Johnstone, W. - Last Mountain Man

“You weren’t there. You don’t know what happened.”

“You callin’ me a liar?”

“If that is the way you want to take it.”

Thompson’s face colored with anger, his hand moving closer to the .44 in his belt. “You take that back or make your play.”

“There is no need for this,” Smoke said.

The second man began cursing Smoke as he stood tensely, almost awkwardly, legs spread wide, body bent at the waist. “You’re a damned thief. You stolt their gold and then kilt ’em.”

Smoke, who had spent hundreds of hours practicing his deadly skills, thought that they were doing everything wrong. These men weren’t gun-hands. He could smell the fear-sweat from the men.

“I don’t want to have to kill you,” Smoke said.

“The kid’s yellow!” Haywood yelled. Then he grabbed for his gun.

Haywood touched the butt of his gun just as two shots boomed over the dusty street. The .36 caliber balls struck him in the chest, one nicking his heart. Haywood dropped to the dirt, dying. Before he closed his eyes, and death relieved him of the shocking pain, closing her arms around him, pulling him into that long sleep, two more shots thundered. He had a dark vision of Thompson spinning in the street. Then Haywood died.

Thompson was on one knee, his left hand holding his shattered right elbow. His leg was bloody. Smoke had knocked his gun from his hand, then shot him in the leg on the way down.

“Pike was your brother,” Smoke told the man. “So I can understand why you came after me. But you were wrong. I’ll let you live. But stay with mining. If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you.”

The young man turned, putting his back to the dead and bloody. He walked slowly up the street, his high-heeled Spanish riding boots pocking the air with dusty puddles.

“Cool, ain’t he, Frenchy?” Preacher said.

“Yes,” Gaultier said. “Too much so, perhaps. I wonder if killing the men who killed his father will then bring him happiness?”

“I don’t know,” Preacher replied. “I just wish to hell he’d find him a good woman and settle down.”

“He will never settle down,” the Frenchman said. “He might try, but he will always drift — like smoke.”

“This here is your show, Smoke,” Preacher said, as they rode away from the hot spring. “So you call the tune.”

“La Plaza de los Leones. That’s the closest name on the list.”

“I been there. Reckon it’s changed some, though.”

“We’ll soon see.”

“Wanna answer me a question, Smoke?”

“Have I ever held back from you?”

“Reckon not. But you know I helt you back from doin’ this for two years, don’t you?”

“You didn’t hold me back, you just didn’t encourage me.”

“All right. Have it your way. How come you made up your mind sudden like?”

“Because it was time, Preacher.”

That hard flash of precognition again swept over the mountain man. “Son, have you taken a real close look at the names on that paper? Now, I can’t read airy one, but Frenchy read ’em to me. Them people is scattered over three states and territories. Chances of you finding them all is slim, at best.”

“I’ll find them.”

Preacher nodded. “Well, I’ll just tag along — keep you away from bad whiskey and bad wimmin. Both of ’em’ll kill a body.”

“Preacher? I’ve never known a woman — the way a man should know one.”

“Well, your time’ll come, Smoke. You’ll fall in love one of these days — it happens to the best of us. Then you’ll be walkin’ into boulders and pickin’ flowers and fallin’ off your horse.”

Smoke grinned. “Did you do that, Preacher?”

“Yep. For a squaw once. I guess I were in love — don’t rightly know much ’bout it.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died. And I just don’t wanna say no more ’bout it.”

La Plaza de los Leones, Square of the Lions, was only a few years away from being renamed Walsenburg. Built on the banks of the Cuchara River, the town, by 1869, was already a ranching and farming community with a city government. It was a hundred and fifty miles from the springs to La Plaza, but Smoke’s reputation had preceded him.

The city marshal met them just outside of town, having been warned they were on their way.

“Just pull ’em up right there, boys,” he told them. “I’m Marshal Crowell. If you boys are lookin’ for trouble, then just keep on ridin’.”

“There won’t be any trouble in your town,” Smoke assured. “I’m looking for a man named Casey.”

“What do you want with him?”

“That’s my business,” Smoke said quietly.

“I’m the law.” Crowell met the young man’s eyes. “And I’m sayin’ it’s my business.”

“Right,” Preacher cut in. “You be the city marshal, shore ’nuff. But you ain’t the sheriff. Matter of fact, you ain’t nothin’ outside of the town limits.”

Crowell kept his temper. He knew the old man was right. Crowell was western born and reared, and he knew that here, unlike the East he had only read about, a man killed his own snakes, broke his own horses, and settled his affairs his way, without much interference from the law — to date.

“Start trouble in this town, young man,” he warned Smoke, “and you’ll answer to me.”

“Casey,” Smoke repeated. “Where is he?”

Crowell hesitated for a few seconds. “His ranch is southeast of here, on the flats. You’ll cross a little creek ’fore you see the house. He’s got eight hands. They all look like gunnies.”

“You got an undertaker in this town?” Smoke asked.

“Sure. Why?”

“Tell him to dust off his boxes — he’s about to get some business.”

Crowell sat his horse and watched the pair until they were out of sight. He knew about Preacher, for Preacher was a living legend in Colorado when Crowell was still a boy. As much a legend as Carson, Purcell, Williams, or Charbonneau, son of Sacagawea. The young man with him — or was Preacher with the young man? — was rumored to be the fastest gun anywhere in the state.

A horse coming behind him broke the marshal’s thoughts. “Tom?” A man’s voice.

Crowell turned to look at the shopkeeper.

“You were deep in thought. Trouble?”

“Not for us, I hope.”

“Who were those men?”

“One was the old curly wolf, Preacher. The other was the young gun-hand, Smoke.”

“Here! Lord, Tom, who are they after?”

“He asked for Casey.”

“Lord! Casey owes me sixty-five dollars.”

Ten miles out of town, the pair met two hands riding easy, heading into town. Smoke and Preacher sat their saddles in the middle of the range and waited.

“You boys is on TC range,” one of the riders informed them, his voice holding none of the famed western hospitality. “So get the hell off. The boss don’t like strangers and neither do I.”

Smoke smiled. “You boys been ridin’ for the brand long?” he asked congenially.

“You deef?” the second rider asked. “We just told you to get!”

“You answer my question and then maybe we’ll leave.”

“Since ’66, when we pushed the cattle up here from Texas — if it’s any of your damned business. Now git!”

“Who owns the TC?”

“Ted Casey. Boy, are you crazy or just stupid?”

“My Pa knew a Ted Casey. Fought in the war with him, for the Gray.”

“Oh? What be your name?”

“Some people call me Smoke.” He smiled. “Jensen.”

Recognition flared in the eyes of the riders. They grabbed for their guns but they were far too slow. Smoke’s left-hand .36 belched flame and black smoke as Preacher fired his Henry one-handed. Horses reared and screamed and bucked at the noise, and the TC riders were dropped from their saddles, dead and dying.