisoner’s supper.”

“I paid for it myself,” Lenny said.

“Why?”

“Because I saw what happened and I know this man didn’t have any choice. If he hadn’t killed Billy Ray, Billy Ray would have killed him, and maybe even someone else in the saloon, the way he was using that scattergun.”

“Damn, if you feel like that, maybe I better check just to make sure you ain’t carryin’ him in no gun or nothin’,” Wilson said.

Wilson took the cover off, revealing a bowl of beans and a small plate that had two corn bread muffins. He picked up one of the muffins and took a bite.

“Hey, put that back! That isn’t yours,” York complained.

Wilson laughed. “I’m the deputy,” he said. “There’s been some hard feelin’ about this man, seein’ as he kilt Billy Ray Quentin. I need to make sure you wasn’t poisonin him or nothin’.”

Wilson ate the corn bread muffin with obvious enjoyment, then made a dismissive motion with his hand.

“Go ahead, you can take it to him,” he said.

Lenny nodded, then walked back to the cell.

“I brought you something to eat,” he said.

“Thanks,” Pearlie replied. “I haven’t eaten since this morning and I was getting pretty hungry.”

Lenny passed the bowl and plate through the bars, then turning the tray on edge, passed it through as well so Pearlie would have something to eat on. Pearlie sat on his bunk, put the tray on his knees to use as a table, and began to eat.

“This is very good,” he said. “Or else I’m just very hungry.”

“No, it is really good,” Lenny said. “I know, because my ma fixed it. She runs Kathleen’s Kitchen and Boarding House.”

“Really? Yes, I saw that as I rode by it while coming into town,” Pearlie said. “I almost stopped there before I went to the saloon. I should have. If I had done that I wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

“You shouldn’t be here now anyway,” Lenny said. “What you did was in self-defense.”

“Yes, well, when we have the trial, with you, the young lady, and Deckert testifying, I shouldn’t have any problem convincing the jury.”

Lenny shook his head. “Deckert isn’t going to testify in court.”

“Why not? He spoke up back at the saloon.”

“Yes, but remember when the marshal questioned him again, he backed down. He isn’t going to testify because he’s too afraid.”

“Afraid of who? The marshal?”

“He’s afraid of Pogue Quentin,” Lenny said. “Everybody in town is afraid of him.”

“Are you scared of him?”

Lenny nodded. “He is not a man I would want to cross.”

“Does that mean you aren’t going to testify for me?”

“No, I’ll testify for you. I’m scared of Pogue Quentin all right, but that doesn’t mean I won’t testify.”

“Well, Lenny, I appreciate that,” Pearlie said. “From the way the marshal talks, your testimony may not do much good, but I appreciate that you are willing to do it.”

“Your cheek looks like it’s beginning to swell up some from the shotgun pellets,” Lenny said. “How come the doc didn’t take ’em out?”

“I haven’t seen a doctor.”

“That’s not right. The marshal should have gotten him to look at you. I’ll get him to come by.”

“If the marshal doesn’t ask him to come, I doubt he’ll do it,” Pearlie said.

Lenny shook his head. “No, he’ll come if I ask him,” he said. Lenny smiled. “Dr. Urban is a single man, and my ma is a widow. Dr. Urban has been callin’ on her.”

“I appreciate that, Lenny.” Pearlie put his finger on one of the pellet wounds on his cheek and winced. “You think you could get the doctor to come look at me pretty soon?”

“I’ll get him,” Lenny said.

“Lenny, are you sure you want to get involved in this?” Lenny’s mother asked a few minutes later when Lenny told her what had happened.

“Doesn’t seem like I have any choice, Ma,” Lenny replied. “You have always said I should do what is right, regardless of what anyone else thinks. Well, this is the right thing to do.”

“I always said you should play the piano in concerts in grand theaters, too,” Kathleen York said. “And where do you play? In a saloon.”

Lenny chuckled. “How many grand theaters are there in Santa Clara?”

