Brutal Night of the Mountain Man Read online

  “Get me the hell out of here!” Witherspoon demanded angrily.

  “How did you get in there?”

  “Never mind all that. Just get me out, now!”

  Calhoun hurried out to the front of the office, got the keys, then came back to let Witherspoon out.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Witherspoon demanded to know. “I’ve been locked up back here for at least two hours!”

  “I was doin’ what you told me to do, Marshal,” Calhoun replied. “I was seein’ what I could come up with on Smoke Jensen.”

  “And did you?” Witherspoon asked as they returned to the office.

  “Well, I’m not sure. I found somethin’, but I’m not sure it’ll be of any use to us.”

  “You let me decide on whether or not it’ll be any use to us. What did you find?”

  “I got a wanted poster on him for murder. But it’s from Colorado, it ain’t from Texas.”

  Despite the ordeal of having just been locked up in his own jail, a huge smile spread across Marshal Witherspoon’s face. “The hell you say.”

  “Onliest thing is, that poster has to be over twenty years old.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Witherspoon said. “I’m no lawyer, but even I know that there’s no statute of limitations on murder.” Witherspoon looked at the wanted poster. “And, as you can see here,” he said, thumping his fingers on the paper, “he’s wanted for murder. And for ten thousand dollars. Oh, yeah, Mr. Atwood is going to be really happy about this.”

  WANTED

  DEAD or ALIVE

  THE OUTLAW AND MURDERER

  SMOKE JENSEN

  $10,000 REWARD

  Contact the Sheriff—Bury, Idaho Terr.

  “You mean he was wanted for murder,” Calhoun said. “Since this is the onliest one on him I found, why, like as not, it’s done been called back.”

  “Maybe it was called back from Colorado,” Witherspoon said with an evil smile. “But it wasn’t called back from Texas.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t called back from Texas?”

  “You found it, didn’t you? If it had been called back, most likely it would’ve been destroyed, not just put away.”

  “So, what do we do with it now?”

  “I’ll see Judge Boykin ’n have him issue a new one,” Witherspoon said.

  “Even if it’s been withdrawn?”

  “That’s for the judge to decide, not you,” Witherspoon said.

  * * *

  “I don’t know if I have the authority to reissue this,” Judge Boykin said after Witherspoon showed him the reward poster on Smoke Jensen. “This was issued by some sheriff up in Idaho, and it is offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward. Suppose someone did kill him, how would we come up with ten thousand dollars?”

  “Hell, Judge, we won’t actually be reissuing this poster,” Witherspoon said. “We’ll just be reprinting it for that marshal up in Idaho. If somebody kills Jensen and wants the reward, they’ll have to contact that sheriff.”

  “But this poster is over twenty years old. There’s very little chance that the man who originally posted this reward would still be the marshal, and whoever is there now probably knows nothing at all about this. I doubt seriously that the reward would even be paid.”

  Witherspoon chuckled. “Well now, that ain’t really goin’ to be our problem, is it? Once Jensen is dead, he’s dead, ’n whether the sheriff up in Bury, Idaho, whoever he is, pays this reward or not, it don’t really matter none to us.”

  “But if I am purposely issuing a wanted poster on a man who isn’t wanted, I could get into a lot of trouble,” Boykin complained.

  “Are you a’ tellin’ me that you ain’t goin’ to reissue the poster?”

  “I’m just saying it could be risky.”

  “Tell me this, Judge, have you ever received any information saying that Smoke Jensen ain’t wanted no more?”

  “Well, no, but then, I wasn’t the judge back when this dodger was first issued.”

  “Then you have no information telling you that it has been withdrawn. As far as you know, you’re just doing the state of Colorado a favor by authorizing the reprint of this.

  “And, I might add, Atwood wants this done.”

  Judge Boykin smiled. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, you’re right, I would just be doing a community service by reissuing this document, wouldn’t I?”

  “You write out somethin’ sayin’ you approve of this, ’n I’ll go over to the newspaper office ’n have ’em print up some reward dodgers for us,” Witherspoon said.

