William Johnstone: Triumph of the Mountain Man

Shem Turnbull and George Cash lounged in front of the Bucket O’ Suds saloon, two doors down from the bank. As noon neared, the street began to clear of people. Most of the shops closed over the dinner hour. Carefully they eyed passersby. Many of the men were armed. Those who were going home would be no trouble. Already a line had formed outside the eatery on the corner, and those would have to be closely watched. Shem turned to George.

“We shoulda brought another gun. Three fellers is not enough to carry this off.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Shem. They won’t be expectin’ anything, and their minds will be on their dinners. Ace can handle it real good.”

“Not without a little help from you,” Ace Banning declared as he walked up to his friends. “Shem, I want you inside with me. There’s two armed guards. We’ve got only a minute, so let’s move.”

* * *

Smoke Jensen downed the last of his second schooner of beer, pushed back his chair, and dug in his pocket for a cartwheel dollar. “I’ll walk over to the office with you, but then I have to head right back. I’ve got three mares who are due to foal at any time.”

“You never opened that letter from Alvarado,” Monte complained good-naturedly.

“That’s right. I’ll have to read it when I get home.” Then reading his friend’s expression, he added, “I’ll let you know what Don Diego wrote about.”

They had reached the tall, double doors with the painted glass inserts when the sound of a gunshot came from the direction of the bank. A woman’s scream followed. Smoke turned that way at once, to be stopped when Monte laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll take care of this, Smoke. No need for you to stick your neck out.”

Smoke cut his eyes to his friend and growled, “Even if I want to?”

Monte shook his head. “Not this time.”

He set off for the bank. Monte made it halfway down the block before the outside man saw him coming and fired his six-gun from the lawman’s blind side. The bullet struck Monte in the chest. Deflected as it punched through a rib, the slug cut a path through his lung from front to rear and buried itself in the thick muscle of his back. Shock took Monte off his boots. At once, Smoke started for him.

“Watch it, there’s one over there somewhere.” A pink froth formed on Monte’s lips, and his voice came out far weaker than he expected.

Smoke reached his friend, his .45 Colt in hand, and glanced in the direction Monte pointed before the sheriff lost consciousness. Smoke saw his man instantly. A cruel grimace distorted the outlaw’s mouth as he raised his revolver for another shot at the lawman. Smoke fired first. His round pinwheeled the man, punched through his sternum and tore apart his aorta. Charged up on adrenaline and action, he bled to death before he hit the boardwalk.

Kneeling, Smoke examined his fallen friend. Monte’s face had grown pale, with a tinge of green around his lips, his breathing shallow and rapid. Smoke could hear a faint gurgle. If that bastard’s killed him . . . he thought in a flash of anger. The thought came to him then. The first shot had been muffled; it had to have come from inside the bank. At once, he started that way.

* * *

It began going wrong the moment they entered the bank with bandannas tied over their faces. The employees and customers of the bank had no doubt what the masked men intended. Shem Turnbull headed for the teller cages, and Ace Banning shoved through the low swinging gate in the wall that divided the lobby from the working area. At once, the tellers raised their hands. Shem gestured with his gun barrel.

“That’s right, keep ’em up until I tell you otherwise. You, get a money bag and start filling it,” he told the nearest teller.

Ace concentrated on the portly, balding man in a glassed-in cubicle. “Step out here and come over to the vault. We want all the hard money and all the greenbacks you can load in those sacks.”

Rosemont Faulkner knew better than to make vain protests about the robbers not getting away with it. He left his desk and hastened across the floor to the door of the vault. There, instead of stooping to load the bank’s precious capital into a canvas money sack, he swiftly grabbed the heavy door and gave it a hefty swing. It clanged shut, and he spun the dead bolt wheel. Defiantly he put hands on his hips and spoke with relish.

“That’s a time lock. It won’t open again until eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

That’s when Ace Banning, already strained beyond control by the presence of two armed guards who were presently out of his sight, lost it.

“You bastard!” he screamed as the hammer fell on a cartridge, and Ace shot the bank president through the heart. A woman behind him began to scream. He spun on one boot heel and strode to the tellers.

“All right, Shem, grab everything they have and let’s get out of here.”

Two minutes went by with the outlaws holding bags in one hand and tellers stuffing them. Then a loud report came from outside. Ace nodded to the door. “That’s George, let’s go.”

Quickly they reached the door, and Shem Turnbull flung it open. They stepped out into the presence of an angry Smoke Jensen.

* * *

“Hold it right there,” Smoke growled.

Two men stood before him, crowded into the open double doors of the bank. Each held three bulging canvas bags. They also gripped identical Smith and Wesson .44 Americans. Smoke followed his command with sizzling lead. Ace Banning dropped flat as the Colt in Jensen’s hand bucked. The slug slammed into the pane of the bank door, and it shattered; shards flew inward to the chorus of screams from the three women inside. Ace fired wildly as the musical tinkle of glass sounded behind him.

His slug flew between Smoke’s outspread legs. Already the last mountain man had moved his point of aim and triggered a shot that took Shem Turnbull in the thick meat of his side. He clapped a hand against it and discharged his Smith and Wesson. The .44 bullet cracked past Smoke’s left ear and struck the bannister post of the balcony across the street. Smoke moved then, as Ace fired again. His third shot struck the prone Ace Banning in his shoulder, snapped the collarbone, and bored down into his lung.

At once, Ace began to gag and fight for air. His hand went slack on the revolver, and it dropped from his fingers. Smoke Jensen changed position again and fired a safety shot. Due to the small target, it gouged the back of Ace Banning. He cried out as the slug plowed along his spine and entered his right buttock. Beside him, Shem fired again.

A hot crease burned along the outer point of Smoke’s left shoulder. Twisting with the impact, Smoke lined up on the bank robber and fired again. His bullet ripped into Shem’s middle and punched a hole in his liver. As massive shock stole over him, he sagged back against the wall and released his hold on the money bags and six-gun. Slowly, he slid down to a sitting position. Peacemaker leading the way, Smoke Jensen walked up to them and kicked the gun away from Ace, then Shem. Years of experience told him that both would die within an hour. One of the bank guards came to the door.

“Go get Doc Simpson,” Smoke commanded the astonished man.

Ace groaned and looked up at Smoke. “Th-thank you, mister. Ah—who—who are you?”

Smoke kept it cold. “I didn’t send for the doctor to treat you. You’ll be dead before an hour’s gone by. And, I’m known as Smoke Jensen.”

Greater misery washed over the pale face of Ace Banning. “We—ah—we didn’t think you were still alive. And a lawman at that.”

His last sentence did not make much sense to Smoke, so he ignored it and replied to the first. “Your mistake.”

* * *

Dr. Hiram Simpson entered the outer treatment room of his office wiping his hands on a towel. “Let’s take a look at you, Mr. Jensen.”