Shootout of the Mountain Man (7 page)

“I hope it was a pleasant dream.”

Smoke walked over to Sally, put his arms around her, and pulled her to him. He brushed her hair away from her forehead and kissed her there.

“It was,” he said. “But you have no reason to be jealous.”

“I’m not in the least jealous,” she said, turning her head up so his kiss came to her lips.

²
Return of the Mountain Man

Back in the jail cell in Cloverdale, Nevada, Bobby Lee Cabot was lying on his bunk, his hands laced behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. Outside the jail, he could hear the sawing and hammering on the gallows that was being constructed for his hanging.

“Are you scared, Bobby Lee?”

The question came from the prisoner who was in the cell next to his. Andy Emerson was a small man, around five feet five inches tall, with a sweeping mustache that seemed oversized for his short stature. He was also a cowboy who drank too much. He was never a mean drunk, though he did, in his own words, sometimes develop “a mountain lion’s attitude in a pussycat’s body.” He often manifested this mannerism when confronting Sheriff Wallace or one of his deputies, and as a result, Wallace had a personal grudge against him. Andy spent a lot of time in jail for public drunkenness when others, who were often drunker, were given a pass.

“I guess I’m a little frightened,” Bobby Lee confessed.

“A little frightened? If I was about to be hanged, I’d be so scared I couldn’t even talk,” Andy said. “You’re about the bravest person I ever met.”

“I’m not that brave, Andy, believe me,” Bobby Lee said. “What’s the sheriff got you in for now?”

“I was at the Gold Strike last night,” Andy said. “I had a few drinks, sure, but I wasn’t drunk, you can ask anybody there. But the next thing you know, Wallace was in there accusin’ me of getting drunk and causing a disturbance.” Andy paused for a moment. “The thing is, well, he just kept pushin’ until I got mad and I shoved him. Then I really was causin’ a disturbance. But only ‘cause he sort of drove me to it.”

“Andy, we’ve talked about this before,” Bobby Lee said. “You really do have to cut back on your drinking. You’ve gotten yourself on the sheriff’s bad side and he’s just going to keep riding you till you really do get in trouble.”

“I know, I know,” Andy said. “You’ve always been straight with me. I ought to pay attention to you.”

At that moment, they heard the sound of the door that led from the front half of the building back to the jail cells being opened. Deputy Harley Beard came into the back and opened the door to Andy’s cell. “You can go now,” he said. “But next time we catch you drunk in town, you’ll wind up in here again.”

“Yeah,” Andy said, reaching back onto the bunk for his hat. He put it on, then looked over at Bobby Lee.

“Bobby Lee, when it happens—uh, I mean, when they hang you—I ain’t goin’ to be there watchin'. I hope you understand. I’ve always figured you for a friend, and I don’t think I want to watch a friend get his neck stretched. That don’t mean I’m not goin’ to be thinkin’ about you. It’s just that I don’t want to be here when it’s happenin'.”

“I understand,” Bobby Lee replied.

“Bye, Bobby Lee.”

“You goin’ to hang around jabberin’ with him, or are you goin’ to get out of here?” Deputy Beard asked. “'Cause if you’re just goin’ to hang around, I can put you back in jail and you two folks can just visit all you want.”

“I’m goin',” Andy said.

Beard waited until Andy left before he turned to Bobby Lee’s cell.

“Cabot, you got a visitor,” Deputy Beard said.

“Who is it?”

“Who is it? It’s the whore. Who else would waste their time comin’ to see you?”

“Good, please send her in.”

Beard disappeared into the front of the building, but Bobby Lee could still hear him talking.

“Better let me search you, to make sure you ain’t takin’ him no weapons.” There was a decided leering tone in the sound of his voice.

“Watch your hands.” There was irritation in the woman’s voice.

“Ha! Like you haven’t had hands there before,” Beard said. “All right, you can go in.”

Standing at the front of his cell, Bobby Lee watched as Minnie Smith came into the back. Minnie was a pretty girl, and would have been prettier, Bobby Lee believed, if she would just let nature take its course. But, defying nature, she had dyed her hair, which was naturally auburn, a henna-tinted red. Her eyes were shaded, her cheeks were rouged, and her lips were painted.

