Shootout of the Mountain Man (9 page)

The engineer blew the whistle two times, then with a rattle of couplings, a squeak of bearings, and a few jerks to take up the slack, the train started forward. Within less than a minute, the train had reached its normal running speed of twenty-five miles per hour.

This train was not equipped with sleeping berths, so Smoke made himself as comfortable as he could under the circumstances. He pulled his hat down over his eyes, folded his arms across his chest, and quickly fell asleep.

He was going to be on a train for a long time.

When the town of Desolation, Nevada, was laid out, it was with the absolute assurance and confidence that the Nevada Central Railroad would come through. Instead, the railroad passed ten miles to the west. As a result, the town that had started with such high hopes was now withering on the vine.

There were some attempts to revive the town—talk, for example, of running a spur track from the main line to Desolation, much as had been done at Austin, which was ten miles south. A few stores hung on, depending upon area ranchers and miners to provide them with a customer base. But the most successful business establishment in Desolation was the New Promise Saloon.

Desolation had no city marshal. The nearest law was the Lander County sheriff, who was located in Austin, and he provided no deputies for the dying town. This complete lack of law meant that Desolation was a town where even those who had wanted posters being circulated on them could come without fear of being arrested. The citizens of Desolation had mixed feelings about this. Some welcomed the business of the outlaws since most of the outlaws not only had money, but had nowhere else to spend it except with the merchants of Desolation. In addition, others pointed out that, in a perverse way, the outlaw element was itself a form of protection, for none of the outlaws wanted to create a disturbance in the only place where they could feel welcome.

At the moment, Frank Dodd was sitting at a table in the back of the New Promise Saloon, eating pickled pig’s feet and drinking beer.

“Dodd,” Jules Stillwater said. “I got them two boys for you to meet.”

Dodd gnawed at one of the pig’s feet, pulling back the tough skin to get to a little piece of meat.

“What two boys?” he asked. He spit a piece of gristle onto the floor.

“Phillips and Garrison, the two I told you about. You said you wanted to get a couple more men to make up for losin’ Cabot.”

Dodd finished off the pig’s foot, then set the white bone down with a little pile of white bones.

“All right bring ‘em in.”

Stillwater went back out front, then returned a moment later with two men. They were both of average size, and both were badly in need of a shave and in even worse need of a bath. One of them had a gun stuck down in his waistband; the other was wearing a well-worn holster.

“Either one of you ever used one of those before?” Dodd asked, pointing to the guns the men wore.

“Yeah, sure, lots of times,” one of them replied. “Me ‘n Garrison’s done some robbin'.”

“Where?” Dodd asked.

“Here and there.”

“You ever held up a train?” Dodd asked.

Phillips, who was the one doing all the talking, shook his head no. “Don’t reckon I have,” he said.

“You think you’ve got the nerve to do it?”

“I reckon I do.”

“What about you?” Dodd asked Garrison.

“Whatever Phillips says is fine by me,” Garrison replied.

“Yeah, well, if you ride with me, it ain’t what Phillips says, it’s what I say. You’ll be followin’ my orders. You got that?”

Garrison nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I got that.”

“Good.”

“Why did you ask about robbin’ a train?” Phillips asked. “Is that what we’re goin’ to do?”

“It may be,” Dodd said.

“When?”

“When I tell you,” Dodd replied.

³
Savagery of the Mountain Man

It was the middle of the night when Smoke changed trains in Colorado Springs. The train had an extended stop in Denver, but it was still the dark of the morning and Smoke dozed in his seat, barely aware of the stop. It was nearly noon by the time he reached Cheyenne, and after making certain that his horse was off-loaded and put in the stable to be ready for the next leg, Smoke checked his saddlebags with the stationmaster, then found a saloon where he could kill a few hours.

“Do you serve meals here?” he asked.

“Ham, fried potatoes, and biscuits,” the man behind the bar replied. He was wearing a white shirt with sleeve garters, and a string tie. “Not sure what kind of pie we have today. I think it’s apple.”

“Sounds good enough, I’ll take it,” Smoke said. He pointed to an empty table. “I’ll be over there.”

