Shootout of the Mountain Man Page 5

  “Why do you love to play with his feet so?”

  “I don’t know. I guess because his toes are so tiny.”

  “Of course he has tiny toes. He is just a baby. ”

  “Isn’t he a handsome little thing, though?” Smoke asked.

  “Ha! I’ve never heard of anyone being so vain,” the baby’s mother said.

  “What do you mean vain?”

  “He looks exactly like you. For you to say he is handsome is the same thing as your saying you are handsome.”

  “Well?” Smoke teased. “Didn’t you tell Preacher you thought that I was a handsome man?”

  “You are hopeless,” she said, laughing at him as she picked up a pillow and hit him.

  Smoke took the pillow away and grabbed her, then pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

  “Uhmm, careful,” she said. “You know what happened the last time we started this, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  She nodded toward the baby in the crib.

  “That happened,” she said.

  “So, would it be so bad for little Art to have a brother?”

  “Ha! Are you that sure it would be another boy?”

  “I was right the first time, wasn’t I? I think we should just see if I’m right this time. “ Swooping her up, he carried Nicole to bed.

  Nicole? But how can this be?

  With a start, Smoke set up in bed. His breathing was labored, and he felt a heavy pain in his heart. Looking over at the woman who was sleeping beside him, he saw, not Nicole, but Sally.

  His wife, Nicole, was long dead now, brutally murdered by three men: Potter, Richards, and Stratton. The same three men had also killed their baby, Art. Even now, the very mention of their names brought Smoke’s blood to a boil.

  Smoke had tracked them down to the town of Bury, Idaho. As events developed, the name of the town was prophetic, because the three men wound up being buried there.

  The dream of Nicole had been unbidden, and unexpected. But now as he sat up in the dark of the bedroom he shared with Sally, he wanted to remember. He wanted to take some comfort from the fact that justice had been done. He’d burned down the entire town, then dealt with the killers of his wife and son.

  … Richards, Potter, and Stratton stood at one end of the block. A tall, bloody figure stood at the other. All their guns were in leather.

  “You son of a bitch!” Stratton screamed, his voice as high-pitched as a woman. “You ruined it all.” He clawed at his .44.

  Smoke drew and fired before Stratton’s pistol could clear leather. Potter grabbed for his pistol. Smoke shot him dead, then holstered his gun, waiting.

  Richards had not moved. He stood with a faint smile on his lips, staring at Smoke.

  “You ready to die?” Smoke asked the man.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose,” Richards replied. There was no fear in his voice. His hand appeared steady. “Been a long run, hasn’t it, Jensen?”

  “It’s just about over.”

  “What happens to all our holdings?”

  “I don’t care what happens to the mines. The miners can have them. I’m giving all your stock to decent, honest punchers and homesteaders. ”

  A puzzled look spread over Richards’s face. “I don’t understand. You did … all this”—he waved his hand—“for nothing?”

  “I did it for my wife and my baby son. ”

  “But it won’t bring them back!”

  “I know. ”

  “I wish I had never heard the name Jensen.”

  “You’ll never hear it again after this day, Richards.”

  “One way to find out,” Richards said with a smile. He drew his Colt and fired. He was snake-quick, but he hurried his shot, the lead digging up dirt at Smoke’s feet.

  Smoke shot him in the right shoulder, spinning the man around. Richards grabbed for his left-hand gun and Smoke fired again, the slug striking the man in the left side of his chest. He struggled to bring up his Colt. He managed to cock it before Smoke’s third shot struck him in the belly. Richards sat down hard in the bloody, dusty street.

  He opened his mouth to speak. He tasted blood on his tongue. The light began to fade around him. “You’ll … meet …”

  Smoke never found out who he was supposed to meet. Richards toppled over on his side and died.2

  Slowly, the memories drifted away. Why had he dreamed of Nicole? There had been many years that had passed since she and Arthur were killed, and yet, in his dream, Nicole was so real that he half expected her to be lying next to him when he awoke.

