Trail of the Mountain Man (14 page)

Paul Jackson walked into his brother's office at the general store and told Ed he was quitting.

Ed looked at his brother as if he was looking at a fool. “To do what?”

“I staked me out a claim. Looks promisin' too. You're makin' all the money here. Hell with you!”

“Fine. But remember this: you'll not get a penny's worth of credit from me.”

“I got money of my own.” He walked out of the office.

“You're a fool!” Ed shouted after his brother.

His brother turned around and made a very obscene gesture. It was intended for Ed, but Ed's wife caught it as well.

Peg stamped her foot.

Paul laughed and walked on out, feeling as though he had just had a great weight lifted from his shoulders. He swung into the saddle and trotted out, toward the high lonesome, where he had staked his claim.

Paul would show them all. He'd come back a rich man and take Bountiful from that namby-pamby preacher and then, just like in one of them dime novels, the both of them would ride off into the sunset, to be forever together.

Or something like that.

 

 

“What side of this fracus is Utah Slim on?” Johnny North asked Monte over coffee one bright early summer morning.

“I can't figure it, myself. He don't appear to be on neither side. And he ain't hurtin' for money. He's always got a wad of greenbacks.”

“Gamble?”

Monte shook his head. “No. I ain't never seen nor heard of him gamblin'.”

“He's on somebody's payroll,” the gunslinger opined. “You can bet on that. Utah don't do nothin' for nothin'. He's here for a reason.”

“You find out, you let me know?”

“Why not? I sure ain't got no axes to grind in this here fight.”

“Tilden's hirin', you know.”

“Screw Tilden Franklin. I got me a little claim staked out and got guys workin' it for shares. 'Bout five years back, I started puttin' back a little bit of money ever' time I had some to spare. Got it in a bank up in Boulder. With the gold I get out of this claim, I aim to start me a little ranch; maybe do a little farmin' too. Hang up my guns.”

Monte started grinning.

“What are you grinnin' about, you ape?” Johnny asked.

“Gonna do a little bit of ranchin' and a little bit of farmin', hey?”

“Yeah! What's wrong with that?”

“Nothin'. Nothin' at all. But what happens if you run into some big rancher like Tilden when you decide to settle down?”

“Well ... I reckon I'll fight.”

Monte suddenly felt better. He started chuckling. “Oh, yeah, Johnny, you got an axe to grind in this war — you just ain't realized it yet.”

Johnny thought about that, then he too started chuckling. “By God, Monte, you right. I think I'll go see if that feller Colby needs a hand. Might do me some good to do some hard work for a change.”

“He can't pay you nothin'.”

“I ain't askin' for nothin'.”

Boot heels drummed on the boardwalk and someone was hollering for the sheriff.

Monte jumped up and headed for the door, Johnny right behind him. A wild-eyed miner almost collided with them both.

“Come quick, Sheriff! That nester Colby is about to draw down on a TF gunnie named Donnie. Hurry, Sheriff, hurry!”

“Crazy farmer!” Monte yelled, running toward a saloon. He could see a crowd gathered on both sides of a man standing out in the street. He recognized the man as Colby, and with a sick feeling realized he was not going to be able to stop it. He just knew that Colby had started it, and if that was the case, he would not interfere. It was an unwritten rule in the West — and would be for about a decade to come — that a man broke his own horses and killed his own snakes. If one challenged another to a gunfight, and it was a fair fight, few lawmen would interfere.

The gunslick, Donnie, was standing on the boardwalk, laughing at the farmer. Colby was standing in the street, cursing the TF rider.

Monte stopped some distance away, halting both Johnny and the miner. “Who started it?”

“That farmer. He called Donnie out and started cussin' him. Ain't you gonna stop it, Sheriff?”

“There is nothin' I can do, mister,” Monte told the man. “If Colby wants to back off, I'll see that he gets that chance. But I can't stop it. There ain't no city or county law agin a one-on-one fight.”

“Colby's gonna get killed,” the miner said.

“I reckon,” Monte agreed.

“What's the matter, Pig-farmer?” Donnie taunted the older man. “You done lost your nerve?”

“No,” Colby said, his voice firm. “Anytime you're ready, draw!”

Donnie and his friends laughed. “Hell, Nester,” Donnie said. “I ain't gonna draw on you. You called me out, remember?”

