Savagery of The Mountain Man Page 16

  The cowboys laughed again.

  Cal scrubbed on the animal for about half an hour. Then he led Prince Henry up to the back of the ranch house and called out.

  “Smoke! Miss Sally, come out and take a look!”

  A moment later, Smoke and Sally appeared on the back porch.

  “Oh, my,” Sally said. “I’ve never seen him looking so good. You did a wonderful job, Cal.”

  “Thank you, Miss Sally, I’m right proud of it myself.” Cal patted Prince Henry on the head again. “Tell me, do you think the ladies will like him now?”

  “Oh, I’m sure of it,” Sally said. “If I were a lady cow, I would certainly be attracted to him.”

  “Whoa, hold it,” Smoke said. “Now you are making me jealous.”

  Cal and Sally laughed.

  “Shucks, Smoke, I don’t think you need to be…” Cal stopped in mid-sentence and looked over toward a rider who was coming through the gate. What caught his attention was a flash of sunlight on the silver hatband. “Pearlie?” he said.

  “What?” Sally asked, turning toward where Cal was looking.

  “That’s not Pearlie,” Smoke said.

  “No, sir, it is not,” Cal said. “But whoever it is, he’s a-wearin’ Pearlie’s hat.”

  Smoke and Sally came down off the back porch and stood alongside Cal as the rider approached. As soon as Lenny reached them, he dismounted, but before he could say a word, Cal stepped toward him.

  “Where at did you get that hat?” he shouted angrily.

  Lenny leaned back away from Cal.

  “I got it from Pearlie,” he said.

  “What do you mean you got it from Pearlie?”

  “Are you Calvin Woods?”

  “Yeah, I’m Cal.” Cal was a little taken aback at being called by his name. “How do you know who I am?”

  Lenny took the hat off and handed it to Cal. “Well, sir, I got the hat from your friend Pearlie. He said I was supposed to give this here hat to you and tell you thanks for the loan.”

  “That’s what he said? Thanks for the loan?”

  “Yes, he said if I said that, you would know that he gave me the hat to give to you. And I’m also supposed to see a man by the name of Smoke Jensen.”

  “What about?”

  “Well, sir, I reckon that’s for me to tell Mr. Jensen,” Lenny said.

  “I’m Smoke Jensen,” Smoke said. “And you are?”

  “My name is Leonard York, Mr. Jensen, but most folks just call me Lenny. Mind if I water the horse? I came up here by train, and rented the horse in town. I didn’t know it was going to be this long of a ride out here, and I wouldn’t want the horse to go down on me before I can get him back to the livery stable.”

  “No, by all means water your horse,” Smoke said. “Excuse me for not making the offer. It’s just that, well, Pearlie has been gone for a while and when we saw you with his hat and hatband, we were concerned.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lenny said as he led the horse to a large, round, watering tank. “The thing is, Mr. Jensen, you got a right to be concerned.”

  “Why?” Sally asked. “Is Pearlie in trouble?”

  “Yes, ma’am, he is. In fact, he is in a great deal of trouble,” Lenny said as he stood there, watching the horse drink. “That is, if you figure getting hung trouble.”

  “Oh, my God!” Sally gasped. “Pearlie’s been hung?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am, not yet,” Lenny said quickly. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I should have thought before I spoke. I certainly didn’t intend to give you that idea. But the truth is, the marshal has Pearlie in jail for murder and they are bringing in a judge that’s pretty much known as a hanging judge, so I reckon they’ll be getting around to it right soon.”

  “Pearlie may have killed someone,” Cal said. “But I don’t believe for one minute that he would commit murder.”

  Lenny shook his head. “You’re right, I don’t think any reasonable person could say that what Pearlie did was murder. I know, because I saw what happened. Pearlie had no choice in the matter. If he had not killed Billy Ray, it is for certain that Billy Ray would have killed him. Billy Ray came after Pearlie with a double-barrel shotgun with the intention of shooting Pearlie in the back.”

  “You say you saw it?” Smoke said.

  “Yes, sir, I saw it all very clearly,” Lenny replied.

