Trail of the Mountain Man (7 page)

Ralph Morrow was the first one back to where Smoke stood beside Drifter. “Where is your wife, Preacher?”

The man cut his eyes at Smoke. Smoke could see the faded scars above the man's eyes.

A boxer, Smoke thought. He's fought many times in the ring.

“Walking along the creek over there,” he said, pointing. “I suppose she's safe. From hostiles,” he added, a touch of bitterness in his voice.

“I'd think so. This close to town. Preacher? Anytime you want to talk, I'm available.”

The man looked away, stubbornness setting his chin.

Smoke said no more. The others soon joined them and they made their way into Fontana. The newspaper man carried a note pad and had a breastpocket full of pencils. Smoke stabled Drifter with Billy and smiled at the boy. Billy was dressed in new britches and shirt, boots on his feet. “Give him some corn, Billy.”

“Yes, sir. I heared that was some show last night over to Longmont's place.”

Smoke nodded. “He was a tad slow.”

Billy grinned and led Drifter into his stall, the big outlaw stallion allowing the boy to lead him docilely.

“What a magnificent animal,” Colton remarked, looking at Drifter.

“Killed the last man who owned him,” Smoke said.

The doctor muttered something under his breath that Smoke could not quite make out. But he had a pretty good idea what it was. He grinned.

The town was jammed with people, bursting at its newly sewn seams. American flags were hung and draped all over the place. Notices that Tilden Franklin was going to speak were stuck up, it seemed, almost everywhere one looked.

“Your fine man is going to make a speech, Jackson,” Smoke said to the shopkeeper, keeping his face bland. “You sure won't want to miss that.”

“I shall make every attempt to attend that event,” Ed announced, a bit stiffly.

Several of the miners who had been in Louis's place when Tay was shot walked past Smoke, greeting him with a smile. Smoke acknowledged the greetings.

“You seem to have made yourself well known in a short time, Smoke,” Hunt said.

“I imagine them that spoke was some that made money betting on the outcome of the shooting,” the lawyer was informed.

“Barbaric!”

“Not much else to do out here, Lawyer. Besides, you should see the crowds that gather for a hanging. Folks will come from fifty miles out for that. Bring picnic lunches and make a real pleasurable day out of it.”

The lawyer refused to respond to that. He simply shook his head and looked away.

The town was growing by the hour. Where once no more than fifty people lived, there now roamed some five thousand. Tents of all sizes and descriptions were going up every few minutes.

Smoke looked at Ed Jackson. “I'm not trying to pry into your business, Shopkeeper, so don't take it that way. But do you have any spare money for workmen?”

“I might. Why do you ask?”

“You could get your store up and running in a few days if you were to hire some people to help you. A lot of those men out there would do for a grubstake.”

“A what?”

“A grubstake. You give them equipment and food, and they'll help you put up your building and offer you a percentage of what they take out of the ground. I'd think about it — all of you.”

“I thought you didn't care for me, Mister Jensen,” the shopkeeper said.

“I don't, very much. But maybe it's just because we got off on the wrong foot. I'm willing to start over.”

Ed did not reply. He pursed his perch-mouthed lips in silence. “I thank you for your suggestion,” he said, a moment later. “I shall . . . give you a discount on your first purchases in my store for it.”

“Why, thank you very much,” Smoke replied, a smile on his lips. “That's right generous of you, Ed.”

“Yes,” Ed said smugly. “It is, isn't it?”

The other men turned their heads to hide their smiles.

“How do I go about doing that?” Ed questioned.

“Just ask somebody,” Smoke told him. “Find a man who is afoot rather than riding. Find one carrying everything on his back or pushing a cart. You'll probably get some refusals, but eventually you'll find your people.”

Ed, Colton, Hunt, and Haywood walked off into the pushing, shoving hubbub of humanity, leaving Smoke and Preacher Morrow standing alone.

“You have no spare money, Preacher?” Smoke asked.

Ralph's smile was genuine. “Find me one who does have spare money. But that isn't it. I want to build as much of my church as possible myself. It's ... a personal thing.”

