Justice of the Mountain Man Page 12

  “That you I heard shootin’ over downstream a while back?”

  Smoke nodded. “Yeah. A couple of the gang were on their way to sneak up on your back. I let ’em know that wasn’t appreciated.”

  Tilghman laughed. “Yeah, I heard how you told ’em, with a .44, it sounded like.”

  “You need some help with that arm?” Smoke asked, noticing the marshal’s wound.

  “If you could keep a gun on these galoots, I’ll tie it off with my bandanna. Then we can get ’em on their horses for the ride back to the wagon.”

  “No problem, Marshal.” Smoke glanced around. “You ought to have enough broncs to pull it the rest of the way.”

  “Yeah, an’ you can get back on your way to Fort Worth to finish your business there.”

  As Smoke started to ride away, the marshal added, “Jensen, I want you to know I’m grateful for what you did here today.”

  Smoke nodded.

  “But, Jensen, I’ve never let my personal feelin’s interfere with my work as a U.S. marshal. Even though you probably saved my life by doin’ what you did, if you’re still wanted for murder when I get to Fort Smith, I gotta tell you, I’ll be comin’ after you, just like any other wanted man.”

  “I appreciate the warning, Marshal, and I would expect nothing less,” Smoke said.

  “Just wanted you to know not to expect any special treatment ’cause of today.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Marshal. I’m going to get this mess cleared up so there won’t be any need of you having to track me down.”

  “I hope so, Jensen, for your sake, ’cause I always get my man, one way or another.”

  18

  As he rode toward Fort Worth, Smoke realized he had to do some heavy thinking. It wasn’t going to be enough to get that tinhorn who said he’d seen Smoke shoot the Durango Kid in the back to recant his testimony. Smoke was going to have to find the culprit who did the shooting to really clear his name. After all, he’d been the one found standing in the alleyway over the dead man’s body.

  Smoke began to go through various possibilities in his mind. Murders weren’t all that uncommon in the West, especially in cow towns like Fort Worth. Bumping a man’s arm at a bar, stepping on his toes, or even stealing a whore he was wooing was often grounds for senseless killing and violence. But to cold-bloodedly shoot a man in the back spoke of a hatred more intense than that usually occasioned by a barroom fight or an imagined insult.

  He figured it had to be someone with a powerful hate, or a real good reason to see the Kid dead, who did him in. As he thought back over the events of that night, he remembered the Kid had said they’d only just gotten to town with their beeves the night before, so it would be unusual for him to have made such a deadly enemy so quickly.

  Smoke nodded as he continued to think it through. That meant the most likely suspects were the men riding with the Kid. One or more of them would probably have reason to want the outlaw dead. “Money or women,” Smoke muttered to himself, thinking extreme violence usually had one or the other of those two ancient motives behind it.

  “Now all I have to do is track down the men who were riding with the Kid and find out which one of them had the most reason, and the opportunity, to shoot him dead,” he said in a low voice to the back of his horse’s head. “I just hope they’re still in town,” he added, thinking it would be difficult if not impossible to trail them if they’d gone on their way without telling anyone where they were headed.

  * * *

  In Jacksboro, Cal and Pearlie had failed to find the gambler Gibbons on their first night of searching.

  “I’m sorry, boys,” Deputy Sheriff Johnny Walker said after trailing them through most of the saloons along Main Street. “I got to get back to my duties, but I’ll tell you what. You find that galoot, see if he’s willin’ to change his story, an’ I’ll write it all down for Marshal Thomas, and I’ll even send a wire to Judge Parker over at Fort Smith.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff,” Pearlie said. “If we find him, I’ll guarantee he’ll tell the truth.”

  “I hope so, boys, ’cause if he don’t change his story, I’m afraid the hangin’ judge is gonna live up to his name with your podna.”

  After the deputy sheriff left them at the lobby of their hotel, Cal asked, “What now, Pearlie? You want to walk around the rest of the night an’ see if ’n we can find Gibbons some more?”

  “Naw,” Pearlie said. “If he was gonna gamble tonight, he’d already be at the tables. Maybe he was so tired he took the night off to get some rest.”

