Justice of the Mountain Man Page 11

  For the first time, Walker gave a slight smile. “Ole Heck said that, did he?”

  “Yes, sir,” Cal said.

  “Well, who is this man an’ what’s he wanted for?” Walker asked.

  “His name’s Gibbons, an’ he’s a tinhorn gambler,” Pearlie said. “He gave a false statement to Marshal Thomas ’bout a killin’ in Fort Worth; then he skipped out of town.”

  Walker’s face assumed a dubious expression. “You mean Heck sent you all the way down here just to look for a man who’s only offense was lyin’?” He laughed and sat up in his chair. “Hell, if I was to arrest ever’ man in town who lied, there wouldn’t be room for ’em all in the jail. Most of the men in Jacksboro are guilty of somethin’ a whole lot worse at some time in their lives. That’s why they end up here ’stead of Fort Worth or some bigger town.”

  Pearlie’s voice got a little harder. “This man lied about a friend of ours . . . said he back-shot a man outside a saloon. Now our friend’s on his way to Fort Smith to be hanged.”

  Walker pursed his lips. “Well, now. That’s a horse of a different color. And Heck knows this man was lyin’ when he said that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Cal declared. “He overheard the man admit he’d lied, but before he could get him to change his statement, Gibbons left town.”

  “Why don’t Heck just tell the judge the story? That ought to take care of the matter.”

  “The judge in question is Judge Isaac Parker,” Pearlie said. “You ever dealt with him?”

  “Oh,” Walker said, leaning back in his chair, “that do make it difficult. Ole Judge Parker is a stickler for the legal niceties bein’ followed, all right.”

  “Sheriff,” Pearlie said, a bit impatient. “Will you help us? Marshal Thomas said he’d consider it a personal favor.”

  “Sure, boys. Just let me grab my hat an’ we’ll get started lookin’ for this tinhorn.”

  As he accompanied them out the door, Walker asked, “What kind’a fellow is this Gibbons? High-class or low-class?”

  “What do you mean?” Pearlie asked.

  “Well, is he likely to go for a high-stakes game, or try to find one with less money at stake?”

  Pearlie glanced at Cal. “I’d figure him more for the high-stakes game. He dresses real nice, an’ the night he saw the gunfight he’d been at one of the best saloons in Fort Worth.”

  “Then we’ll start at the north end of Main Street. That’s where all the ‘gentlemen’ gamblers tend to congregate.” Walker smiled. “The whores are prettier up there too.”

  Pearlie grinned. “That should be his sort of place then, ’cause he do appreciate pretty ladies.”

  “That’s how we trapped him into admitting he’d lied,” Cal added.

  “Oh, tell me ’bout it,” Walker said.

  As they turned the corner onto Main Street and proceeded northward, the boys told Walker how they’d paid a whore to get Gibbons to incriminate himself.

  Walker nodded appreciatively. “Yep. Seems there’s a woman behind the downfall of most men, that or liquor, or both.”

  When they got to the end of the street, he pointed to several brightly lit establishments. “That there’s the Lucky Lady, an’ over there’s the Double Eagle an’ the Cattleman’s Palace. Those’d be the ones to start with.”

  “Which one has the most women in it?” Cal asked.

  “Son,” Walker said, “this is a cow town. They all chock-full of women.”

  Pearlie pointed. “The Lucky Lady is the closest. Let’s try there first.”

  As they walked through the batwings, the drone of conversation and laughter dimmed for a moment as the patrons saw the star on Deputy Sheriff Walker’s vest, then continued unabated when they saw he was just in to look around.

  A couple of the girls smiled and waved at Walker, showing he was no stranger to the establishments, and he waved back, a grin on his face.

  Pearlie and Cal pulled their hats down low over their faces so Gibbons wouldn’t recognize them if he happened to look their way, and they began to weave among the many tables of cardplayers, searching for the man they were after.

  It took them over half an hour to ascertain he wasn’t in the Lucky Lady, while the deputy stayed at the bar helping himself to a glass of beer, watching them as they searched.

  When they were done, he downed the last of his beer and said, “Well, we can try the Cattleman’s Palace next. It’s right down the street.”