“I understand. I'm a pretty good hand with an axe myself. I'll give you a hand later on.”

Ralph looked at the gunfighter. “I do not understand you, Mister Jensen.”

Before Smoke could reply, the hard sounds of drumming hooves filled the air. “Tilden Franklin,” Smoke said. “The king has arrived.”

 

 

“Pearlie!” Sally called. “Come take a break and have some coffee. And I made doughnuts.”

“Bearsign!” the young puncher shouted. “Yes, ma'am. I'm on my way.”

Sally smiled at that. She had learned that cowboys would ride a hundred miles for home-cooked doughnuts ... something they called bearsign. It had taken Sally a time to learn why they were called bearsign. When she finally learned the why of it, she thought it positively disgusting.

“You mean! ...” she had puffed to Smoke. “These people are equating my doughnuts to ... that's disgusting!”

“Bear tracks, Sally,” Smoke had told her. “Not what you're thinking.”

She had refused to believe him.

And Smoke never would fully explain.

More fun letting her make up her own mind.

“My husband must have thought a lot of you, Pearlie,” she said, watching the puncher eat, a doughnut in each hand. “He's not normally a trusting person.”

“He's a fine man, Miss Sally,” Pearlie said around a mouthful of bearsign. “And got more cold nerve than any man I ever seen.”

“Can we win this fight, Pearlie?”

The cowboy pushed his battered hat back on his head. He took a slug of coffee and said, “You want a straight-out honest answer, ma'am?”

“That's the only way, Pearlie.”

Pearlie hesitated. “It'll be tough. Right off, I'd say the odds are slim to none. But there's always a chance. All depends on how many of them nester friends of yourn will stand and fight when it gets down to the hardrock.”

“A few of them will.”

“Yes'um. That's what I mean.” He stuffed his mouth full of more bearsign.

“Matlock will, and so will Wilbur. I'm pretty sure Colby will stand firm. I don't know about the others.”

“You see, ma‘am, the problem is this: them folks you just named ain't gunhands. Mister Tilden can mount up to two hundred riders. The sheriff is gonna be on his side, and all them gun-slingin' deputies he'll name. Your husband is pure hell with a gun — pardon my language — but one man just can't do 'er all.”

Sally smiled at that. She alone, of all those involved, knew what her husband was capable of doing. But, she thought with a silent sigh, Pearlie was probably right ... it would be unreasonable to expect one man to do it all.

Even such a man as Smoke.

“What does Mister Franklin want, Pearlie ... and why?”

“I ain't sure of the why of it all, ma‘am. As for me, I'd be satisfied with a little bitty part of what he has. He's got so much holdin's I'd bet he really don't know all that he has. What does he want?” The cowboy paused, thinking. “He wants everything, ma'am. Everything he sees. I've overheard some of his older punchers talk about what they done to get them things for Tilden Franklin. I wouldn't want to say them things in front of you, ma‘am. I'll just say I'm glad I didn't have no part in them. And I'm real glad Mister Smoke gimme a job with ya'll 'fore it got too late for me.”

“You haven't been with the Circle TF long, then, Pearlie?”

“It would have been a year this fall, ma‘am. I drifted down here from the Bitterroot. I ... kinda had a cloud hangin' over me, I guess you'd say.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Ain't that much to say, ma‘am. I always been mighty quick with a short gun. Not nearabouts as quick as your man, now, but tolerable quick. I was fifteen and workin' a full man's job down in Texas. That was six year ago. Or seven. I disremember exact. I rode into town with the rest of the boys for a Saturday night spree. There was some punchers from another spread there. One of‘em braced me, called me names. Next thing I recall, that puncher was layin' on his back with a bullet hole in his chest. From my gun. Like I said, I've always been mighty quick. Well, the sheriff he told me to light a shuck. I got my back up at that, ‘cause that other puncher slapped leather first. I tole the sheriff I wasn't goin' nowheres. I didn't mean to back that sheriff into no corner, but I reckon that's what I done. That sheriff was a bad one, now. He had him a rep that was solid bad. He tole me I had two choices in the matter: ride out or die.

