Brutal Night of the Mountain Man Page 11

  “All right, all right. Kill Jensen, and I’ll give you the entire one thousand dollars.”

  Ramon and Carlos saw Critchlow again as the pistolero rode away.

  “He goes to kill someone, I think,” Carlos said.

  “Si,” Ramon said. “I think so, too.” Ramon crossed himself.

  Gomez, Texas

  “Really?” Rusty said as a huge smile spread across his face. “I’m not wanted anymore?”

  “Judge Turner has overturned your conviction and has freed Katie as well,” Pearlie said. He smiled at his nephew. “We’ve come to take you home to your mama.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Pearlie! Thank you!”

  “I don’t know about you two, but I’m kinda hungry,” Pearlie said. “What do you say we find us a restaurant?”

  Five minutes later Pearlie, Rusty, and Cal were enjoying their lunch at a café on Center Street called Susie’s.

  “Is Atwood still trying to take over Mom’s saloon?” Rusty asked.

  “He may try, but he won’t get it,” Cal said. “We’ll make certain of that.”

  “By the way,” Pearlie said. “Some of the customers at the Pretty Girl are wondering when you’ll be back. It seems that they miss your piano playing.”

  Rusty smiled. “I miss playing it, too.”

  “Yeah, well I’d like to hear you play, so you can . . . damn!” Cal said. He had just started to take a bite when he spilled food all down the front of his shirt.

  “Savin’ some of your lunch for later, are you?” Pearlie teased.

  “You think we have time for me to get a new shirt before we go back?”

  “I think we need to; I sure don’t want to be seen with a slob like you,” Pearlie said.

  * * *

  “Hey!” someone called to them when the three men stepped out into the street. “You’re Rusty Abernathy, ain’t you?”

  Rusty didn’t answer.

  “Yeah, I know you are. I’ve seen you play in the saloon over in Etholen.”

  Rusty smiled at the man who had called out to him. “Yeah, I’m Rusty. I hope you enjoyed . . .” that was as far as he got before the man, unexpectedly, drew his pistol and pointed it at Rusty.

  “That’s what I thought,” the man said. “You’re worth five hunnert dollars,” he said.

  “No, he isn’t,” Pearlie said. “A federal judge has set aside his guilty verdict. That means that the reward has been pulled back. He’s not a wanted man anymore.”

  “Who the hell says so?” the man holding the gun replied.

  “I say so,” Pearlie said. “I was in the judge’s office when he did that.”

  “Well, I’ve got a document in my pocket that says he’s worth five hunnert dollars, ’n I intend to collect on it.”

  “I told you, that reward poster is worthless.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Rusty’s uncle.”

  “Yeah? Well that tells me you’re lyin’ to save him. Only it ain’t goin’ to work, ’cause I’m pointin’ this gun directly at him.”

  Pearlie drew so fast that he was holding a gun in his hand before the man realized it.

  “And I’m pointing this gun directly at you,” Pearlie said.

  “Are you crazy, mister? Can’t you see I’m already pointin’ my gun at Abernathy? I told you, he’s worth five hunnert dollars to me.”

  “And I told you, the reward has been withdrawn.” Pearlie smiled. “And even if it hasn’t been, how are you going to spend five hundred dollars if you’re dead?”

  “I, uh . . .”

  “Get his gun, Cal.”

  Cal reached out for the gun, which the man surrendered without resistance. Cal took out the cylinder, then handed the pistol, without the cylinder, back to the would-be bounty hunter.

  “My friend is going to buy a shirt,” Pearlie said. “When we’re gone, you can pick up your cylinder over there, in the mercantile store.”

  “I want a red one,” Cal said easily, as they headed toward the store, leaving the frustrated bounty hunter standing in the street, holding a useless pistol.

  * * *

  Back in Etholen, Sally and Kate were having lunch together.

  “It has been a long time since I last saw my brother, but I must say he has made some wonderful friends.”

  “Pearlie has been almost a part of our family since we first met him,” Sally said. “And over the years we have had to depend upon him more times than I can possibly count. He and Cal have been such a blessing to us.”

