Heart of the Mountain Man (8 page)

“If you gents are through eatin', why don't you get your asses away from my table and let me an' my friends sit down?”

Pearlie glanced up at him through the smoke from the butt in the corner of his mouth, a mannerism he'd copied from his idol, Joey Wells. “Take it easy, pardner,” he drawled, making no move to get up. “We'll leave when we're good and ready, an' not a minute sooner.”

“You gonna let a pup like that sass you, Billy?” the man behind him said with a chuckle.

Billy backed away from the table and squared off, letting his hand dangle near the butt of his pistol. “Hell, no, I'm not,” he growled. “Now, you young'uns can either get up of your own accord, or I'm gonna have to make you.”

The three men with Billy spread out next to him, grim expressions on their faces.

“Hold on there, Billy Baxter!” Aunt Bea called from the kitchen door. She was holding a long-barreled Greener shotgun cradled in her arms. “I don't want no trouble in my place, you hear me, you hooligan?”

Before Billy could answer, Pearlie got to his feet. “Don't you worry none, Aunt Bea,” he said, his eyes never leaving Baxter. “This
cabron
sounds like all talk to me, an' even if he does have the guts to go for that smoke wagon on his hip, he won't even clear leather 'fore I put his lights out.”

Cal got to his feet and unhooked the leather hammer-thong on his Colt. “Four to two, Pearlie. Looks even enough for me,” he whispered in a gravelly voice, his eyes on the men behind Baxter.

Louis, concerned about the turn of events, cut his eyes over to Smoke, who was sitting smiling and watching. Smoke winked at Louis, indicating he shouldn't worry.

Nevertheless, Louis leaned back and straightened out his right leg, resting his hand next to his pistol just in case.

Baxter's eyes shifted from Pearlie to Cal, seeing no back-up in either man. Sweat popped out on his forehead, though the room was cool. He licked suddenly dry lips, unsure of what his next move should be. The man next to him moved over a little, evidently trying to get out of the line of fire.

Suddenly, Baxter's hand grabbed for his gun butt. Before he could get his pistol halfway out of his holster, Pearlie had drawn and slammed the barrel of his Colt on top of Baxter's head, poleaxing him and dropping him to the floor. Only a shade slower, both Cal's pistols were out with hammers cocked and pointed at the remaining men, who were standing there with mouths open and eyes wide.

“Jesus God Awmighty,” one of them croaked, holding his hands out away from his pistols, “that boy's faster'n a snake.”

Pearlie slowly turned to the other men. “You gents better drag your friend outta here, 'fore he bleeds all over Aunt Bea's floor.”

Aunt Bea rushed over to stare down at Baxter. She looked up. “Damn right! Drag his sorry ass outta here and don't none of you bother to try an' eat here again, you hear me?”

Pearlie picked up his hat and gave a slight bow to Aunt Bea. “Sorry for the trouble, ma'am. I hope I didn't make too much of a mess.”

She smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “A little blood on the floor is better'n hair on the wall, sonny. It's not the first an' it won't be the last blood spilt in this town neither.”

“Any chance of us gettin' a room for the night, ma'am?” Cal asked, holstering his pistol as Baxter's friends picked him up and carried him from the room.

“Sure, boys. Be a welcome change to have guests who don't shoot off their guns first chance they git. Come on over to the front and I'll give you a key.”

10

Later that afternoon, after Smoke and Louis had also gotten rooms at Aunt Bea's Boardinghouse, the four men met in Smoke's room.

Louis looked at Pearlie. “Pearlie, you just about gave me a heart seizure when you braced that cowboy and his friends.”

Pearlie grinned. “Oh, I wasn't worried, Louis. After all, Cal and me had you and Smoke to back our play.”

Smoke chuckled. “Obviously, you didn't need us, Pearlie. You boys handled it just right. By now, everyone in town has heard about your little set-to with Baxter.”

Cal frowned. “You don't think they'll be laying for us when we leave, do you, Smoke?”