“All right,” the bartender replied with a nod.

Smoke glanced toward two young men who were standing at the far end of the bar. This wasn’t the first time he noticed them. He had seen them when he first stepped into the saloon. And though he had never seen these two particular men before, he had seen men like them in saloons and bars from Montana to New Mexico and from Kansas to California.

They wore their guns low, and they had a way of slouching, as if showing their disdain for the rest of the world. They were men who earned a living with their guns, either directly, by robbery, or indirectly, by hiring their guns out.

It was the latter that concerned Smoke—not that someone might have hired them to come after him—as far as he knew, right now, he had no particular enemies after him. Also, he was not a wanted man, and had not been wanted for many years.

But if these men were hired guns, what stronger recommendation could they have than that they were the ones who had shot and killed Smoke Jensen? It was the same thing he had initially thought about young Emmett Clark, though ultimately, Clark had been on a mission of honor.

There was nothing honorable about these two.

One of them noticed that he was looking at them.

“Hey, old man,” he said. “What are you looking at?”

“Barney, leave my customers be,” the bartender said.

“You stay out of this, Troy. You just stand back there and polish glasses like a good little bartender,” the one called Barney replied.

The other young man with Barney laughed at the comment.

“What do you think, Clay?” Barney asked his friend. “Should I leave the customer be?”

“Depends on the customer,” Clay replied. “Hey, customer, are we bothering you?”

“Not too much,” Smoke replied.

“There you go, barkeep, did you hear that?” Barney called. “He said his ownself that we ain’t botherin’ him all that much.”

“How come it is that we ain’t botherin’ you all that much?” Clay asked.

“I guess it’s because I’ve been around braying jackasses like you two all my life,” Smoke said easily. “I’ve just learned to turn them off.”

The others in the saloon, who had suspended their own conversations and activities to monitor the developing drama, laughed loudly at Smoke’s rejoinder.

The two young punks were angered by the remark, and both of them stepped away from the bar, then stood facing him, their legs slightly spread, their arms hanging loose with their right hands curled and hovering just over the butts of their pistols.

“Mister, do you know who you are talking to?”

“From what I gather, your name is Barney and his name is Clay. Am I right?”

“Yeah. I’m Barney Hobbs, this here is Clay Vetters. I reckon you’ve heard of us?”

“Can’t say as I have,” Smoke replied.

“That don’t matter none. I reckon that after we kill you, just about ever’ one will know who we are. That’s right, ain’t it? Killin’ you is goin’ to make us famous, don’t you think?”

“Who is this fella?” one of the customers asked, saying the words much louder than he intended.

Smoke still said nothing.

“Of course, seein’ as you’ll be dead, it won’t make no difference what you actual think, will it?”

Again, Smoke remained quiet.

“You don’t talk a lot, do you?” Barney asked.

“Well, if I don’t talk much, it seems to balance out, because you two can’t seem to shut up,” Smoke said.

There was more laughter, though by now, the laughter was somewhat strained as everyone in the saloon realized that the Rubicon had been crossed and there was no going back. This was going to end in bloodshed.

“Before we start this little dance, I need to know that we are killin’ the right man. You are Smoke Jensen, aren’t you?”

“If I told you I wasn’t, would it make any difference?”

“Nah. You’ve done shot your mouth off too much. I reckon we’re goin’ to kill you, no matter who you are.”

“I am Smoke Jensen.”

Now there was a collective gasp from all who were in the saloon.

“I know’d that was him soon as he come in here,” a quiet voice said from somewhere else in the saloon.

“This here is goin’ to be interestin’ to watch,” yet another voice said.

“I’m glad you come clean with that—Mister—Jensen,” Barney said, setting the word “Mister” apart from the rest of the sentence. “Now we will have witnesses who can back up our claim as to who you are.”

Smoke shook his head. “The witnesses aren’t going to do you any good,” he said.

“What do you mean they ain’t goin’ to do us any good? Why, word will spread all over ‘bout you bein’ kilt and ‘bout who the ones was that kilt you,” Clay said.

“It’s not going to do you any good because you’ll be dead,” Smoke said to Clay. Then he looked directly at Barney. “Both of you will be dead.”