  “Yes, well, I don’t know what would have happened to Rusty and me if he, you, Smoke, and Cal hadn’t come along when you did. In fact, I don’t want to know what would have happened.”

  Sally reached out across the table to lay her hand on Kate’s hand. You don’t have to wonder about it, because nothing bad is going to happen. We’re here now, and Smoke told me he has no intention of our going back home until he is sure that you will be safe and not bothered.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  With Sally and Kate having lunch at the Palace Café, and with Pearlie and Cal gone to fetch Rusty, Smoke found himself alone in the Pretty Girl and Happy Cowboy Saloon. He was well aware that Atwood might still try to cause some trouble for Kate, so he was sitting at a table that offered a commanding view of the entire room. He had just taken a swallow of his beer when he saw someone come in who piqued his interest. As soon as the man stepped through the batwing doors, he moved in such a way as to put the wall to his back while he studied the saloon.

  This was exactly the way Smoke entered a saloon, and the way this man did it, easily and without calling attention to himself, suggested to Smoke that he was either a man on the run or someone who had made many enemies in his life. And it was Smoke’s experience that anyone who had made a lot of enemies had probably killed a lot of men. Also, the way the man wore his gun, low on his right hip, and slightly kicked out, suggested that he was quite proficient in its use.

  Smoke wondered why such a man would be in Etholen, but even as he wondered, he had a gut feeling that he wasn’t here by chance. There had been nothing overt in the man’s actions, but Smoke had long ago developed an intuition about such things. That intuition, almost as much as his prowess with a pistol, had kept him alive through the years.

  The gunman, and that was how Smoke was thinking of him now, stepped up to the bar and ordered a drink. Although the man was standing with his back to Smoke, Smoke could see that he was using the mirror to make a very careful study of the room. Then, when the man found what he was looking for, his searching eyes stopped.

  And they stopped on Smoke.

  That action validated Smoke’s notion that the man was here for him. This wouldn’t be the first time that a gunfighter, trying to make a name for himself, had called him out. But, he was out of his normal territory, so he rather doubted this was such a person. He believed that this could well be someone who had been sent by Atwood.

  A couple of times Smoke looked directly at the gunman’s reflection, wanting to look him in the eyes, but the man cut his gaze away both times.

  Finally the gunman turned toward Smoke.

  “Mister, why is it that you’re a-starin’ at me in the mirror?” he asked. He spoke the words loudly, and he put more reproach into the question than was required.

  “Was I staring?” Smoke said. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “Yeah? Well you are making me damn uncomfortable.”

  “I assure you, sir, any thought that I am staring at you is unfounded. I’ll make certain not to do so in the future.”

  The gunman twisted his mouth into what might have been a smile. “Well now, Mr. Smoke Jensen, what makes you think you’re even goin’ to have a future?” he asked.

  Here it was. This was no casual encounter. This man had called Smoke by name, and that could only mean that he was after him in particular.

  “That’s enough, mister!” Peterson said. “This man ain’t done nothin’ t
o you, and he apologized even though he didn’t do nothin’. Now back off.”

  The gunman held a hand out toward the bartender, though he didn’t take his eyes off Smoke.

  “This ain’t none of your business, bartender. ’N if you don’t keep your mouth shut, ’n stay out of this, I’ll be takin’ care of you, right after I take care of the famous . . . Smoke Jensen. That is your name, ain’t it?”

  “It is,” Smoke replied.

  “Tell me, would you be the same Smoke Jensen that a marshal from Idaho is offerin’ a ten-thousand-dollar reward for?”

  Smoke was rarely surprised by anything anymore, but this did surprise him.

  “What?” he asked, practically shouting the response.

  “You heard me. There’s paper out on you from Idaho, ain’t there? ’N it’s for ten thousand dollars. I know this, ’cause I seen the dodger with m’ own eyes.”

  “Mister, now, how about telling me your name?” Smoke asked.

  “The name is Critchlow. Lucien Critchlow.”

  “Critchlow!” someone said, and though it was a whisper, it was loud enough that everyone in the saloon heard it.

  The name was repeated a few more times, and in as much awe as was used by the first to speak it.

  The gunman smiled. “I see several here have heard of me. But then most people have. Of course, some of ’em hear of me a little too late, if you get my meanin’.”