  “I wouldn’t go to the newspaper office if I were you,” Boykin said.

  “Why not? I need to get these things printed.”

  “You’ve read some of Blanton’s editorials, haven’t you? I can’t say that any of them have been particularly supportive. You’d better find someplace else to have it printed.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Witherspoon said.

  * * *

  “How many did you have printed?” Atwood asked.

  “So far there’s just this one. I told him I’d need to see what you thought about it before I’d have him print any more.”

  Atwood nodded. “Yes, it looks good, but we don’t need any more. This one will be enough.”

  “One?” Witherspoon questioned, surprised by Atwood’s reply. “What do you mean we only need one? How are we going to get them out there for people to see them if we only print one?”

  “No need for a lot of people to see it,” Atwood said. “The only one who needs to see it is the one who is going to try and collect the reward.”

  “Uh, Mr. Atwood, you do know, don’t you, that there might not be any reward at all? This was first printed a long time ago, and besides that, it was done up in Colorado.”

  “Paying the reward is not our problem,” Atwood said. “According to this, it is the sheriff up in Idaho who will be paying the ten thousand.”

  “I suppose so. But I don’t think Jensen is going to be all that easy to kill. It’s not just that he killed Pardeen, from what I’ve been able to find out about him, he’s better with a gun than just about anybody.”

  “Just about doesn’t mean everyone. I may know of just the man who can handle him.”

  “Who would that be?” Witherspoon asked. “I know you’ve got some good men ridin’ for you, but I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Atwood, I don’t think you’ve got anyone who’s up to handlin’ Smoke Jensen.”

  “Do you think someone like Lucien Critchlow would be good enough to take the measure of Mr. Jensen?”

  “Someone like Critchlow? I don’t know. He might be. That is, if he really is as good as Critchlow.”

  Atwood smiled. “Oh, I expect Critchlow is as good as Critchlow.”

  “You’ve got Critchlow?”

  “Not yet, but I’ll get him.”

  Witherspoon smiled and nodded. “Yeah, you get Critchlow, and our problem will be taken care of. Oh, wait, that might not be such a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Critchlow is for sure going to want the ten-thousand-dollar reward, and like I told you before, there might not even be a reward out for Jensen now. It’s more than likely that this here reward was took down years ago. Otherwise, there would be fresh paper out on ’im, and I can tell you for a fact, there ain’t none. And Critchlow ain’t exactly the kind of a man I’d want to have thinkin’ we cheated him.”

  “You let me worry about that.”

  * * *

  “Why is it you’re willin’ to hire someone else to take care of Jensen?” Bo Willis asked. “Ain’t that why you’ve got folks like me ’n Clark ’n Booker ’n the others? We ain’t exactly your ordinary cowhands, you know.”

  “You had your opportunity to deal with him, and it didn’t turn out all that well, did it?”

  “Yeah, well, it wasn’t just him, it was three of ’em, if you recall. ’N one of ’em sneaked up behind us.”

  “I do recall,” Atwood said. “Look, Willis,
don’t misunderstand the situation here. You, Clark, and Booker are too valuable to me and I can’t afford to lose you right now. If Critchlow succeeds, and Jensen is killed, I will be able to continue with the long-range plans I have. But if Critchlow is killed, it will merely be a temporary setback. I can replace him easily. You, not so easily.”

  “Oh,” Willis said, mollified by Atwood’s explanation. “Oh, well, yeah, if you put it that way, I see what you mean.”

  “Now, do be a good man and go to Carrizo Springs for me. I’m told that is where you will be able to find Critchlow.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Bo Willis had never actually seen Lucien Critchlow, but he did have a good description of him, and when he stepped into the Bottom Dollar Saloon in Carrizo Springs, Texas, he saw someone standing, alone, at the far end of the bar. The man standing there had a narrow face with hollow cheeks and very thin lips. His eyes were dark, and deep—set beneath sparse eyebrows.

