Shootout of the Mountain Man Read online

  Once inside the marshal’s office, Clark stepped over to a wall that was festooned with reward flyers. Seeing a poster with Corey Bates’s name and description, he tore it down. “You don’t need to keep a poster up for this man anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose you’ll be puttin’ in for the reward?”

  “I already collected the reward.”

  “Five hundred dollars,” the deputy said. “That was a pretty good payday. But if you really wanted some money, you should go after Frank Dodd.”

  “Frank Dodd?”

  “This man right here,” the deputy said, pointing to a reward poster. “Reward on him is five thousand dollars.”

  Clark whistled. “Five thousand? That’s a lot of money. The state has put that much money up?”

  The deputy shook his head. “It ain’t the state that put up the money,” he said. “The money was put up by the Western Capital Security Agency.”

  “Hmm. I reckon I’ll take a look into that.”

  The deputy chuckled. “Yes, you and about a hundred other folks who are tryin’ to catch him.” He handed the receipt to Clark. “I tell you what. If you don’t want to wait for your money, you can take this to the bank tomorrow and they’ll give you ninety percent face value on it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Where you goin’ to be later this afternoon?” the deputy asked. “Just in case the marshal wants to talk to you.”

  “I’ll be down at the Red Dog Saloon, having a beer,” Clark replied. “Maybe having a lot of beers.”

  Leaving the marshal’s office, Clark walked down to the saloon. Several ollas spaced around the inside of the saloon allowed water to evaporate, doing a reasonably effective job of cooling so that, compared to the sun-baked street outside, it was quite comfortable.

  “You was here a few days ago, wasn’t you?” the bartender asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What brung you back?”

  “You serve good beer here,” Clark said.

  The bartender laughed. “We serve good beer,” he said. “Did you hear that, gents? This fella came back to the Red Dog ‘cause we serve good beer.”

  “That ain’t why he come back,” one of the customers said.

  “It ain’t?” The bartender put a beer in front of Clark and picked up the nickel. “Then why did he come back?”

  “He come for the reward. Ain’t that right, mister?” His questioner moved up alongside him. “You the one I seen ridin’ in a while ago leadin’ another horse, ain’t you?”

  Clark prepared himself for a confrontation. “That was me.”

  “I couldn’t see all that well from here, but looked to me like the fella you had draped across that horse was Dewey Gibson.”

  “That’s who it was.”

  “Uh-huh, like I said, you come back for the reward.”

  “And the beer,” Clark said, smiling and lifting the mug of beer in an attempt to lighten the conversation.

  “Maybe you don’t know this, mister, but me ‘n ole Dewey used to ride together. We was pards, you might say.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s been a while since we’ve rode together so I can’t exactly say we was pards now. Still, I feel bad to see that he’s dead. What happened to him?”

  Clark put the beer down, then turned to face the man. “I killed him,” he said.

  Those who were close enough to overhear Clark halted their own conversations and turned their attention toward the two men to see where this would lead.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought you might say.”

  “I didn’t have any choice,” Clark said. “He drew first.”

  “Mister, I don’t believe he drew first. If he had, you’d be dead now. Mind, I ain’t sayin’ Dewey ain’t the kind who would draw first. I’m just sayin’ that he was that good with a gun that iffen he had drawn first, you’d be dead now.”

  “I’m not goin’ to have any trouble with you, am I, friend?” Clark asked. “The reason I ask is, I hadn’t planned to kill Gibson, and I don’t have any plans to kill you. But if you push this any further, I just may have to.”

  There was a long silent pause as everyone in the saloon waited to hear the response to Clark’s challenge. Then a tall, silver-haired, dignified-looking man stood from one of the tables in the back of the room.

  “Jeff, back down,” he called to the man who had confronted Clark.

  “Mr. Sinclair, I don’t think this fella is tellin’ the truth,” Jeff said. “You know’d Dewey Gibson as well as I did, seein’ as he used to ride for you. You know how good with a gun he was, and you know damn well that if he had draw’d first like this here feller is claimin', this feller would be dead.”

