Savagery of The Mountain Man Page 9

  “And was damn near hung ’cause you kilt the express-man,” Stu added.

  “I appreciate you boys staying quiet about that.”

  “Hell, we didn’t have no choice,” Jason said. “If we had know’d who you really was, we would have told ’em and maybe got some time off. But we never actually know’d your name, other than Joe.”

  “And that ain’t your real name, is it?” Emil asked.

  “No. My real name is Pogue Quentin.”

  “Pogue Quentin? Damn, I’ve heard of that name. You’re a rich man now, ain’t you?”

  Quentin nodded. “I am a rich man, yes,” he said.

  “Damn, that ain’t right. I mean, here, the four of us robbed a train, but we went to jail and you got rich.”

  “We all took the same risk,” Quentin said. “The only difference is, you got caught and I didn’t.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’ll bet there’s a reward out for you,” Stu said. “What would keep us from just turning you in to the sheriff for that reward?”

  Quentin laughed.

  “You think it’s funny, do you?” Stu challenged.

  “Emil, you seem to have more sense than the other two,” Quentin said. “Tell him why that is a dumb idea. You do know, don’t you?”

  Emil nodded. “Yeah, I know. For one thing, you have become a very rich and very powerful man in this state. It would be our word, three former convicts, against yours. And nobody would take our word against yours.”

  “You have a price on your head, don’t you?” Quentin said. “Trying to rob a store, were you?” He shook his head and made a clucking sound. “You boys have come a long way down from the last time I saw you.”

  “Yeah, well, we ain’t rich like you,” Stu said. “We needed the money, which is why I think we should turn you in. There’s bound to be a reward on you, and the sheriff might believe us.”

  Quentin laughed.

  “You think that’s funny, do you?”

  “I think it is stupid. I can give you three reasons why trying to tell the sheriff about me would not be a good idea.”

  “And what are those reasons?” Emil asked.

  “Number one, you have a price on your head, which makes going to the sheriff and calling attention to yourselves pretty stupid.

  “However, and this is number two, you wouldn’t have to worry about winding up in jail, because if you do go to the sheriff, even though he wouldn’t believe you, I would have you killed.”

  “What do you mean you would have us killed?” Stu asked. “There is only one of you, there are three of us.”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t do it myself,” Quentin replied. “I said I would have you killed. As we have discussed, I am a very wealthy man. I will simply hire someone to do it.”

  “You said there were three reasons,” Emil said. “What is the third reason?”

  “The third reason is you will miss out on the opportunity to make some money.”

  “How much money?”

  “That depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “On how much money Smoke Jensen brought with him. And since he plans to participate in the big cattle auction tomorrow, I suspect he has brought quite a bit with him.”

  “What’s that got to do with us?” Jason asked.

  “If you play your cards right, that could be your money,” Quentin replied.

  “How much money are we talking about?” Stu asked.

  “I heard that bull they’re sellin’ might bring in five hundred dollars or more,” Emil said.

  “Five hundred dollars for one bull? I don’t believe it,” Stu said.

  “Believe it,” Quentin said.

  “So what if he does have five hundred dollars? You still ain’t said what that has to do with us,” Jason said.

  “I don’t want Smoke to take part in the auction tomorrow. I’m willing to give you boys a hundred dollars apiece to see to it that he doesn’t. And consider this. In addition to the three hundred dollars I’ll give you, you can also have whatever money you find on him.”

  “Find on him?” Stu asked. “What do you mean, find on him?”

  “I’ll let you figure that out,” Quentin said.

  “Find on him,” Emil repeated. He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I know what you are saying.” He chuckled. “Yeah, find on him. I like that.”

  Quentin removed a twenty-dollar bill from his billfold and put it on the table in front of the three brothers. “Here,” he said. “Drink, eat, buy yourself a woman, but don’t go anywhere and don’t do anything until you hear from me again.”

  “How long will that be?” Emil asked.