  “What’ll it be?” the bartender asked, stepping up to Willis.

  “I’ll take a whiskey.”

  The bartender poured a shot from an unmarked bottle.

  “That man standing at the other end of the bar,” Willis said quietly, as he paid for the drink. “Would that be Lucien Critchlow?”

  “It might be. Who are you?”

  “The name is Willis. I work for Mr. Atwood over in El Paso County, ’n he wants to make Critchlow an offer.”

  “What kind of offer?” the bartender asked.

  Willis glared at him. “The offer is for Critchlow,” he said.

  “Yeah? Well, I wouldn’t make ’im mad, if I was you,” the bartender said as he walked away.

  Willis tossed down his whiskey and looked over toward Critchlow. Nobody knew for sure how many men Lucien Critchlow had actually killed. Seventeen, some said. Twenty-three, others insisted. Critchlow knew, but he never spoke about it. He didn’t have to; his reputation spoke for itself.

  Willis set the glass down on the bar, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then screwed up his courage to approach the gunfighter.

  “Mr. Critchlow?”

  “Yeah?” Critchlow replied without turning around.

  “I work for a man named Silas Atwood. He wants to make you an offer.”

  “An offer?”

  “He wants to hire you for a job.”

  “I don’t come cheap.”

  “Mr. Atwood isn’t a cheap man.”

  “What is this job I’m supposed to do?”

  “Have you ever heard of a man named Smoke Jensen?”

  “Smoke Jensen? Yeah, I’ve heard of him. He come down here not too long ago and got into a little brawl with that Mexican feller that was raisin’ so much Cain here about. Keno, I think his name was.”

  “Is that all you know about ’im?”

  “Folks say that he’s good with a gun,” Critchlow said.

  “Yeah, that’s what I heard, too.”

  “What about Jensen? Why are you askin’ me about ’im?”

  “I’d rather let Mr. Atwood tell you about ’im,” Willis said. “I can tell you this, though. He told me to tell you that if you can do the job, it’ll be worth a lot of money to you.”

  Critchlow said nothing, but turned back to the bar and stared down into his whiskey glass. Willis, not quite sure what he should do now, stood there for a moment, then turned to walk away.

  “Where are you goin’?” Critchlow asked with a low growl.

  “Well, I, uh, am goin’ to go back ’n tell Mr. Atwood you ain’t interested.”

  “Did I tell you I wasn’t interested?”

  “You didn’t say nothin’ at all.”

  “Then don’t be tellin’ ’im nothin’ if you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “You mean, you will come see Mr. Atwood?”

  “Yeah, you can tell ’im I’ll be there.”

  “When?”

  “When I get there,” Critchlow replied.

  * * *

  A couple of Atwood’s Mexican employees were replacing shingles on the barn the next day when they saw someone ride in and dismount in front of the big house.

  “Pistolero,” one of them said.

  “Si, hombre asesina,” the other replied.

  The two men spoke so quietly that it was impossible for Critchlow to have overheard them, but as he looped his horse’s reins around the hitching post, he looked up toward them.

  “Madre de Dios,” one of them said prayerfully.

  “It is all right, Ramon. He goes to see Señor Atwood.”

  Critchlow was shown into the library where, without being asked, he sat in what appeared to be the most comfortable leather chair to wait for Atwood.

  When Atwood came into the room a few minutes later, it was obvious by the expression on his face that Atwood had chosen his chair. Critchlow made no effort to relinquish the chair.

  “Mr. Critchlow, thank you for coming,” Atwood said, finding another, less comfortable chair.

  “Yeah, well, this ain’t exactly what you might call a social visit,” Critchlow said. “I was told that you might have a job for me.”

  “I do,” Atwood said. “That is, if you are willing to take it.”

  “So, you want me to kill Smoke Jensen, do you?”

  Atwood coughed. “You, uh, do get to the bottom of things very quickly, don’t you?”