“Well, ma'am, I tole him I didn't backpaddle for no man, not when I was in the right. He drew on me. I kilt him.”

Pearlie paused and took a sip of coffee. Sally refilled his cup and gave him another doughnut.

“Whole place was quiet as midnight in a graveyard,” Pearlie continued. It seemed to Sally that he was relieved to be talking about it, as if he had never spoken fully of the events. “I holstered my gun and stepped out onto the boardwalk. Then it hit me what I'd done. I was fifteen years old and in one whale of a pickle. I'd just killed two men in less than ten minutes. One of them a lawman. I was on the hoot-owl trail sure as you're born.

“I got my horse and rode out. Never once looked back. Over in New Mexico two bounty-hunters braced me outside a cantina one night. I reckon someone buried both of them next day. I don't rightly know, seein' as how I didn't stick around for the services. Then I was up in Utah when this kid braced me. He was lookin' for a rep, I guess. He didn't make it,” Pearlie added softly. “Then the kid's brothers come a-foggin' after me. I put lead in both of them. One died, so I heard later on.

“I drifted on over into Nevada. By this time, I had bounty-hunters really lookin' for me. I avoided them, much as I could. Changed my name to Pearlie. I headed north, into the Bitterroot Range. Some lawmen came a-knockin' on my cabin door one night. Said they was lawmen, what they was was bounty-hunters. That was a pretty good fight, I reckon. Good for me, bad for them. Then I drifted down into Colorado and you know the rest.”

“Family?”

Pearlie shook his head. “None that I really remember. Ma and Pa died with the fevers when I was eight or nine. I got a sister somewheres, but I don't rightly know where. What all I got is what you see, ma'am. I got my guns, a good saddle, and good horse. And that just about says it all, I reckon.”

“No, Pearlie, you're wrong,” Sally told him.

The cowboy looked at her, puzzlement in his eyes.

“You have a home with us, as long as you want to ride for the brand.”

“Much obliged, ma‘am,” he said, his voice thick. He did not trust himself to say much more. He stood up. “I better get back on the Sugarloaf East, ma'am. Things to do.”

Sally watched him mount up and ride off. She smiled, knowing she and Smoke had made yet another friend.

Surprisingly, Smoke noted, the election went smoothly. There was one central voting place, where names were taken and written down in a ledger. There was no point in anyone voting more than once, and few did, for Tilden Franklin's men were lopsidedly out in front in the election count, according to the blackboard tally.

By noon, it was clear that Tilden's people were so far ahead they would not be caught.

Hunt, Haywod, Colton, and Ed had voted and vanished into the surging crowds. Preacher Morrow stayed with Smoke.

“You're not voting, Preacher?” Smoke asked.

“What's the point?” Ralph summed it up.

“You're a quick learner.”

“It's not Christian of me, Smoke. But I took one look at that Tilden Franklin and immediately formed an acute dislike for the man.”

“Like I said, a quick learner.”

“The man is cruel and vicious.”

“Yes, he is. All of that and more. Insane, I believe.”

“That is becoming a catch-all phrase for those who have no feelings for other men's rights, Smoke.”

Smoke was beginning to like the preacher more and more as time went by. He wondered about the man's past, but would not ask, that question being impolite. There were scars on the preacher's knuckles, and Smoke knew they didn't get there from thumping a Bible.

Then the call went up: the other candidates had withdrawn. Tilden Franklin's men had won. Within minutes, Monte Carson was walking the streets, a big badge pinned to his shirt.

Smoke deliberately stayed away from the man. He knew trouble would be heading his way soon enough; no point in pushing it.

He felt someone standing close to him and turned, looking down. Billy.

“What's up, Billy?”

“Trouble for you, Smoke,” the boy said gravely.

Preacher Morrow stepped closer, to hear better. Haywood and Hunt were walking toward the trio. Smoke waved them over.