“You don’t have to stay here.”

“I know I don’t have to stay here, but I want to I mean, you are here, aren’t you? Besides, I’m not really good enough to play anywhere except a saloon.” Lenny chuckled. “But I’m not complainin’. Playing the piano certainly beats mucking manure out of a stable over at the livery—and that’s about the only thing else I would be qualified to do.”

“I’m not the only one keeping you here, am I?”

“What do you mean, Ma?”

“Are you still seeing that—uh—woman over at the saloon?”

“Only in a matter of speaking. Mary Lou Culpepper is a good woman, but she doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.”

“Surely she doesn’t think she is better than you?” Kathleen asked.

“No, Ma, it’s just the opposite. She doesn’t think she is good enough for me.”

“Well, who am I to judge?” Kathleen said. “After your father died, it was quite a struggle keeping food in our mouths and a roof over our heads. If I hadn’t managed to make a go of the restaurant and boardinghouse, who knows what I would have done?”

“You’ve done well, Ma,” Lenny said. “We never went hungry, and you even found enough money to pay for my piano lessons.”

Kathleen smiled, and put her hand on her son’s cheek. “You think it is important that you help this man the marshal has in jail, do you?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do,” Lenny replied.

“All right. I’ll go over to David’s office now, and ask him to step down to the jailhouse to take a look at your friend.”

“Thanks, Ma.”

The lettering printed on the side of the doctor’s medical bag read: DAVID URBAN, M.D. He set it on the edge of Deputy Wilson’s desk.

“What are you doin’ here?” Wilson asked.

“I’ve come to have a look at your prisoner,” Dr. Urban replied.

Wilson shook his head. “Huh-uh, no, you don’t. I ain’t been authorized to pay you nothin’.”

“I’m not asking for any money, Deputy. All I’m asking is that you let me see your prisoner.”

“I can’t let him out of the cell—you’ll have to stay in there with him. And he’s a dangerous man, seein’ as he’s already killed one man.”

“That’s all right. I’ll take my chances with him. And I can work as well inside the cell as outside,” Dr. Urban said.

“I’ll take you back there and let you in, but I’m going to have to lock the door behind you.”

“I understand.”

Pearlie was lying on the bunk when the three men approached his cell.

“Pearlie, I brought the doctor,” Lenny said.

Pearlie sat up. “Good for you. I appreciate that.”

Wilson put the key in the cell door, but before he turned it, he looked over at Pearlie. “Don’t you get up off that cot till these folks is inside and I’ve locked the door behind ’em.”

Pearlie didn’t answer, but neither did he make an attempt to get up. Wilson opened the cell door, held it for a moment, then slammed it shut behind Lenny and Dr. Urban.

“When you are ready to come out, just let me know,” he said.

“I’m ready to come out,” Pearlie said, and Lenny and Dr. Urban laughed.

“You’re a real funny man, ain’t you?” Wilson said with a sneer as he turned and walked back toward the front of the building.

“Let me take a look at your face,” Dr. Urban said, examining the wounds.

“How do they look?” Pearlie asked.

“Right now, it’s not a face the ladies will fall in love with,” Dr. Urban answered. “But it shouldn’t be all that hard to get the pellets out. And they are going to have to come out before they fester up on you.”

Dr. Urban searched through his bag until he found something that looked like an extended pair of tweezers. “Lenny, grab that plate that his dinner was on, and hold it while I dig these out, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” Lenny replied.

Lenny stood by, holding the plate as Dr. Urban dug each of the little balls of shot out of Pearlie’s face. As he pulled them out, he dropped the pellets into the plate. Pearlie winced with each extraction.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Urban said.

“It’s all right,” Pearlie replied.

Dr. Urban cleaned the wounds, then poured alcohol on them.

“Ouch!” Pearlie shouted.

“Sorry, but we’ve learned a lot in the last few years,” Dr. Urban said. “And one of the things we’ve learned is that alcohol helps to prevent the wounds from festering.”

