Shootout of the Mountain Man (28 page)

Cutler blew the ink dry on the single-sided, single-sheet extra edition newspaper, then smiled. He had been in the newspaper business for over twenty years, and this would be the biggest story of his life.

“Sheriff, have you seen this?” Deputy Beard asked, stepping into the sheriff’s office, carrying an edition of the extra Cutler had put out.

“No, what is it?”

Though the expression on Beard’s face was one of great concern, he said nothing as he handed the paper over.

“I never read the newspaper,” Wallace said, waving it away. “It’s just a waste of time. If anything happens, people start talking about it anyway.”

“You better read this one,” Beard said. “And this ain’t somethin’ we want anyone talkin’ about.”

“All right, hand it here,” Wallace said with an impatient sigh. He began to read, at first with bored indifference, though that quickly changed to anger and concern.

“What?” he called out in clear agitation over what he was reading. Putting the paper down, he jerked open the middle drawer of his desk. “Where’s that letter?” he asked loudly.

“According the article, Cutler took it,” Beard said.

“Why, that son of a bitch!”

“I told you, you should of got rid of that letter,” Beard said.

Wallace pulled his pistol and spun the cylinder, checking the loads. “I think I need to pay Mr. Cutler a visit,” he said.

“Huh-uh, I don’t think you want to do that,” Beard said.

“What do you mean?”

“Take a look down the street toward the newspaper office. There must be twenty or thirty men gathered there. They are talking about forming a citizens’ committee to put you under arrest.”

“Me? Don’t you mean us?”

“Yeah,” Beard agreed. “I mean us.”

“Damn,” Wallace said.

“What are we going to do, Sheriff?”

“I don’t know what you are going to do, but I am going to find Dodd, get my share of the money, then get out of here,” Wallace said. “I’ll go to Arizona, or California, or some such place.”

“I’m comin’ with you,” Beard said.

“Better get Jackson, he’s as deep in this as we are. And until we get out of here, the more of us there are, the better it will be.”

Smoke Jensen and Bobby Lee Cabot, unaware of the newspaper article that could clear Bobby Lee, had been on the trail now for just over a week. Needing to replenish their supplies, they stopped in the town of Lunning in front of Groves General Store, then tied their horses off at the hitching rail, then stepped up onto the porch. That was when Bobby Lee saw the poster.

“Smoke, take a look at this,” he said, pointing to the wanted dodger that was nailed to a post.

WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE

Bobby Lee Cabot

Buck West

5000
Dollar Reward

“It has been a long time since there was last a reward out for Buck West,” Smoke said.

“At least they don’t have pictures or descriptions, and they don’t have you connected to it,” Bobby Lee said.

“Not yet anyway,” Smoke replied.

When they stepped into the store, it was redolent with the familiar smells of cured ham and bacon, dried jerky, flour, spices, apples, onions, and tobacco. Smoke bought jerky, bacon, dried beans, flour, and tobacco.

“Hope nobody finds you,” the small, middle-aged, balding man said as he piled all the purchases up on the counter.

“Beg your pardon?” Bobby Lee said.

The grocer chuckled. “Boys, you don’t have to be coy with me. I been in this business a long time. I can tell by what you’re buying, what you’re up to. You’ve found a promising strike somewhere and you want to work it alone until it’s developed. Like I say, I hope nobody finds you. ”

“Oh, uh, you’re right. You startled me, I didn’t think it was that obvious,” Bobby Lee said.

“You can’t fool an old man like me,” the grocer said. “I hope you have an authentic strike, but I have to warn you, I spent twenty years poking around up there in the Toquima Range, where I found a lot of places that looked promising, but I never found anything that paid out. That’s why I give it up and come down here to run this store. Started out by just working here, but saved my money and bought it from the man that owned it first.”