“You raped my Velvet and killed my boy.”

“I didn't rape nobody, Nester. Your daughter was sellin' and we'uns bought. Cash money for merchandise. Your boy busted up in there and started throwin' lead around. We fired back. And that's the way it happened.”

“You're a goddamned liar!” Colby shouted.

“Now that tears it, Nester,” Donnie said, his hands over the butts of his guns. “You make your play.” He grinned nastily. “Sorry 'bout Velvet, though. She shore liked it, the more the merrier.”

Colby went for his old Navy Colt .36. Grinning, Donnie let the man fumble and then with a smooth, practiced motion drew, cocked, and fired, the slug taking Colby in the right shoulder. The farmer spun around, dropping his Navy Colt onto the dirt of the street.

Colby reached for the gun with his left hand and Donnie fired again, the slug striking Colby in the stomach. The farmer was tossed to one side and Donnie's Colt roared again, the slug taking Colby flush in the face, just above the nose and below the eye sockets. Colby's face was shattered. He trembled once and was still.

“That's it!” Monte shouted. “Holster your gun and ride out of town, Donnie. Right now. Git gone, boy, or face me. Make your choice.”

“Hey, I'm leavin', Sheriff.” Donnie grinned, returning his Colt to leather. “I mean, you saw it — I didn't start it.”

Louis Longmont had watched the whole sickening show from across the street. But, like the sheriff, he had made no attempt to stop it. Such was the code demanded of those who braved the frontier.

Longmont tossed his cigar into the street and walked back to his gaming tent. Then a truth made its way into the light of his mind: he was sick of the whole damned mess. Tired of late hours and tired of taking other people's money — even if his games were honest — tired of sweat-stinking miners and cowboys, tired of the violence and dust and heat and intense cold. Tired of it all. Just plain tired of it.

The gambler realized then that this was to be his last boom town.

That thought made him immensely happy.

From his table in his gaming room, Louis watched the undertaker's black hack rumble past.

He heard a voice saying, “This poor wretch have any family?”

He could not hear the reply.

Louis poured a tumbler of scotch and lifted the glass, silently toasting the dead Colby.

“Not much money in his pockets.” The undertaker's voice came to Louis.

“Mike!” Louis called.

The bouncer stuck his big head around the corner. “Yeah, Boss?”

“Go tell the undertaker to prepare Colby's body and do it up nice — the best he can offer. I'm paying.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And tell Johnny North to come see me.”

“Yes, sir.”

A few minutes later, Johnny North stepped into the gaming tent. “You wanna see me, Louis?”

The two were not friends, but then neither were they enemies. Just two men who were very, very good with a gun and held a mutual respect for each other.

“You know where Colby's spread is located, Johnny?”

“I can probably find it.”

“Someone needs to ride up there and tell his wife that she's a widow.”

“You tellin' me to do it, Louis?”

“No.” The gambler's left hand worked at a deck of playing cards on the table. His right hand was not visible. “But I am asking.”

“If that's the case ... fine. I'll go.”

“Ask her ... no, ride on to Smoke's place and tell him what happened, if you will, please. Ask him to arrange for a wagon to come for Colby's body.”

“I'll do that too, Louis. Louis?”

The gambler looked at the gunfighter.

“It wasn't right ... that shootin'. But we couldn't interfere.”

“I know. But the West is changing, Johnny. Going to ranch and farm a bit with the savings you have up in Boulder, Johnny?”

That shook the blond-haired Nevada gunslick. “How in the hell .. .”

“I own part of the bank, Johnny,” Louis said with a very slight smile.

Johnny returned the smile. “I think I might just ask the Widder Colby if she needs some help up there, Louis. Not today, now, that wouldn't be fitten. But later on.”

“That would be a very decent act on your part, Johnny. I think Belle would appreciate that very much.”

“I'll get goin' now. See you, Louis.”

“See you. Thanks, Johnny.”

As the sounds of Johnny's big California spurs faded on the boardwalk, Andre stuck his head out of the kitchen. “A snack, sir?” the chef asked.

“I think not, Andre. Just coffee, please.”

The chef hesitated. “It is a dismal and barbaric place, is it not,
monsieur?”

“For a while longer, Andre. But it will change as time passes, and time will pass.”

