Shootout of the Mountain Man

Chapter Eight

Believing that Smoke Jensen was the man who killed his father, Emmet Clark had dedicated himself to finding and killing Smoke. When he learned that Smoke was not guilty of the act, and that the men who actually were responsible for the murder of his father had already been taken care of by the very man he had been hunting, he felt unfulfilled. He had dedicated a significant part of his life to one objective, only to discover that it was the wrong objective. The result of having spent so much of his life pursuing a false goal left Emmett Clark with a huge sense of emptiness. So, what would he do now? He had skills with a gun—incredible skills, but what was he to do with them?

In the weeks following his confrontation with Smoke, Clark began a western drift with no specific sense of purpose or destination. One day, quite by accident, he happened upon a stagecoach robbery in progress. The driver, two women, a child, and an old man were standing on the road beside the coach with their hands in the air. A highwayman, wearing a hood over his face, was holding a gun.

Without a second thought, Clark pulled his pistol and, urging his horse into a gallop, started toward the scene. The robber, hearing the sound of the approaching horse, turned toward Clark, and seeing that Clark was bearing down upon him, fired. Clark heard the bullet whiz by him and he returned fire. One shot was all it took. The would-be robber dropped his pistol, clasped his hands across his chest, then fell.

“Is anyone hurt?” Clark shouted, leaping down from his horse as he arrived.

“Just him,” the driver said. In a gesture of derision, he spit a stream of tobacco on the robber’s prostrate form.

Clark squatted by the man he had shot, then reached down to pull off the mask. The robber’s eyes were open, but unseeing. Clark had never killed anyone before, and he didn’t know how he would feel about it. He was surprised by the fact that he felt nothing at all. It was simply something that had needed to be done and he had done it.

“Damn, boy, you know who that is?” the driver asked. Then, answering his own question, he continued. “His name is Bates. Corey Bates. I seen a poster on him in the stage office back in Concordia. Looks to me like you just earned yourself five hunnert dollars.”

“Five hundred dollars?”

“Yes, sir, five hunnert dollars. That’s the bounty on him.” The driver chuckled. “That’s near ‘bout a year’s pay for me, and you made that much in just a few seconds.”

“I never thought about him havin’ a bounty,” Clark said.

“Then if you wasn’t after the bounty, what was you doin'? I mean, you come in here with your gun blazin'. Not that I’m complainin’ or nothin',” the driver said. “I figure you come along just in the nick of time.”

“I don’t know,” Clark said. “I just happened to be riding through when I saw him holding up the stage, so I did what I thought was right.”

“Well, sir, doin’ what you thought was right just earned you five hunnert dollars. If you’ll give me a hand, we’ll throw his carcass up on top of the stage and you can turn him in to the sheriff when we get to Bonanza City. He can put through the reward for you.”

“Thanks.”

“I don’t know, the way you come ridin’ in here like you done, I guess I just figured you was one of them men who hunted down outlaws for the reward that’s been put on ‘em.”

“I never considered anything like that,” Clark said. “How does one become such a person?”

“Son, you just do it,” he said. “Course, some folks that does things like this ain’t much better than the men they are chasin', so if you get into that trade, you need to be careful lest you don’t become an outlaw yourself.”

It took two days for the sheriff of Bonanza City, Idaho, to authorize the payment of the reward money to Clark. He thanked the sheriff profusely, then, sticking the money and a handful of wanted posters down into his saddlebags, rode out of town, still heading west, but no longer in a purposeless drift. He was now riding in pursuit of his new profession, and although he did not think of it in that term, he was now a bounty hunter.

It was sometime later when Clark rode into the town of Eberhardt, Nevada, hot, thirsty, and with a mouth full of dust. Tying up in front of the Red Dog Saloon, he patted himself off as best he could, then went inside. There were at least a dozen customers, all engaged in what seemed to Clark to be simultaneous conversations.

“Beer,” he ordered, slapping a dime onto the counter. The bartender delivered the mug and started to slide a nickel back in change, but Clark waved it away. “No,” he said. “This one is for thirst. I’ll need another one to enjoy.”

Clark downed the first beer, then picked up the second and turned his back to the bar to look out over the saloon in a casual study of the men just to see if any of them fit the descriptions of any of the posters he had out in his saddlebags. It was then that he began to catch bits and pieces of the conversation.

“Mr. Fiddler said he got near six hundred dollars.”

“And he’s sure it was Dewey Gibson?”

“Yeah, he’s sure. You might remember that Gibson used to ride for one of the ranchers here about. Mr. Fiddler recognized him right away. ”

Clark had never seen Dewey Gibson, but it was a name he recognized, for his name and a likeness was on one of the reward posters he was carrying.

