William Johnstone - Code of the Mountain Man

“Smoke.”

“Very well . . . Smoke, it is. Let’s take a stroll over to the livery and choose a mount for me. I’m very picky when it comes to horseflesh.”

“Then you’ll take the job?”

“But of course!”

Mills shook his head. He wondered how many warrants were out on Earl Sutcliffe. This was certainly an odd way to maintain law and order. Quite novel. He would have to do a paper on this and perhaps submit it to a New York newspaper for publication. The West certainly was a strange place, he concluded. He’d never seen anyplace quite like it.

The bartender was throwing sawdust on the pool of blood on the floor by the chair where Sandy had died as the men walked out the batwings.

Chapter Eight

Earl Sutcliffe looked at the star pinned to his shirt and chuckled.

“You find something amusing about being on the

side of law and order?” Mills asked.

“Oh, I’ve always been on the side of law and order,” the Englishman replied. “Providing it is good, fair, and just law and order.”

“And in England? . . .” Mills left that open.

“In my case justice did not prevail.”

“What can I say? It happens here, too.”

Earl patted the butt of his six-gun. “It will never again happen to me.”

“That isn’t justice.”

Earl smiled. “Oh, that depends entirely upon who is giving and who is receiving, doesn’t it?”

“How did? . . . I mean . . .” Mills didn’t know exactly how to phrase the question.

“How did an English nobleman become a gunfighter of dubious reputation in the wild American West?” Earl smiled at the U.S. Marshal.

“Thank you, yes.”

“I have always been good with cards, and lucky. I soon realized that if I was going to earn my living as a gambler I had better learn to be more than proficient with a firearm. There are people who, when someone is winning, will always cry cheat.”

“And you don’t cheat?”

“No. That is not to say I don’t know how, because I certainly do. But I don’t have to cheat to win. And I don’t win all the time. Just enough of the time so I earn a nice income.”

“And this?” Mills waved his hand at the town. “Why am I doing it? Why don’t we just say that there is as much Robin Hood in me as there is in Smoke Jensen. Neither one of us particularly cares for the rich who use their power to remain above the law.”

“I can understand your feelings on the subject. But I’m not aware of any rich person who ever wronged Smoke. Besides, Smoke is a wealthy man in his own right.”

Earl laughed. “Oh, so am I, Mr. Walsdorf. My home in England has forty-five rooms. My inheritance was enormous. But what does that have to do with justice?”

Mills walked away, muttering to himself.

Smoke had been listening from a doorway and stepped out to stand by the Englishman. “He’s a good man, Earl. And damn tough, too. He’s just hooked on Eastern law enforcement. Or, most probably, what Eastern lawyers are teaching.”

“And it’s spreading, Smoke. It’ll be another ten years or so before it really makes an impact out here. But it’s coming.”

Smoke grimaced. “First time a man gives me an order telling me I can’t protect what is mine with a gun, he better get ready for a showdown.”

“It’s coming.”

Smoke shook his head and changed the subject. “Mills is no spring chicken. He’s been with the Marshal’s Service since getting out of college. I can’t understand why he hasn’t had some of those ideas of his kicked out of his head.”

“He’s not been a field man for very long, I should imagine. And that is perhaps where the promotions are.”

“You may be right. Well, let’s get some supper and talk over some options.”

“Why don’t we just locate the outlaws and go in shooting?” Earl suggested.

Smoke chuckled. “A man after my own heart. I suggested that to Mills. He says that is not the proper way to go about bringing men to justice.”

Earl gave Smoke a quick, bemused glance. “The man does have a lot to learn, doesn’t he?”

Smoke nodded his head in agreement. “I just hope he stays alive long enough to learn it.”

“I came as soon as I heard about this terrible act of violence against you, Sally,” the man said.

“Thank you, Larry,” Sally Jensen said. She was sitting in the parlor in a rocker, her arm in a sling.

The preacher’s wife, Bountiful, was sitting in the next room, but well within earshot. It just wasn’t proper for a woman, especially a married woman, to receive a man alone. Besides, Bountiful didn’t trust this slick-haired New York City man, all duded up and smelling of bay rum and the like. He had something up his sleeve and she would bet on that.

Sally looked at Lawrence Tibbson and wondered what in the world he was doing Out here in Colorado. She hadn’t seen him in several years. And she’d been with her mother then, shopping in the city. She had allowed Larry to escort her to a few functions in college, very few, but he had never—by any stretch of the imagination-—been her beau. Although he would have liked to have been.

“All your old college chums are very worried about you, Sally,” Larry said.

“Worried about me?” Sally asked. “Why, for heaven’s sake?”

“Well, my word, Sally! You’ve been shot! Living out here in this wild, lawless, God-forsaken place.

And . . .” He shook his head.

“And what, Larry?”

He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nothing, Sally.”

“Larry,” she said coyly, and batted her eyes at him. That used to do it in college.

It did it this time, too. He sighed and said, “Sally, the word is that . . . well, how to say this?”

“Just come right out and say it, Larry. That’s the way out here.”

“The day of the wild west is over, Sally. It’s finished, or soon will be. Despite the play and all the articles and Penny Dreadfuls written about Smoke, the people back East are beginning to look upon him as a cold-blooded killer. And you are being dragged in the dirt as well.”

It didn't come as any surprise to Sally She’d already heard from some of her old college friends. There was a not-so-subtle movement on in some quarters back East to discredit Smoke, and mark him as a mad—dog killer without conscience. Some were even calling for a federal investigation of him, including sending some United States Marshals out West. She didn’t know whether anything had come of that suggestion.

“Go on, Larry.”

“I know your parents are abroad, and plan to stay for some time, but your brother Jordan is very upset about all this awful talk about you.”

“Pure flapdoodle, Larry. That’s all it is.”

Bountiful listened for another five minutes, and then with a frown on her face she walked silently to the doorway and stepped outside. She waved at a hand coiling a rope by the corral.

“Yes, ma’am?” he said, after running over to the house.

“Ride!” she told him. “Get into town, find Monte and find out where Smoke is. Get word to him.” She told him what she had overheard.

The hand threw the rope down, his face tight with anger. “I’ll go in there and stomp that varmint right now!”

“No!” Bountiful told him. “Finding Smoke is more important. He might be in danger of being taken back East to stand trial in some federal court. There are in U.S. Marshals after him. They might already be with him, and he doesn’t know they’re to arrest him.”

The hand nodded his head. “You watch that skunk in yonder, Miss Bountiful. He’s just too slick for my likin’.”

“I’ll watch him for me and Sally. You ride.”

“I’m gone!”

She stepped back into the house in time to hear Sally ask, “Larry, exactly why did you come all the way out here from the city?”