  Pearlie chuckled. “It’s funny, but the Cattleman’s is the name of the hotel we stayed in over in Fort Worth.”

  “Not so funny when you think about it,” the deputy said. “Can’t throw a stick in either town without hittin’ a cattleman, so it’s only natural to put the name on places you want them to come to.”

  17

  Smoke rode slowly toward Fort Worth, but his conscience wouldn’t let him be. Damn it, he thought, the marshal doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into. Those nine men are hard cases who won’t give up without a fight. He shook his head, thinking. Nine against one is tall odds, even for a man as good with a gun as Tilghman is supposed to be.

  “Horse,” he finally muttered to the animal he’d borrowed from the marshal, “we gotta turn around. I couldn’t live with myself if I let the marshal go it alone and he got himself killed.”

  He pulled the mount’s head around and began following the marshal’s horse’s prints toward the outlaw band. As he rode, he checked his pistols one at a time, making sure they were loaded up six and six, and then he filled his pockets with extra cartridges, just in case the upcoming battle lasted longer than he expected.

  Smoke stayed well back, just barely keeping Tilghman in sight on the horizon. He knew if the man knew Smoke was coming to help, he’d try and talk him out of it by saying it was his job, not Smoke’s, to corral the desperadoes.

  No matter. Smoke intended to help only if it looked like the marshal needed it. If he was doing all right by himself, Smoke would stay out of sight.

  * * *

  It was almost dusk when Smoke saw the marshal up ahead get down off his horse and run crouching to get behind a small copse of trees near the stream where Smoke had left Stillwell’s band of men.

  “Come on, horse,” Smoke said, putting the spurs to the bronc he was riding and circling around to the west of where the marshal was stalking the outlaws. He wanted to come at them from out of the setting sun if he had to intervene, using every advantage he could in the face of superior numbers.

  Just as Smoke reached the edge of the small trickle of water, downstream from the bandits, he heard Marshal Tilghman shout for the men to put down their weapons and come out with their hands up.

  “Fat chance,” Smoke said to himself. “They’re gonna come out, all right, with hands filled with iron and guns blazing.”

  He knew men like those he’d ridden with, men used to riding the owl-hoot trail, wouldn’t give up without a fight, and most probably a fight to the death.

  Sure enough, seconds later as Smoke was getting down off his horse and creeping up the stream toward the men, he heard a volley of gunshots ring out from the group, answered by the booming explosion of Tilghman’s Winchester Yellow Boy.

  * * *

  The group of outlaws hunkered down behind the boles of cottonwood trees and in the shelter of the bank of the small stream they were camped next to.

  Jaime Gonzalez, who’d taken over leadership of the bandits after Stillwell had been killed by Smoke, glanced over at George Hungry Bear, lying on his stomach behind a fallen log next to him. “Damn it,” he shouted, “I thought that marshal was out of it.”

  “That Smoke Jensen must’ve gone to help him after killin’ Zach,” Hungry Bear yelled back.

  “You think we can make the hosses?” Gonzalez said, referring to their horses, which they’d tied to another group of trees fifty yards away.

  “And do what?” Hungry Bear answered. “Ride them without saddles?”

  “I thought you Injuns wer
e good at that,” Gonzalez said with a smirk.

  “Hell, Jaime, I was raised on a reservation. I ain’t never ridden bareback in my life, an’ I don’t intend to start now. We got the white eyes outnumbered. We just have to send some of the men sneakin’ around behind him an’ all this’ll be over in a little while.”

  Gonzalez looked to the other side, where the three men they’d rescued from Tilghman were huddled together behind a large, double-trunked cottonwood.

  “Hey, Dynamite Dick,” he shouted, “how about you and your friends making your way off to the side an’ come at the marshal from behind?”

  Bodine yelled back, “We ain’t got no guns, remember? The marshal took ’em from us when we was arrested.”

  Gonzalez pulled an old Walker Army Colt from his second holster and pitched it over to Bodine. “Take this,” he said.

  Bodine leaned out from behind the tree to pick up the pistol, and a slug from Tilghman’s Yellow Boy almost took his head off.

  “Jesus,” he yelled, ducking back behind the tree with the gun in his hand. “Hell, Jaime, this thing must weigh four pounds,” he said, hefting the Walker in his hand.

