Shootout of the Mountain Man (10 page)

Clay coughed once, and blood spilled from his mouth. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell over.

“Damn, Mr. Jensen, do you get this all the time?” one of the cardplayers asked.

“Too many times,” Smoke replied. He put his gun away just as the city marshal came in.

The marshal saw the two bodies on the floor, and the others standing around looking down at them. The marshal had his gun drawn as well, but seeing nobody with a drawn weapon, he put his pistol back in his holster.

“Someone want to tell me what happened here?” he asked.

Everybody started talking at once, and the marshal, in exasperation, held up his hand.

“Hold it, hold it!” he called. “I need just one person to tell me what happened.”

Most of the people looked directly at Smoke.

“I have a feeling you’re involved in this,” the marshal said.

“If the fact that I killed them means I’m involved, then yes, I’m involved,” Smoke said.

“Why did you kill them?”

“He didn’t have no choice, Marshal,” someone said, and everyone else in the saloon agreed with him.

The marshal shook his head and again, held up his hands for quiet. “What’s your name?”

“Jensen. Kirby Jensen, though most people call me Smoke.”

A big smile spread across the marshal’s face. “Smoke Jensen?” He stuck out his hand. “Damn if I wouldn’t like to shake your hand. That is, if you don’t mind. Though, I reckon just about every one you meet wants to shake your hand.”

“It’s not the people who want to shake my hand that I have a problem with,” Smoke said. He glanced back toward the two bodies that were lying on the floor. “It’s the people who want to kill me that give me trouble.”

“Yeah,” the marshal said, nodding and looking as well at the bodies. “I see what you mean. Are you going to be here long, Mr. Jensen?”

“You running me out of town, Marshal?” Smoke asked, though the tone of his voice softened the words so that it was not a challenge.

“What? No, no,” the marshal replied. “You’re free to stay here as long as you want. I was just wonderin’ if there were likely to be any more incidents like this. I mean, fellas tryin’ to make a name for themselves.”

“I’m not staying, Marshal. I’ll be leaving on the next train. That is, unless you need me to stay for an inquest.”

“Won’t be necessary, Mr. Jensen,” the marshal said. “Unless someone in here has a different story from the one I’ve been hearing.”

There were several then who spoke up, but all were in agreement with the initial report that Smoke Jensen had acted in self-defense. There was not one word in opposition.

“I’d say that you are free to go,” the marshal said.

Believing that Smoke Jensen was the man who killed his father, Emmet Clark had dedicated himself to finding and killing Smoke. When he learned that Smoke was not guilty of the act, and that the men who actually were responsible for the murder of his father had already been taken care of by the very man he had been hunting, he felt unfulfilled. He had dedicated a significant part of his life to one objective, only to discover that it was the wrong objective. The result of having spent so much of his life pursuing a false goal left Emmett Clark with a huge sense of emptiness. So, what would he do now? He had skills with a gun—incredible skills, but what was he to do with them?

In the weeks following his confrontation with Smoke, Clark began a western drift with no specific sense of purpose or destination. One day, quite by accident, he happened upon a stagecoach robbery in progress. The driver, two women, a child, and an old man were standing on the road beside the coach with their hands in the air. A highwayman, wearing a hood over his face, was holding a gun.

Without a second thought, Clark pulled his pistol and, urging his horse into a gallop, started toward the scene. The robber, hearing the sound of the approaching horse, turned toward Clark, and seeing that Clark was bearing down upon him, fired. Clark heard the bullet whiz by him and he returned fire. One shot was all it took. The would-be robber dropped his pistol, clasped his hands across his chest, then fell.

“Is anyone hurt?” Clark shouted, leaping down from his horse as he arrived.

“Just him,” the driver said. In a gesture of derision, he spit a stream of tobacco on the robber’s prostrate form.

Clark squatted by the man he had shot, then reached down to pull off the mask. The robber’s eyes were open, but unseeing. Clark had never killed anyone before, and he didn’t know how he would feel about it. He was surprised by the fact that he felt nothing at all. It was simply something that had needed to be done and he had done it.

“Damn, boy, you know who that is?” the driver asked. Then, answering his own question, he continued. “His name is Bates. Corey Bates. I seen a poster on him in the stage office back in Concordia. Looks to me like you just earned yourself five hunnert dollars.”