  “As long as it takes.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Colorado Cattlemen’s Association sponsored the dinner that night, holding the event in the Association Hall. Smoke wore a suit, only because Sally had had the presence of mind to pack one for him. A banner, spread across the front of the ballroom, read:

  Colorado Springs

  welcomes

  COLORADO CATTLEMEN

  The room was a kaleidoscope of the muted gray, brown, and blue suits of the men, among which flitted, like butterflies, the brightly colored gowns of the women. Smoke was glad that Sally had come with him because, in his mind at least, she was clearly the most beautiful woman present.

  The guest list included Colorado’s leading citizens. In addition to the state’s most successful cattlemen, there were others present, like Owen Goldrick, founder of Colorado’s first public school; William Byers, editor of the Rocky Mountain News; and William Palmer, best known as the builder of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad.

  “Mrs. Jensen,” Goldrick said, greeting her. “How wonderful to see you here tonight. You are not only Colorado’s best schoolteacher, but clearly you are our state’s most beautiful.”

  “Mr. Goldrick, you have not lost the ability to charm,” Sally replied with a chuckle. “And you must know that I am no longer teaching.”

  “Sadly, I do know,” Goldrick said. He turned to Smoke. “And, Mr. Jensen, I want you to know that I shall forever hold you responsible for denying the state the gift of her teaching.”

  “I plead guilty,” Smoke said, smiling as he accepted the good-natured gibe.

  “Smoke, could I see you for a moment?” Tom Murchison asked.

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “I have someone I think you should meet.”

  Murchison led Smoke through the crowded ballroom toward a man who was standing apart from everyone else. The man was about fifteen years older than Smoke, about the same height, but considerably heavier, as evidenced by the fact that his vest strained against the buttons. He was clean shaven and bald, except for a narrow ring of white hair that encircled his head, and was smoking a cigar.

  “Smoke Jensen, this is Pogue Quentin,” Murchison said.

  “Mr. Quentin,” Smoke said with a nod of his head. Quentin had given no hint that he was about to offer his hand, so Smoke kept his by his side as well.

  “I’ve heard of you, Jensen,” Quentin said, not removing the cigar from his mouth as he spoke. “I hear you’ve got a pretty nice little ranch up there around Big Rock.”

  “I’m pleased with it,” Smoke replied.

  “You would have been better off staying up there and tending to your business,” Quentin said. “You’ve wasted your time coming here.”

  “Oh? And how is that?”

  “You came here to buy Prince Henry, right? Only, you ain’t goin’ to get him. I plan to buy him myself.”

  “You don’t say? Well, that should make for a spirited bidding tomorrow then, shouldn’t it?”

  “One way or another, Jensen, I generally get what I go after,” Quentin said.

  Someone rang a small bell then, calling all the attendees to the table for the meal. As they were being served, the auctioneer stepped up to a podium to say a few words.

  “Ladies,” he said, acknowledging the women who were in attendance, “and gentl
emen. I want to welcome you to Colorado Springs, and to the Hereford auction we will be conducting tomorrow. As a special treat, and to give you an idea as to what the future of the beef industry is, tonight you will be dining on steaks prepared from Herefords. Enjoy.”

  Smoke had eaten Hereford beef before, so he wasn’t surprised at how much better the meat was than that from a longhorn. There were several who were surprised, though, and the conversation during dinner was about the superiority of Hereford beef.

  Pogue Quentin was sitting at a table that was on the other side of the room from Smoke. As the waiters started serving the dinner, the chair beside Pogue was empty, but his son came in to sit before the waiters reached their table.

  “Did you take care of it?” Pogue asked his son.

  “Yeah, I took care of it,” Billy Ray said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Where were they?”

  “Just where you said they would be. They were in the Bucket of Blood Saloon.”

  “Good.”

  “Pa, they said they had done business with you before.”

  “They have.”

  “I can’t imagine you ever doin’ business with anyone like those three men.”