  But it wasn’t Nicole, it was Sally, and looking over at her now, he knew that she did not have to feel threatened by the dream, just as he knew that his love for Nicole did not end with her dying. Getting out of bed carefully so as not to awaken Sally, Smoke padded barefoot across the bedroom floor, where he stood at the window looking out at his ranch, Sugarloaf.

  The ranch was not only big. It was also one of the most profitable cattle operations in the entire state of Colorado. From this window, he could see the barn and corral, the bunkhouse, the cookhouse, and the rolling pasture beyond, all painted in silver and black under the full moon that floated high in the night sky above. Kirby Jensen had come a long way from the wild Missouri boy who grew up in the mountains under the tutelage of one of the most storied mountain men in history, a man who was known far and wide as Preacher.

  After avenging Nicole’s murder, Smoke met a schoolteacher named Sally Reynolds. And though he had thought no woman could ever replace Nicole, Sally had done just that. She had not eliminated Nicole, for the memory of Smoke’s first wife would forever be kept green. But Sally had certainly established her own claim to his heart.

  “Smoke?”

  He had not wanted to awaken her, but he realized now that she had probably been awake from the moment he got out of bed. In the quiet, dark room, Sally’s voice was soft, resonant, and comforting. “Smoke, are you all right?”

  Smoke looked back toward the bed. Sally had raised herself up on her elbows to look over at him. The white silk of her nightgown shimmering in the moonlight. Why did he dream of Nicole? Was his dream of his first wife a betrayal of this one?

  No, surely not, just as his concern about the dream was not a betrayal of Nicole.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

  “What are you doing up? ”

  “I don’t know, I just woke up.”

  “Did you have a dream? ”

  “Yes.”

  “A nightmare?”

  “A nightmare?” Smoke thought of the dream, and of the warmth and love he had felt for Nicole and the baby in that dream. “No,” he said. “No, it wasn’t a nightmare.”

  “Would you like me to get up as well? I could make us some coffee,” Sally said.

  Smoke walked back over to the bed and sat down on her side. He reached for Sally and pulled her to him, then kissed her deeply.

  “Uhmm,” she said. “Whatever your dream was about, I like it.”

  “About the coffee?” Smoke said.

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t think we are going to need it.” Crossing around to the other side of the bed Smoke climbed into bed beside her, then pulled her to him. Outside their window, the limb of an aspen tree was moved by a gentle breeze, the leaves catching the moonlight, to send a sliver of silver through the night.

  The aroma of freshly made bear claws drifted out of the kitchen and into the yard, all the way over to the bunkhouse. Pearlie noticed it first and he began sniffing the air.

  “What are you doing?” Cal asked.

  Without answering, Pearlie pulled on his boots, then started for the door. Before he reached the door, Cal got a whiff as well and, even though he only had on one boot, he ran after Pearlie, hopping and skipping across the yard with one boot on his left foot and the other in his hand.

  “No, you don’t!” he called out after Pearlie. “You ain’t goin’ to get ahead of m
e!”

  The two young men burst into the kitchen just as Sally was taking the pastries from the oven.

  “My, oh, my, do them smell good!” Pearlie said.

  “It’s do ‘those’ smell good,” Cal corrected.

  Sally smiled. “Very good, Cal. I’m impressed.”

  “Seems to me like somebody that can’t speak English good probably ought not to get any bear claws,” Cal said, putting on his other boot.

  “Oh, I’m afraid that would leave you out as well,” Sally said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s can’t speak English well,” Smoke put in, coming into the kitchen then.

  “Oh, well, I was just teasin',” Cal said. “Sure I want Pearlie to have some.”

  “That’s very generous of you, sharing my bear claws like that,” Smoke teased.

  “Your bear claws? That’s funny, I thought I was the one that made them,” Sally said.

  “Well, you didn’t make ‘em all for yourself, did you, Miss Sally?” Cal asked.

  Sally put the pan on the table. “No, I didn’t make them all for myself. You can have one as soon as they are cool enough for you to—oh, never mind,” she added with a little laugh when she saw Cal and Pearlie each grab one, then toss it from hand to hand until they could raise it to their mouth.

