Justice of the Mountain Man Page 7

  He looked at Pearlie. “I just found out Marshal Thomas is going to stay in town. Once you get Gibbons to talk, make sure the marshal is there to hear it.”

  Pearlie nodded. “Will do. Anything else?”

  “How about the doctor?”

  “It took fifty dollars, but he’s gonna dig the slug out soon as the viewin’s over, ’fore the undertaker puts him in the ground.”

  “Have him talk to Thomas after he gets the bullet out. Thomas will be able to tell the difference if it’s a .36 like I suspect.”

  Pearlie stepped close to the bars of the wagon and whispered, cutting his eyes at the men in the lockup with Smoke, “You gonna be all right, Boss?”

  “Sure, Pearlie. These men have more on their minds than doing anything against me. Now, you go get to work, you’re burning daylight.”

  Pearlie touched his hat. “Yes, sir!”

  10

  Smoke settled down in the wagon, his back against the front wall, figuring that way the ride would be marginally smoother over the rough terrain they were going to be traveling over.

  The three men with him sat sullenly against other sides of the wagon, their heads down, looking dejected. Finally, one of them, who appeared to be about five feet tall, raised his face to look at Smoke.

  “Howdy,” he said. “My name’s Shorty Robinson.”

  Smoke nodded. “I’m Smoke Jensen, Shorty. Glad to make your acquaintance.”

  At the mention of Smoke’s name, the other two men glanced up, suddenly interested. “You the Smoke Jensen?” a man at the rear asked. He was broad-shouldered, with a thick beard so black it almost appeared blue in the sunlight filtering in through the bars.

  Smoke gave a slight grin and nodded.

  “My name’s Dynamite Dick Bodine,” the bearded man said. He cocked his thumb over his shoulder pointing at the other occupant of the wagon. “And this is Jonathan Mayhew.”

  Smoke nodded again at the other man, who asked, “What are you in here for, Mr. Jensen?”

  “You can call me Smoke, since we all seem to be in rather the same predicament.”

  “All right, Smoke,” Mayhew said.

  “Tilghman thinks I back-shot an outlaw named the Durango Kid,” Smoke said.

  Bodine’s eyes narrowed. “I never figured a man with your reputation with a six-killer would have to back-shoot anybody.”

  Smoke shrugged. “I didn’t, as a matter of fact, but it doesn’t look like Tilghman believes me.”

  He looked at the men one at a time. “What are you gentlemen charged with?”

  Bodine smiled. “I robbed the Union Pacific Railroad. Used a mite too much dynamite tryin’ to open the boxcar holding the safe. Blew it an’ the man guarding it into ’bout a thousand pieces.” He shrugged. “It were an accident, but that don’t seem to cut no ice with the marshal there. I figure the Hangin’ Judge gonna stretch my neck just as far as if I’d done it a-purpose.”

  Smoke kept his expression blank.

  Bodine continued. “Mayhew there, he’s a card shark who shot a man over a poker hand.”

  Mayhew got a pained expression on his face. “The scoundrel had the effrontery to accuse me of cheating, just because he didn’t have the slightest idea of the odds of drawing to an inside straight.”

  Shorty Robinson smirked. “They got me for killin’ two men in a fight. They made fun of my . . . stature, so naturally, I had to show ’em my knife made me just as tall as they was.” He gave a short laugh. “An’ a lot taller after they was spread out in the street tryin’ to hold they guts in.”

  Smoke shook his head. For traveling companions, these men left a lot to be desired, he thought.

  Tilghman came out of the sheriff’s office and climbed up on the wagon after hitching his horse to the rear with a dally rope.

  “Gentlemen, hold on to your hats, we’re headin’ out,” he said, as he cracked his blacksnake whip over the team leading the wagon.

  As they pulled out of town, Smoke saw Cal and Pearlie standing in the doorway of the bank, waiting for it to open. They smiled and waved at him as he passed, evidently trying to keep his spirits up. Well, he thought to himself, I couldn’t have better men—and women, he added, thinking of Sally—trying to get me out of trouble. It was an uncomfortable thought that his safety depended on other people, since he’d always been a man who depended only on his own strength and intelligence to get him through trouble.