“Sounds like a smart thing to do,” Smoke said as he paid for the purchases and began putting them into a cloth bag. “You would be Mr. Groves, would you? ”

“No, sir, my name is Wagner. I kept the name Groves ‘cause that’s the name of the fella who owned the store first, and that’s how folks remember it.” Wagner smiled. “Plus which, I wound up marryin’ Mr. Groves’ daughter and keeping the same name of the store helps keep peace in the family.”

“I notice you have three saloons in town,” Smoke said. “Which one is the most popular?”

“The New York Saloon is the best,” the grocer replied. “And it’s always filled with people.”

“What about the other two? The Lucky Chance and the Lost Mine?” Smoke asked.

“The Lucky Chance isn’t bad,” he said. “But the Lost Mine?” He shook his head. “I ain’t never been in it, but from what I hear, there don’t nobody but the dregs of the county ever go in there. They say it ain’t nowhere near as nice as the New York.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Smoke said, gathering up his sack of groceries. Once outside, he tied the sack to the saddle horn, then untied the horse and swung into the saddle.

“What do you say we get us a beer?”

“Sounds good to me. The New York?” Bobby Lee replied.

“Not yet.”

“Not yet?”

“You check out the Last Chance, have a beer, keep your ears open and see what you hear. I’ll do the same thing at the Lost Mine. We’ll meet in the New York in about an hour and compare notes.”

“All right,” Bobby Lee agreed.

The Lost Mine was at the far end of the street from Groves General Store. It was right across the street from the New York Saloon, and whereas the New York Saloon had a fresh coat of paint and a bright new sign, the Lost Mine was weathered and the sign was so dim, it could scarcely be read.

There was no piano in the Lost Mine, and there were only two working women. Dissipation pulled at both of them, and one had a purple flash of scar that started above her left eye, slashed down across her cheek, then hooked back toward her mouth. Upon seeing Smoke step into the saloon, the two women smiled and looked toward him. Smoke acknowledged their smile with a polite nod of his head, but as he approached the bar, he turned his body so that he presented his back to them, by way of letting them know that he had no interest in female companionship.

“What will it be?” the bartender asked. The bartender was wearing an apron that looked, and smelled, as if it hadn’t been washed in months.

“Beer,” Smoke said.

The bartender grabbed a mug from the bar. There was still an inch of beer at the bottom of the mug, and without pouring it out, he held the mug under the spigot of the beer barrel and started to pull the handle.

“A clean glass,” Smoke said.

The bartender shrugged his shoulders and set the mug aside, then took an empty one from under the bar.

“A bit choosy, ain’t you?” the bartender asked as he drew the beer.

“Let’s just say that I want to drink my own beer,” Smoke said, putting a nickel down as the beer was delivered.

“Prospectin', are you?” the bartender asked.

“I might be.”

“All right, I understand,” the bartender said, taking a step back from the bar, then lifting his hands, palm out. “Folks come here, absolutely certain they’re goin’ to get rich, they find ‘em a spot they think nobody else has ever seen, then they want to keep it secret.”

“You mean my spot isn’t secret?” Smoke asked.

The bartender grunted what might have been a laugh. “Ha. More than likely there’s been a dozen prospectors done busted their backs tryin’ to prove out the very spot you’re on now.”

“Yes, well, I’ll just keep it secret if you don’t mind,” Smoke said, responding to the bartender’s reasoning.

The bartender drifted away and Smoke nursed his beer, listening in to a dozen different conversations to see if he could pick up a clue as to where to find Frank Dodd.

Fifteen miles southwest of Lunning, in the small town of Marrietta, Emmett Clark was having his lunch in the Silver Palace Café. Dodd and Conklin were over at the Hog’s Head Saloon. Since joining Dodd, Clark had been involved in four more robberies—two additional stagecoaches, one freight office, and a grocery store. The shotgun guard riding on the second stage had tried to defend the coach against the robbers and Clark had shot and killed him.

In Clark’s mind, his descent into hell was complete. No longer did he try to maintain the fiction of being “drawn onto the outlaw trail by events beyond his control.” He now considered himself to be a man without conscience or honor, and he was not in the least disturbed by that.