 

 

Johnny North caught up with Donnie about five miles out of town. The young gunslick had several of his friends with him, but numbers had never bothered Johnny North before, and didn't this time.

Johnny North made all the gunslicks and so-called gunslicks of this group nervous. They all kept their hands in plain sight, and as far away from their guns as could be humanly arranged.

“I ain't lookin' for no truck with you, Johnny,” Donnie said, his voice sounding a bit shrill.

“Peel off from your friends, Donnie,” Johnny told him.

“Why?”

“We're gonna take a ride, just you and me.”

“Where we goin'?”

“To deliver a death message.”

“I'll be damned if I'm goin'!”

Johnny smiled grimly. “Do you prefer dead to damned, Donnie?”

“Huh?”

“You can either ride to the Colby place with me, and tell the widder how you gunned down her man, or you can be taken back to the TF spread ... acrost your saddle. It's up to you, Donnie.”

“They's five of us, Johnny,” a TF gunhawk said.

“There won't be when the smoke clears.”

Donnie and the others thought about that for a moment. “I reckon I'll ride with you, Johnny,” Donnie said.

“Fine. You others hightail it back to the TF. You tell Tilden Franklin that from now on I'll be workin' out at Colby's place. Tell him to keep his ass and your asses off that range. You got all that?”

“Yes, sir, Johnny,” a young TF gunnie said.

“Yes, sir,
Mister North!”

“Yes, sir, Mister North!”

“Ride!”

The TF gunnies laid the spurs to their horses and left in a cloud of dust and drumming hooves. None of them was lookin' forward to delivering this news to Tilden Franklin. But none of them wanted to tangle with Johnny North neither. Lesser of two evils, they figured.

“You ride in front of me, Donnie,” Johnny said. “Move out.”

There was a lot of things Donnie wanted to say. Wisely, he said none of them. Just silently cussed.

“There was five of you!” Tilden shouted at the men. “Five of you! I'm paying you men good money, fighting wages. But so far, I've seen damn little fighting. But a hell of a lot of running. What does it take to put some backbone in you men?”

The gunslicks stood and took it in silence. Luis Chamba and his sidekicks, Kane and Sanderson, stood by the corner of the big house and smiled at the dressing-down Tilden was giving his gunhands.

When the chastised men had departed, Luis said, “Perhaps,
señor,
it is time for some night-riding, si?”

Tilden shifted his cold eyes to the Mexican gunfighter. “I'll pass the word, Luis. You're in charge. The others take orders from you.
Cooriente?”

Luis smiled his reply.

“Make your plans, Luis.”

“This game,
señor ...
what are the limits?”

“No limits, Luis. Let the chips fall.”

“I like this game,
señor”
Luis said with a smile.

“I rather thought you would,” Tilden said tightly.

 

 

Belle Colby stood in her front yard, Bob by her side, and listened to Donnie haltingly tell what had happened. The TF gunslick's face was flushed with anger, but he told it all, leaving nothing out.

When he had finished, Johnny said, “If I ever see you on this range, Donnie, I'll kill you. Now ride, punk — ride!”

Donnie wheeled his horse and galloped out.

Bob said, “Are you really Johnny North?”

“Yes. Ma‘am?” He looked at Belle. “I'll be ridin' over to the Sugarloaf. I should be back by sundown. I'll bunk in the barn if that's all right with you.”

“That will be fine, Mister North.”

She had taken the news of her husband's death calmly. Too calmly for Johnny. He sat his horse and looked at her.

“You're wondering why I'm behaving in such a calm manner, Mister North?”

“The thought did pass my mind, ma'am.”

“My husband told me before dawn this morning, as he was belting on a gun, that he was going into town. I felt then that I would never seen him alive again. I did my grieving this morning.”

Johnny nodded his head. He sat looking at the woman for a moment longer. Nice-looking woman; kind of trail worn, but that was to be expected, for this was a hard life for a woman. Then he thought of all the dance-hall floozies and hurdy-gurdy girls he had known down through the long and bloody years. Belle Colby, with her worn gingham dress, sunburned face, and work-hardened hands, seemed beautiful compared to them.

Johnny cleared his throat and plopped his hat back on his head. “You gonna need help around here, ma'am,” he said. “Ifn it's all right, I'll stick around and pull my weight and then some.”