  Smoke, who was still sitting at the table, made no reply.

  “Critchlow, I’ve heard of you,” Peterson said. “But I’ve heard of Smoke Jensen, too, and if you’re thinkin’ about takin’ him on, you might want to reconsider. I believe you’re about to take a bigger bite than you can chew.”

  “Is that a fact? This man, Smoke Jensen, he’s supposed to be somebody, is he? I mean, other than a murderer ’n an outlaw that the marshal up in Bury, Idaho, is willin’ to pay ten thousand dollars for.”

  “Critchlow, I don’t know where you saw that, but that poster was issued more than twenty years ago,” Smoke said. “And it was pulled soon after it was issued. There is no reward out for me, not here in Texas, not up in Colorado, not anywhere in the entire nation. So if you’re prodding me so you can collect a reward, you’re going to be disappointed, because nobody is going to pay you any money for my hide.”

  “Yeah? Well, now I know you’re lyin’, just tryin’ to weasel your way out. I’ve seen the poster, mister, ’n the one I seen ain’t twenty years old. Hell, it ain’t hardly a week old, ’cause it was bright ’n shiny, brand new, which means that more’n likely it just come off the printin’ press. Anyhow, why don’t we let the marshal up in Idaho decide whether it’s still any good or not?”

  “I’m afraid Sheriff Reece isn’t going to be able to tell you anything about this poster.”

  “Sheriff Reece? That’s the lawman up in Bury, Idaho, that’s wantin’ you, is it?”

  “He was the marshal when the poster was put out over twenty years ago. But he isn’t there anymore.”

  “Yeah? Well he could be. I’ve heard of sheriffs bein’ sheriffs for more’n twenty years.”

  “Not this one. He’s dead.”

  “How do you know he’s dead?” Critchlow challenged.

  “I know he’s dead, because I killed him.”

  At Smoke’s words, spoken without inflection, there was another audible gasp of surprise from those present in the saloon.

  “You’ll never get your money, Critchlow.”

  Critchlow’s mocking smile grew even wider. “So you’re sayin’ I ain’t goin’ to get the money ’cause you killed a marshal? Well now, it just so happens that the lawman in Idaho ain’t the only one wantin’ to see you dead. Turns out there’s another fella willin’ to pay for it.”

  The bartender, measuring the conversation, knew that it had reached the pivotal stage and moved down to the far end of the bar.

  Now it was Smoke’s time to smile, and unlike Critchlow’s forced smile, Smoke’s smile was easy and confident.

  “No. I’m saying you’ll never get your money because if you actually try and go through with this, I’m going to kill you,” Smoke said easily.

  Critchlow was used to invoking fear in the men he faced. Smoke’s calm, and almost matter-of-fact response unnerved him, and without saying another word, and without warning, the gunman’s hand dipped with lightning speed toward his pistol.

  Because Smoke was still sitting at the table, he was at a disadvantage, and Critchlow actually managed to draw his gun and get one shot off. The bullet punched a hole in the table just in front of Smoke. But Smoke had his gun out just as fast, firing at almost the same time. And unlike Critchlow, Smoke didn’t miss.

  Critchlow dropped his gun and grabbed his chest, then turned his hand out and looked down in surprise and disbelief as his palm began filling with his own blood.

  “You . . . you was sittin’ down! How the hell did you . . . ?” he started to say, but he was unable to finish his sentence. Instead, his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell back, then lay motionless on the floor with open, but sightless eyes staring toward the ceiling.

  Gunsmoke from the two charges merged to form a large, acrid-bitter cloud, which drifted slowly toward the door. Beams of sunlight streaming in through the door and windows became visible as they stabbed through the cloud.

  The other patrons in the saloon, shocked to have seen Critchlow beaten in a gunfight, and not only beaten, but by a man who was sitting down, moved with cautious awe toward the body that lay unmoving on the saloon floor.

  “Did you see that?” someone asked.

  “Hell, Cletus, we’re in here, too,” someone answered. “Yeah, we seen it. We all seen it.”

  “I seen it,” another said. “But I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it.”

  “I thought Critchlow was fast.”