  “Why didn’t you tell the marshal what you saw?”

  “Oh, I did tell him, Mr. Jensen. So did a couple of others who were in the saloon at the time. But the truth is that the marshal works for Pogue Quentin more than he works for the town. And Billy Ray, the man that Pearlie killed, was Pogue Quentin’s son.”

  “Pogue Quentin?”

  “Yes, sir. Do you know him?”

  “Smoke, isn’t Pogue Quentin the unpleasant man we met in Colorado Springs?” Sally asked.

  “Unpleasant, yes, ma’am, that would be him. I reckon you do know him,” Lenny said. “Because if you were going to describe Pogue Quentin, well, unpleasant would sure be the way to do it.”

  “You are talking about Pogue Quentin from Huereano County, aren’t you?” Smoke asked.

  “Yes, sir. Santa Clara, to be exact.”

  “I’ve never been to Santa Clara,” Smoke said.

  “It’s some south of Colorado Springs. It took me twenty-four hours to come up on the train,” Lenny said. “I got into Big Rock at four o’clock this afternoon.”

  “I appreciate you making the long trip to tell us,” Smoke said.

  “Yes, sir, well, I gave Pearlie my word that I would come tell you, and I’m not one for going back on my word once I give it.”

  “You and Pearlie is good friends, are you?” Cal asked. There was almost a plaintive quality to Cal’s question, as if fearing he might have been displaced as Pearlie’s closest friend.

  “Not so as you can say,” Lenny replied. “I never even met him until after they took him to jail.”

  “How long had Pearlie been in town when this happened?” Smoke asked.

  “That’s just it. He hadn’t been there any time at all. He said he was coming back home, but he stopped in town long enough to get him a beer and some supper when all this took place.”

  “Smoke, what are we going to do?” Sally asked. “We can’t just leave him there to hang.”

  “We aren’t going to,” Smoke said. “Throw a few things together, Sally, and do it fast. We’ll take the train down tonight.”

  “I’m going, too,” Cal said.

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Smoke said. “Lenny, I know you just got here, but are you up to coming back with us?”

  “Yes, sir, only…” Lenny paused in mid-sentence.

  “Only what?”

  “Only I don’t have enough money for a ticket back.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Smoke said. “I’ll buy your ticket back.” He pulled out his billfold, then drew out a twenty-dollar bill. “And this will pay for your trip up here.”

  Lenny held up his hand. “Oh, no, sir, why, the trip up here didn’t cost me no more than two dollars.”

  “You had to eat, didn’t you?”

  Lenny smiled. “My ma runs a restaurant. It’s a good restaurant, too, and she made me a lunch to carry along.”

  “Well, take the twenty dollars anyway,” Smoke said.

  Lenny’s smile broadened. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right!” Lenny said, taking the money. “And thank you, Mr. Jensen.”

  It took Sally but a couple of minutes to pack some clothes, and half an hour later she, Smoke, Cal, and Lenny were in front of Sheriff Monte Carson’s office in Big Rock. Smoke dismounted, and handed the reins of his horse to Cal.

  “Cal, how about you go with Lenny to get his horse turned back in at the livery, then get our horses boarded until we come back. I’m going to have a few words with the sheriff.”

  Sally also dismounted, and handed the reins of her horse to Cal.

  “Sall
y, you get our tickets, and send a telegram to Pearlie to let him know we are coming,” Smoke suggested.

  “No, sir, don’t do that,” Lenny said quickly.

  “Why not?”

  “If you send a telegram directly to Pearlie, like as not, he’ll never see it. The marshal will get it and keep it from him. What you ought to do, if you want to send him a telegram, is send it to my ma.”

  “You are right,” Smoke agreed, nodding. “Yeah, that’s probably a pretty good idea. All right, send it to Lenny’s mom.” Smoke took a piece of paper from his pocket. “And send this telegram to Mr. Murchison in Colorado Springs. I’m asking him to represent Pearlie, and to meet us when our train comes through Colorado Springs.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Sally said. “He was such a nice man, and seemed so eager to help.”