  “You want me to hold it for you?” Gonzalez said sarcastically.

  “What about us?” Jonathan Mayhew yelled.

  Gonzalez nodded at Hungry Bear, who scooted back to his saddlebags, pulled out a couple of older-model Army revolvers, and threw them over to the men with Bodine. “Make your shots count,” he said. “We ain’t got a whole lot of extra ammo.”

  Mayhew took one of the Armys and handed the other to Shorty Robinson. “I hope you’re better with this than I am,” Mayhew said.

  Robinson expertly flicked open the loading gate and checked the rounds. “Yeah, I guess you tinhorns are more used to derringers than real guns,” he opined.

  He added, “This works the same way. . . . You get close enough it don’t matter where you hit him, he’ll go down.”

  Gonzalez leaned back and shouted at Brooks Sullivan, a cattle rustler who was riding with Stillwell’s gang. “Brooks, you an’ Willy Jackson sidle on downstream until you get outta sight of the marshal, then crawl on up the hill until you behind him. When Bodine an’ his men are ready on the other side, give a whistle an’ we’ll all charge at once from all different directions.”

  Brooks nodded and tapped Jackson on the shoulder, pulling him backward down toward the stream behind them.

  They crouched down so they’d have the cover of the shallow banks and began to wade downstream, looking back over their shoulders to make sure the marshal couldn’t see them.

  Once they’d rounded a corner out of sight, they straightened up and began to move faster. “That goddamned lawman ain’t gonna know what hit him,” Brooks said, glancing at Jackson.

  He stopped talking when he saw Jackson’s eyes widen in fear, staring ahead of them down the stream.

  Brooks jerked his head around in time to see a tall, broad-shouldered man standing there, his hands hanging at his sides.

  “Howdy, gents,” the man said, “remember me?”

  “Smoke Jensen!” Brooks exclaimed.

  “This ain’t your fight, Jensen,” Willy Jackson said, his voice trembling a little. “Why don’t you just ride off an’ mind your own business?”

  “It’s a little late for that, boys. I’ve anted up in this game.... You want to call my bet or fold?”

  “Call!” Brooks shouted, and grabbed for his pistol as Willy Jackson did the same.

  Smoke’s Colt appeared in his hand as if by magic, cocked and spitting lead before the other two men cleared leather. His first slug took Brooks in the center of his chest, knocking him backward to land with his arms outflung on his back in the icy water of the stream.

  A split second later, his second slug entered Willy Jackson’s open mouth, punching out his two front teeth and continuing on to blow out the back of his neck, almost decapitating him in the process.

  Willy spun around, finally managing to get his pistol out of his holster, but never living to pull the trigger. He fell face-down almost on top of Brooks Sullivan, their blood mingling to stain the clear water of the stream a crimson color.

  Smoke hesitated long enough to punch out his empties and reload before continuing his journey upstream.

  “What the hell was that?” Gonzalez yelled when he heard the shots from downstream.

  Hungry Bear started to shake his head, then ducked as a slug from Tilghman’s Yellow Boy slammed into the log he was behind and showered his face with splinters and wood dust. “Shit!” he yelled to Jaime. “We gotta get outta here or he’s gonna pick us off one by one.”

  Just as he said it, one of the other men, Sam Best, a gunman from Tombstone who’d left town at the urging of Wyatt Earp, jumped to his feet and began to run toward the horses.

  He’d only gotten twenty yards when his left knee was blown out by a slug from Marshal Tilghman. After he fell to the ground screaming, he tried to crawl the rest of the way, until another bullet took off the back of his head.

  Gonzalez peered to the side, seeing that Bodine and Mayhew and Robinson were almost in position to fire on Tilghman’s back.

  He raised his head slightly to see better, and a bullet from Tilghman hit him exactly dead center in his Adam’s apple, tearing a fist-sized hole in his throat. He grabbed his neck with both hands, trying to scream, but finding he had no vocal cords to make a sound with. He gurgled and strangled for a moment on his own blood, until a second shot blew out the left chamber of his heart on its way through his chest. He dropped like a stone, dead before he hit the ground.

  Hungry Bear lowered his head and began to chant a death-prayer in his native tongue. He’d never believed in the old ways, but figured if he was going to die, it wouldn’t hurt to try to appease the old ones’ gods, if they existed.

