Brutal Night of the Mountain Man Read online

  With the dodger in hand, Calhoun walked over to talk to Smoke, who was sitting back at his table.

  “Critchlow tried to claim this reward?” Calhoun asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I told Witherspoon that I didn’t think this was any good.”

  “You saw it before?” Smoke asked.

  “Yeah, I’m the one that found it. Well, not this one,” Calhoun said, holding up the paper to look at it. “This looks like a new one, and I don’t know where it come from. The one I found was so old it was near ’bout fallin’ apart.”

  “Where did you find it? And why were you looking for it?” Smoke asked.

  “I was lookin’ for it, ’cause Witherspoon told me to look for it. ’N I found it in the courthouse records, but like I said, I told Witherspoon that, like as not, it was no good.”

  “You were right, it isn’t any good.”

  “You’re the one that got Kate let out of jail, too, aren’t you?”

  “I didn’t do it by myself. My wife and Kate’s brother were both with me.”

  “When I come back, I found Witherspoon in jail,” Calhoun said. He laughed. “He was fit to be tied, too.”

  “Was he?”

  “Yeah, he was. You know you’re becomin’ a real pain in the ass to him, don’t you? Him and Atwood both.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yeah,” Calhoun said with a chuckle. “You are.”

  “You don’t seem particularly upset by it.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t exactly agree with ever’thing Witherspoon does.” Calhoun looked around at the others in the saloon, then spoke quietly. “Truth is, I don’t agree with much of anything that he does. Like, I never thought we had no business puttin’ Kate in jail in the first place, ’n if it had been up to me, I wouldn’t of done it. It’s Atwood that’s causin’ all this, but then, I figure you already know that. Atwood says jump, ’n the marshal ’n the judge, they kinda see which one of ’em can jump the highest. So if you put a burr under Atwood’s saddle, it don’t bother me all that much at all.”

  “Deputy Calhoun, from what several people have told me, you’re a pretty good man. Why do you stay with Witherspoon?”

  “The way I look at it, with the way Witherspoon is, I mean him ’n Judge Boykin bein’ told what to do ’n all by Atwood, seems to me like there ought to be someone who has the good of the town in mind. ’Course, when it come to Rusty ’n his mama, I wasn’t able to do nothin’ about it, seein’ as I was drunk when Rusty kilt Calley, and I don’t remember anything about it. And when it come to puttin’ Miss Kate in jail . . . I tried to talk ’em out of it, but they didn’t listen to nothin’ I had to say. That’s why I’m glad you come to town when you did.”

  “It’s good to hear that I’ve got a friend in the enemy’s camp,” Smoke said.

  Calhoun laughed again. “A friend in the enemy’s camp. That’s a good one.” He was still laughing as he left the saloon, meeting Welch, the undertaker, on his way out.

  “Deputy, I’m told there’s someone in need of my services in here,” Welch said, glaring at Calhoun.

  “Yeah, he’s lyin’ right over there.”

  “Why are you laughing, Deputy? I hardly think levity is appropriate around a dead body.”

  “Depends on who it is, Mr. Welch. For some people, you just want to celebrate when they’re kilt. And Lucien Critchlow is just such a person.”

  “You mean the famous gunfighter? Oh, my. To think that I’ll be burying someone like Lucien Critchlow.” Welch smiled in anticipation.

  “You see what I mean, Undertaker? Sometimes you do want to smile.”

  * * *

  “Hey, Marshal, I was just over in the saloon, and seen that Smoke Jensen killed Lucien Critchlow,” Calhoun said when he stepped into the marshal’s office a few minutes later.

  “Yeah? Well, tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

  “Here’s somethin’ you don’t know. Or maybe you do know. Critchlow had a dead or alive wanted poster for Jensen.”

  “Did he now? Well, that’s interesting.”

  “You want to know what’s even more interesting? It was the same wanted poster that I found over at the courthouse, only, this here one wasn’t all old and crumbly like the one I found. This here one looked like it was fresh off the press.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “You know what I think?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think maybe Judge Boykin took it on hisself to reprint that poster.”