The dye and makeup was because of Minnie’s occupation, which technically was saloon hostess, though other sobriquets were used, such as hurdy-gurdy girl, parlor girl, and soiled dove. In truth, she was a prostitute, but Bobby Lee saw more than that in her. Minnie had been present all during his trial, and had cried bitter tears when Bobby Lee was sentenced.

“Oh, Bobby Lee,” she said. “I can’t stand it. I know you sent that letter to Sheriff Wallace, you told me about it. But I can’t get anyone to believe me. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bobby Lee said.

“How can I not worry about it?” She pointed toward the front of the building. “Do you know they are building a gallows right now in front of this very building?”

“Yes, I’ve heard them at work. Minnie, I need you to do something for me.”

“What? What do you want?” Minnie asked. “I’ll do anything you ask.”

“I want you to send a telegram for me.”

“A telegram? To the governor?” She shook her head. “It won’t do any good, Bobby Lee. I’ve already sent a telegram to the governor.”

“No, not to the governor,” Bobby Lee said. “I want you to send this to a friend of mine. If there is anybody in the world who can do anything for me, it will be him.”

“All right, give me the name of the person, tell me what you want to say and where you want it to go,” Minnie said. “I’ll send it.”

After Minnie received her instructions and left, Bobby Lee lay back down on his bunk again to resume staring at the ceiling above. Outside, he could hear the sounds of the men as they continued to work on the gallows.

“All right, boys, lift up the cross tree,” one of the carpenters shouted. “There you go. Hold it in position while I get it nailed down.”

The carpenter’s vocal instructions were followed by the banging of the hammer.

Realistically, Bobby Lee knew the chances were only about one in one hundred that the telegram would reach its destination. According to the sentence of the judge, he was to hang on the thirty-first. That was only one week away.

Bobby Lee was sure that Minnie would send the telegram—he had that much faith in her—but he really had no sense of confidence that the telegram would actually get through. He had asked her to send it to Buck West, rather than Smoke Jensen, believing that by so doing it would get Smoke’s attention more quickly. Now he wondered if perhaps he had been too smart by half. What if the telegram didn’t reach Smoke? For that matter, what if the telegram did reach Smoke, but because it was addressed to Buck West, he chose to do nothing about it?

One thousand miles east from the Cloverdale Jail, in the town of Big Rock, Colorado, a rather sizable crowd was watching a spirited horseshoe pitch. A tossed horseshoe hit the peg, made a loud clang, spun around the peg, then settled down.

“Ringer!” Jason Whitman shouted. “Looks like Smoke beat you, Floyd.”

“Damn,” Floyd said. “Smoke, is there anything you can’t do? ‘Cause if there is, I sure want to give you a go on it.”

“Sally says I can’t knit worth a damn,” Smoke said.

“Is that a fact? Well, I’ll tell you what,” Floyd said. “I believe I’ll just take up knittin’ so’s I can find somethin’ I can beat you at.”

The others laughed at the barber’s lament. Floyd Carr had been the champion horseshoe thrower for Big Rock for three years running. He had about convinced himself that he was the best in the entire state of Colorado, and didn’t believe it when he was told by those who had seen Smoke throw horseshoes for fun out at his ranch that Smoke was better.

Reluctantly, Smoke had taken up Floyd’s challenge, and had just beaten him in three straight games.

Accepting the accolades of those gathered for the match, Smoke begged out of a celebratory drink at the Longmont Saloon by explaining that he had to get back to the ranch.

“You mean you’d rather go back home than have a few drinks with your friends?” Whitman asked.

“Whitman, that’s about the dumbest question I’ve ever heard,” Sheriff Carson said.

“What’s so dumb about it?” Whitman asked.

“What friends at Longmont’s are you talking about?”

“Well, Louis will be there. Floyd will. You’ll be there too, I reckon. And I’ll be there.”

“Uh-huh,” Carson said.

“So?”

“Think about it, Jason,” Carson said. “We’ll be at Longmont’s. Sally is at Sugarloaf.”

“Oh,” Whitman said. “Oh, yeah, I see what you mean.”

The others laughed, then shouted their goodbyes to Smoke when he swung into the saddle for the ride home.

As Smoke rode by the Western Union office, the telegrapher stepped into the front door and called out to him.