Smoke shook his head. “I doubt it. Things like that must go on every day here in Jackson Hole. By tomorrow, it'll be old news.”

Louis grinned. “Except I'll wager no one attempts to rush you from your table before you're ready again.”

“Cal,” Smoke said, “I'd like you and Pearlie to head on over to Schultz's General Store this afternoon and let it be known that you're looking for Muskrat Calhoon. Bear Tooth said that's where he usually gets his supplies for the winter and I need to know if he's still in town or has already headed up into the high lonesome.”

“Yes, sir,” Cal said.

“Louis and I will visit a few of the saloons and gambling houses to see what we can find out about Big Jim Slaughter. We'll see if we can get a handle on just how many men he has up at the hole-in-the-wall with him.”

“Anything else you want us to do?” Pearlie asked.

“Yeah. Start buying up ammunition and gunpowder and dynamite while you're there. Not too much at one time, and try to spread out your purchases among several different places. We don't want anyone to think we're going to war.”

* * *

Just after supper, Louis joined a table of men playing poker at a place called The Dog Hole Saloon and Gaming Room. He slipped his coat off and played wearing only his vest, with his sleeves rolled up. He'd found that when he won large sums of money, as he usually did, it eased competitors' minds to see that he had nothing up his sleeves. Of course, he had no need to cheat. Possessed of a remarkable memory and intelligence and a deep knowledge of the odds of drawing certain hands, he rarely lost, especially when playing cowboys who were usually both drunk and stupid.

After a couple of hours, one of the men at the table threw down his hand in disgust. “Boys, that about finishes me for the night. I'm busted.”

“Perhaps you can get an advance from your boss and rejoin us later,” Louis said as he raked in yet another pot.

The cowboy shook his head. “What boss? I ain't exactly workin' at the present time.”

“Oh?” Louis said. He flipped a twenty-dollar gold piece across the table. “Then take this,” he said. “I make it a practice never to take a man's food money from him.”

The man picked up the gold piece. “Thanks, mister.”

“Perhaps you could seek employment with Jim Slaughter.”

When the table got quiet, Louis looked around innocently. “Didn't I hear someone saying a gentleman named Slaughter was hiring men?”

The other men at the table seemed to relax slightly, as if the mention of Slaughter's name was risky, even in a town as hard as Jackson Hole.

“Just where'd you hear that, mister?” a man in a fur-lined deerskin coat across the table asked.

Louis shrugged. “Oh, I don't know. I believe a couple of gentlemen were discussing it at a roulette table earlier in the evening.”

The man next to Louis leaned over and whispered, “It ain't exactly healthy to go around talkin' 'bout Slaughter's business hereabouts, Mr. Longmont. Word is he don't take kindly to anybody bein' too nosy 'bout his affairs, if you get my drift.”

Louis smiled and put his finger to his lips. “Oh, of course. Then mum's the word regarding this Mr. Slaughter, whoever he might be.”

“Besides,” another man at the table, who was drunk, said, “I heard he's got all the men he needs. Must have over thirty men up there at . . .”

“Shut your mouth, Kyle!” the man in the deerskin coat shouted. “You talk too much an' you're liable to have somebody cut your tongue out for you.”

Kyle looked at the man through bleary, bloodshot eyes. “Go to hell, Davis. Just 'cause you work for Big Jim don't give you the right to tell ever'body else in town what they can say.”

“Ante up, gentlemen,” Louis called, throwing a coin into the middle of the table to change the subject. “I believe it's my deal.”

Davis looked pointedly at the stack of money in front of Louis. “And as for you, Mr. Fancy Tinhorn Gambler, make sure you deal off the top of the deck this time. I'm gettin' awfully tired of you winnin' all the pots.”

Louis stared at Davis and put the cards down, pushing his chair back from the table. “Then perhaps you should make an effort to learn how to play poker, Mr. Davis, if you're tired of losing. Drawing to an inside straight like you did the last hand is a fool's play.”

