Savagery of The Mountain Man

Chapter Sixteen

Tumbling Q

“Thank you, Pete,” Quentin said as he took a paper from the telegrapher. “This telegram is from Smoke Jensen, you say?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Quentin,” the telegrapher said.

“Well, now, what do you know about that?” he said. “Smoke Jensen, huh?”

“Do you know Mr. Jensen?” Pete Hanson, the telegrapher, asked.

“Oh, yes, I know him,” Quentin replied. “I met him in Colorado Springs during the cattle auction.”

“I understand he is quite well known throughout the state,” Pete said.

“So I have been led to believe,” Quentin said. “I must say, he did not make a very good impression on me. What I am wonderig is, why would he be sending a telegram to the man who murdered my son?”

“Evidently, they are friends,” Pete said. “As you will see when you read the telegram.”

Quentin read the telegram, then looked up. “I wonder what he means by ‘take care of it’?” Quentin asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“His telegram says he is on his way to ‘take care of it,’ and I was just wondering what he meant by that.”

“Oh, I couldn’t hazard a guess as to what he might mean by that, Mr. Quentin,” Pete said. “I just thought you might want to see the telegram, that’s all.”

“Yes, Pete, you were quite right in bringing it to me, and I thank you. If you get any more telegrams you think I might find interesting, please bring them to me as well.”

Pete cleared his throat. “Of course I will, Mr. Quentin. I’m always glad to help out an outstanding citizen like yourself even though”—the telegrapher cleared his throat again—“even though I am taking a great personal risk in doing so. I am sure that you realize it is a violation of the law to show private telegrams to anyone other than the person to whom the telegram is addressed. And the punishment for violating that law is quite severe.”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” Quentin said as he withdrew a ten-dollar bill from his billfold and handed it to Pete. “The fact that you are sharing certain telegrams with me will never go beyond this point.”

“Very good, sir,” Pete said. He turned to leave but, before he left, he looked back toward Pogue Quentin. “You know, Mr. Quentin, I didn’t mention it, but the telegram was not sent directly to the prisoner, nor even to the marshal.”

“It wasn’t? Who was it sent to?”

“It was sent to Kathleen York.”

“Well, now, that is interesting,” Quentin said. “Why would it be sent there?”

“I expect it’s because young Lenny York spoke up for this fella, Pearlie, right after the shooting. And later, he seemed to get real friendly with him while he was in jail.”

“Yes, well, after I take care of the man who murdered my son, I’ll take care of Lenny York.”

“I’m sorry about your son, sir.”

“Thank you,” Quentin said.

Quentin followed Pete out onto the front porch of his large house, then watched as the thin, bespectacled telegrapher climbed into his surrey, picked up the reins, and drove away.

The truth was, Quentin had not been all that shocked over the fact that his son had been killed. Billy Ray was an unmitigated horse’s ass, and Quentin knew it. The real surprise was that nobody had shot him before now.

But that didn’t matter. Now it was a matter of power. If he did not make the killer of his son pay, it would be a sign of weakness.

He smiled. The fact that the one who killed his son was a friend of Smoke Jensen just made his play sweeter. He would be able to kill two birds with one stone. He laughed at that thought, and wished there was someone he could share the joke with.

Before Quentin went back into the house, he looked over toward the stable and saw his foreman talking to a couple of his hands.

“Cole,” he called.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Quentin.”

“Come over here.”

Cole Mathers, a big bearded man with a wandering eye, walked over toward Quentin.

“I want you to run an errand for me.”

“All right.”

“I want you to go over to a place called La Vita. There, you will find a man named Cates. Tell him I want to hire him.”

“Cates? Wait a minute. Are you talking about Snake Cates?” Cole asked.

“Some people might call him Snake Cates, but I wouldn’t if I were you. Leastwise, not to his face. His real name is Bogardus.”

“Bogardus?” Cole asked. He laughed. “Damn, if I wouldn’t prefer to be called Snake.”

“You will call him ‘mister’ if you know what’s good for you.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Mr. Quentin,” Cole said, holding up his hand. “I may be dumb, but I ain’t that dumb. No, sir, when I get around a fella like Snake Cates, I’ll be callin’ him mister for sure. He’s got what, seventeen, eighteen men that he’s kilt?”

“Something like that,” Quentin agreed.

“And ever’one of ’em has been in a face-to-face shootout. I mean, he ain’t got no easy kills in all them gunfights. No easy kills at all.”

“Just find him, and bring him here.”

“Uh, Mr. Quentin, he’s goin’ to ask for money.”

“Give him one hundred dollars.”

Cole cleared his throat.

“What is it?”

“Well, sir, for somebody like me, a hunnert dollars is a lot of money. I reckon I’d do pert’ nigh anything for a hunnert dollars. But for somebody like Snake Cates, a hunnert dollars wouldn’t be nothin’.”

“The one hundred dollars is just to get him to come speak with me,” Quentin said. “Tell him that I guarantee that we will come to an agreement that he will find satisfactory.”

“All right,” Cole said. Cole started toward the corral.

“Oh, and Cole?”

“Yes, sir?”

“If you can’t find him, or if for some reason you can’t persuade him to come back with you, don’t bother to come back.”

“I’ll find him, Mr. Quentin. And I’ll bring him back,” Cole promised.

“What are you doing here?” Deputy Wilson asked when Mary Lou Culpepper came into the marshal’s office.

“I’ve brought food for Mr. Pearlie,” Mary Lou said.

“What the hell is it with this man?” Wilson asked. “Have the Yorks taken him to raise? First Lenny came by to feed him, then his mama, and now his whore.”

Mary Lou didn’t respond.

“You are Lenny’s whore, aren’t you?”

“I am his friend,” Mary Lou said.

“His whore friend, you mean. All right, all right, go ahead. Take the food to him. Only, next time you come here, you better bring a little extra for me. Otherwise, I’ll eat whatever you brung him. Go on, take his food to him. Only, don’t you be givin’ him anything more than food back there, if you know what I mean,” Wilson added with a ribald laugh.

“Thank you,” Mary Lou said, walking quickly to the cells at the back of the office, as much to get away from Wilson as for any other reason.

Because it was late in the day and the filtered light coming through the window was weak, the shadows reached into the three cells. For a moment, Mary Lou saw no one.

“Mr. Pearlie?” she called out.

“It’s just Pearlie,” a male voice replied. He moved out of the shadows so she could see him.

“I’ve brought you your supper,” she said, pulling the cover off the tray.

Seeing the food brought a smile to Pearlie’s face. “If I stay here long enough, I’m liable to get fat,” he said. “That is, if I don’t hang first.”

“Oh, you mustn’t say that,” Mary Lou said quickly. “It’s bad luck.”

“You’re Lenny’s friend, aren’t you?” Pearlie said. “I saw you in the saloon on the day it happened.”

“Yes.”

“Lenny is a very lucky man,” Pearlie said as he bit into a ham and biscuit sandwich.

“Oh, we aren’t that kind of friends,” Mary Lou said. “Besides, someone as fine as Lenny, I mean, he plays the piano and all, could never really be that kind of friends with someone like me. Maybe you don’t know it, but I’m a—uh—a whore.”

“Like I said,” Pearlie said. “Lenny is a very lucky man to have a friend like you.”