  “You said you have a job for me. I don’t punch cattle, and I’m no handyman. You know who I am, and what I do, so there’s only one reason you would want to hire me. Your man asked me about Smoke Jensen, so I figure he’s the one you want me to kill.”

  “Yes, you’re right.”

  “Why do you want him killed?”

  “I have personal and business reasons for wanting Smoke Jensen out of the way.”

  “Reason enough to pay for murder?”

  “It won’t exactly be murder.”

  “How will it not be murder?”

  Atwood showed Critchlow the recently printed poster stating that Smoke Jensen was wanted, dead or alive, and that a reward of ten thousand dollars was being offered.

  Critchlow studied the poster for a long moment. “Ten-thousand-dollar reward?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Yes, it is. Do you know this man, Jensen?” Atwood asked.

  “Yeah, I know who he is,” Critchlow replied. “I didn’t know there was any paper out on ’im, though.”

  “This is new,” Atwood said. “If you know him, then you also know that he is a man who, shall we say, enjoys somewhat of a reputation as one who is quite skilled with a gun.”

  “Yeah, so I’ve heard,” Critchlow replied.

  “Will you take the job?”

  “What do you mean, will I take the job?” Critchlow held up the poster. “From the way I’m seein’ it, this ain’t exactly a job. There’s a reward out for him, so what you’re sayin’ is that you want me to compete with all the others who are going after him.”

  “No,” Atwood replied. “This poster hasn’t been issued yet. You are the first one to see it, so you won’t be competing with anyone.”

  “Once I kill ’im, who’ll be payin’ the reward?”

  “It’s like the poster says. The reward will be paid by the marshal up in Bury, Idaho. I’ll see to it that the body is properly identified and reported, though. I’ll have the local marshal and the judge verify it. You won’t have any problem proving that you killed him. And of course, because Jensen is wanted, dead or alive, there won’t be any unpleasant charges brought against the man who dispatches him.”

  “Who does what?”

  “Who kills him.”

  “And you say that you’ve got personal reasons for wantin’ ’im dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “One thousand dollars.”

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  “No, the reward is for ten thousand dollars, and in order to collect that, I’ll have to contact some marsha
l up in Idaho. That means it could be a real long time before I get anything, if I ever get it at all,” Critchlow said. “So when I say I want a thousand dollars, what I mean is, I want that thousand dollars from you, in addition to the reward. And I want it as soon as the job is done so I’ll have some money while I’m waitin’ for the ten thousand dollars to be paid.”

  “A thousand dollars? That’s . . . uh . . . a lot of money.”

  “Yeah, well, if you want me to do the job, then that’s what it’s goin’ to cost.”

  Atwood stroked his chin for a long moment before he replied. “All right, I’ll meet your price. Just get the job done. Do you think you can handle Jensen?”

  “I can beat ’im.”

  “You’re sure you can?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “The reason I ask is, if, for some reason, you can’t beat him, it might well come back that I’m the one who hired you.”

  “What do you mean, you hired me? Ain’t you just showed me that there’s paper out on him?”

  “Yes, but still, I’m taking somewhat of a chance here.”

  Critchlow chuckled. “You’re takin’ a chance? I’m the one that’s goin’ to go up against him.”

  “Yes, I suppose that is true, isn’t it?”

  “I want the money now.”

  “I’ll pay you when the job is done.”

  “Then you can get someone else to do the job.” Critchlow turned to leave.

  “Wait!” Atwood called to him. “What if I gave you one hundred dollars now and the rest of the money after the job is done? I promise you, I won’t cheat you.”

  Critchlow moved his thin lips into what might have been a smile, though with a face like his, it was hard to tell. And if it was a smile, it didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Tell me, Atwood, do you really think I might be worried that you would cheat me?”

  “No, I . . . I guess not.”

  “It’s not ’cause I think you might cheat me. I just want a little walkin’-around money up front is all.”

  “All right,” Atwood agreed. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars now. But this one hundred comes off the one thousand.”

  “No. This one hundred dollars is what you might call expense money,” Critchlow said.