  Finally, he rolled to the side, seeing Roy Bailey, an eighteen-year-old who fancied himself the next Billy the Kid, hiding in a mulberry bush next to a cottonwood off to the side. Bailey, evidently not as brave in a gunfight as he’d thought, had not shown himself since the marshal had attacked.

  “Bailey,” Hungry Bear whispered hoarsely, “climb up in that tree you’re hiding behind an’ see if you can get a shot at the marshal.”

  “But,” the kid said, terror in his voice, “what if he sees me?”

  “Then he’ll shoot you dead, you yellow-belly,” Hungry Bear angrily replied, “but if you don’t do what I say, I’ll kill you myself !”

  Slowly, being careful to remain out of sight, the young man began to climb the tree, his Henry thrown over his back on a rawhide strap.

  Just then, Dynamite Dick Bodine and Shorty Robinson jumped to their feet from twenty yards behind Marshal Tilghman and began firing their pistols.

  Shorty Robinson’s second shot took Tilghman in the fleshy part of his left arm, knocking his rifle from his grasp and spinning him around and saving his life.

  Bodine’s first shot barely missed the marshal when he spun to the side from the impact of being shot, and as was common with the Walker Colts, the second shot exploded in the firing chamber, taking Bodine’s first two fingers of his right hand off at the first knuckle.

  As Bodine grabbed his hand and fell screaming to the ground, Tilghman drew his pistol and fired from his position lying on his back, hitting Shorty Robinson in the belly, doubling him over as he grabbed at the hole in his stomach, trying without success to keep his intestines in.

  Jonathan Mayhew started to point his pistol at the marshal, had second thoughts, and threw it to the ground, raising his hands over his head. Evidently, he figured he had a better chance with Judge Parker than with the angry-eyed lawman, who was drawing a bead on his face.

  “I give up, Marshal,” Mayhew shouted. “Please don’t kill me!”

  “Lie down on your face an’ spread your hands out, Mayhew,” Tilghman growled. “An’ if you reach for that pistol, you’re a dead man!”

  Hungry Bear looked up at Roy Bailey, hidden in t
he branches of the cottonwood, his rifle cradled in his arms. “You got a shot?” the Indian asked.

  “Naw,” Bailey replied, “he’s lying down an’ I can’t get a bead on him.”

  “Wait a minute,” Hungry Bear said, “I’m gonna go out there with my hands up. When he shows himself to arrest me, you plug him good. You understand?”

  “Right. You get him to stand up, an’ I’ll take him down,” Bailey replied, more brave now that he knew he couldn’t be seen.

  “Marshal,” Hungry Bear shouted without raising his head up.

  “Yeah?” Tilghman replied.

  “You’ve kilt all of us ’cept me. I’m gonna throw my gun out and give myself up.”

  “Then come on, but don’t try nothin’ fancy, or I’ll drill you through an’ through,” the marshal replied from his position on the ground.

  Hungry Bear pitched his pistol over the log and stood up, his hands held high over his head. He stepped over the log and began to walk toward where Tilghman lay.

  When Hungry Bear was out in the clear, away from his gun, the marshal stood up, motioning with his Colt for Mayhew to follow him toward the Indian.

  Mayhew and George Hungry Bear stood in front of Marshal Tilghman, their hands up. “You men are under arrest,” Tilghman said, reaching behind his back to pull out some manacles to put on their wrists.

  A sudden shot rang out from the direction of the grove of trees near the stream, and Tilghman whirled around, crouching, pointing his pistol toward the sound.

  A body, still holding a Henry repeating rifle, fell from a tree to land with a resounding thump on the hard-packed dirt. Roy Bailey squirmed once, calling out for his mamma; then he quivered for a moment and died, still holding his rifle.

  A tall, dark figure stepped from the cover of the trees, his hands above his head. “Don’t shoot, Marshal,” the man called. “It’s Smoke Jensen.”

  As Smoke approached, the marshal shook his head, grinning. “Jensen, I thought you was on your way to Fort Worth.”

  Smoke shrugged, lowering his hands and holstering his Colt. “I was, but I thought you might need a little backup.”