“That would be nice, Mister North,” Belle said with a tired smile. “Yes. I'd like that.”

Johnny returned the smile and wheeled his horse, heading for the Sugarloaf.

 

 

The crowd was respectable at Colby's burying, but not near so many people showed up as had Adam's planting. Most men, whether they would say it aloud or not — and it was the latter if they were married, felt that Colby had done a damn fool thing. And while most of them didn't condone what Donnie had done, they probably would not have interfered. They might have done something similiar had they been in Colby's boots, but it would have been done with a sawed-off express gun in their hands, not with a pistol in a fast-draw type of situation.

Out here, a man had damn well best know his limitations and capabilities.

And behave accordingly.

Once again the Reverend Ralph Morrow conducted the funeral services, and once again he and Bountiful and lots of others stayed for lunch. That was no problem, for everyone who attended the services had brought some sort of covered dish.

Like hangings, funerals also served as quite a social event.

Louis Longmont was there, all fancied up in a tailored black suit ... carefully tailored to hide the shoulder-holster rig he wore under the jacket.

The aging gunfighters were all in attendance, gussied up in their best. They made no attempts to conceal their Colts, wearing them openly, low and tied down.

Pearlie had stayed behind at the Sugarloaf, just in case some TF riders decided to use the occasion to come calling. With a funeral of their own in mind.

Monte Carson and Judge Proctor were there, and so were Hunt and Willow Brook, Colton and Mona Spalding, Haywood and Dana Arden.

Ed Jackson did not show. He figured he might lose a dollar or so by closing his store.

Besides, Ed felt that Colby had gotten exactly what he deserved. And the next time he saw that Smoke Jensen, Ed just might give him a good piece of his mind about the totally uncalled-for beating of a fine man like Tilden Franklin. Well ... he'd think about doing that, anyways.

“Going to stay on up here for a time?” Monte asked Johnny.

“Thought I might. Belle has her hands full all day just tryin' to look after Velvet, and I think me and Bob can pretty well handle it. And some of them old gunslingers come over from time to time, Belle says. Them old boys know a lot about farming and such.”

Monte and Judge Proctor said their goodbyes to Belle and returned to Fontana.

By late afternoon, most of those attending had left for home, since many had traveled miles to get there. About half of the old gunslicks had left, returning to the Sugarloaf to give Pearlie a break.

Louis had returned with Monte and Judge Proctor, riding a magnificent black stallion.

“Like to ride over and spend the night at our place?” Smoke asked Reverend Morrow. “It's a lot closer than town, and we have the room. 'Sides, I'd like for Sally and Bountiful to get to know each other.”

After consulting with his wife, the young couple agreed. Those returning to the Sugarloaf made their way slowly homeward, Smoke and Sally and Ralph and Bountiful in buckboards, the rest on horseback.

“It's so beautiful up here,” Bountiful said, squeezing her husband's arm. “So peaceful and lovely and quiet. I think I would like to live up here.”

“Might have a hard time supporting a church up here, Bountiful.”

“Yes, that's true. But you could do what you've always wanted to do, Ralph.”

He looked at her, beautiful in the sunlight that filtered through the trees alongside the narrow road.

“You would be content with that, Bountiful? A part-time preacher and a full-time farmer?”

“Yes.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm sure of several things, Ralph. One is that I'm not cut out to be a preacher's wife. I love you, but that isn't enough. Secondly, I'm not so sure you're cut out to be a preacher.”

“It's that obvious, Bountiful?”

“Ralph, nothing happened back East. It was a harmless flirtation and nothing more. I think you're always known that. Haven't you?”

“I suspected. I should have whipped that scoundrel's ass while I was feeling like it.”

He spoke the words without realizing what he had really said.

Bountiful started laughing.

“What is so ...” Then Ralph grinned, flushed, and joined his wife in laughter.

“Ralph, you're a good, decent man. I think you're probably the finest man I have ever known. But you went into the ministry out of guilt. And I think that is the wrong reason for choosing this vocation. Look at us, Ralph. Listen to what we're saying. We've never talked like this before. Isn't it funny, odd, that we should be doing so now?”

“Perhaps it's the surroundings.” And for a moment, Ralph's thoughts went winging back in time, back almost eight years, when he was a bare-knuckle fighter enjoying no small amount of fame in the ring, open-air and smokers.