“I know, and I appreciate it,” Pearlie said.

“All right, that does it,” the doc said, standing up and cleaning his own hands. “Try and keep your hands away from the wounds if you can.”

“I’ll try,” Pearlie said. Pearlie looked up at Lenny. “Lenny, I’m goin’ to ask you do to a favor for me. A big favor.”

“All right. Whatever you say.”

“I want you to go up to the town of Big Rock. When you get there, ask directions for Sugarloaf Ranch. At Sugarloaf, you’ll find a fella by the name of Smoke Jensen. Tell him where I am, and what kind of a fix I’m in. Also, tell him how much money it cost you to go there. He’ll pay you back.”

“I will if I can get off,” Lenny said.

“If you can get off? Get off what?”

“You don’t know, because I wasn’t working when you were there, but I play piano for Mr. Gibson.”

“Gibson?”

“He’s the man that owns the saloon. He wasn’t there when you were there. In fact, he’s not even in town now. I’ll have to wait until he comes back so I can ask him.”

“There may not be enough time to wait,” Pearlie said. “From the way the marshal was talking, they’re going to try to get this done very fast.”

“You’re right,” Lenny said. He sighed. “All right, I’ll go. It may cost me my job, but I’ll go.”

“It’s not going to cost you your job, Lenny,” Dr. Urban said. “I’m sure you know that Rodney Gibson is a very good friend of mine. I’ll make things right with him.”

“I appreciate that,” Lenny said.

Pearlie reached over to pick up his hat. The silver band flashed once in the sun. “When you get to Sugarloaf, give this hat to a young fella there named Calvin Woods. Tell him I said, ‘Thanks for the loan.’”

“Thanks for the loan?”

“Yeah, he’ll know what that means. And it will prove that you didn’t steal it, that you’re actually carrying a message from me.”

“All right,” Lenny said, taking the hat. “I’ll do that.”

“Don’t let me down, Lenny,” Pearlie said. “And hurry, or my friends might get here just in time to visit my grave.”

“I don’t know, Lenny,” Lloyd Evans said as he stood behind the bar, polishing glasses. “I ain’t your boss. Rodney is. And he’s up in Denver for a few days, you know that.”

“Yeah, I know,” Lenny replied. “But Dr. Urban is a real good friend of Mr. Gibson’s. He said he would take it up with him and make it right.”

“If Dr. Urban offered to do that, you’ll probably be all right then,” Evans said. “They are good friends. Why, you’ve seen yourself how many times they’ve sat at that table back in the corner, playing chess.”

“How soon are you leaving?” Mary Lou asked.

“Pearlie is right. If I don’t go as soon as I can, it may be too late. That’s why I’m takin’ the next train north.”

“Lenny, are you sure you are doing the right thing?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Pogue Quentin is a very powerful man,” she replied. “He may not like it if he thinks you are helping the man who killed his son.”

“Come on, Mary Lou, you saw it just like I did. You know Pearlie didn’t have any choice but to shoot Billy Ray.”

“I know. It was self-defense.”

“I might not get up there and back in time—and even if I do, I don’t know that his friends will be able to do anything. But I have to try.”

“Who are his friends?” Evans asked. “Did Pearlie tell you their names?”

“Well, one of them owns a ranch and Pearlie used to work for him. His name is Smoke Jensen.”

Evans stopped polishing the glasses and looked up in sharp surprise. “Did you say Smoke Jensen?”

“Yes. Why? Do you know him?”

“I can’t exactly say that I know him,” Evans said. “But I’ve seen him in action.”

“Seen him in action? What kind of action?”

“He’s the fella that single-handed cleaned out the town of Bury, Idaho. I’ll tell you this—if there is a man alive who can help this boy, it would be someone like Smoke Jensen.”

“In that case, I have to get back in time,” Lenny said.

“Lenny, if you’d like, I’ll come down to the depot with you and see you off,” Mary Lou offered.