  “You want to kill somebody, or else get yourself killed over someone like Dewey Gibson?” Sinclair asked.

  “No, but—”

  “There ain’t no buts,” Sinclair said. He turned to face the others in the saloon. “Gentlemen, I think nearly all of you know me. Some of you, like Jeff here, have ridden for me. But just in case there is someone here who doesn’t know me, my name is Martin Sinclair. I own the Bar S Ranch. You may remember that Dewey Gibson used to ride for me, but I fired him, and I want you to know why I fired him. Two years ago, I hired some Mexicans to do some work for me, and one of them had a little twelve-year-old girl. The Mexicans left before the work was done, before I even paid them any money. It was a couple of weeks later that I learned why they left. It was because Gibson raped that little twelve-year-old girl. When I called him on it, he admitted that he had done it, but said he didn’t think it mattered none, since she wasn’t nothin’ but a Mex and would probably grow up to be a whore anyway. As far as I am concerned, Dewey Gibson was nothing but a low-down sorry son of a bitch and if he got himself killed, then I say good riddance.”

  Sinclair looked back over at the young cowboy who had questioned Clark. “Jeff, you still want to kill someone, or what’s more than likely, from the way I gauge this fella, get yourself kilt over Dewey Gibson?”

  “No, sir, I don’t reckon I do,” Jeff replied. “Sorry, mister,” he said to Clark. “I reckon I spoke without thinkin'. Hope you don’t take no offense to it.”

  “No offense taken,” Clark said.

  “Mr. Peterson?” Sinclair called over to the bartender.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Suppose you give everyone a drink, on me.”

  “Yes, sir!” the bartender replied enthusiastically. Then, he shouted to the entire saloon. “You heard Mr. Sinclair, boys. Step up and name your poison.”

  There were fourteen men and three women in the saloon, and all rushed to the bar to get their drink. Clark held his beer out toward Sinclair and nodded his thanks. Sinclair nodded back. The older man had defused a possible situation.

  Chapter Nine

  The trip from Cheyenne, Wyoming, to Battle Mountain, Nevada, took Smoke seventeen hours. The Pacific Flyer was a premier train, running on the high iron, which required all the other trains on the line, the locals and the freight trains, to move aside to give the right-of-way to the “varnish.” Also, because it was a premier train, first-class passengers enjoyed all the comforts of a Pullman Parlor Car, which allowed Smoke to pass a relaxed night, reaching Battle Mountain early morning the next day.

  Battle Mountain, located at the junction of Reese River and Humboldt Valley, got its name from a battle that took place between emigrants and Indians some years earlier. In what would otherwise be desert country, the mountain after which the town received its name produced a large, freshwater spring that provided water for the population and the railroad. The town itself was laid out on one street, which ran south of, and perpendicular to, the Central Pacific Railroad and parallel with the Nevada Central.

  Smoke spent the day in Battle Mountain. The day was passed pleasantly as he wa
lked around the town, enjoying a flowing fountain, which was the pride of the city, along with the well-tended green grass and colorful flowers, which stood out in strong contrast to the surrounding desert. He took two meals at the hotel restaurant, then at nine-thirty that night, walked down to the depot in time to make certain his horse was loaded onto the stock car for the last leg of his journey. Once his horse and tack had been seen to, he hurried back to the third passenger car to board, being the last passenger to do so.

  “Hold on there, mister,” the conductor said as Smoke started to board the train. He pointed to Smoke’s pistol. “That has to go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Up to the baggage car,” the conductor said. “I don’t let armed men ride on my train.”

  “There is no law that says I can’t wear a gun,” Smoke said.

  “If you want to walk around the streets of any town in Nevada carrying a firearm, be my guest,” the conductor replied. “But you are about to board my train, and on my train I make the rules. You cannot wear a gun on my train. Take it off, now.”