“Listen to what the boy has to say,” Smoke said.

Billy looked up at the adults standing about him. “Some of the Circle TF riders is gonna prod you, Smoke. Push you into a gunfight and then claim you started it. They're gonna kill you, Smoke.”

“They're going to try,” Smoke said softly correcting him.

“Where did you hear this, boy?” Hunt asked.

“I was up in the loft getting ready to fork hay down to the horses when the men came inside the barn. I hunkered down in the loft and listened to them talk. They's five of them, Smoke. Valentine, Suggs, Bolton, Harris, and Wright.”

“I've heard of Valentine,” Smoke said. “He's a gunhawk. Draws fighting wages from Franklin.”

“His name was mentioned too,” the boy continued. “They said Mister Franklin told them to nip this matter in the bud and end it. If you was to die, they said, the other nests would crumble like a house of cards. They said the new law was on their side and Mister Franklin told them they didn't have nothin' to worry about from that end.”

“I suggest we go see the new sheriff immediately,” Hunt said. “Let him handle this matter.”

Billy shook his head. “I don't know who you are, mister. But you don't understand the way things are. Monte Carson is Franklin's man. Franklin says frog, Carson jumps. Judge Proctor is an old wine-head from over the Delores way. Franklin brung him in here to stick him in as judge. It's all cut and dried. All made up agin Smoke.”

“Incredible!” Haywood said. “Oh, I believe you, son.” He looked at Billy. “Activities of this sort are not confined solely to the West.”

Billy blinked and looked at Smoke. “What'd he say?”

“Happens in other places too.”

“Oh.”

“If that is the case, Smoke,” Hunt said, “then you must run for your life.”

Smoke's eyes turned icy. He looked at the lawyer. “I don't run, Lawyer.”

“Then what are you going to do?” Haywood asked.

“You've all three heard Billy's statement. A newspaper man, a lawyer, a minister.” Smoke smiled with a grim wolfs baring of his teeth. “Take Billy's story down. I see a way to make Tilden Franklin eat crow on this matter and backpaddle.”

“What are you going to do, Smoke?” Preacher Morrow inquired.

“Fight,” Smoke said.

“But there's
five
of them!” Hunt protested. “Five against one of you.”

“I've faced tougher odds, Lawyer.” He looked at Billy. “Where is it going down, Billy?”

“They're gonna brace you in the stable.”

Smoke nodded his head. “After these gentlemen take your story on paper, Billy, you get the horses out of there. I don't want to see a good horse die on account of trash like Tilden's men.”

“Yes, sir!”

Smoke looked at the three men. “I'll be heading down that way in about an hour, boys. I would suggest you all hunt a hole.”

 

 

Sally looked toward the eastern slopes of the Sugarloaf. Pearlie was not in sight. Bob Colby was working inside the barn, cleaning it out. She called for him.

“Yes'um?” He stuck his head out of the loft.

“Bob, look and see if you can spot Pearlie. He should be over there.” She pointed.

Bob searched the eastern slopes of the Sugarloaf. “Nothing, ma'am,” he called. “I can't spot him.”

“All right, Bob. Thanks. He's behind a hill, I guess.” She put Pearlie out of her mind and thought about what to fix for dinner — supper, as they called it out here, although she had never gotten used to that.

 

 

“Now what, boys?” Pearlie asked the half-dozen Circle TF riders facing him.

“I guess you know what, Pearlie,” a puncher said. He shook out a loop in his rope.

“You boys is wrong,” Pearlie said. “A man's gotta right to ride for the brand he chooses.”

“You a turncoat, Pearlie. You should have knowed that no one shows his ass-end to Mister Franklin.”

“He ain't God, Lefty.”

“He is around here,” Lefty responded.

“Then let him bring you back to life,” Pearlie said. He jerked iron and blew Lefty out of the saddle, the slug taking the TF rider in the right shoulder, knocking him to the ground.

Pearlie spun his cutting horse and tried to make a run for it. He was just a tad slow. He felt the loop settle around him, and then another circled him and jerked him out of the saddle. He hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of him.