The young man he'd been fighting that hot afternoon was good and game, but no match for Ralph. But back then, winning was all that Ralph had on his mind, that and money. And he was making lots of money, both fighting and gambling. The fight had gone on for more than thirty rounds, which was no big deal to Ralph, who had fought more than ninety rounds more than once.

And then Ralph had seen his opportunity and had taken it, slamming a vicious left-right combination to the young man's head.

The young man had dropped to the canvas. And had never again opened his eyes. The fighter had died several days later.

Ralph Morrow had never stepped into another ring after that.

He and Bountiful had known each other since childhood, and it was taken for granted by all concerned that they would some day marry. Bountiful's parents were relieved when Ralph quit the ring. Bountiful was a bit miffed, but managed to conceal it.

Both had known but had never, until now, discussed the obvious fact that Ralph simply was not cut out to be a minister.

“What are you thinking, Ralph?”

“About the death I caused.”

“It could just as easily have been you, Ralph,” she reminded him. “You've told me a thousand times that the fight was fair and you both were evenly matched. It's over, Ralph. It's been over. Stop dwelling on it and get on with the matter of living.”

Quite unlike the strait-laced minister, he leaned over and gave Bountiful a smooch on the cheek. She blushed while the old gunfighters, riding alongside the buckboards, grinned and pretended not to notice.

 

 

After supper, the young couples sat outside the cabin, enjoying the cool air and talking.

“How many acres do you have, Smoke?” Ralph asked.

“I don't really know. That valley yonder,” he said, pointing to the Sugarloaf, “is five miles long and five miles wide. I do know we've filed on and bought another two thousand acres that we plan to farm. Right now we're only farming a very small portion of it. Hay and corn mostly. Right over there — ” again he pointed, “is seven hundred and fifty acres of prime farm land just sittin' idle. I think we overbought some.”

“That acreage is just over that little hill?” Bountiful asked.

“Yes,” Sally said, hiding a smile, for it was obvious that the minister and his wife were interested in buying land.

“We'll ride over in the morning and take a look at it, if you'd like,” Smoke suggested.

“Do you have the proper saddle for Bountiful?” Ralph asked.

“We're about the same size,” Sally told him. “She can wear some of my jeans and ride astride.”

Bountiful fanned her suddenly hot face. She had never had on a pair of men's britches in her life. But ... this was the West. Besides, who would see her?

“I don't know whether that would be proper for a minister's wife,” Ralph objected.

“Don't be silly!” Sally said, sticking out her chin. “If it's all right for a man, why should it be objectionable for a woman to wear britches?”

“Well ...” Ralph said weakly. Forceful women tended to somewhat frighten him.

“Have you ever read anything by Susan B. Anthony, Bountiful?” Sally asked.

“Oh, yes! I think she's wonderful, don't you?”

“Yes. As well as Elizabeth Cady Stanton. You just wait, Bountiful. Some day women will be on an equal footing with men.”

“Lord save us all!” Smoke said with a laugh. He shut up when Sally gave him a dark look.

“Do you think the time will come when women will be elected to Congress?” Bountiful asked.

Ralph sat stunned at the very thought.

Smoke sat grinning.

“Oh my, yes! But first we have to work very hard to get the vote. That will come only if we women band together and work very hard for it.”

“Let's do that here!” Bountiful said, clapping her hands.

“Fine!” Sally agreed.

“But how?” Bountiful sobered.

“Well ... my mother knows Susan B. very well. They went to school together in Massachusetts. I'll post a letter to Mother and she can write Miss Anthony. Then we'll see.”

“Wonderful!” Bountiful cried. “I'm sure Willow and Mona and Dana would be delighted to help us.”

Smoke rolled a cigarette and smiled at the expression on Ralph's face. The man looked as though he might faint at any moment.

The ladies rose and went chattering off into the cabin.

“My word!” Ralph managed to blurt out.

Smoke laughed at him.

“Boss!” Pearlie stilled the laughter and sobered the moment. “Look yonder.” He pointed.

In the dusk of fast-approaching evening, the western sky held a small, faint glow.

“What is that?” Ralph asked. “A forest fire?”

“No,” Smoke said, rising. “That's Peyton's place. Tilden's hands have fired it.”