  * * *

  After the wagon passed, Cal turned to Pearlie. “We got to do something, podna. I hate seein’ Smoke trussed up like an animal headin’ to slaughter.”

  “Don’t you worry none, Cal,” Pearlie answered, his eyes hard. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to Smoke if I have anything to say ’bout it.”

  A man in a black suit and boiled shirt and high collar unlocked the door and ushered them into the bank.

  Twenty minutes later Pearlie and Cal exited with two thousand dollars in fresh greenbacks in their pockets, and a promise that there was more available if they needed it.

  They walked down the street to the local doctor’s office and knocked on the door.

  A slight man with a badly pockmarked face opened the door. “We got your money,” Pearlie said, holding up a handful of cash. “Now, let’s get to work an’ see just what kind’a bullet we find in that galoot on your table.”

  The doctor took the bills and counted them as he headed back into his surgery suite. Satisfied, he stuck them in his coat pocket and stepped up to a table upon which lay the dead man, who was dressed in a fine suit of clothes for the viewing.

  “Here,” the doc said, “help me get his coat and shirt off.”

  After they had the body uncovered, the doctor rolled it onto its stomach. Taking a large scalpel, he enlarged the entrance wound of the bullet that remained in the body. Then he used a long probe to follow the track the slug had made as it coursed into the Kid’s chest.

  After a few minutes, the doc nodded to himself. “Yep, just as I thought. It’s in his right lung.”

  He went to a side table and picked up an instrument that looked like two small rakes connected to a wheel with a handle on it. “Here, boys, hold these tines in between his ribs while I open the spreader.”

  He placed the small rakes in between two of Kid’s ribs and looked at Cal for help.

  Cal’s face blanched white and he said, “Uh . . . I don’t think . . .” Then he grabbed his mouth and ran from the room.

  Pearlie shook his head and stepped up to the table. “Young’un just don’t have the stomach for this kind’a work.”

  The doc smiled. “Not many people do when you get right down to it, son.”

  He turned the handle and the spreader opened Kid’s ribs wide enough for him to get his hand in the chest. He looked at the ceiling while he felt around inside the body, searching with his fingers for the slug he couldn’t see.

  After a minute, he smiled. “Gotcha!”

  He withdrew his hand, and between his fingers was a lead bullet. He handed it to Pearlie after wiping the blood off with a rag.

  Pearlie pulled a .44 bullet from his belt and held it up next to the one from Kid’s body. He smiled. Sure enough, the .44 was quite a bit larger. Smoke had been right. The Kid had been shot with a .36-caliber gun.

  “I’m gonna need you to write a letter to Marshal Thomas tellin’ him we took a .36-caliber bullet outta the Kid’s body, Doc.”

  “I’d be glad to, Pearlie. I’d sure hate to see an innocent man hang for something he didn’t do.”

  11

  On the trip northward, the men in the wagon began to talk, there being nothing much else to occupy their minds since the scenery was uniformly bleak and unchanging for the most part.

  Dynamite Dick Bodine said to Smoke, “I heard you killed over two hundred men. Is that about right, Smoke?”

  Smoke tried to keep a pained expression off his face. He’d heard the same question in one form or another many times over the years. “I don’t keep a tally of th
e men I’ve put in the ground, Dynamite. To me, that’d be too much like notching one’s gun butt. To make a man’s life, no matter how depraved or worthless, nothing more than a number to be bragged about over a glass of whiskey diminishes not only the man doing it, but the man he killed as well.”

  “That don’t answer the question, Jensen,” Dynamite said, his voice becoming harsh.

  Smoke’s voice became hard as steel as well. “I don’t intend to answer, Dynamite. I will say this, though. I never killed a man who didn’t draw on me first, or who didn’t deserve to be buried forked end up.” He hesitated. “And if that’s not clear enough for you, I can come over there and try to make it plainer!”

  Dynamite’s face softened and he dropped his eyes. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Smoke. Just a question, is all.”

  “Good,” Smoke said, his voice returning to normal. “Then the matter is dropped.”