Davis jumped up from his seat. “A fool, am I?” he shouted, bringing a sudden hush to the room.

Louis looked at him without a trace of fear on his face. “You are either a fool or you are stupid, Mr. Davis. And I wouldn't care to wager which it is.”

“Why you . . .” Davis shouted, and went for his gun.

Louis drew without standing up. His Colt exploded, spewing smoke and hot lead across the table before Davis could cock his pistol. The slug took him in the right shoulder, spinning him around and throwing him facedown on the floor.

Louis spun his Colt on his finger and deposited it in his holster without showing the slightest trace of emotion. “As I said, I believe it is my deal,” he remarked to the men at the table.

“Uh . . . yes, sir, Mr. Longmont. I believe it is,” said the man on his left.

As Louis dealt the cards, Davis groaned and writhed on the floor. “Perhaps someone should send for a doctor, before poor Mr. Davis bleeds to death,” Louis said, as if it really didn't matter to him whether they did or didn't.

* * *

Smoke was standing at the bar in the Cattleman's Saloon. He was sipping a glass of whiskey and chasing it with beer, drinking slowly so as not to let the liquor cloud his judgment.

He'd spoken with several men, inquiring whether anyone in the area was hiring men who knew how to use a gun. The answer was always the same. The town was full of such men and, since there were no range wars going on at present, no one was actively hiring.

Evidently, word of his inquiries spread, and before long a tall man, broad through the shoulders, with a weathered face and tired eyes, stepped up next to him at the bar. The man wore a Colt low on his hip and a tin star on his vest.

He ordered a beer and after the barman brought it, leaned his elbow on the bar and looked at Smoke.

“Howdy, stranger. I don't believe I caught your name,” he drawled in a nonchalant manner.

Smoke lit the cigarette he'd built and let smoke trail from his nostrils as he answered, “I don't believe I threw it.”

The man chuckled. “A gunfighter with a sense of humor. That's a new one around here. My name's Pike. Walter Pike, but everyone around here just calls me Sheriff,” Pike said, raising his eyebrows in silent interrogation of Smoke.

“Howdy, Sheriff Pike. I'm Johnny West,” Smoke said, giving a name he'd once used while on the run years before.

“West, huh? Well, Johnny West, I don't recollect any wanted posters on you at my office, but I'll be sure and check again, first chance I get.”

Smoke gave Pike a questioning look. “Sheriff, I understood this town was . . . rather open and understanding of men with a reputation. Are you telling me that's not the case?”

Pike took a deep swig of his beer, sleeving the suds off his mustache with the back of his arm. “No, you heard right, Mr. West. I don't ordinarily hassle men about what they did or didn't do 'fore they entered my town. I figure it's live and let live as long as they don't do anything to cause a ruckus here. However, I do like to let newcomers know that if they bust a cap in my town, they're gonna have me to answer to.”

Smoke turned to look at the sheriff. “Are you that good?”

Pike grinned. “Oh, I'll be the first to admit I'm not the fastest gun in town, but I DO maintain an edge.” He inclined his head at the door to the saloon.

Smoke turned and looked. Two men were standing just inside the batwings, both cradling short-barreled shotguns in their arms. Their eyes were fixed on Smoke and their fingers were on the triggers with hammers eared back.

Smoke grinned. “I see what you mean, Sheriff. A sensible precaution in a place known as Robber's Roost filled with more gunfighters than Dodge City at its prime.”

Doubt showed in Pike's eyes for the first time since he spoke to Smoke. “You sure don't talk like your average gun slick, Mr. West. Just what are you doing here in Jackson Hole?”

Smoke shrugged. “Just a man passing through, Sheriff. Looking to pick up some spare change in the only way I know, by hiring my services out if anybody's interested.”

Pike nodded. “Uh-huh. Well, there's nothing illegal about that, so far as it goes, Mr. West.” He tipped his hat. “I just thought I'd amble on over and explain the rules of the town to you. You take it easy now, you hear?”