  “Maybe the poster is still good,” Witherspoon suggested.

  “No, it ain’t no good. If you ask me, the judge is just pissed off because Jensen went to the federal judge ’n got Miss Kate turned loose. ’N that’s why he printed up a new poster.”

  “Could be,” Witherspoon agreed.

  “That wasn’t right, Marshal. You know damn well that wasn’t right. And now that I think about it, it was probably Atwood that put ’im up to it.”

  Witherspoon held his finger up. “I’ll tell you this, Calhoun. You’d do well to remember who butters your biscuit.”

  “I’m not likely to forget that,” Calhoun replied.

  “See that you don’t,” Witherspoon said as he headed toward the door.

  “Where are you goin’?”

  “Out,” the marshal snapped.

  * * *

  Even before Sally and Kate returned to the saloon, they had heard the news of the shoot-out. By the time they got back, though, the body had been moved and the small amount of blood had been cleaned up. There was nothing to remind anyone of the shooting other than the excited babble of conversation.

  “You should’ve seen it, Miss Kate,” Cletus said. “It was the damndest thing I ever saw. Critchlow drew first, and Jensen had to draw while he was sittin’ down, ’n still he beat ’im.”

  “I never thought anyone would be able to beat Critchlow,” yet another said.

  “What did the marshal say?” Kate asked.

  “We were all willin’ to give a statement ’bout what happened here, I mean as to who drew first ’n all that, but the marshal didn’t want it,” Peterson said.

  “Oh, dear. I hope he isn’t planning on another trial like the one he gave Rusty.”

  “No, ma’am, we’ve already told ’im that we don’t have any intention of lettin’ ’im do that,” yet another customer said. “He didn’t like it much, but he seemed to take it without too much guff.”

  “You want to know what I think, Mr. Jensen? I think that even Witherspoon figures that you did us a favor, killin’ Critchlow like you did,” Peterson said. “He was a bad sort, but then I reckon you know about ’im.”

  “Truth to tell, Mr. Peterson, I had never even heard of Critchlow until right now.”

  “Really? You never heard of him, huh? It’s too bad Critchlow didn’t live long enough to hear you say that. He was about the most arrogant son of a bitch I’ve ever known,” Peterson said. “I beg your pardon, ladies.”

  “Oh, heavens, there’s no need to apologize, Mr. Peterson,” Sally said. “As it so happens, that particular sobriquet is appropriate when applied to some people.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I suppose so,” Peterson replied, not entirely certain what Sally said, though satisfied that she held no fault with him.

  “Heavens! I feel guilty that someone tried to kill you. I know it is because of me,” Kate said.

  “If it hadn’t been because of you, it would have been for some other reason,” Sally said. “You have no idea how often someone tries to kill Smoke.”

  “Don’t you worry about him?”

  “Kate, if I worried about every two-bit gunman who had it in his mind to make a name for himself by killing Smoke, I would never draw an easy breath,” Sally replied. “I have boundless confidence in his ability to take care of himself.” She paused for a minute before she added, “and me.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that,” Smoke said. “Knowing that I don’t have to be concerned
about you worrying about me gives me an edge.”

  Sally smiled and put her hand on Smoke’s shoulder. “That’s good to know, because even though I don’t worry about you, I do like for you to have every edge possible.”

  “Howdy, ever’body!” someone yelled from the front door.

  “Rusty!” Kate shouted happily, as Rusty, Pearlie, and Cal came into the saloon then.

  “Hi, Mom,” Rusty replied with a broad smile.

  Kate ran toward Rusty with her arms spread wide, embracing him firmly. “Oh, I’m so happy to have you back!”

  The other patrons in the saloon joined in the welcome back, including all the “Pretty Girls.” Dolly was the only one of the Pretty Girls to add her embrace to Kate’s, and she seemed to do so with particular vivacity.

  As Smoke and Sally were witnessing the happy reunion, Smoke glanced over at Cal and smiled at the bright red shirt he was wearing.