  Tilghman, who’d been listening to the conversation, smiled to himself. Maybe this Jensen fellow wasn’t the cold-blooded killer he’d been led to believe he was. Tilghman liked a man who didn’t brag about his accomplishments. It meant he was sure enough of himself that he didn’t have to try to make others think he was bigger’n he was.

  The conversation caused Tilghman to reflect for a moment on the men he’d killed in the line of duty over his years as both a local peace officer, and more recently as a federal marshal working under Judge Isaac Parker. Though he felt no guilt about the killings, reasoning as Judge Parker did that he hadn’t killed the men, the law had, he still felt that he’d failed somehow every time he’d had to shoot someone rather than talking them into surrendering. Finally, he put his mind to other things. The day was far too pretty a one to spend it thinking morbid thoughts.

  * * *

  In Fort Worth, Pearlie and Cal found Marshal Heck Thomas having his breakfast at Aunt Ida’s Boardinghouse. It wasn’t as fancy as the high-priced hotels in town, but it was a lot cheaper, and the food was in fact better, being more like home cooking.

  The boys approached Thomas’s table. “Marshal,” Pearlie began, “I hate to interrupt your meal, but we have some news about the killing of the Durango Kid you might be interested in.”

  Thomas stared at them as he chewed a bite of wheat cakes for a moment, then washed it down with a drink of coffee and pointed at the chairs across the table from him. “If you’re gonna talk business during my breakfast, you might as well grab a seat and have some food while you do it.”

  Pearlie grinned, and Cal just shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re doin’, Marshal,” Cal said. “Pearlie’s such a food hog, you’re liable to be here all day if we have to wait for him to finish eatin’ ’fore he tells you what we came for.”

  Thomas smiled. “Well, how about you give your order to Aunt Ida over there, an’ whilst she’s cookin’ it, you can tell about your news?”

  He signaled the heavyset woman wearing a flour-stained apron over to the table.

  Pearlie ordered four hens’ eggs, a half-pound of bacon, skillet-fried potatoes, and a pot of coffee. Cal just smiled and ordered a short stack of wheat cakes and two eggs.

  Thomas smiled after the cook left the table. “I see what you mean about your friend.”

  Pearlie got right to the point. “Marshal, what caliber gun do you use?”

  Thomas’s eyes narrowed. “A Colt Army .44. Why?”

  “Could I see one of your cartridges?”

  Thomas stared at Pearlie as if he had lost his mind for a moment, then pulled a bullet out of his belt and handed it to Pearlie.

  Pearlie pulled the bag containing the slug taken from the Kid’s body and the note the doctor had written. He handed both to Thomas.

  Thomas slowly sipped his coffee as he read the note, then held up the slug next to his .44-caliber cartridge and compared them. “I agree with the doc,” he said, raising his eyes to Pearlie. “This does appear to be a .36, and not a .44.”

  “You know that Smoke Jensen carries only Colt .44’s,” Pearlie said, “and that’s the guns you and Tilghman took away from him.”

  Thomas pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “You’re right, it don’t seem to make much sense, but we still got that witness who said he saw Jensen shoot the Kid.”

  Pearlie leaned back as Cal started to talk, telling the marshal about their run-in with Max Gibbons on the train. “So you see, Marshal Thomas, he’s just a tinhorn gambler tryin’ to get even with Smoke for kickin’ him off the train an’ showin’ he was a cheat.”

  “You might be right, son, but how are you gonna prove it?”

  “If you’ll help us, we plan to get him to admit he lied ’bout Smoke,” Pearlie said, sticking a napkin in his shirt as he prepared to dig into the meal Aunt Ida was placing before him.

  “And just how do you plan to do that?” Thomas asked.

  Pearlie speared some eggs on his fork and glanced at Cal. “You tell him, Cal, an’ I’ll just get started on this food.”

  * * *

  It was almost ten o’clock that evening when a buxom redhead sidled up to the table where Max Gibbons was playing poker. She stood next to him, her hand casually resting on his shoulders and playing with the back of his head as she watched the game.

  After a few hands, she leaned down and whispered in his ear, “I just love a man with strong, quick hands. How about we go up to my room and you can practice some of those moves on me?”

  Gibbons looked at her, then at the men he was playing with. He’d managed to take most of their money already, so leaving with the woman would be a good excuse to get out of the game with his winnings.

