Johnstone, W. - Last Mountain Man

“I heard what happened to Casey,” the sheriff spoke in low tones. “Nothing like that is going to happen in this town. Don’t start trouble here.”

Smoke suddenly smiled boyishly and disarmingly. “You don’t mind if we buy some supplies, have a few hot meals, and rest for a day or two, do you, sheriff? Take a hot bath?”

“Speak for yourself on that last part,” Preacher said.

“Confine yourselves to doing that,” the sheriff said, then brushed past the men.

“That lawman’s salty, Smoke,” Preacher observed correctly.

“But he backed up,” the young man replied.

“Yep. They’s something ’bout you that’ll make a smart man get away from you. And that worries me, some.”

“Why?”

“Might mean I ain’t too smart.”

They stabled their horses and told the stable boy to rub them down and give them grain. They went across the street to a small cafe and had steak, boiled potatoes, and apple pie for twenty-five cents apiece.

“These prices,” Preacher opined, “this feller’ll be retired in a month.”

As if by magic, the cafe had emptied of customers with the arrival of the buckskin-clad men. But when the regular diners — who, Smoke observed, ate for fifteen cents each — saw the pair meant no harm, the cafe once more filled with diners.

“Coffee’s weak,” Preacher hitched, as he sucked at his fourth cup.

“Any coffee that won’t float a horseshoe,” Smoke said grinning at him, “you’d claim was weak.”

“True. What’s your plan this time?”

“Check in at the hotel, then get some chairs and sit out front, watch the people pass by.”

“Wait for them to come to us, eh?”

“That’s right.”

“And ifn they force our hand, the sheriff can’t bring no charges agin us for defendin’ ourselves.”

“That is correct.”

Preacher ordered another piece of apple pie and another cup of coffee. “To be so young, Smoke, you shore got a sneaky streak in you.”

“It’s the company I’ve been keeping for the past four years.”

“Might have something to do with it, I reckon.”

For two days Smoke and Preacher waited and relaxed in town, causing no trouble, keeping to themselves. Smoke bathed twice behind the barber shop, and Preacher told him ifn he didn’t stop that he was gonna come down with some dreadful illness.

The mountain man and the gunfighter were civil to the men, polite to the ladies. Some of the ladies batted their eyes and swished their bustled fannies as they passed by Smoke.

“You boys sure takin’ your time buyin’ supplies,” the sheriff noted on the second day.

“We like to think things through ’fore buyin’,” Preacher told him. “Smoke here is a right cautious man with a greenback. Might even call him tight.”

The sheriff didn’t find that amusing. “You boys wouldn’t be waiting for Ackerman to make a move, would you?”

“Ackerman?” Smoke looked at the sheriff. “What is an Ackerman?”

The sheriffs smile was grim. “What do you boys do for a livin’? I got a law on the books about vagrants.”

“I’m retired,” Preacher told him. “Enjoyin’ the sunset of my years. Smoke here, he runs a string of horses on his ranch up to Brown’s Hole.”

“You’re a long way from Brown’s Hole.”

“Right smart piece for shore.”

“I ought to run you both out of this town.”

“Why?” Smoke asked. “On what charge? We haven’t caused you any trouble.”

“Yet.” The sheriff’s back was stiff with anger as he strode away. The man knew a setup when he saw one, and this was a setup.

But his feelings were mixed. He owed Ackerman and his bunch of rowdies nothing — they were all troublemakers. Ackerman swung no wide political loop in this country. And there were persistent rumors that Ackerman had been a thief and a murderer during the war — and a deserter. And the sheriff could not abide a coward.

But, he sighed, if he was reading this young man called Smoke right, Ackerman’s future looked very bleak.

A hard-ridden horse hammered the street into dust. A hand from the Bar-X slid to a halt. “Ackerman and his bunch are ridin’ in, sheriff,” the cowhand panted. “They’re huntin’ bear. Told me to tell you he’s gonna kill this kid called Smoke — and anyone else that got in his way.”

The sheriff’s smile was grudgingly filled with admiration. The kid’s patience had paid off. Ackerman had made his boast and his threat; anything the kid did now could only be called self-defense.

The sheriff thanked the cowboy and told him to hunt a hole. He crossed the street and told his deputy to clear the street in front of the hotel.

In five minutes, the main street resembled a ghost town, with a yellow dog the only living thing that had not cleared out. Behind curtains, closed doors, and shuttered windows, men and women watched and waited, ears atune, anticipating the roar of gunfire from the street.

At the edge of town, Ackerman, a bull of a man, with small, mean eyes and a cruel slit for a mouth, slowed his horse to a walk. Ackerman and his hands rode down the street, six abreast.

Preacher and Smoke were on their feet. Preacher stuffed his mouth full of chewing tobacco. Both men had slipped the thongs from the hammers of their Colts. Preacher wore two Colts, .44s. One in a holster, the other stuck behind his belt. Mountain man and young gunfighter stood six feet apart on the boardwalk.

The sheriff closed his office door and walked into the empty cell area. He sat down and began a game of checkers with his deputy.

Ackerman and his men wheeled their horses to face the men on the boardwalk. “I hear tell you boys is lookin’ for me. If so, here I am.”

“News to me,” Smoke said. “What’s your name?”

“You know who I am, kid. Ackerman.”

“Oh, yeah!” Smoke grinned. “You’re the man who helped kill my brother by shooting him in the back. Then you stole the gold he was guarding.”

Inside the hotel, pressed against the wall, the desk clerk listened intently, his mouth open in anticipation of gunfire.

“You’re a liar. I didn’t shoot your brother; that was Potter and his bunch.”

“You stood and watched it. Then you stole the gold.”

“It was war, kid.”

“But you were on the same side,” Smoke said. “So that not only makes you a killer, it makes you a traitor and a coward.”

“I’ll kill you for sayin’ that!”

“You’ll burn in hell a long time before I’m dead,” Smoke told him.

Ackerman grabbed for his pistol. The street exploded in gunfire and black powder fumes. Horses screamed and bucked in fear. One rider was thrown to the dust by his lunging mustang. Smoke took the men on the left, Preacher the men on the right side. The battle lasted no more than ten to twelve seconds. When the noise and the gunsmoke cleared, five men lay in the street, two of them dead. Two more would die from their wounds. One was shot in the side — he would live. Ackerman had been shot three times: once in the belly, once in the chest, and one ball had taken him in the side of the face as the muzzle of the .36 had lifted with each blast. Still Ackerman sat his saddle, dead. The big man finally leaned to one side and toppled from his horse, one boot hung in the stirrup. The horse shied, then began walking down the dusty street, dragging Ackerman, leaving a bloody trail.

“I heard it all!” the excited desk clerk ran out the door. “You were in the right, Mr. Smoke. Yes, sir. Right all the way. Why …!” He looked at Smoke. “You’ve been wounded, sir.”

A slug had nicked the young man on the cheek, another had punched a hole in the fleshy part of his left arm, high up. They were both minor wounds. Preacher had been grazed on the leg and a ricocheting slug had sent splinters into his face.