  “Yes, well, there is a difference between what he did for us last time and what I’m asking him to do for us now,” Smoke said. “I’m not sure how anxious he will be, but if he can’t do it, perhaps he can recommend someone who can.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Sally said.

  As Sally, Cal, and Lenny set about their business, Smoke stepped into the sheriff’s office, where he saw Sheriff Carson standing with his back to the door, pouring two cups of coffee.

  “I saw you outside,” Carson said without turning around, “and I figured you’d be coming in here for something. So we may as well talk about it over coffee.” He handed the cup to Smoke.

  “Thanks,” Smoke said, taking the cup.

  “What is it? What’s up?”

  “Do you know anything about the town of Santa Clara?” Smoke asked.

  “I know a little bit about it,” Carson replied. He took a sip of his coffee before he continued. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m afraid that Pearlie got himself into a bit of trouble over there.”

  “Oh? I didn’t even know Pearlie was back.”

  “He’s not, but from what I gather, he was coming back when he got into a shooting scrape.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “According to Lenny York, the young man who brought us the news, Pearlie was just passing through. He stopped in town for a meal and a drink, and a friendly card game. Only, the card game wasn’t all that friendly, and Pearlie got into an argument with one of the other players. A few moments later, that same man tried to shoot Pearlie in the back with a shotgun. Pearlie had no choice but to kill him.”

  Sheriff Carson’s eyebrows raised and he lowered the cup of coffee. “If that’s what happened, sounds pretty much like self-defense to me.”

  “Yes, you would think so, wouldn’t you? But it turns out that the man Pearlie killed was Billy Ray Quentin, Pogue Quentin’s son. Now I met the Quentins, both of them, at the cattle auction in Colorado Springs recently. And I must say, I didn’t care much for either one of them.”

  “From what I’ve heard of the Quentins, I don’t blame you for not liking them.”

  “Now, here is the problem,” Smoke said. “Lenny York, the young man who brought us the news, says that the marshal of the town is pretty much in Pogue Quentin’s camp.”

  Carson nodded. “You’re friend is right, the marshal does work for him. His name is Clem Dawson.”

  “Do you know Dawson?”

  “I’ve met him once or twice. He’s from Kansas. From what I’ve heard, he was a pretty good sheriff at one time, but got into some trouble with bounty money while he was there. The story was that he had a private army of bounty hunters working for him. Supposedly, Dawson would give them leads on wanted men, and the bounty hunters would bring back bodies. There was never a live prisoner, mind you, just bodies. Dawson and his bounty hunters would then split the reward money. Of course, that was just the story that was going around about him. They were never able to prove anything, but the decent citizens of the county had the good sense to turn him out in the next election. Sometime after that, he turned up in Santa Clara as their town marshal.”

  “Did the townspeople Santa Clara not know about his past?”

  “I doubt that they knew about him, at least not at first. They may know more about him now, but it doesn’t make any difference,” Sheriff Carson said. “Quentin not only owns the marshal, he owns most of the town, literally.”

  “Why doesn’t the county do something about it?” Smoke asked.

  Carson shook his head. “Smoke, you know how big a man you are around here?”

  “I’m just a—” Smoke began, but Carson interrupted him.

  “Don’t give me that. You are the biggest man in these parts, and you know it. The whole county looks up to you, and would do anything you asked them to do. Well, sir, as big a man as you are here, that’s how big Quentin is in Huereano County. But the difference is, the folks here who look up to you would do anything you ask of them because they like you and they know you are a good man.

  “It’s different with Quentin. As far as I can tell, nobody likes the son of a bitch, because he is an evil man. I don’t know that he has done anything that the law can actually get him for, but he has certainly come close. And the reason everyone in Santa Clara will do anything he asks is because they are just flat out scared of him.”

  “I see.”

  “Marshal Dawson has Pearlie in jail, does he?” Carson asked.

  “I’m afraid he does.”

  “Then my advice to you, my friend, is for you to get down there as quickly as you can. But unless I miss my guess, you don’t need any advice from me. If I were a bettin’ man, I would say you are on your way right now.”