  “Whoa, that’s some shirt you’re wearing,” Smoke said.

  “You like it? I just bought it.”

  “You couldn’t find one in red?”

  “What are you talking about? This is . . .” Cal started to say, but he paused in midsentence, then grinned. “You’re teasin’ me, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe just a little,” Smoke admitted, returning Cal’s smile.

  “Oh, is it safe for you to be here?” Kate asked.

  “Uncle Pearlie says I’m not wanted anymore,” Rusty said.

  “Well, yes, but . . . who knows what Mr. Atwood might try next?”

  “Katie, you and the boy can’t be spending the rest of your life worrying about Atwood,” Pearlie said. “For now the two of you just enjoy the fact that the law isn’t after you anymore. You let us take care of Atwood.”

  “Take care of him? What do you mean, take care of him?”

  “Take care of him,” Pearlie said simply.

  “Hey, Rusty, why don’t you play the piano for us?” Peterson asked.

  “Ha! So you have missed me, haven’t you?” Rusty replied.

  Peterson shook his head. “No, I can’t say as we’ve missed you. But we have missed listenin’ to someone play the piano,” he added with a laugh.

  “Play ‘Old Dan Tucker,’” Cletus said.

  Rusty held up his hand. “I will,” he promised. “But first, I’m going to play whatever Mom wants me to play.”

  Kate smiled through her tears. “You know what I want you to play,” she said.

  Rusty nodded and, crossing his arm across his stomach, made a production of bowing to the audience there gathered. Then, walking over to the piano, he made a motion as if sweeping his tails back, took his seat on the piano bench, and stared at the keyboard for a moment.

  “Oh, my,” Sally said. “Is Rusty a classically trained pianist?”

  “Yes,” Kate answered proudly.

  “How wonderful.”

  The saloon, which was normally filled with the cacophony of loud conversation, booming laughter, and high-pitched squeals, now waited in absolute silence. One of the patrons moved his chair just a fraction to better his position, and half a dozen cast a censoring gaze at him for the resultant squeak.

  Then, with a flourish, Rusty began playing Tchaikovsky’s Concerto Number Two. The music, coming from this piano, as opposed to the upright pianos that were so common in most of the saloons, was so rich and deep that it was almost as great as the difference between the voice of a solitary singer and a full chorus.

  Smoke looked over at Sally and could see by the gleam in her eyes, and the expression on her face, how much she was enjoying this. Although Sally had never complained about it, he knew that one of the things she missed by having lived so much of her life out West was the opportunity for the cultural events living back East had afforded her. Because of that, he had spent much of their married time together taking her to concerts and plays presented by traveling troupes.

  Rusty played only the second movement of the concerto. It was the most melodious of the three movements, and was only a little over eight minutes long. The entire concerto would have been well over half an hour long, and though Sally would have appreciated listening to the whole piece, she knew the people here would not be able to sit still for the whole thing.

  It was, however, obvious that they enjoyed what they did hear, because the applause was loud and enthusiastic at the conclusion of the number. He stood and, with a broad smile on his face, bowed again at the audience.

  “This was wonderful,” Sally said.

  Kate wiped her eyes. “Oh, how I would love to hear him play a real concert, in a real symphony hall,” she said. “Maybe Atwood is right. Maybe I should sell out to him. I feel I have done Rusty such an injustice by making him stay here.”

  “Rusty is a grown man,” Sally said. “If he is here with you, it is because he wants to be here with you.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As the patrons of the Pretty Girl and Happy Cowboy Saloon were enjoying the impromptu concert, Allen Blanton, editor of the Etholen Standard, finished setting the type on the article, then leaned back to read it. When he first came into the newspaper business, it took him a while to read type because of it being set in reverse. But now he could read backward as easily as forward, and he smiled as he read what he intended to be the lead story to run in this evening’s newspaper.

  Today, Lucien Critchlow, a man known for his skill with a pistol and his willingness, one might even say his eagerness, to employ that skill, met the fate that so often befalls someone of his ilk. He had the misfortune to engage in a gunfight with someone who was able to employ his pistol with even more effectiveness.