Clark had just finished his supper when a newspaper boy came in peddling his papers. Summoning the boy over, Clark bought a paper.

“Gee, thanks, mister,” the boy said when Clark gave him a dime and told him to keep the change.

Drinking a second cup of coffee, Clark began perusing the newspaper.

Clark wondered what it would be like to be a monarch for forty-two years. Maybe not as good as it sounded.

The next article also caught his attention.

Clark had never seen a telephone, but he had heard of it. He knew that a telephone was something like a telegraph, only you could actually speak through the wires, though he had no idea how that would work.

He was about to lay the paper aside when he saw an article that began with the headline “Record Money Shipment.” He read the article with a great deal of interest.

Folding the paper over, Clark left his meal half-eaten and hurried over to the saloon. Conklin was sitting alone at a table in the back, eating cracklings and drinking beer.

“Where’s Dodd?” Clark asked.

“He took a whore upstairs,” Conklin said, though as his mouth was full, he mumbled his words.

“What room?”

“How the hell do I know what room? It could be any of ‘em. Far as I know, ever’ room up there is a whore’s room.”

“He needs to see this,” Clark said, holding up the paper.

“What is it?”

“Like I said, it’s something Dodd needs to see.” Clark started toward the stairs.

“I wouldn’t go up there if I was you,” Conklin called out to him. “I’ve known Dodd a long time. He don’t like bein’ bothered none when he is with the whores.”

“He’ll like this,” Clark called back.

Clark went up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. Not knowing which room Dodd was in, he began knocking on all of them. “Dodd,” he called, banging on one door after another. “Dodd, get out here!”

“Go away, I’m busy,” a muffled voice called from inside one of the rooms.

“Dodd, open the door,” Clark called again, moving to the room where he heard the voice. “You aren’t going to want to miss this.”

A few seconds later, Dodd, wearing only his trousers, and with a disgruntled expression on his face, jerked open the door. Behind him, sitting up in bed but with the sheet down so that one of her breasts was fully exposed, a saloon doxy waited for him.

“You better have a good reason for this,” Dodd said.

“How about one hundred thousand reasons?” Clark replied, showing him the newspaper.

* * *

Less than one hour after Clark showed the newspaper article to Frank Dodd, Herman Wallace, Harley Beard, and Loomis Jackson rode into Marrietta.

“What makes you think Dodd will be here?” Beard asked.

“He told me he would be,” Wallace said. “He always kept me posted as to where he would be. How else do you think I got the information to him?”

“What’s he goin’ to think now that you don’t have no information to give him?”

“I don’t care what he thinks,” Wallace said. “The son of a bitch owes me money, and we’re going to need money to get out of here.”

“Where do we look first?” Jackson asked.

“Where do you think?” Wallace replied as he turned his horse toward the Hog’s Head Saloon.

Having heard nothing of particular interest while spending time in the Lost Mine Saloon, Smoke moved from the Lost Mine to the New York Saloon. The New York Saloon was considerably larger than the Lost Mine, and much more crowded. It took Smoke a few seconds to locate Bobby Lee, who was sitting alone at a table in the middle of the crowded room.

Smoke nodded at him, then walked over to the bar. The bartender was wearing a clean white apron and a clean shirt, the sleeves of which were held up by garters. He had slicked-back coal-black hair, and a waxed handlebar mustache.

“Beer,” Smoke ordered, and he smiled as he saw the bartender, very meticulously, select a new, clean mug, then hold it under the spigot. The bartender was careful to build a head, but not spill any of the beer. The difference between the New York and the Lost Mine could not be more strikingly manifested than in observing the procedures of the two bartenders.

With his beer in hand, Smoke crossed over to join Bobby Lee at his table.

“Anything?” Smoke asked.

“Nothing. How about you?”

“I didn’t hear anything usable either,” Smoke said, just before he took a swallow of his beer.

There were three men at the nearest table, and something one of them said caught Smoke’s attention.