Pearlie struggled to free himself of the stiff ropes, but he knew he was fighting a losing fight. He lifted his six-gun and thumbed the hammer back. He hated to do it, but he had to leave some proof of who had done this to him.

He shot a TF horse. The animal dropped almost immediately as the slug entered behind its left shoulder and shattered the heart. The rider cursed and jumped free, kicking the six-gun out of Pearlie's hand.

“Drag the son of a bitch!” the horseless rider yelled.

Pearlie was jerked along the ground. Mercifully, his head struck a rock and he was dropped into the darkness of unconsciousness.

 

 

“Did you hear a shot!” Sally called.

“Yes'um!” Bob called back. “Probably Pearlie shootin' a rattler, is all.”

“Maybe,” Sally muttered. She went back into the house and strapped on a pistol. She picked up a rifle and levered a round into the chamber of the Henry. Back outside, she called, “Bob! Are you armed?”

“Yes'um. Got a short gun on and my rifle is right down there.” He pointed.

“Get your rifle and stay in the loft. Keep a look-out for riders. I think we're in for some trouble.”

“Yes'um!”

“While you're getting your rifle, close and bar all the barn doors. I'll bring Seven inside and put him in a stall.”

“Yes'um, Miss Sally.”

Sally hurriedly fixed containers of water and a basket of food for the boy. She put in several boxes of ammunition and carried it to him in the barn. “We might be in for a long day, Bob,” she told him. “And you might have to stay out here by yourself tonight.”

“I ain't skirred, Miss Sally. I can knock the eye out of squirrel at a hundred yards with a rifle. If anybody comes to fight, we'll stand 'em off.”

“Good boy. I'll be in the house. Let them come close, we'll catch them in a crossfire.”

Bob grinned. “Yes,
ma'am
!”

 

 

It was as if some invisible messenger had passed the word. The town of Fontana grew quiet, then hushed almost entirely. Smoke walked across the street and stepped into the tent of Louis Longmont. Louis waved him to the bar.

“A pall has fallen over us, my young friend,” Louis said. “I'm sure it concerns you. Am I correct?”

“Uh-huh. Some of Franklin's men are setting me up for a killing.”

“And naturally, you're going to leave town in a cloud of dust, right?”

“Sure, Louis. You know that.”

“How many?”

“Five.” Smoke named them.

“Valentine is a bad one. I know him. He's a top gun from down near the Tex-Mex border. Watch him. He's got a border roll that's fast as lightning.”

“Yeah, I've heard he's good. How good?”

“Very good,” the gambler said softly. “He beat Johnny North.”

A smile passed Smoke's lips. “But Johnny North is still alive.”

“Precisely.”

So Valentine was cat-quick, but couldn't shoot worth a damn. Many quick-draw gunhands were blindingly fast, but usually missed their first shots.

Smoke almost never missed.

“I'll back you up if you ask, Smoke,” Louis offered.

“It'll come to that, Louis. But not yet. Speaking of Johnny North, where is he?”

“A question I've asked myself a few times since coming here. He'll be here. But he's a strange one, Smoke. He hates Monte Carson.”

“So I hear. I've never heard of him teaming up with anyone.”

“Lone wolf all the way. Johnny must be ... oh, about my age, I suppose. But age has not slowed him a bit. When do you meet these gentlemen, and where?”

Smoke opened his watch. “In about fifteen minutes. Down at the stables.”

“Anything you need?”

“A shotgun and a pocketful of shells.”

Louis reached over the bar and pulled out a sawed-off twelve-gauge express gun. He handed Smoke a sack of shells.

“I loaded these myself,” the gambler said. “Full of ball-bearings.”

Smoke loaded the express gun. “Got a taste of that scotch handy?”

Louis walked behind the long, deserted bar and poured two fingers of scotch for each of them. He lifted his glass. “To your unerring marksmanship.”

“And hope I shoot straight too,” Smoke said needling the man.