  “He was fast.”

  “Yeah? Well he warn’t fast enough, was he?”

  There were rapid and heavy footfalls on the wooden sidewalk outside as more people began coming in through the swinging doors. Marshal Witherspoon was one of the first ones to come in.

  “What the hell happened here?” Witherspoon asked. Seeing that the dead man was Lucien Critchlow, Marshal Witherspoon nodded grimly. “I’ll be damn. Someone got Critchlow.”

  “Yeah,” Peterson said. He pointed to Critchlow’s body. “And if there was ever anybody who needed killin’ more than Lucien Critchlow, I don’t know who it would be.”

  “Who done it?” Witherspoon asked.

  “That would be me,” Smoke said.

  The marshal looked over at Smoke, who had placed his gun on the table, though his hands, also on the table, were clasped together.

  “What’d you kill ’im for?” the marshal asked.

  “I didn’t have much choice, he drew on me.” Smoke pointed to the bullet hole in the table. “Here is where his bullet went.”

  “You were sitting at the table?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damndest thing I ever saw, Marshal. Critchlow drew first, and Smoke Jensen had to draw while he was sittin’ down, ’n still he beat ’im,” Cletus said.

  “I never thought nobody would ever be able to beat Lucien Critchlow, neither,” Doodle said.

  “You ain’t plannin’ on arrestin’ him, are you, Marshal?” Cletus asked. “Because I’ll tell you right now, that ever’one in here will say what really happened. ’N we ain’t goin’ to let you ’n Boykin keep us from testifyin’ this time.”

  “No, I ain’t goin’ to arrest him,” Witherspoon said. He stared pointedly at Smoke. “This is the second man you’ve kilt since you come into my town. Killin’ seems to be followin’ you around, don’t it?”

  Smoke nodded. “Sometimes it does,” he agreed.

  Witherspoon looked back at Critchlow. “I’ll get Welch down here to take care of the body,” he added.

  Cletus chuckled. “You don’t have to be in too big a hurry, do you, Marshal? I expect there’ll be quite a few f
olks who are goin’ to want to come in here ’n see the body. Especially seein’ as who it is.”

  “Yeah,” Doodle said. “Hell, the Pretty Girl ’n Happy Cowboy will prob’ly wind up makin’ twice as much money as they would have.”

  “Jensen, I’d advise you not to be leavin’ town anytime soon,” Witherspoon said.

  “Oh, I’m not planning on going anywhere,” Smoke replied. “Not until all this business with Atwood is cleaned up.”

  “What . . . what business is that?” Witherspoon asked.

  Smoke chuckled. “You know what I’m talking about. Don’t make yourself look any dumber than you have to, Marshal.”

  “Look here! You can’t talk to me like that.”

  “Hell, Witherspoon, it looks to me like he just did talk to you like that,” Doodle said to the laughter of the others in the saloon.

  Clenching his fists in frustration, and with his cheeks flaming in embarrassment, Witherspoon spun on his heels and stormed out of the saloon.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Shortly after Witherspoon left the saloon, Deputy Calhoun came in. His reaction, when he saw Critchlow’s body lying on the floor, was ample indication that he knew nothing about what had just happened.

  “Good Lord a’mighty! Is that Lucien Critchlow?” he asked.

  “It sure as hell is,” Cletus replied.

  “What happened?”

  “We’ve just been through all that with the marshal,” Peterson said. “Smoke Jensen killed him.”

  “But it was a fair fight,” Doodle said, and his declaration was validated by several other comments.

  “How come Critchlow took Jensen on like that? I mean, what started the fight?”

  “There warn’t no fight,” one of the other saloon patrons said. He reached over to the bar and picked up a flyer, then showed it to Calhoun. “Critchlow come in here carryin’ this reward poster sayin’ that they was a ten-thousand-dollar reward out for Jensen, dead or alive.”

  “Can I see that?” Calhoun asked in a small voice.

  “Yeah, sure,” the patron said, handing the reward poster over to the deputy. “It come from Idaho, so I don’t know what it’s doin’ down here in Texas. Jensen said it warn’t no good, but Critchlow didn’t listen to ’im.”