Smoke’s comment was followed by a beat of silence.

“If you boys are going to make your play, do it now and be damned,” Smoke said. “I’ve got my lunch comin', and I don’t figure on lettin’ it get cold.”

Smoke’s voice was calm, cold as ice. His face was an indecipherable, blank mask. Only his steel-gray eyes showed any animation, and one could almost imagine that they were windows, opening on to hell.

“Maybe you ain’t noticed Mr. High-an'-Mighty Smoke Jensen, but there’s two of us,” Barney said. “I wouldn’t be pushin’ it if I was you. That is, unlessen you’re all that anxious to die.”

“I don’t have all day, gentlemen,” Smoke said. “Are you going to draw? Or do you plan on trying to talk me to death? ”

Smoke fixed the two young men with a cold death stare, and he could see they were beginning to have second thoughts. Perhaps they had made a mistake, perhaps the fact that there were two of them did not necessarily mean they could take him. They began to back away from their truculence. Beads of perspiration broke out on their foreheads, and Clay’s lower lip began to quiver.

“Barney, what are we doing?” he asked quietly.

Barney forced a grin.

“We do what we said we was goin’ to do,” Barney said.

“What?” Clay replied, fright obvious in his voice.

“We’ve been spoofin’ you, Mr. Jensen. But to show you there’s no hard feelin’s, we’d like to pay for your lunch,” Barney said. “Barkeep, bring us the bill.”

Sensing that the tension had been eased, the others in the saloon relaxed, breathed more easily, and renewed their conversations. A young woman came from the kitchen carrying a tray laden with the meal Smoke had ordered.

Smoke touched the brim of his hat and nodded at the two men. “I’m much obliged,” he said.

Barney and Clay returned to their private conversation at the far end of the bar, while Smoke ate his lunch.

After he finished his meal, he looked around the room and seeing a player leaving one of the card games, went over and inquired politely if he could join.

“It would be an honor to have you join us, Mr. Jensen,” one of the players said, and the others agreed.

He was well into the game, betting cautiously not wanting to lose, but not that concerned about winning. What was more important to him was just that he be able to entertain himself for a couple of hours, and he was doing that, all the while keeping an eye on the clock so as not to miss the train. The other players were cordial, and as no one was winning or losing very much, it was a very pleasant way of passing time.

With a final glance at the clock, Smoke noticed that it was within twenty minutes of the arrival time of the next westbound train.

“Gentlemen,” he said, folding his cards and pulling in his personal bank, “I thank you for inviting me in to your game. It has made my wait for the train much more pleasant.”

“Mr. Jensen, you were indeed a welcome visitor,” one of the other players said.

Smoke put the money back in his pocket and started toward the door.

“Smoke, look out!” one of the card players shouted.

Almost concurrent with the player’s shout was the crash of gunfire. Only the fact that Smoke had reacted to the warning saved his life, for the bullet whizzed by his ear so closely that he could feel the wind of its passing.

Smoke drew and whirled around in one motion. As he did so, he saw Barney and Clay standing in the middle of the floor. Barney had just fired at him, as evidenced by the smoke that was curling up from the barrel of his pistol. Clay was raising his pistol to fire.

Smoke fired twice, the shots coming so close on top of each other that to most of the witnesses, it sounded as if there was only one shot. And yet, two men went down. It had all happened too quickly for any of the others in the saloon to try and get out of the line of fire. Most were still moving, though by now it was all over.

Barney was killed instantly, but Clay was still alive. He sat up and tried to reach for the pistol that was lying on the floor just in front of him. Smoke was to him in a few quick steps and, using the toe of his boot, he kicked the pistol across the floor, out of reach of the wounded man.

“I’m dying,” the wounded man said.

“Yes, you are,” Smoke said. “Why did you shoot at me? Why couldn’t the two of you just leave it alone?”

“Because you are Smoke Jensen,” Clay answered.

“What have I ever done to you?”

“Barney said that iffen we was to kill you, we’d make a lot of money,” Clay said. “I shouldn’t a’ listened to him. The sumbitch got me kilt is what he done.”