Clark called out to the bartender.

“What robbery are they talking about?”

“Dewey Gibson robbed Fiddler’s Mercantile this morning,” the bartender said.

“He always was a no-account,” someone said.

“Well, he ain’t a no-account no more,” one of the others said. “They’s a three-hundred-dollar reward out for him now.”

“This morning, you say?”

“About two hours ago.”

“Interesting,” Clark said. He finished his beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then walked down the street to Fiddler’s Mercantile. After talking with Fiddler for a few minutes, Clark went out in pursuit. Unlike the first outlaw, who he’d happened across by accident, Clark was purposely after Dewey Gibson.

He hadn’t tracked Gibson too far before he noticed that Gibson’s horse had broken stride badly. It was easy enough to read the sign. Gibson had been so anxious to put distance between himself and the town where he’d stolen the money that he’d ridden his horse into the ground. The four-hour lead he had on Clark was meaningless. Clark would catch up with him before nightfall.

Clark found Gibson’s horse by early afternoon. Ironically, with rest, the horse had recovered, but Gibson had been so desperate that he’d abandoned it and was now proceeding on foot. Clark took a drink of water, poured some into his hat for both horses, then began walking, following Gibson’s footprints across the hot, desert sand.

The sign was as easy to read as if it had been printed in a newspaper. Shortly after abandoning his horse, Gibson had been so frightened that he’d started running. He’d managed to run for about half a mile; then he’d walked for another couple of miles. Then the desert had begun to extract its toll from him. Gibson had started throwing things away, his spurs, his shirt, and finally an empty canteen. Clark left the shirt and spurs, but he picked up the canteen, thinking that if he found water he would refill it, giving him an extra canteen. In this heat, an extra canteen could be a lifesaver.

Soon, it became obvious that Gibson was having a hard time staying on his feet. It was clear from the sign that Gibson would fall, crawl for a few feet, then get up and lunge ahead for a few feet farther before falling again.

Then Clark saw him, a solitary figure staggering across the desert.

“Gibson!” Clark called.

Startled at hearing his name called, Gibson started to run.

Clark had been leading both horses, his and Gibson’s, and because the animals were now fairly well rested, he swung into the saddle, then started after Gibson, catching up with him within less than a minute.

“Gibson, come on,” he said. “You’re going to die in the desert unless you come back. Come on. I’ve got an extra canteen. I’ll give you a drink of water.”

“Why don’t I just take your canteen and horses?” Gibson said, his voice surprisingly strong. He pulled his gun, pointed it at Clark, and pulled the trigger.

“Gibson, no!” Clark shouted, but even as he called out, he heard the bullet buzz by his head. Clark had no choice but to draw his own pistol and shoot.

Gibson went down with a bullet hole in his forehead.

“Damn, why did you do that?” Clark asked in a puzzled voice. “You probably wouldn’t have gotten much over a year for what you did.”

With a sigh of frustration, Clark picked Gibson up, then laid him, belly-down, over his horse. Then, giving both animals another drink, he turned and started back.

The little town of Eberhardt, Nevada, lay just ahead of Emmett Clark, baking like a lizard under the sun. A heat-induced dust devil rose in front of him, then skittered across the road, causing sand to blow into his face and sting his cheeks. He was riding one horse and leading another, and he turned to check on Dewey Gibson, who was belly-down on the horse behind him.

He allowed himself to drink the final few swallows of one of the canteens, and even though the water was warm, it eased the thirst. Besides, he knew that now he was but a few minutes from a cool beer.

Dewey Gibson was only the second prisoner Clark had brought in since embarking upon his new career as a bounty hunter. He had killed the stagecoach robber, Corey Bates, during the actual stage holdup. It had not been his intention to kill Gibson, but Gibson had given him no choice. Gibson had fired first, and Clark had been forced to return fire to defend himself.

Clark hooked his canteen back onto the saddle pommel, then looked around at the little town he was entering. Nearly all the buildings were built from wide, unpainted, and weathered rip-sawed boards. Having collected the day’s heat, the town was now giving it back in shimmering waves that were so thick they distorted the view.

There was no railroad coming into Eberhardt, but there was a stagecoach station with a schedule board announcing the arrival and departure of four stagecoaches per week. He had known many towns like this: isolated, inbred, and stagnant.

Clark rode down the street taking inventory of the town’s commerce: a livery, a hardware store, a blacksmith shop, and a general store. The proprietor of the general store, wearing a white apron, was out front, sweeping the porch, the stiff straw broom making loud scratching noises. The scratching stopped as the grocer paused in his sweeping long enough to look at Clark, and to pay particular attention to the body Clark had draped over the horse behind him.

