William Johnstone: Battle of the Mountain Man

The thumping of Otto’s boot and his choking sounds were the only noises inside the Silver Dollar for several seconds more as Smoke and Louis watched the dying man’s struggle. Suddenly, Otto’s knee gave way and he collapsed on the floorboards beside a brass spittoon with a soft gurgling coming from the hole in his neck. A dark stain began to spread across the crotch of his pants when his bladder emptied, a sure sign of the nearness of death.

Smoke sauntered over to the broken window, gazing out at the third gunman’s limp body. “This one’s dead,” he told Louis in a quiet voice. “I reckon I owe you for a piece of glass.”

“Nonsense,” Louis replied. “Hardly a month passes that I don’t buy a window or two, after some of my customers get a bit too rowdy. You don’t owe me a thing.”

Smoke turned to his old friend and grinned. “Yes I do, and you know it. The big guy, Otto, was a little faster than I had him sized up to be. I might have been picking lead out of my own hide if you hadn’t been here to back me.”

“Nobody is keeping score,” Louis said. “We’ve been backing each other so long I lost count of who owes who a long time ago. I’m not keeping a tally book, but I’ll wager it’s heavily in your favor. You’ve stopped a lot of lead from flying in my direction over the years. Now sit down. I’ll send someone for the undertaker and then I’ll send out those steaks and eggs, if the cook didn’t let ’em burn while all that shooting was going on.” Three

Sheriff Monte Carson came racing through the bat-wing doors with his gun drawn, followed closely by Pearlie and Cal. Carson stopped in mid stride when he saw the two bodies, and the broken window.

Carson looked at Smoke. “What the hell? I heard all the shootin’ an’ got here quick as I could.”

“A little misunderstanding,” Smoke replied, settling into his chair. “Two’s dead and the other one’s dying. They went for their guns first.”

“You didn’t need to explain that part,” Carson said, putting his pistol away. “I’ve known you long enough to know you’d never draw on a man first. Should I send for the doctor to attend to that bald feller?”

“He’s too far gone for that,” Smoke answered, lifting his cup of cold coffee as a signal for a warm-up. “Two slugs, one through an eye and the other through his throat. He’ll be dead before Doc can get here.”

Carson looked around momentarily. “Louis told me about these three strangers, how they was askin’ about Ned Buntline an’ drinkin’ a helluva lot of whiskey an’ beer.”

“They’re done with their drinking now,” Smoke remarked with no trace of emotion, “unless you count the way that big one over yonder is drinking his own blood.”

Carson took a deep breath. “I reckon I should be used to the fact that sometimes things start happenin’ early in Big Rock now an’ then. Before the last rooster stops crowin’ at daybreak we got three dead men to bury. Maybe we oughta change the name of this town to Dead Man’s Gulch, Damn, what a mess.” He gave Louis a tight grin. “On top of bein’ the undertaker’s best friend, you’ve been mighty good for the glass windowpane business up in Denver .”

Louis nodded, taking note of the fact that Cal was standing over Otto with a waxy look paling his cheeks. “It’s a necessary expenditure in the whiskey trade, Monte. As a businessman, I have to be prepared for a certain amount of fixed overhead. Windows are a part of that figure.”

Smoke heard Cal speak softly to Pearlie. “This feller ain’t got but one eye. You can see plumb into his skullbone. I swear I’m gonna be sick. Lookee there, Pearlie… he’s still breathin’ once in awhile. Jeez. I sure as hell ain’t got no appetite now. You can have my steak an’ eggs.”

“A man dyin’ ain’t never a pretty sight,” Pearlie replied, putting his arm around Cal ’s shoulder. “Go on outside fer a spell an’ catch yer wind. You’ll feel better in a little bit.”

Cal turned and hurried past Smoke’s table without looking at him, embarrassed by the way he felt sick to his stomach, Smoke guessed. Outside the Silver Dollar, curious citizens of Big Rock peered through front windows to see what all the ruckus was about so early in the morning… some were still dressed in nightshirts and long Johns.

Louis spoke to the bartender as Sheriff Carson stepped over to the doors behind Cal, following him out to fetch the undertaker. “Tell Andre to hurry with that food,” Louis said, as though he knew Smoke and Pearlie would be hungry despite what had just happened.

A nervous-eyed waiter refilled Smoke’s coffee cup and gave a similar warm-up to Louis’s, then Pearlie’s.

“Helluva way to start the day,” Smoke said under his breath as he brought the cup to his lips.

Louis chuckled and sat down. “I’ve had worse and so have you. Sometimes it comes with the territory if a man carries a gun.”

Smoke thought of something. “I don’t intend to talk to this Buntline. If he asks, tell him I’m not in the habit of talking about old friends, or even old enemies. He’ll have to get his information someplace else.”

Louis stared thoughtfully into his cup. “I doubt if any of the old-timers up high will talk to him either, if he can find any of them in the first place. I figure Mr. Buntline wasted a trip out here. As you know well, mountain men are a different breed, for the most part. I never knew one who could be called long-winded about what goes on up there.”

Smoke recalled his introduction to mountain men and their habits. “Preacher wouldn’t talk to other folks about it. Puma could be as talkative as a clam when somebody asked him about the mountains.”

Louis glanced at him. “Preacher had a tremendous influence on you, didn’t he?”

For a moment, Smoke closed his eyes, forgetting the killings only minutes ago to think back to his upbringing. “More than anyone will ever know,” he said, “I reckon it was the little things, not just how to survive in the wilds or how to use a gun or a knife or my fists. It was the way he took things in stride that I remember most. No matter how rough things got, no matter how bad any situation turned out to be, Preacher always kept his head. I never saw him scared. He never let his anger show when somebody crossed him. He was a man of damn few words, but when he talked it was a real good idea to listen. Never heard him say things twice, or ask a man but once to do what he wanted done. I learned real early to pay close attention to everything he told me, that there was a reason behind it. Nothing ever surprised him, either, no matter how bad it was. I used to think Preacher expected everything to go wrong, I was nearly grown by the time I understood that was his way of being ready for the worst.”

Louis was studying Smoke’s face. “I hear tell no one knows if Preacher is still alive. He’d be an old man by now…”

Smoke remembered his conversation with Puma Buck, asking the same question one night before the battle with Sundance Morgan and his gang.(See "Vengeance of the Mountain Man") “I asked Puma what he thought one night. He said as long as there was beaver to be trapped up high, or grizzlies on the prowl, he didn’t figure it was time for Preacher to cross over. I think that was his way of telling me something he was sworn not to tell, that Preacher is alive up yonder somewhere. Like you say, he’d be getting on up in years by now and maybe it’s his pride that won’t let him come down to show himself after age has robbed him of a few things, maybe some of his eyesight and hearing, some aching joints or an old wound that didn’t heal. I respect him too much to go off looking for him even if he is alive in the emptiest parts of the high lonesome. Knowing Preacher like I do, I know if he wanted to see me or anybody else, he’d come looking for ’em, or send word. I’ve been thinking about it for years now, off and on. A prideful man is too proud to be humbled by old age in front of anyone else. I’ve got it figured he’s still up there, hunting and fishing, exploring the last stretches of wild country. He’s a mountain man all the way through, and his kind don’t need people to enjoy what’s around him.”