“Smoke, I’ve got a telegram here that’s addressed to Sugarloaf Ranch. It came late yesterday afternoon, and I was goin’ to get a boy to bring it out to your place today, but seeing as you are here, maybe you’ll take it.”

“Thanks, I’ll take it.”

“Yes, sir,” the telegrapher said. “The only thing is, it’s addressed to a fella by the name of Buck West, and I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of him. Do you know such a person?”

The name Buck West got Smoke’s attention. For a while, Smoke had been on the dodge, and he’d used the name Buck West. There weren’t too many people around who knew about that part of his life. And certainly anyone who knew to send a telegram to Sugarloaf Ranch would know that he wasn’t using that name anymore. It made him very curious.

Smoke gave the telegrapher a quarter, then stuck the telegram in his pocket. He planned to wait until he got back to the ranch before he read it, but curiosity got the best of him so, about a mile out of town, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the telegram.

Bobby Lee Cabot had been Nicole’s half brother. He’d been younger than Nicole, she had partially raised him, and for a while Bobby Lee had even lived with Nicole and Smoke. Bobby Lee had practically worshiped the ground Smoke walked on, and Smoke remembered him fondly. He had no idea who Minnie Smith was, but if she had sent him a message addressed to Buck West, then he knew that it was authentic. She could only have been given that information by Bobby Lee.

Smoke rode about another half mile toward home while he contemplated the message. He was glad that Bobby Lee had thought to contact him, because he was absolutely not going to let him be hanged—of that he was sure. What he was not sure about was what he was going to do to stop it.

Then, with a smile, Smoke came up with an idea. But in order to make the idea work, he was going to have to ride back in town to visit the printing shop. Turning back toward town, Smoke slapped his legs against the side of his horse, causing the animal to break into a ground-eating lope. He reined up in front of the sheriff’s office, then stepped inside.

“Smoke,” Carson called to him. “Come back to lord it over Floyd a bit, did you?”

“No,” Smoke said. “I need a favor from you, Monte.”

“Ask, you’ve got it.”

Smoke explained his idea.

“I don’t know, Smoke,” Carson said. “What you are asking for doesn’t make a lot of sense to me.”

“Will you do it?”

“Yes, of course I will,” Carson said. “Just because it doesn’t make sense to me doesn’t mean it isn’t a bad idea. You’re one of the smartest men I know, so I figure you’ve probably got it worked out in a way I haven’t considered yet.”

“Thanks,” Smoke said.

Sheriff Carson wrote out a note, then handed to Smoke. “Show this to Curly,” he said. “And if he still has questions, tell him to come see me.”

Curly Latham listened to Smoke’s request.

“Let me get this straight,” the printer said. “You want me to print just one?”

“One is all I need,” Smoke replied.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Curly said.

“Will you do it? Or do I have to go find another printer somewhere?”

“Look here, Smoke, you know how this works. It will cost you as much to have me print just one as it would to have me print one hundred. You know I’m going to do it for you if that is what you really want. I just hate taking advantage of you like this.”

“I know,” Smoke said. “But one is all I need. In fact, I very specifically do not want more than one printed. This isn’t something I want anyone else to see, and I can control it much better this way.”

“What about the sheriff? What does Monte think about it?”

“I stopped by to see Sheriff Carson before I came here. Here is a note from him,” Smoke said.

Curly Latham shook his head in confusion. “All right, Smoke, if this is what you and the sheriff both want, I’ll do it. But I sure as hell don’t know what good just one of these things will do for you.”

“Thanks, Curly. Oh, and would you put in an envelope and have it waiting for me at the sheriff’s office? I have to get back out to the ranch, but I’ll be taking the late train out tonight and I want to take this with me.”

“It’ll be there waitin’ for you,” Curly promised.

Sugarloaf Ranch, adequately timbered and well watered, with ample grass, was the culmination of all Smoke’s dreams and aspirations. But he had not always been the “gentleman rancher.” There was a time when he had ridden what many might call “the outlaw trail.” And while he operated with equal alacrity between law and lawlessness, he had never crossed the line between right and wrong. Of course, there were some things that he considered right that might be questioned by others, such as hunting down and killing the men who had killed his father, then going on the vengeance trail yet again to kill those who had murdered Nicole and his young son, Arthur.