  “Billy Ray, you’ll learn someday that a man in my position has to do business with all sorts of people.”

  “They just don’t seem to me like they are our kind of people,” Billy Ray said.

  “Oh? Tell me, Billy Ray, what are our kind of people?”

  “People like what’s in here,” Billy Ray replied, taking in the room with a wave of his hand. “People with money.”

  When Emil, Jason, and Stu stepped into the lobby of the Homestead Hotel at three o’clock the next morning, it was dark, except for a single lantern that burned on the front desk. They walked lightly across the lobby, the carpet cushioning their steps so that they made little or no noise.

  The desk clerk was sitting in a chair with his head back against the wall. His mouth was open and he was snoring loudly.

  Emil turned the registration book around and ran his fingers down the list of names.

  “Here it is,” he said quietly. “Smoke Jensen, Room 210.” He looked up at a peg board that hung on the wall just on the other side of the desk. There were several hooks on the board and from some of the hooks, two keys hung. There was only one key hanging from the hook numbered 210. Emil reached over to get it. Once he had the key in his hand, he turned to the others.

  “Let’s go,” he said to the others.

  A moment later, the three men stood at the top of the stairs.

  “Emil, are you sure this fella has money?” Jason asked.

  “You heard what Quentin said, didn’t you? Jensen is plannin’ on biddin’ for that high-priced bull. He couldn’t do that if he didn’t have any money on him.”

  “Where do you reckon his room is at?” Stu asked.

  “He’s in Room 210, so if I figure it right, that will be the last room on the left, down at the far end of the hall.”

  Jason stubbed his toe on the top step. “Damn!” he said, barking the word out in pain.

  “Hush,” Emil whispered.

  “I stubbed my toe,” Jason said.

  “If you don’t hush up, I’m goin’ to stub your head,” Emil warned. “You want to tell the whole world we’re a-comin’?”

  “You worry too much, brother. Who’s goin’ to hear us at this hour of the night?” Stu asked.

  “Just keep quiet.”

  The hallway was well lit by a series of kerosene lanterns that were mounted on the walls on both sides.

  “Jason, Stu, you boys get them lights snuffed out,” Emil said, pointing to the lanterns.

  Following his instructions, Jason and Stu began moving quietly down the hallway, snuffing out the flickering yellow lanterns as they advanced. The hallway grew progressively darker as each light was extinguished, until finally it was illuminated only by the pale gleam of moonlight that splashed in through the window at the far end.

  When they reached the room, Emil motioned for the other two to draw their pistols. He pulled a long-bladed knife from his belt scabbard, then used the key to unlock the door. He pushed it open very slowly, thus avoiding any sound.

  Smoke wasn’t sure what awakened him, but when he opened his eyes he perceived something was amiss. Looking toward the door, he saw immediately that the small crack of light that had been shining under the door was gone. Although there was no longer any light coming under the door, the room was surprisingly well illuminated by the fall of soft silver light from a full moon that splashed through the window.

  “Sally,” he whispered. “Get under bed, now.”

  Although his instruction had awakened her from a very sound sleep, Sally didn’t question Smoke’s unusual request. Instead, she acted instantly to roll out of the bed, then slip under it.

  Smoke’s holster was hanging from the head of the bed, and reaching up for it, he pulled his pistol. Then, he too rolled out of bed, only instead of getting under it, he moved quietly across the room, stepping into the shadows of the corner, then looking toward the door. He felt a slight movement of air in the room, and realized that the door had just been opened.

  Three men came in, shadows within the shadow of the dimly lit room, and moving quietly, they crossed the floor toward the bed. Something flashed, a soft reflection from the moonlight, and Smoke could see that what glistened was the blade of a knife being carried by the one who was in the lead. He could see that the other two had their guns drawn. The one with the knife plunged it into the bed.

  “Damn!” he said. “He ain’t here.”

  “Oh, I’m here, all right,” Smoke said. “I’m just not in bed. You boys drop your weapons.”

