William Johnstone - Butchery of the Mountain Man

“A deserter?”

“Yes, the enlistment period for serving in the legion was five years. John served less than one year. When he returned to Paris to accept the Légion d’Honneur he was given a two-week leave. During that leave, he boarded a ship at Le Havre, bound for Southampton, England, and from there, took a ship back to the United States.”

“All this you are telling me about John Jackson, the difficulty he was having in adjusting from the war, and his time with the Foreign Legion, was before you met him, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.”

“I’m curious, Smoke. You say you had very little history of your own at the time, but hadn’t you already located, and, uh, dealt with, the men who killed your father and brother?”

“Yes.” Smoke’s answer was nonspecific.

“I’ve read about that. The man’s name was Casey, wasn’t it?”

“It was. Ted Casey.”

“You found him,” Professor Armbruster said. It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of fact.”

“Oh, yes, I found him, all right.”

“Since your story is so inextricably related to John’s story, I wonder if you would share with me, for the purposes of my research, just what happened when you found Casey. I think that, for future historians, having the story in your own words would be invaluable.”

“All right,” Smoke said. “It started with Prosperity.”

“Prosperity? You mean when you became a wealthy man?” Professor Armbruster asked.

Smoke laughed. “No, I’m not talking about prosperity with regard to wealth. I’m talking about a town that was named Prosperity. On the banks of the Cuchara River, it was a ranching and farming community, with a rather grandiose sign posted just outside the town limits with the proud boast:

COME WATCH US GROW

WITH PROGRESS

AND PROSPERITY

IN Colorado

[ The town of Prosperity no longer exists. It was one of many such towns in the emerging western United States of the nineteenth century. Some grew and died within a matter of a few months, towns that boomed with gold fever, then went bust when the gold played out . . . or more often, when the promise of gold never bore fruit.

Prosperity was not a gold town, but rather a town that had been born on the promise of a railroad. At its peak, Prosperity had a population of 1,325. It lasted for three years, then when it became obvious that there would be no railroad, it disappeared quickly. The 1890 census listed its population as 25. By 1900 it was listed only as a “populated place” and by 1910, even that mention was gone.—ED. ]

Prosperity, Colorado

The city marshal, having seen Smoke approaching from some distance away, met him just outside of town.

“Welcome to Prosperity, stranger,” the marshal said. “The name is Crowell, Marshal Crowell.” He put his hand to his badge, even though Smoke had already seen it.

“Marshal,” Smoke said, touching the brim of his hat.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Marshal Crowell said.

“Folks call me Smoke.”

“Smoke?” The Marshal chuckled, more in dismissal than in humor. “That’s it? Smoke? Smoke what?”

“I’ve been spending some time in the mountains,” Smoke said. “One name is all anybody needs up there.”

“Well, Smoke, if you’re just makin’ a friendly visit to my town, then you’re welcome,” Crowell said. “But if you’re comin’ here for any other reason, well, I’m goin’ to have to ask you to just keep ridin’.”

“I’m looking for a man named Casey,” Smoke said. “Ted Casey.”

“What do you want with him?”

“That’s my business.”

“I’m the law here’bouts,” Crowell said. “I reckon that makes it my business.”

“Is that a fact?”

“You know what, mister, I don’t much like your attitude,” Crowell said. “Why don’t I just . . . ?”

That was as far as Crowell got. He was reaching for his gun, but stopped in mid-draw and mid-sentence when he saw the pistol in Smoke’s hand.

“What the hell?” Crowell gasped. “I didn’t even see you draw!”

“Like I said, where is Casey?” Smoke asked. He neither raised his voice, nor made it more menacing. Ironically, that made his question all the more frightening.

Crowell hesitated for a few seconds. “His ranch is southeast of here, on the flats. You’ll cross a little creek before you see the house. I ought to warn you, though, he’s got several men workin’ for him, and they’re all good with a gun. Maybe not as fast as you, but there’s only one of you.”

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

“Of course we do. Why would you ask?”

“I’m about to give him some business,” Smoke said.

Ten miles out of town, Smoke encountered two rough-looking riders.

“You’re on private land,” one of the men said. “Turn your horse around and git.”

“You’re not being very hospitable,” Smoke said.

“Don’t intend to be. Strangers ain’t welcome here.”

“I’m looking for Ted Casey.”

“You deef or somethin’? I told you to git.”

“I’m looking for Ted Casey,” Smoke repeated.

“What do you want with Casey?”

“Just to renew an old friendship from the war,” Smoke said.

“From the war?” one of the men said with a laugh. “Boy, you’re still wet behind the ears. You ain’t old enough to have been in the war.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t very clear. I’m actually looking him up for my pa.”

“What was your pa’s name?”

“Jensen,” Smoke said. “Emmett Jensen.”

“Jensen?”

“Yeah. You remember him, don’t you?” Smoke said. His words were calm and cold.

“Kill ’im!” one of the riders shouted, and both grabbed for their guns.

They were too slow; Smoke had his pistol in his hand and he fired twice, the shots coming so close together that there was no separation between them.

The two riders were dumped from their saddles, one dead, the other dying. The dying rider pulled himself up on one elbow. Blood poured through his chest wound, pink and frothy, indicating that the ball had passed through a lung.

“Figured when we killed your pa that would be the end of it,” he said. He forced a laugh, and blood spattered from his lips. “You’re good, a hell of a lot better ’n your brother. Casey shot him low and in the back. It took him a long time to die too. I enjoyed watchin’ him. He was a coward, squealed like a pig and cried like a little girl.”

Smoke made no reply.

“So was your pa a coward.”

Smoke was quiet.

“What’s the matter with you?” the rider asked. “You just goin’ to let me talk about your folks like that? You’re yellow.”

Smoke turned his horse and rode around the two men, following the road in the same direction from which the two riders had come.

“Shoot me!” the rider shouted. “You yellow-bellied coward, don’t leave me here to die like this! Shoot me!”

Smoke continued to ride away. Thirty seconds later he heard a gunshot, the sound muffled by the fact that the shooter had put the barrel in his own mouth.

Smoke didn’t bother to look around.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Stopping in a copse of trees a short distance from the ranch house, Smoke studied it for a moment or two. The house was built of logs and had a sod roof. If it came to it, it would burn easily.

“Casey!” Smoke called. “Casey, come out!”

“Who’s callin’?” a voice shouted from within the house.

“Jensen.”

“Jensen? I thought we killed you.”

“That was my pa. And my brother,” Smoke said.

“What do you want?”

“I’m here to settle up.”