  “Must be a special occasion for you to make bear claws this morning,” Smoke said. “Anything I might know about?”

  Sally smiled. “Maybe,” she said.

  Smoke knew she was referring to their intimacy during the night, and he smiled back, then reached for a bear claw. “Always glad I could please,” he said.

  “What? Why, you!” Sally sputtered.

  “What are you all talking about?” Cal asked.

  “Cal, are you going to put that boot on, or just stand here in my kitchen with it dangling from your hand?” Sally asked.

  “Oh. I’m going to put it on,” he said. And with the bear claw hanging from his mouth, he sat on the floor and pulled the other boot on.

  “What are you two boys going to do today?” Smoke asked.

  “Ride fence up in the north quarter,” Pearlie answered.

  “You’ll be out all day. Better have the cook put you up a lunch.”

  “Yes, sir, I thought we would.”

  “And maybe?” Cal asked, mumbling the word around the pastry.

  “You can each take a couple more with you,” Sally said.

  “Thank you!”

  The two young cowboys grabbed the bear claw–shaped doughnuts, then hurried out of the kitchen to begin their daily chores.

  “I wish someone would invent a machine to let you look inside a person,” Smoke said as Pearlie and Cal hurried across the yard to the barn. “I swear, the only innards either of them have is stomach.”

  Sally laughed. “You aren’t far behind,” she said.

  “It’s your fault,” Smoke said as he reached for a second. “You are just too good a cook.”

  “Smoke, may I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “What was your dream last night?”

  Smoke hesitated for a moment. “I dreamed about Nicole,” he said.

  “I hope it was a pleasant dream.”

  Smoke walked over to Sally, put his arms around her, and pulled her to him. He brushed her hair away from her forehead and kissed her there.

  “It was,” he said. “But you have no reason to be jealous.”

  “I’m not in the least jealous,” she said, turning her head up so his kiss came to her lips.

  2Return of the Mountain Man

  Chapter Five

  Back in the jail cell in Cloverdale, Nevada, Bobby Lee Cabot was lying on his bunk, his hands laced behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. Outside the jail, he could hear the sawing and hammering on the gallows that was being constructed for his hanging.

  “Are you scared, Bobby Lee?”

  The question came from the prisoner who was in the cell next to his. Andy Emerson was a small man, around five feet five inches tall, with a sweeping mustache that seemed oversized for his short stature. He was also a cowboy who drank too much. He was never a mean drunk, though he did, in his own words, sometimes develop “a mountain lion’s attitude in a pussycat’s body.” He often manifested this mannerism when confronting Sheriff Wallace or one of his deputies, and as a result, Wallace had a personal grudge against him. Andy spent a lot of time in jail for public drunkenness when others, who were often drunker, were given a pass.

  “I guess I’m a little frightened,” Bobby Lee confessed.

  “A little frightened? If I was about to be hanged, I’d be so scared I couldn’t even talk,” Andy said. “You’re about the bravest person I ever met.”

  “I’m not that brave, Andy, believe me,” Bobby Lee said. “What’s the sheriff got you in for now?”

  “I was at the Gold Strike last night,” Andy said. “I had a few drinks, sure, but I wasn’t drunk, you can ask anybody there. But the next thing you know, Wallace was in there accusin’ me of getting drunk and causing a disturbance.” Andy paused for a moment. “The thing is, well, he just kept pushin’ until I got mad and I shoved him. Then I really was causin’ a disturbance. But only ‘cause he sort of drove me to it.”

  “Andy, we’ve talked about this before,” Bobby Lee said. “You really do have to cut back on your drinking. You’ve gotten yourself on the sheriff’s bad side and he’s just going to keep riding you till you really do get in trouble.”

  “I know, I know,” Andy said. “You’ve always been straight with me. I ought to pay attention to you.”

  At that moment, they heard the sound of the door that led from the front half of the building back to the jail cells being opened. Deputy Harley Beard came into the back and opened the door to Andy’s cell. “You can go now,” he said. “But next time we catch you drunk in town, you’ll wind up in here again.”