A broad smile spread across Lenny’s face. “Mary Lou, I can’t think of anything I would like more,” he said.

Kathleen York also went down to the depot to see her son off. Lenny was the only passenger leaving at this hour, so the waiting room was empty except for the single ticket clerk, who sat behind the ticket counter reading the newspaper, and the telegrapher, who was at his incessantly clacking key, nosily listening to the messages, even though none of them were being sent to Santa Clara.

“Ma, promise me that you’ll take food down to him while I’m gone,” Lenny said.

“Are you saying you don’t think the marshal will feed him?”

“I don’t know. You know that Marshal Dawson is Pogue Quentin’s man, and if Quentin doesn’t want Pearlie fed, Dawson would more than likely just starve him.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Kathleen said. “But you know yourself that sometimes I get pretty busy in the restaurant. I might not always be able to get away.”

“You’ve got to feed him, Ma.”

“Like I said, I’ll do what I can. I’m not going to let him starve,” Kathleen promised.

“You’ll like Pearlie, Ma. He’s really a very nice person. And he has been just real friendly to me.”

“How nice can he be? He killed Billy Ray Quentin.”

“I told you, he didn’t have any choice,” Lenny said, glancing toward the door. He had been glancing toward the door every minute or so since they had arrived, half an hour ago.

“What are you looking for?” Kathleen asked.

Before he could answer his ma’s question, a young woman stepped through the door. She smiled when she saw Lenny and she started toward him, then stopped when she saw Lenny’s mother with him. The smile left her face, to be replaced by a look of concern.

“Mary Lou, I’m glad you could come,” Lenny called to her. “Come on, I want you to meet my ma.”

“Lenny, I don’t think…” Kathleen began, but Lenny cut her comment off with a stare.

“Ma, watch what you say,” he said quietly. “I don’t think you want to insult the girl I’m going to marry, now, do you?”

“Lenny, you can’t be serious.”

“I am, Ma. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

Lenny walked over to take Mary Lou by the arm and lead her back to his mother.

It was obvious that Mary Lou was nervous, but to Lenny’s relief, his mother smiled graciously, then extended her hand.

“Mary Lou,” she said. “I’ve heard so much about you. I’m glad you are here to help see Lenny off.”

The tense expression left Mary Lou’s face, and she relaxed visibly. “It is nice to meet you, Mrs. York,” she said, taking Kathleen’s proffered hand.

“Oh, hey, Ma, I’ve got an idea,” Lenny said. “On those times when you can’t get off long enough to take a meal over to Pearlie, you can let Mary Lou do it for you.”

“Oh, Lenny, I couldn’t ask her to do that,” Kathleen said.

“I don’t mind,” Mary Lou said. “I’d be glad to do that for you.”

Kathleen paused for a moment, as if considering all the consequences. Then, smiling, she nodded. “Thank you, that will be wonderful,” she said.

By mid-morning of the next day, a polished black coffin, liberally trimmed with silver, was on display behind the big window in front of Quentin’s Hardware Store. Throughout the morning, nearly the entire town had stopped by at one time or another to have a look. The top half of the coffin was open so the body could be seen lying on a bed of white silk. Billy Ray was wearing a black suit, a ruffled white shirt, and a black bow tie.

A sign posted alongside the coffin read:

A Noble Young Life

Brought to an untimely end

by a murdering Stranger

The article in the Santa Clara Chronicle was more neutral:

Shooting in The New York Saloon.

A quiet evening of pleasant conversation, moderate imbibing, and recreational cardplaying erupted into gunplay Thursday last. Billy Ray Quentin, the son of Huereano County’s most affluent citizen, was hurled into eternity by the accurate placement of a .44-caliber ball, said ball the result of a pistol discharged by a visitor to Santa Clara, a man who has identified himself only as Pearlie.