  “Yes,” Smoke said. “Sally is getting the tickets.”

  From the office, Smoke heard the whistle of the train as it approached from the north.

  “I’d better get on my way,” Smoke said. “Thanks for the information about Dawson.” He held up the coffee cup. “And thanks for the coffee.”

  “Good luck, my friend,” Carson said as Smoke stepped through the front door.

  Sally was just returning from her errand when Smoke came out of the sheriff’s office.

  “Did you get the telegram sent off?”

  “I did. And I asked him to send his reply to Denver.”

  “Good.”

  Santa Clara

  “Let me get this straight,” Walter Guthrie said. “The marshal wants me to build a gallows right in the middle of Front Street? Last time I built one, it was in the alley behind the jail. Are you sure the marshal wants this thing built in the middle of the street?”

  “It doesn’t make any difference where the marshal wants the gallows built. I’m the one paying for it,” Quentin said. “And I want it built in the middle of Front Street. I want everyone in town to be able to watch when we hang the man that killed my boy.”

  “How do you know we are goin’ to hang him?” Guthrie asked. “Accordin’ to what I’ve read in the paper, and what I’ve heard said about it from some of those that was there, this here trial might not be all that clear a case. Fact is, they’s some a’ sayin’ it was self-defense.”

  “It was murder, pure and simple,” Quentin said. “For everyone who might say it was self-defense, I can get two who will be willing to say it was murder.”

  “Who can actually say it—or will just be willing to say it?” Guthrie asked.

  “What difference does that make? One is as good as another. Now, are you going to build the gallows? Or am I going to have to get someone else to do it?”

  “No need for you to get anyone else,” Guthrie said. “You pay me the money, I’ll build anything you want, anywhere you want.”

  Quentin took one hundred dollars from his billfold. “Is this enough to get it built?”

  Guthrie smiled broadly, then picked up the money, folded it over, and stuck it in his pocket.

  “Mr. Quentin, for this much money, I’ll build a gallows that anyone would be proud to swing from.”

  “Get started on it,” he said.

  Guthrie got a significant part of the gal
lows built in one day, and when Kathleen York walked by it just before supper that evening, she was unable to suppress an involuntary shiver. Someone had already printed a sign, and the sign was prominently posted on the base of the gallows being built.

  In one more week

  On the 17th, instant

  The Murderer of

  POGUE QUINLIN

  will be hung on These Gallows.

  The Public is invited.

  “Check that there trapdoor, Jude,” Guthrie called. “We need to make sure it don’t hang up none.”

  The carpenter named Jude pulled a handle, and the trapdoor fell open with a loud clatter.

  Kathleen jumped.

  “Ha! Scare you did it, Miz York?” Jude called to the woman, who was headed toward the jail, carrying a cloth-covered tray.

  Without answering, Kathleen stepped up onto the porch, then pushed the door open to step into the jailhouse.

  “Miz York, you got no business bein’ here,” Marshal Dawson said as Kathleen York let herself in through the front door of the marshal’s office.

  “Your prisoner has to eat, Marshal Dawson,” Kathleen said, holding up the tray to emphasize her comment.

  “Yes, ma’am, I reckon so, but you didn’t have to bring it over yourself. I could’a sent my deputy over to get the food.”

  “Yes, well, there is a little problem with you sending your deputy for the food.”

  “Really? And what problem would that be?” Dawson asked.

  “It seems that not all the food makes it back to the jail when Mr. Wilson comes for it,” Kathleen explained.

  Dawson laughed out loud. “Well, now, you have to admit that that is your own fault there, Miz York,” he said. “Truth to tell, if you wasn’t such a good cook, Wilson wouldn’t be pilferin’ the food as he brings it over. What are you feedin’ him tonight?”

  Kathleen neither answered, nor offered to show him what she was bringing, so Dawson removed the cloth cover himself. When he did, he saw two pieces of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, and biscuits. There was also a piece of apple pie, upon which had been melted a slice of cheese.

  “Well, now, Miz York,” Dawson said. “That is some dinner.”