  Smoke thought about challenging him further, but needed to get to Cloverdale before it was too late to do anything for Bobby Lee, so he decided it wasn’t worth it. He unbuckled his pistol belt and held it out toward the conductor. “Take good care of this,” he said. “I will expect it back when I get to Cloverdale.”

  The conductor took belt, holster, and pistol with a self-satisfied smirk. “If you ask me, it is all an affectation anyway,” he said. “Men like you wear guns for show. Am I supposed to be frightened by it?”

  “I reckon not,” Smoke replied calmly.

  Smoke walked midway through the car, then settled in an unoccupied seat. Shortly after the train got under way, the conductor came through the car, checking everyone’s tickets.

  “What cretin made out this ticket?” the conductor asked irritably as he examined the ticket Smoke gave him.

  “Is there something wrong with it?” Smoke asked.

  “We have changed forms. We no longer use this.”

  “It was issued in Big Rock, Colorado.”

  The conductor held the ticket for a long moment as he looked at it. “If I had seen this ticket before you boarded, I would not have let you on.”

  “It was good enough for the Denver and Rio Grande, and the Union Pacific,” Smoke said.

  “Yes, well, you aren’t on the Denver and Rio Grande or the Union Pacific now, are you? This is the Nevada Central,” the conductor said with an ill-tempered tone. “Perhaps our standards are a little higher.”

  “I’m sure they are,” Smoke said sarcastically, but the conductor did not pick up on his sarcasm.

  “Never mind, I will let you pass, but I intend to send a message to the Denver and Rio Grande, reminding them of the change in forms.” With a sigh of disgust, he shook his head, punched a hole in the ticket, then gave it back to Smoke.

  At that moment, a small boy came running up the aisle and the conductor reached out to grab hold of his shirt.

  “Who is the mother of this child?” he called out.

  “I am,” a young woman answered from the front of the car.

  “Madam, please keep him under control. I will not have urchins running wild on my train.”

  “Mister, you have about the biggest case of mean I’ve ever seen,” Smoke said. “If you’d ease up just a bit, you might have people thinking better of you.”

  “I am not concerned about the opinion you or anyone else on this train may have of me,” the conductor said haughtily. “I am the conductor and that means I am in charge of this train. Surely even someone like you can understand that. I am concerned only that you obey my rules.”

  Smoke chuckled. “The Emperor of Lilliput,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon? Who is the Emperor of Lilliput?”

  “Gulliver’s Travels?”

  “Mr. Gulliver may travel, but as far as I am aware, he has never traveled on my train. And emperor or not, he would still obey my rules.”

  Turning with a sense of self-importance, the conductor moved on through the car.

  After the conductor left, a nice-looking and well-mannered boy came walking up the aisle, balancing himself against the jerk and roll of the train by putting his free hand on the backs of the seats. He was carrying a book.

  “Sir, are you Smoke Jensen?”

  Smoke was somewhat surprised to be recognized this far from home, and to be recognized by a young boy.

  “Yes, I am,” he said.

  A huge smile spread across the boy’s face.

  “I knew it! I told Mama that’s who you was.” He held out the book and a pencil. “Would you please sign this book for me?”

  The title of the book was Smoke Jensen and the Desert Outlaws. Neither the author nor the publisher had ever acquired Smoke’s permission to use his name in their books, and in truth, Smoke was irritated by their very existence. But the boy was genuinely excited, and Smoke didn’t want to do anything to disappoint him, so he nodded, then reached for the book.

  “None of this is true, you know,” Smoke said as he began to sign.

  The boy smiled. “I know it isn’t,” he said. “Heck, I’ve read enough about you in the newspapers to know that the real things you have done are much better than these stories. But I would like to have your autograph anyway. ”

  “All right,” Smoke said, signing the book. “What’s your name?”

  “Timothy, sir. But ever’ one calls me Timmy.”

  How old are you, Tim?”

  “Tim, yes, I like that better than Timmy. I think I’ll be Tim from now on. I’m fifteen.”

  Smoke stopped in mid-signing and looked for a long moment at the boy.

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Jensen?” Tim asked.