Shortly after the dramatic confrontation, Marshal Clem Dawson and Deputy Deke Wilson arrived on the scene, whereupon Pearlie was immediately placed under arrest. Pearlie is now awaiting trial for murder, though the prosecutor may have a difficult time in establishing his case. There are some who were eyewitnesses to the shooting who have made the statement that the stranger had no choice but to return fire. These witnesses report that Billy Ray started the fight by firing a twelve-gauge shotgun at Pearlie, with the obvious intent of killing him. It will be up to a jury to make the final decision as to whether Pearlie’s arrival in our fair town, surely with no aforethought to killing another human being, shall now result in his being hanged.

Billy Ray Quentin will be buried tomorrow in the Santa Clara Cemetery.

The funeral parade to the cemetery was led by members of the volunteer fire department, proudly showing off their pumper, its highly polished brass boiler shining brightly in the afternoon sun. Following the fire pumper was the town’s marching band, its members elegantly attired in their red and gold uniforms, the bright color offset somewhat by the black armbands they were wearing. The band was playing Chopin’s stately Funeral March, and they proceeded along the route in slow, measured steps, keeping pace with the somber music.

Next came the highly polished white, glass-sided hearse, bearing Billy Ray’s black and silver coffin. The head of the coffin was somewhat elevated so that the spectators who lined the street on both sides could see the body. The hearse was driven by Josiah Welch, the undertaker, who, like Billy, was dressed in a black suit, with a ruffled white shirt and black bow tie. The only difference was that Welch was wearing a high-crown silk hat.

Pogue Quentin, who was also wearing a black suit, rode in an elegant open carriage behind the hearse. The carriage, as were the horses pulling it, was draped in black bunting. As the cortege passed by, the people began following it to the cemetery.

Because there had been no rites in the church, the body was taken directly from its place of display in the show window of the hardware store to the cemetery. Once the cortege reached its destination, the coffin was removed from the hearse and placed on the ground alongside the open grave. Not until then was the top part of the coffin closed, after which the Reverend Charles Landers stepped up to the head of the grave.

“Dear friends,” he began. “We are gathered here in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection and eternal life of our brother, Billy Ray Quentin, and I ask you to now—”

“Hold on there, Preacher,” Pogue Quentin called, interrupting the funeral rite. “I want to say a few words.”

“I—uh—very well,” Landers said, surprised by Quentin’s unexpected outburst. He stepped aside, assuming that Quentin would take his place, but Quentin didn’t move from where he had been standing.

“Folks,” Quentin began. “The man who murdered my boy, in cold blood, is down there in the jailhouse.” He pointed in the general direction of the jail. “We’ll be havin’ his trial soon as Judge McCabe gets here, and that means there will be a jury selected. That jury will come from this town, most of which is here now. If you are selected to be on that jury, I want you to understand that I expect the murderer to be found guilty and to hang.”

He held up a copy of the Santa Clara Chronicle and pointed to the front-page story.

“Brandon, there will be no more stories like this one. Why, if someone didn’t know any better, they could read this story and think maybe that the man who killed my son was justified.”

“Mr. Quentin, you must know that there are some who witnessed the event who say that it was justifiable homicide,” Brandon replied.

“I want you to know, Brandon, that I will be keeping my eye on you and on any more stories you write like this one. And I’m givin’ you fair warning now not to do it.”

“Are you threatening the right of a free press, sir?” Brandon asked.

“I’m just tellin’ you, that’s all,” Quentin said. “And for rest of you, any of you who might be on the jury,” he continued, looking out over those who had gathered in the cemetery for the purpose of interment, “hear me good. I won’t take too kindly to anyone who doesn’t do their duty and find that son of a bitch guilty. I aim to see to it that my son’s killer is hung by the neck until he is dead.”

“Mr. Quentin, we are having a funeral,” Landers said. “Such language is unseemly.”

“Yeah? Well, you got your language and I got mine, Preacher,” Quentin said. “But I’ve got my piece said now, so you can get on back to the buryin’.”