  The result was that Critchlow was killed by Smoke Jensen, who is a visitor to our town. Critchlow had opened the contest by presenting a Dead or Alive wanted poster that had been issued by a marshal in Bury, Idaho. Before undertaking to print this story, this newspaper contacted, by wire, the current marshal of Bury, Idaho, and was told by the marshal that Kirby Jensen is not wanted in Idaho now, nor as far as that marshal is concerned, is he wanted anywhere else.

  Witnesses to the gunfight have all stated that before the gunplay ensued, Mr. Jensen attempted to inform Critchlow that the reward poster was invalid, as he was not wanted. All the witnesses to the encounter are uniform in their declaration that Critchlow, unwilling to listen to Mr. Jensen’s declaration, precipitated the gun battle that followed, and that Mr. Jensen was entirely justified in defending himself.

  I hasten to put this story in the paper so that all might know the actual facts of the event. In this way it is to be hoped that the truth, published so that it is universally known, will prevent a repeat of the travesty of justice that condemned young Rusty Abernathy, and subsequently his mother, to death in a trial that defied all standards of legitimacy and fair dealing.

  This editor has stated before, and by these published words I say again, that until our town has a new marshal and a new judge, independent of the improper influence of Silas Atwood, we will continue to be void of all semblance of justice.

  Witherspoon had been absent from the marshal’s office for the better part of the day, and Calhoun was alone when Elmer Welch, the undertaker, came into the marshal’s office.

  “Is the marshal here?” Welch asked.

  “No,” Calhoun answered. “But I reckon you have come here to see how much money the county is goin’ to pay you to bury Critchlow.”

  “No. It isn’t going to cost the county so much as one penny to bury him.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “It turns out that Critchlow had enough money in his pocket to pay for his own burial,” Welch said.

  “He did, did he? Well, that was very nice of him to be so accommodating, don’t you think?” Calhoun replied with a chuckle.

  Welch smiled. “Yes, it was. And here’s the thing, Deputy. Not only is Critchlow paying for his own burial, he’s goin’ to wind up makin’ me a lot more money ’n just what I’d get for buryin’ ’im.”

  “Oh
? And just how, pray tell, is he going to do that?”

  “Well, sir, it was Phil Dysart who come up with the idea,” Welch said.

  “Dysart? The photographer?”

  “Yep. What he’s plannin’ to do is, he’s goin’ to charge people two dollars to get their picture taken while they’re standing alongside Critchlow’s body. And for an extra fifty cents, he’ll give ’em a gun to hold, so that it’ll look like they were the one that shot ’im.”

  “By now everyone in town knows that it was Smoke Jensen that shot ’im.”

  “It was, but forty or fifty years from now, who’s goin’ to remember that? And a feller could show his grandkids a picture of him standing next to Lucien Critchlow, holding a pistol, and they’re goin’ to think it was their grandpa who did it.”

  Calhoun laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “Hey, I wonder if Dysart would take my picture like that? I’ve got my own pistol, though, I don’t plan on givin’ him a half dollar to hold his gun.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he would.”

  “I can see how that’ll make money for Dysart, but what are you gettin’ out of it?”

  “I get one dollar for every picture that is taken.”

  “You said there was some money in Critchlow’s pocket?”

  “Yes, after subtracting the cost of the burial expenses there was seventy-three dollars and fifty-seven cents left over and to tell the truth, I don’t have any idea as to what to do with it. As far as I know, he doesn’t have any kin anywhere close by.”

  “Leave it with the county and I’ll write you a receipt for it. If there’s no claim against it, we’ll put it in a special fund to pay for any other indigent burials.”

  Welch grinned. “Yeah, I thought you might want to do something like that.”

  “Leavin’ that money so other folks can get a decent burial is probably the only decent thing Critchlow ever did in his whole life,” Calhoun said.

  “I don’t doubt that,” Welch said. “Well, I’d better get back to the parlor. I expect business is going fairly well, right now.”