  “Or maybe he found hisself a girl to spend the night with,” Cal said.

  Pearlie nodded. “That’s a possibility. I suggest we get some shut-eye an’ start out first thing in the mornin’. If we don’t find him by lunchtime, we can take a nap an’ be fresh an’ ready to try again tomorrow night.”

  “I just hope we’re not too late for Smoke,” Cal said in a low voice, a sorrowful expression on his face.

  “Don’t you worry none ’bout Smoke,” Pearlie said. “He’s been in plenty worse situations than this. He can take care of himself.”

  “It’s not Smoke I’m worried about,” Cal said as they climbed the stairs toward their room. “It’s that Hangin’ Judge. From what I hear, he’s a mite too anxious to use that rope of his.”

  * * *

  As soon as Smoke got to Fort Worth, he went to the Cattleman’s Hotel, where he’d left Cal and Pearlie.

  He walked up to the desk clerk. “Can I have my key?”

  The man looked up from his register, a startled look on his face. “But . . . but I thought you were on your way to Fort Smith.” It was the same snooty dandy that had been on duty when Smoke and the boys first arrived.

  Smoke smiled reassuringly. “New evidence came in, Jason, so Marshal Tilghman let me go. Now, I’d like to get to my room, get a bath, and catch a little shut-eye, after I talk to my friends.”

  Jason shook his head. “Your friends left the other day.”

  “Left?”

  “Yep. They were asking all over town about that gambler fellow—I can’t bring his name to mind—and then they heard he went to Jacksboro, so they went after him.”

  “Oh. Well, has my suite on the top floor been rented out?

  “No, sir.”

  “Then give me the key and see if you can get the bath boy to heat up some water.”

  “But it’s the middle of the day,” the dandy said, his face aghast at the idea of anyone bathing before darkness came.

  “Jason,” Smoke said, his patience wearing thin. “I haven’t bathed in almost a week. Get the water hot and give me a key before I come across that desk and teach you how to do your job!”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Jensen,” Jason said, sleeving sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm as he handed the key across the desk to Smoke.

  After his bath, Smoke slept the rest of the afternoon, getting up just after sundown. He dressed in clean clothes, electing to wear black trousers, a white shirt under a black vest, and no coat, since the cool spring nights were mild.

  He ate a hearty dinner at the Cattleman’s Hotel, then went looking for the Kid’s friends. He knew the Kid and his men had liked the Silver Dollar, for that was where he’d first met them, so he headed there to begin his search.

  He eased through the batwings and stepped to the side, as was his habit, observing the room for possible danger before entering. He didn’t know if Cal and Pearlie had talked with Marshal Heck Thomas, or even if the marshal was still in town, but he didn’t want to meet up with him until he’d had a chance to do some looking around.

  He saw no one familiar, so he made his way to the bar and ordered a mug of beer. It looked to be a long night of searching, so he stayed away from whiskey.

  He took his mug and leaned back with his elbows on the bar, looking for the women who’d been entertaining the Kid and his friends the night of the killing.

  Building himself a cigarette, he drank and smoked slowly, wait
ing for one or another of the women to show themselves.

  Finally, while on his second beer, Smoke saw one of the women come down the stairs, her arm around the waist of a drunken cowboy.

  He got the bartender’s attention and nodded at the girl. “What’s that lady’s name?” Smoke asked.

  The man chuckled. “She ain’t exactly a lady, but her name’s Dolly.”

  Smoke grinned. He glanced at the barman. “Seen Marshal Thomas around lately?”

  “No, thank goodness. Word is he’s ridin’ around to all the local ranchers, askin’ some questions ’bout stolen beeves.” The man began wiping the bar down with a soiled rag. “Good thing too. Ever’ time he comes in here I lose business. Ain’t nobody likes to drink and carouse with a U.S. marshal lookin’ over their shoulders.”

  Smoke threw a coin on the table and touched his hat. “Thanks for the information.”

  The man raised his eyebrows. “You want to . . . talk to Dolly?”

  Smoke nodded. “Yeah. I’m going to go over to that table in the corner. Why don’t you send her and a bottle of whiskey over?” he said, adding another coin to the one on the bar.