Smoke was about to reply when a man ran into the saloon. “Sheriff, Sheriff Pike. A gambler named Longmont just put some lead in Jack Davis over at the Dog Hole.”

Pike loosened his Colt in its holster and smiled at Smoke. “See, Mr. West? Now I've got to go and make sure this Longmont was sufficiently provoked to justify shooting someone in my town.”

“And if he wasn't?” Smoke asked.

“Then he'll either leave town of his own accord, or he'll stay forever in boot hill.” Pike pulled his hat down tight over his forehead and walked out the batwings, his deputies close behind.

Smoke hesitated. He was tempted to follow and find out what had happened with Louis, but he didn't want to tip his hand by showing too much interest. Besides, he figured, Louis was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He turned back to his whiskey and took a sip, wondering what Cal and Pearlie were doing.

* * *

Cal and Pearlie walked into Schultz's General Store and Emporium and were surprised to find a large, well-stocked establishment.

“Jimminy, Pearlie,” Cal said, his eyes wide as he stared around at the wealth of supplies in the store. “This place is bigger'n anything we got in Big Rock.”

Pearlie nodded. “Yep, it sure is. I guess it's because this is the only place for hundreds of miles fer folks to buy supplies an' such to git through the winter.”

The store was divided into several different parts. On one side was a wall covered with shelves stocked with all manner of foodstuffs—barrels of flour and beans and coffee, row upon row of tinned milk, meat, and fruits, and even cases stuffed with sides of beef and bacon and all manner of fowls.

Another section contained various and sundry mining and trapping equipment from shovels and picks to traps and axes and skinning knives.

The other side of the room was lined with rifles, pistols, cases of ammunition of all calibers alongside small wooden kegs of gunpowder, and cases containing sticks of dynamite and fuses.

A large man wearing an apron over a white shirt, with his sleeves rolled up, approached them with a grin. He was barrel-chested, with a large stomach, dirty blond hair, and ice-blue eyes over a handlebar mustache whose ends hung below ample jowls.

“Howdy, gents. What can I get for you?” he said in a thick German accent. “If I don't got it, they don't make it,” he added with a grin.

Pearlie nodded at the section with ammunition and gunpowder. “We came to stock up on some cartridges and blastin' powder, an' maybe a few sticks of that dynamite,” he said.

“You came to the right place,” Schultz said. “I can fit you out with anything from musket balls to the latest rimfire cartridges from Colt or Smith and Wesson.”

As the proprietor helped them load up what they needed, Cal cleared his throat. “By the way, Mr. Schultz, we heard tell an old friend of ours sometimes stopped by here 'fore headin' up into the mountains. His name is Muskrat Calhoon.”

Schultz chuckled. “Well, as you can tell from the absence of any stink, ole' Muskrat hasn't been in yet today, but I expect him 'fore too long. He'll likely be here in the next day or two if he wants to get through the mountain passes 'fore they get all snowed in.”

Pearlie hefted the crate of ammunition onto his shoulder and handed Schultz a stack of bills. “Would you tell him a couple of old friends of his and Bear Tooth are in town? We're stayin' over at Aunt Bea's Boardin'house for the next couple of days.”

“Gonna partake of a little night life 'fore you head on out, huh?”

Cal blushed and grinned as he picked up the kegs of gunpowder and crate of dynamite. “Yes, sir, we shore are.”

“Well, if ole' Muskrat happens by, an' he ain't too drunk to listen, I'll tell him to look you up.”

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Schultz,” Pearlie said, and led Cal out the door.

On the way back to the boardinghouse, Pearlie said, “Jeez, Cal, I sure hope we find that old mountain man, or we ain't gonna have a prayer of gettin' to Miss Carson without those
bandidos
knowin' we're comin'.”

Cal nodded. “Well, Mr. Schultz said he ain't been by yet, so there's still hope.”