  Smoke stepped to one side as soon as he spoke. The two men with guns turned toward the sound of Smoke’s voice and fired. Smoke returned fire, using the flame patterns of their pistols as his target. Even as the sound of gunfire faded, he heard a crash of glass and realized that the third man, the one with the knife, had jumped through the window. Moving quickly to the window, he got there just in time to see the third man get to his feet on the ground below, then run into the alley, disappearing into the darkness.

  “Sally, are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Sally’s muffled voice came from under the bed.

  “You can come out now.”

  “What is it? What’s going on?” someone shouted from down the hall.

  “Was that gunshots?” another asked.

  “What happened to the lanterns in the hall?”

  “Someone go for the sheriff!”

  Smoke lit the lantern in his room, then walked over to look down at the two men he had shot.

  “Are they dead?” Sally asked. She was tying the waist of the silken robe she had just put on over her nightgown.

  “Yes.”

  “Hello? Is anyone alive in there?” someone called from the hotel hallway.

  “It’s all over, folks,” Smoke called back.

  One brave soul appeared in the doorway, carrying a pistol. Seeing him, Smoke aimed his pistol at him; then, from having met him at the dinner last evening, he recognized Tucker Phillips. Phillips was one of the men who would be bidding against him tomorrow. Smoke eased the hammer back down on his pistol and lowered it.

  “Mr. Phillips, I’d be much obliged if you’d lower your pistol,” Smoke said.

  “Right, right,” Phillips said. “I just thought—well, uh, right, I’ll put the gun down. Are you and Mrs. Jensen all right?”

  “Yes, we’re fine, thank you,” Smoke answered.

  As Smoke had done a moment earlier, Tucker Phillips looked down at the two men on the floor. Both were dead, but the fact that they were clutching guns in their hands and were fully clothed, whereas Smoke was wearing the long underwear he had been sleeping in, clearly told the story that Smoke was the innocent participant in the shooting.

  By now, several others had gott
en brave enough to venture down to the room and look inside.

  “There’s two dead men in there,” someone said from just outside the door to Smoke’s room.

  “Two dead men,” another said, and Smoke could hear the refrain repeated up and down the hallway as the crowd of hotel guests gathered.

  It took about fifteen minutes for the deputy sheriff to arrive. He looked down at the men, prodding each of them with the toe of his boot to convince himself that both were dead.

  “You’re Smoke Jensen, aren’t you?” the deputy asked. “Come to bid on the bull at the big auction?”

  “Yes,” Smoke said.

  “Well, then, there’s not much of a mystery here, is there? These two galoots probably found out who you are, and they come in here to rob you.”

  “And maybe more,” Smoke said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This one is Stu Sinclair, this one is Jason Sinclair,” Smoke said, pointing out the two men.

  “You know them?”

  “In a manner of speaking, I do.” Smoke told about his encounter with the two men who had tried to rob the Mercantile in Big Rock. “They broke out of jail on the first night,” he concluded.

  “Ahh, then it was probably a little of both. Revenge, and to rob you.”

  “And maybe more,” Smoke repeated.

  “More? What more could there be?”

  “Look in Jason’s shirt pocket,” Smoke said.

  The deputy knelt beside the one Smoke had identified as Jason Sinclair, then reached into his shirt pocket. From the pocket, he extracted three one-hundred-dollar bills.

  “I’ll be,” he said. “This is three hunnert dollars. Who would have thought that a galoot like this would have three hunnert dollars on him?”

  “It’s not just three hundred dollars, it is three one-hundred-dollar bills,” Smoke said. “I believe that money was given to them tonight.”

  “Well now, that’s kind of strange,” the deputy said. “Why do you suppose someone would give them three hundred dollars?”

  “I think someone paid them to kill me.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened to you last night,” Sheriff Walker said to Smoke the next day. “If I had known the Sinclair boys were in town, I would have had them in jail. There is paper out on them now.”