  “Yeah,” Andy said, reaching back onto the bunk for his hat. He put it on, then looked over at Bobby Lee.

  “Bobby Lee, when it happens—uh, I mean, when they hang you—I ain’t goin’ to be there watchin'. I hope you understand. I’ve always figured you for a friend, and I don’t think I want to watch a friend get his neck stretched. That don’t mean I’m not goin’ to be thinkin’ about you. It’s just that I don’t want to be here when it’s happenin'.”

  “I understand,” Bobby Lee replied.

  “Bye, Bobby Lee.”

  “You goin’ to hang around jabberin’ with him, or are you goin’ to get out of here?” Deputy Beard asked. “'Cause if you’re just goin’ to hang around, I can put you back in jail and you two folks can just visit all you want.”

  “I’m goin',” Andy said.

  Beard waited until Andy left before he turned to Bobby Lee’s cell.

  “Cabot, you got a visitor,” Deputy Beard said.

  “Who is it?”

  “Who is it? It’s the whore. Who else would waste their time comin’ to see you?”

  “Good, please send her in.”

  Beard disappeared into the front of the building, but Bobby Lee could still hear him talking.

  “Better let me search you, to make sure you ain’t takin’ him no weapons.” There was a decided leering tone in the sound of his voice.

  “Watch your hands.” There was irritation in the woman’s voice.

  “Ha! Like you haven’t had hands there before,” Beard said. “All right, you can go in.”

  Standing at the front of his cell, Bobby Lee watched as Minnie Smith came into the back. Minnie was a pretty girl, and would have been prettier, Bobby Lee believed, if she would just let nature take its course. But, defying nature, she had dyed her hair, which was naturally auburn, a henna-tinted red. Her eyes were shaded, her cheeks were rouged, and her lips were painted.

  The dye and makeup was because of Minnie’s occupation, which technically was saloon hostess, though other sobriquets were used, such as hurdy-gurdy girl, parlor girl, and soil
ed dove. In truth, she was a prostitute, but Bobby Lee saw more than that in her. Minnie had been present all during his trial, and had cried bitter tears when Bobby Lee was sentenced.

  “Oh, Bobby Lee,” she said. “I can’t stand it. I know you sent that letter to Sheriff Wallace, you told me about it. But I can’t get anyone to believe me. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Bobby Lee said.

  “How can I not worry about it?” She pointed toward the front of the building. “Do you know they are building a gallows right now in front of this very building?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard them at work. Minnie, I need you to do something for me.”

  “What? What do you want?” Minnie asked. “I’ll do anything you ask.”

  “I want you to send a telegram for me.”

  “A telegram? To the governor?” She shook her head. “It won’t do any good, Bobby Lee. I’ve already sent a telegram to the governor.”

  “No, not to the governor,” Bobby Lee said. “I want you to send this to a friend of mine. If there is anybody in the world who can do anything for me, it will be him.”

  “All right, give me the name of the person, tell me what you want to say and where you want it to go,” Minnie said. “I’ll send it.”

  After Minnie received her instructions and left, Bobby Lee lay back down on his bunk again to resume staring at the ceiling above. Outside, he could hear the sounds of the men as they continued to work on the gallows.

  “All right, boys, lift up the cross tree,” one of the carpenters shouted. “There you go. Hold it in position while I get it nailed down.”

  The carpenter’s vocal instructions were followed by the banging of the hammer.

  Realistically, Bobby Lee knew the chances were only about one in one hundred that the telegram would reach its destination. According to the sentence of the judge, he was to hang on the thirty-first. That was only one week away.

  Bobby Lee was sure that Minnie would send the telegram—he had that much faith in her—but he really had no sense of confidence that the telegram would actually get through. He had asked her to send it to Buck West, rather than Smoke Jensen, believing that by so doing it would get Smoke’s attention more quickly. Now he wondered if perhaps he had been too smart by half. What if the telegram didn’t reach Smoke? For that matter, what if the telegram did reach Smoke, but because it was addressed to Buck West, he chose to do nothing about it?