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, sliding the coins into his pocket.

  Smoke carried his beer to the table and took a seat, his back to the wall, just in case the Kid’s friends happened to come in. He was relieved he didn’t have to worry about running into Marshal Thomas for a while. It made things a whole lot simpler.

  After a few minutes, he saw the bartender whisper into Dolly’s ear. She glanced his way, smiled, and disengaged herself from the grasp of the drunken cowboy. Grabbing the whiskey bottle and a couple of glasses from the barman, she began to walk toward Smoke, grinning and waggling her hips as she moved through the crowd.

  She took a seat next to Smoke at the table, sitting so close their hips touched.

  “Howdy, cowboy. Max over at the bar said you asked for me special.”

  “That’s right,” Smoke said.

  She deftly pulled the cork from the bottle and poured them both drinks, hers slightly heavier than his.

  Clinking glasses, she said, “Here’s to a good night, an’ a mornin’ without a hangover.”

  Smoke touched glasses and took a small sip of his whiskey.

  Dolly leaned over and whispered in his ear. “You want to drink for a while, or just head on upstairs?”

  “Let’s talk for a while,” Smoke said.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Well, mister, a drink’ll buy you a little time, but for serious talk, it’s gonna cost you more than that.”

  Smoke pulled a double eagle gold coin from his shirt pocket and placed it in her hand.

  Her eyes widened. “Twenty dollars? Hell, cowboy, for that much you get all night.”

  Smoke laughed. He knew the going rate for all night was closer to five dollars, but he didn’t say anything.

  He kept the conversation to generalities until Dolly had downed several drinks. He was hoping to get her drunk enough to not be suspicious when he began asking her questions about the Kid and his men.

  After a while, she stared at him. “I don’t remember entertainin’ you before, mister, an’ believe me, I’d remember you.”

  “No, we haven’t met before.”

  “Then why’d you ask for me? Somebody give you my name?”

  It was the perfect opening for Smoke. “Yeah. I saw you with some men several days ago. A tall man dressed in black, a Mexican with three fingers on his left hand, and two other gents.”

  “Oh, them,” she said, a chill in her voice.

  “You remember them?” Smoke asked.

  “Sure,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “The only one in the group who was willin’ to spend any money went an’ got himself shot before I could get him upstairs.”

  “Oh?” Smoke asked, pretending to be surprised.

  “Yeah. An’ the other galoots were so cheap they thought buyin’ me an’ Suzie a few drinks entitled them to take liberties, if you know what I mean.”

  Smoke nodded.

  “We finally told them how the cow ate the cabbage,” she said, slurring her words a little. “If you wanna play, you gotta pay.”

  Smoke laughed out loud. He was beginning to like this Dolly. She was plainspoken, but had more personality than most women in her line of work.

  “Have they been back?” Smoke asked, an innocent expression on his face.

  “Naw,” she said. “When they found out we wasn’t givin’ it away, they kind’a lost interest. Said they had to sell some cattle ’fore they could spend that kind’a money on whores,” she added, an insulted look on her face.

  “You know where they are now?” Smoke asked.

  Her eyes suddenly became sharp, showing she wasn’t as drunk as she’d been pretending to be.

  “Oh, so this isn’t ’bout you an’ me, it’s ’bout them cowboys, ain’t it?”

  Smoke figured he had nothing to lose by being truthful. “Yes, it is.”

  Her expression became shrewd. “What’s it worth to you if I can find out where they’re stayin’?”

  “You can keep that double eagle and I won’t make you earn it.”

  She smiled, looking him up and down. “Now, who said I’d mind earnin’ it with you?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “You can keep the coin and I’ll give you another just like it, if you let me know next time you see them, or can find out what hotel they’re staying at.”

  She grinned. “Now you’re talkin’. Where’re you stayin’, cowboy?”

  “The name’s Jensen, and I’m at the Cattleman’s Hotel.”

  She raised her eyebrows at the mention of his hotel, which was about the swankiest in town.

  “Well, I’ll start askin’ around. I should hear somethin’ by tomorrow night.”