  “No, son, nothing is wrong,” Smoke said as he completed the signing. He handed the book back. “There you go. Just remember, don’t believe everything you read. ”

  “I won’t. And thank you, sir,” Tim said, holding the book to his chest excitedly as he returned to sit with his mother and younger sister.

  Smoke watched as the boy proudly showed the book to his mother and sister. The boy had said he was fifteen. His son, Arthur, would be fifteen now. But Arthur had been murdered along with his mother, Smoke’s wife, Nicole.

  As Smoke thought of Nicole and young Arthur, he connected them with the mission he was on now, and he remembered what a hard time Nicole’s brother had had in dealing with the murder of his sister and nephew.

  Young Bobby Lee wiped the tears from his eyes. “My sister never hurt anyone. She was a good person.”

  “Yes, she was,” Smoke answered. He had his arm around the boy’s shoulder, and he pulled him closer to him. Although Smoke’s own son, Art, was still just a baby, Smoke had become a father figure to Bobby Lee. It wasn’t the first time Smoke had ever been a father figure to a young boy. Even before Smoke had married Nicole, he’d rescued a boy who was lost in the mountains, half frozen and half starved. Taking him back to his own cabin, Smoke had raised him until he was an adult. Out of gratitude once the boy was on his own, he’d taken Smoke’s last name. He was now known as Matt Jensen, and had established a reputation of his own.

  “Why did they kill Nicole? And little Art? He was just a baby. Who could kill a baby?”

  “I can’t answer that question, Bobby Lee. There are some people who are just too evil to live. ”

  “But these people are evil, and they are alive,” Bobby Lee said.

  “Yes,” Smoke said. “They are alive now, but they won’t be alive much longer. ”

  “You are going after them, aren’t you?”

  “I am. ”

  “I want to go with you. ”

  Smoke ran his hand through the boy’s hair. “I know you do, son. And I wish I could let you come with me. But you are still a bit too young, and if I have to worry about you, it will make my job harder to do. You do want to see them pay for what they did, don’t you?”

&n
bsp; “Yes,” Bobby Lee said resolutely.

  “Then you understand why I can’t take you with me?”

  “Yes,” Bobby Lee said again. “But Smoke?”

  “Yes?”

  “When you kill the sons of bitches, kind of think about me while you’re doin’ it, will you?”

  “I promise.”

  “And I’m sorry I cussed like that. Nicole, she didn’t like me saying things like son of a bitch.”

  “I think, in this case, Nicole would forgive you,” Smoke said. “Sons of bitches is about the only way you can describe these people. ”

  “Sons of bitches,” Bobby Lee said. “Sons of bitches, sons of bitches, sons of bitches. “He repeated the words, using them as a means of fighting against the sobs that he was trying, not too successfully, to hold back.

  A porter came through the car announcing dinner with a three-note chime, thus interrupting Smoke’s reverie. He joined the others in moving toward the dining car.

  It was just after midnight and Frank Dodd and the six men with him were waiting alongside the Nevada Central tracks just south of Rock Creek.

  “That ain’t high enough,” Dodd said. He was speaking to Conklin, who was standing on a collapsible ladder. A pyramid of three poles had been erected in the middle of the track, and Conklin was attempting to attach a lantern to the poles.

  “That’s about as high as I can make it,” Conklin said.

  “You can get it higher. Put it all the way up on top,” Dodd ordered.

  “Well, how high does it have to be anyway?”

  “It has to be as high as the headlamp on a train,” Dodd said. “I want the engineer to think he’s about to run smack dab into another train.”

  “How’s that goin’ to work?” Stillwater asked. “This here lamp ain’t a’ goin’ to be movin’ none. It’ll just be sittin’ here.”

  “Believe me, when that engineer sees another headlamp in the middle of the track, he ain’t goin’ to think about whether it’s movin’ or not. And so what if it ain’t movin'? It would still look like a train is here, even if it’s just a’ settin’ still, and he damn sure ain’t goin’ to be wantin’ to run over it.”