Clark located the hotel, a restaurant, and of more particular interest to him, the saloon. By now, others had come out to watch him, drawn by their morbid interest in the body on the horse behind him. At the far end of the single street, Clark saw the jail and marshal’s office.

Riding up to the hitching rail in front of the jail, Clark dismounted, and patted his shirt and pants a few times. The action sent up puffs of white dust, which hovered around him like a cloud. He cut a quick glance up and down the street, aware now that he was the center of intense interest. A few buildings away he saw a door being closed, while across the street, a window shade was drawn. A sign creaked in the wind, and flies buzzed loudly around the piles of horse manure that lay in the street.

Clark didn’t have to open the door of the jail; it was opened for him. Someone wearing a badge—whether the marshal or one of his deputies Clark didn’t know—stepped out onto the porch. The lawman was overweight and his shirt pulled at the buttons, gapping open in the middle. He stuck his hand inside his shirt and began to scratch.

“Find him dead on the trail, did you?”

“No,” Clark replied. “I killed him.”

The lawman got a surprised expression on his face and his eyes grew wide.

“Look here! Are you telling me you killed him, and you are bringing him into town to brag about it?”

“I didn’t come to brag, I come to collect my reward,” Clark said.

“What reward?”

Clark pulled a dodger from his pocket and showed it to the lawman.

WANTED

BY THE STATE OF NEVADA

Dewey Gibson

Reward: $300.00

“This is Gibson,” Clark said.

“Yeah? You don’t mind if I take a look, do you?” the deputy asked.

“Do you know Gibson?”

“Yeah, I know him. We’ve had him in jail here two or three times.” The deputy stepped down from the porch and walked back to take a look at the body that was draped across the horse. He nodded. “That’s him, all right. What did you kill him for? I know he held up Mr. Fiddler’s store here, but as far as I know, Gibson never kilt nobody.”

“He was trying to kill me,” Clark said.

“Why did you bring him here? Gibson is from here. He’s likely to have a few friends around that won’t take too kindly to him bein’ kilt and all.”

“I was here earlier, I heard that he had held up the store, so I went after him. Being as this is where he did his latest crime, I figured I would come here to claim my reward.”

“I ain’t got no three hundred dollars to give you,” the lawman said. “I ain’t even got three dollars.”

“That’s all right,” Clark said. “All I need from you is a receipt saying I brought him in. I can turn it in to the state and get the reward.”

“I can give that to you. But, uh—”

“Uh, what?”

“What am I supposed to do with the body?”

“Do you have an undertaker in town?”

“Yes.”

“I’d say get in touch with the undertaker and let him take care of it.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” the deputy said.

“But before you do that, make out that receipt.”

“The receipt. Oh, yeah,” the deputy said. “All right, come on in.” He looked back toward the body. “I reckon ole Dewey will be all right there—it ain’t like he’s goin’ to be goin’ anywhere.”

“You might want to get the undertaker fairly soon, though,” Clark said. “He’s been in the sun for a couple of days now and he’s getting a mite ripe.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that, soon as I make out the receipt for you,” the deputy said.

Once inside the marshal’s office, Clark stepped over to a wall that was festooned with reward flyers. Seeing a poster with Corey Bates’s name and description, he tore it down. “You don’t need to keep a poster up for this man anymore.”

“Why not?”

“He’s dead.”

“Did you kill him?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose you’ll be puttin’ in for the reward?”

“I already collected the reward.”

“Five hundred dollars,” the deputy said. “That was a pretty good payday. But if you really wanted some money, you should go after Frank Dodd.”

“Frank Dodd?”

“This man right here,” the deputy said, pointing to a reward poster. “Reward on him is five thousand dollars.”

Clark whistled. “Five thousand? That’s a lot of money. The state has put that much money up?”

The deputy shook his head. “It ain’t the state that put up the money,” he said. “The money was put up by the Western Capital Security Agency.”

“Hmm. I reckon I’ll take a look into that.”

The deputy chuckled. “Yes, you and about a hundred other folks who are tryin’ to catch him.” He handed the receipt to Clark. “I tell you what. If you don’t want to wait for your money, you can take this to the bank tomorrow and they’ll give you ninety percent face value on it.”

“Thanks.”

“Where you goin’ to be later this afternoon?” the deputy asked. “Just in case the marshal wants to talk to you.”

“I’ll be down at the Red Dog Saloon, having a beer,” Clark replied. “Maybe having a lot of beers.”