  He put his hand over hers. “Dolly, be careful. These men are dangerous. Don’t let them find out you’re asking around about them.”

  She bent down and pulled the hem of her dress up, exposing a garter on her leg holding a double-barreled derringer. “You think they’re dangerous, honey, you ain’t seen Dolly at work!”

  19

  Cal and Pearlie, after sleeping most of the afternoon, arose just before sundown and went to a local eatery for dinner. Pearlie, as usual, ate enough for two men, while Cal, who was worried about Smoke, hardly touched his meal.

  “You got to put some vittles in your gut, Cal,” Pearlie said as he stuffed a large piece of corn bread in his mouth. “You cain’t do Smoke no good if ’n you’re famished.”

  “I’ll eat when we get that statement from Gibbons,” Cal replied sullenly. “I just don’t have no appetite, thinkin’ of Smoke in that jail in Fort Smith.”

  “All right then,” Pearlie said, “let’s get to it.”

  He paid their bill and they walked out onto Main Street. “Where do you think we ought’a try next?” Cal asked.

  “Well, we tried all the highfalutin places last night, an’ didn’t see hide nor hair of the galoot,” Pearlie drawled. “Maybe he’s short of cash an’ cain’t afford the high-stakes games. Tonight, let’s hit the places down by the Mexican quarter. Maybe we’ll find him there.”

  They turned left on Main and walked five blocks, then took another left toward the cattle yards where the lower-class part of town was. Its residents were mainly Mexicans, blacks, and working-class whites, and the area had several cantinas and bars that were downright dangerous to enter. According to Johnny Walker, even he didn’t go into the area at night unless backed up by at least two other deputies. As they walked, Cal and Pearlie both loosened the rawhide hammer-guards on their pistols, ready in case of trouble.

  In the third place they entered, which had the unlikely name El Gato Negro, The Black Cat, they found their man. The saloon was made of adobe and had a low ceiling and dirt floors. With the few lanterns and hazy, smokey air, it was hard to see more than ten feet in front of your face, but the boys recognized Gibbons’s flashy yellow and black
plaid coat from across the room.

  “There the sumbitch is,” Pearlie growled, loosening his Colt in its holster. “You sidle on around to get between him an’ the back door, an’ I’ll ease on up to him from the front.”

  “Pearlie,” Cal said, staring at the table Gibbons was sitting at.

  “Yeah?”

  “Watch your back. Those men he’s playin’ with look awful hard to me.”

  Pearlie nodded. Cal was right. At the table with Gibbons were two Mexicans with long, handlebar mustaches, both wearing large Colt Army pistols on their belts and knives in scabbards stuck in their pants. A huge, six-foot-tall black man wearing an undershirt and pants held up with a rope was the fourth man at the table.

  Cal moved through the crowd of drunken men until he was standing in front of the rear door, the one leading back to the privy in the alley behind the saloon. He leaned back against the wall next to the door and let his hand rest on the butt of his pistol, sweating nervously as he watched the milling crowd in the small room.

  Pearlie walked over to stand behind and to the side of Gibbons, out of sight of the gambler. He noticed most of the money and poker chips at the table were piled in front of the tinhorn, and that the other men at the table were staring at Gibbons with ill-concealed anger.

  Gibbons must have known he was in over his head, for when he turned and saw Pearlie standing beside him, he grinned nervously and greeted Pearlie like an old friend.

  “Why, Pearlie, how’re you doing?” he asked, turning in his chair to face him.

  Pearlie nodded at the pile of money in front of Gibbons. “Pick up your winnin’s, Gibbons,” he said in a low, hard voice. “We got to talk.”

  “Gladly, my boy, gladly,” the gambler said, taking off his hat and raking the bills, chips, and coins into it.

  “Wait a minute, señor,” the Mexican next to Gibbons said harshly. “The gringo has won all our moneys. He cannot leave.”

  Gibbons held out his hand in a placating manner. “Don’t worry, Jose,” he said. “I’m just goin’ out to the privy to relieve myself and talk to these gentlemen for a moment. I’ll be right back.”

  “You better, mistuh,” the large black man said, “or I’ll cut you up real good.”