William Johnstone - Butchery of the Mountain Man

“I’ll be ridin’ on then,” Matt said.

“Matt, you know where the money is,” Smoke said. “If you start running short of the possibles—flour, coffee, sugar, beans, bacon, that sort of thing—well, just ride on down to Schemerhorn’s Trading Post and pick up what you need there. You might go there once a month or so anyway, ’cause if I decide to send you a letter, I’ll send it to you care of Schemerhorn.”

“All right,” Matt said. “Smoke, is it all right if I practice drawing and shooting my pistol while you’re gone?”

“Yeah, you’ve come far enough, I don’t reckon you’ll be shootin’ yourself,” Smoke said. “You might need to buy some more cartridges while you’re getting your possibles.”

“All right,” Matt said. “I reckon I’ll see you early next summer.”

“Take care,” Smoke said to the boy as he rode off.

“You sure he’ll be all right alone?” John asked. “He seems awfully young.”

“Don’t let the boy’s age fool you,” Smoke said. “He’s already a better man than three-fourths of the men I know.”

They watched Matt until he was out of sight, then Preacher spoke.

“You’ll be needin’ a pack mule, John,” he said. “And to get one of them you’re goin’ to have to go some way from here, maybe a hunnert miles or more. That’ll be a town called Big Rock. It’s sort of a new town, just growin’ up, but me ’n Smoke has been there three, maybe four times, already, an’ they’s some pretty good folks there, don’t you think, Smoke?”

“So far, the few times we’ve been there, the folks we’ve run across have been friendly,” Smoke said.

“They got ’em a new sheriff there,” Preacher said. “Fella by the name of Monte Carson. Folks say he’s honest, and I figure if a town has an honest sheriff, then it’s more ’n likely an honest town.”

“Any proper town has to have a saloon,” John said. “It’s been a month of Sundays since I had a beer, and I would be more than willing to dip into my meager resources to remedy that situation.”

“They got a saloon there,” Preacher said. “It’s a good one too, and it’s run by a man that ain’t always tryin’ to cheat you. Besides, it’s been a while since either one of us been in town. Might be good . . . I’d like to have a beer my ownself, ’n maybe a meal I didn’t have to kill, or cook.”

CHAPTER NINE

Old Main Building

“I know that you ultimately settled near Big Rock,” Professor Armbruster said. “Sugarloaf Ranch is only a few miles away, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my ranch is just under five miles from Big Rock.”

“But the time of your story is, I believe you said, 1869?”

“Yes.”

“Big Rock was still quite new then, wasn’t it? I believe it was founded in 1860.”

“Yes, Big Rock is proud of its position in Colorado history,” Smoke said. He continued with his story and, as before, Professor Armbruster was able to lose himself in the narrative, so that he was actually there as an eyewitness to the events Smoke was describing.

Big Rock

The star on the man’s vest was still new because he had only been the sheriff for a short time. Before he moved to Big Rock to become their sheriff, Monte Carson had ridden the outlaw trail. It was mostly down in Texas, and most of the money he stole was from the carpetbaggers and reconstructionists who were taxing the ranchers and farmers to the point that more and more were having to sell out.

He was good with a gun too, and had demonstrated that skill many times, though almost always with someone who was also on the outlaw trail. The only exceptions had been when he killed Marcus Shardeen, a bounty hunter who was looking to take a dead Carson in for the reward, and Lou Bona, who, six months later, tried to do the same thing.

Carson looked again at the telegram he had received just this morning.

DREW CULPEPPER AND MARTIN DINGLE BELIEVED TO BE HEADED FOR BIG ROCK STOP BOTH MEN WANTED FOR MURDER STOP

Carson knew Culpepper; he had had a run-in with him two months earlier. Then it had been for getting drunk and throwing a rock through the front window of Murchison’s Leather Goods store, a dispute over a pair of saddlebags. Carson had forced Culpepper to pay for the damages, and Culpepper, before he left town, had uttered some threat about “getting even.” Carson didn’t know Martin Dingle, and had never even heard of him.

Laying the telegram aside, the sheriff walked over to the stove and, using a rag to protect against the heat, picked up the blue-steel pot to pour himself a cup of coffee. He drank it black, simply because it was easier that way, and holding the cup in his hand, he walked over to look through the front window, out onto Front Street. He blew into the coffee to cool it a bit before taking his first swallow.

Big Rock was a bustling town, primarily because of the gold mines in the area. When Smoke, Preacher, and Jackson rode into town they were treated to the sight of new buildings being erected, and the air was rent with the sounds of saws and hammers. There was a sawmill on the outer edge of town, and the ear-splitting screech of its steam-powered circular saw could be heard all over town. There were freight wagons moving up and down the streets, and the boardwalks on each side of the street filled with people conducting commerce.

“Coach comin’ in! Coach comin’ in!” someone shouted, and looking around Smoke saw a team of six horses coming into town at a gallop. The stagecoach behind the team was rocking left and right as it was pulled at a rapid pace north, up Tanner Street.

“Surely he didn’t run that team like that out on the road?” John asked.

Preacher chuckled. “No, they just like to make a point of arrivin’ and leavin’ at a gallop,” he said. “It calls attention to ’em, and makes some people think that maybe the whole trip is fast like that.”

They passed the Delmonico Café. “Now, that’s where we’ll eat after we have us a few beers,” Preacher said. “Ain’t no finer café in all of Colorado. ’Course, I ain’t et in ever’ café in Colorado.”

The three men stopped in front of Longmont’s Saloon. Preacher and Smoke dismounted, but John remained in his saddle.

“I appreciate what you men are doing,” John said. “And while I can buy my own beer, I’m not so sure I should be wasting money by eating in a restaurant. Especially if I’m going to have to buy a pack mule.”

“Don’t you be worryin’ none about that,” Preacher said. “When we take a feller in, he becomes our pardner. We ain’t goin’ to let you go thirsty, or hungry, or without a mule.”

“We’ll be buying all that we need,” Smoke said. “And you won’t be beholden to anyone. This is just the way we are out here.”

“I shall be in your debt then, and I fully intend to discharge that debt at my earliest opportunity,” John insisted.

“I have no doubt but that you will,” Smoke replied with a friendly smile. He held his hand up in invitation. “Now come on in before the beer goes stale.”

What only Preacher and Smoke knew was that Smoke’s father, Emmett, lay buried in a place called Brown’s Hole, up in the northwest corner of Colorado, near the Idaho line. And buried right beside him was several thousand dollars in gold. Though he didn’t show it in the way he lived, because he was always moving around, and staying in the mountains mostly, and avoiding towns and civilization, Smoke was a very wealthy man.

They tied up their animals in front of the saloon. A sign on the front of the saloon featured a beer mug containing a golden brew with a white foamy head. Beneath the sign were the words: COLD BEER HERE.