Leaving the marshal’s office, Clark walked down to the saloon. Several ollas spaced around the inside of the saloon allowed water to evaporate, doing a reasonably effective job of cooling so that, compared to the sun-baked street outside, it was quite comfortable.

“You was here a few days ago, wasn’t you?” the bartender asked.

“Yes.”

“What brung you back?”

“You serve good beer here,” Clark said.

The bartender laughed. “We serve good beer,” he said. “Did you hear that, gents? This fella came back to the Red Dog ‘cause we serve good beer.”

“That ain’t why he come back,” one of the customers said.

“It ain’t?” The bartender put a beer in front of Clark and picked up the nickel. “Then why did he come back?”

“He come for the reward. Ain’t that right, mister?” His questioner moved up alongside him. “You the one I seen ridin’ in a while ago leadin’ another horse, ain’t you?”

Clark prepared himself for a confrontation. “That was me.”

“I couldn’t see all that well from here, but looked to me like the fella you had draped across that horse was Dewey Gibson.”

“That’s who it was.”

“Uh-huh, like I said, you come back for the reward.”

“And the beer,” Clark said, smiling and lifting the mug of beer in an attempt to lighten the conversation.

“Maybe you don’t know this, mister, but me ‘n ole Dewey used to ride together. We was pards, you might say.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a while since we’ve rode together so I can’t exactly say we was pards now. Still, I feel bad to see that he’s dead. What happened to him?”

Clark put the beer down, then turned to face the man. “I killed him,” he said.

Those who were close enough to overhear Clark halted their own conversations and turned their attention toward the two men to see where this would lead.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you might say.”

“I didn’t have any choice,” Clark said. “He drew first.”

“Mister, I don’t believe he drew first. If he had, you’d be dead now. Mind, I ain’t sayin’ Dewey ain’t the kind who would draw first. I’m just sayin’ that he was that good with a gun that iffen he had drawn first, you’d be dead now.”

“I’m not goin’ to have any trouble with you, am I, friend?” Clark asked. “The reason I ask is, I hadn’t planned to kill Gibson, and I don’t have any plans to kill you. But if you push this any further, I just may have to.”

There was a long silent pause as everyone in the saloon waited to hear the response to Clark’s challenge. Then a tall, silver-haired, dignified-looking man stood from one of the tables in the back of the room.

“Jeff, back down,” he called to the man who had confronted Clark.

“Mr. Sinclair, I don’t think this fella is tellin’ the truth,” Jeff said. “You know’d Dewey Gibson as well as I did, seein’ as he used to ride for you. You know how good with a gun he was, and you know damn well that if he had draw’d first like this here feller is claimin', this feller would be dead.”

“You want to kill somebody, or else get yourself killed over someone like Dewey Gibson?” Sinclair asked.

“No, but—”

“There ain’t no buts,” Sinclair said. He turned to face the others in the saloon. “Gentlemen, I think nearly all of you know me. Some of you, like Jeff here, have ridden for me. But just in case there is someone here who doesn’t know me, my name is Martin Sinclair. I own the Bar S Ranch. You may remember that Dewey Gibson used to ride for me, but I fired him, and I want you to know why I fired him. Two years ago, I hired some Mexicans to do some work for me, and one of them had a little twelve-year-old girl. The Mexicans left before the work was done, before I even paid them any money. It was a couple of weeks later that I learned why they left. It was because Gibson raped that little twelve-year-old girl. When I called him on it, he admitted that he had done it, but said he didn’t think it mattered none, since she wasn’t nothin’ but a Mex and would probably grow up to be a whore anyway. As far as I am concerned, Dewey Gibson was nothing but a low-down sorry son of a bitch and if he got himself killed, then I say good riddance.”

Sinclair looked back over at the young cowboy who had questioned Clark. “Jeff, you still want to kill someone, or what’s more than likely, from the way I gauge this fella, get yourself kilt over Dewey Gibson?”

“No, sir, I don’t reckon I do,” Jeff replied. “Sorry, mister,” he said to Clark. “I reckon I spoke without thinkin'. Hope you don’t take no offense to it.”

“No offense taken,” Clark said.

“Mr. Peterson?” Sinclair called over to the bartender.

“Yes sir, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Suppose you give everyone a drink, on me.”

“Yes, sir!” the bartender replied enthusiastically. Then, he shouted to the entire saloon. “You heard Mr. Sinclair, boys. Step up and name your poison.”

There were fourteen men and three women in the saloon, and all rushed to the bar to get their drink. Clark held his beer out toward Sinclair and nodded his thanks. Sinclair nodded back. The older man had defused a possible situation.