  “Boys,” he said, stuffing his money in his coat, “I’ve just had an offer I am loath to refuse. I shall return later, if I’m not too worn out.”

  “What’s your name, little lady?” he asked as they walked up the stairs hand in hand.

  “Ruby. Ruby Redlin,” she answered, squeezing his hand and winking at him.

  In her room, she slipped out of her dress while he began to disrobe. She lay back on the bed, dressed only in her corset, which emphasized her more-than-ample breasts.

  “Say,” she said, a thoughtful look on her face. “Aren’t you the man who saw that gunman shoot down the Durango Kid the other night?”

  Gibbons glanced at her as he pulled off his boots. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Oh, I was just thinking it must take an awful lot of courage to stand up and point the finger at a man like that. Why, what if he’d gotten out of jail and come after you?”

  Gibbons laughed and crossed the room to lie next to her on the bed. “Jensen ain’t never gonna get out of jail, ’less it’s to get his neck stretched.”

  Ruby leaned over and began to rub his chest and stomach, her hand drifting lower and lower. “Well, he really don’t have no reason to be mad at you anyway. After all, all you did was tell what he done. I guess it don’t take as much courage as I thought it did.”

  Gibbons bristled at her suggestion that his act didn’t take bravery. “Hell, woman. It took a lot more guts than you think it did. Jensen’s a well-known killer.”

  “Yeah, but how could he get angry with you for just telling what you saw?” she asked, her hand disappearing into his shorts.

  Gibbons stiffened, laid his head back, and closed his eyes. “Like I said, you don’t know all the details,” he mumbled, reaching out to grab at the fastenings on her corset.

  She leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Then, tell me, darling. I find it so exciting.”

  “That Jensen had the nerve to call me a card cheat,” Gibbons said, his hands busy. “So, to get even with him, I lied about what happened out there. He didn’t shoot the Kid. Someone else did, but because of me, Jensen’s going to hang for it.” He leaned back, a proud expression on his face. “That’ll teach the son of a bitch to mess around with Max Gibbons.”

  “Did you see who did shoot the Kid?” Ruby asked, her eyes wide with admiration.

  “Naw, it was too dark. B
ut the Kid was facing Jensen when he got plugged in the back.”

  “Then that was awfully brave of you to lie about a famous gunfighter like that. Just think what he’d do if he ever got out of jail.”

  Gibbons’s face paled for a second. Then he forced a laugh. “Hell, like I said, Jensen’s going to be hung. I don’t have nothing to worry about.”

  He buried his face between Ruby’s breasts, not noticing the smile that curled her lips as she lay her head back on the pillow, already thinking on what she was going to buy with the money the tall, lean cowboy had given her to get Gibbons to talk.

  * * *

  In the room next to Ruby’s, Marshal Heck Thomas sat back from the wall with the small hole drilled in it he’d had his ear against.

  He looked at Cal and Pearlie and grinned. “You boys were right after all. The son of a bitch gave a false statement to federal marshals ’bout your friend.”

  Pearlie slapped his thigh and stood up. “You gonna arrest him now, Marshal?”

  Thomas thought on it for a moment, then smiled wickedly. “No. Gibbons is gonna spend some time in Yuma Prison for his lies, so I think I’ll just let him finish what he’s doin’. It figures to be a very long time ’fore he gets to do it again, at least with a woman, so I’ll just let him have his last fling.”

  “Are you gonna let Marshal Tilghman know he’s transportin’ an innocent man?” Cal asked, his face worried.

  Thomas nodded. “Yeah. Trouble is, Bill’s halfway to hell an’ gone in some of the worst country there is between here and Fort Smith. I don’t have no way to get in touch with him till he reaches Fort Smith. I’ll just have to wire the judge with the details of what we’ve found out so he can let Jensen go when they get there.”

  “You think there’ll be any problem with the judge?” Pearlie asked. “I’ve heard he sure likes to hang people.”

  Thomas’s face sobered. “Judge Parker is a good man, a God-fearin’ man who always tries to do what’s right. I’m sure once he’s heard the evidence, he’ll decide Jensen is innocent.”