“Five hundred dollars?”

“Yes, sir, five hunnert dollars. That’s the bounty on him.” The driver chuckled. “That’s near ‘bout a year’s pay for me, and you made that much in just a few seconds.”

“I never thought about him havin’ a bounty,” Clark said.

“Then if you wasn’t after the bounty, what was you doin'? I mean, you come in here with your gun blazin'. Not that I’m complainin’ or nothin',” the driver said. “I figure you come along just in the nick of time.”

“I don’t know,” Clark said. “I just happened to be riding through when I saw him holding up the stage, so I did what I thought was right.”

“Well, sir, doin’ what you thought was right just earned you five hunnert dollars. If you’ll give me a hand, we’ll throw his carcass up on top of the stage and you can turn him in to the sheriff when we get to Bonanza City. He can put through the reward for you.”

“Thanks.”

“I don’t know, the way you come ridin’ in here like you done, I guess I just figured you was one of them men who hunted down outlaws for the reward that’s been put on ‘em.”

“I never considered anything like that,” Clark said. “How does one become such a person?”

“Son, you just do it,” he said. “Course, some folks that does things like this ain’t much better than the men they are chasin', so if you get into that trade, you need to be careful lest you don’t become an outlaw yourself.”

It took two days for the sheriff of Bonanza City, Idaho, to authorize the payment of the reward money to Clark. He thanked the sheriff profusely, then, sticking the money and a handful of wanted posters down into his saddlebags, rode out of town, still heading west, but no longer in a purposeless drift. He was now riding in pursuit of his new profession, and although he did not think of it in that term, he was now a bounty hunter.

It was sometime later when Clark rode into the town of Eberhardt, Nevada, hot, thirsty, and with a mouth full of dust. Tying up in front of the Red Dog Saloon, he patted himself off as best he could, then went inside. There were at least a dozen customers, all engaged in what seemed to Clark to be simultaneous conversations.

“Beer,” he ordered, slapping a dime onto the counter. The bartender delivered the mug and started to slide a nickel back in change, but Clark waved it away. “No,” he said. “This one is for thirst. I’ll need another one to enjoy.”

Clark downed the first beer, then picked up the second and turned his back to the bar to look out over the saloon in a casual study of the men just to see if any of them fit the descriptions of any of the posters he had out in his saddlebags. It was then that he began to catch bits and pieces of the conversation.

“Mr. Fiddler said he got near six hundred dollars.”

“And he’s sure it was Dewey Gibson?”

“Yeah, he’s sure. You might remember that Gibson used to ride for one of the ranchers here about. Mr. Fiddler recognized him right away. ”

Clark had never seen Dewey Gibson, but it was a name he recognized, for his name and a likeness was on one of the reward posters he was carrying.

Clark called out to the bartender.

“What robbery are they talking about?”

“Dewey Gibson robbed Fiddler’s Mercantile this morning,” the bartender said.

“He always was a no-account,” someone said.

“Well, he ain’t a no-account no more,” one of the others said. “They’s a three-hundred-dollar reward out for him now.”

“This morning, you say?”

“About two hours ago.”

“Interesting,” Clark said. He finished his beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then walked down the street to Fiddler’s Mercantile. After talking with Fiddler for a few minutes, Clark went out in pursuit. Unlike the first outlaw, who he’d happened across by accident, Clark was purposely after Dewey Gibson.

He hadn’t tracked Gibson too far before he noticed that Gibson’s horse had broken stride badly. It was easy enough to read the sign. Gibson had been so anxious to put distance between himself and the town where he’d stolen the money that he’d ridden his horse into the ground. The four-hour lead he had on Clark was meaningless. Clark would catch up with him before nightfall.

Clark found Gibson’s horse by early afternoon. Ironically, with rest, the horse had recovered, but Gibson had been so desperate that he’d abandoned it and was now proceeding on foot. Clark took a drink of water, poured some into his hat for both horses, then began walking, following Gibson’s footprints across the hot, desert sand.

The sign was as easy to read as if it had been printed in a newspaper. Shortly after abandoning his horse, Gibson had been so frightened that he’d started running. He’d managed to run for about half a mile; then he’d walked for another couple of miles. Then the desert had begun to extract its toll from him. Gibson had started throwing things away, his spurs, his shirt, and finally an empty canteen. Clark left the shirt and spurs, but he picked up the canteen, thinking that if he found water he would refill it, giving him an extra canteen. In this heat, an extra canteen could be a lifesaver.

Soon, it became obvious that Gibson was having a hard time staying on his feet. It was clear from the sign that Gibson would fall, crawl for a few feet, then get up and lunge ahead for a few feet farther before falling again.

Then Clark saw him, a solitary figure staggering across the desert.

“Gibson!” Clark called.

Startled at hearing his name called, Gibson started to run.

Clark had been leading both horses, his and Gibson’s, and because the animals were now fairly well rested, he swung into the saddle, then started after Gibson, catching up with him within less than a minute.

“Gibson, come on,” he said. “You’re going to die in the desert unless you come back. Come on. I’ve got an extra canteen. I’ll give you a drink of water.”

“Why don’t I just take your canteen and horses?” Gibson said, his voice surprisingly strong. He pulled his gun, pointed it at Clark, and pulled the trigger.

“Gibson, no!” Clark shouted, but even as he called out, he heard the bullet buzz by his head. Clark had no choice but to draw his own pistol and shoot.

Gibson went down with a bullet hole in his forehead.

“Damn, why did you do that?” Clark asked in a puzzled voice. “You probably wouldn’t have gotten much over a year for what you did.”

With a sigh of frustration, Clark picked Gibson up, then laid him, belly-down, over his horse. Then, giving both animals another drink, he turned and started back.

The little town of Eberhardt, Nevada, lay just ahead of Emmett Clark, baking like a lizard under the sun. A heat-induced dust devil rose in front of him, then skittered across the road, causing sand to blow into his face and sting his cheeks. He was riding one horse and leading another, and he turned to check on Dewey Gibson, who was belly-down on the horse behind him.

He allowed himself to drink the final few swallows of one of the canteens, and even though the water was warm, it eased the thirst. Besides, he knew that now he was but a few minutes from a cool beer.

Dewey Gibson was only the second prisoner Clark had brought in since embarking upon his new career as a bounty hunter. He had killed the stagecoach robber, Corey Bates, during the actual stage holdup. It had not been his intention to kill Gibson, but Gibson had given him no choice. Gibson had fired first, and Clark had been forced to return fire to defend himself.

Clark hooked his canteen back onto the saddle pommel, then looked around at the little town he was entering. Nearly all the buildings were built from wide, unpainted, and weathered rip-sawed boards. Having collected the day’s heat, the town was now giving it back in shimmering waves that were so thick they distorted the view.

There was no railroad coming into Eberhardt, but there was a stagecoach station with a schedule board announcing the arrival and departure of four stagecoaches per week. He had known many towns like this: isolated, inbred, and stagnant.

Clark rode down the street taking inventory of the town’s commerce: a livery, a hardware store, a blacksmith shop, and a general store. The proprietor of the general store, wearing a white apron, was out front, sweeping the porch, the stiff straw broom making loud scratching noises. The scratching stopped as the grocer paused in his sweeping long enough to look at Clark, and to pay particular attention to the body Clark had draped over the horse behind him.

Clark located the hotel, a restaurant, and of more particular interest to him, the saloon. By now, others had come out to watch him, drawn by their morbid interest in the body on the horse behind him. At the far end of the single street, Clark saw the jail and marshal’s office.

Riding up to the hitching rail in front of the jail, Clark dismounted, and patted his shirt and pants a few times. The action sent up puffs of white dust, which hovered around him like a cloud. He cut a quick glance up and down the street, aware now that he was the center of intense interest. A few buildings away he saw a door being closed, while across the street, a window shade was drawn. A sign creaked in the wind, and flies buzzed loudly around the piles of horse manure that lay in the street.

Clark didn’t have to open the door of the jail; it was opened for him. Someone wearing a badge—whether the marshal or one of his deputies Clark didn’t know—stepped out onto the porch. The lawman was overweight and his shirt pulled at the buttons, gapping open in the middle. He stuck his hand inside his shirt and began to scratch.