Violence of the Mountain Man. William W. Johnstone
he is? Or what he looks like?” Tucker asked.
“No, I don’t,” Rawlins said.
“Do you know who it is, Clay?”
“No,” Clay answered, shaking his head.
“Uh-huh, and neither do I. But the thing is, he does know who we are. And not only that, I’d bet a dollar to a dime that he knows exactly what each one of us looks like.”
“So what does that have to do with it?” Rawlins asked.
“Well, suppose we took the money and didn’t give him his share. He could come right up to one of us—shoot us if he wanted to—and we wouldn’t even know to be worried because we wouldn’t know who he was,” Tucker explained.
“Yeah,” Rawlins said. “I see what you mean. I guess you have got a point at that. Anyway, like I said, I’m all for it. Clay, it’s up to you.”
“No, it ain’t up to him,” Tucker said. “At this point, I figure on doin’ it with or without him.”
“I’m in,” Clay said.
Chapter Five
Sugarloaf Ranch
Not one for riding in a buckboard, Smoke let Sally drive the rig while he rode next to it. As he rode down the trail toward town, Smoke glanced down at Sally, recalling the way the moon had made her silk nightgown glimmer like molten silver the other night. When it suited her to do so, Sally wore men’s pants, and she was doing so this morning, but it did not detract one bit from her femininity. This morning she was carrying a silver-plated .32 revolver. She wasn’t a fast-draw artist, but she was smooth with the revolver, and she always hit where she aimed.
Smoke was actually leaving for Frisco this morning in order to meet with Byron Davencourt so he could make arrangements for selling his cattle. It would have been a lot quicker to go by train, and he did intend to return by train, but he intended to go on horseback all the way from Big Rock to Frisco in order to scout the best route for driving the cattle. Sally chose this morning to come into town as well, not only to prolong her good-bye to Smoke, but also so she could do some shopping. They rode together into Big Rock, laughing and talking as they did so. Despite the length of time they had been married, they still enjoyed each other’s company, and this morning was no exception.
When they reached Big Rock and rode down Main Street, they saw Sheriff Monte Carson standing on the boardwalk in front of his office, drinking a cup of coffee.
As Smoke and Sally rode past the sheriff’s office, the sheriff raised his cup in a salute. “Good mornin’, Smoke, Sally. Where are you two headed?” Carson called.
“Meet me at Longmont’s and I’ll tell you all about it,” Smoke called back.
Carson nodded and then he pitched his coffee onto the dirt. Smoke and Monte Carson had become very good friends over the past few years. Carson had once been a well-known gunfighter, though he had never ridden the owlhoot trail.
Smoke was responsible for the fact that Carson was the sheriff of Big Rock. It had all come about when an ambitious and totally unscrupulous rancher named Tilden Franklin made plans to take over the county. He hired Carson to be the sheriff of Fontana, a town just down the road from Smoke’s Sugarloaf spread. When Carson learned that the man’s plans were to have a sheriff who would wink at his lawlessness, he put his foot down and informed Franklin that Fontana was going to be run in a law-abiding manner from then on.
Franklin, with the intention of showing Carson who was the real boss of Fontana, sent a bunch of his riders into town to teach the upstart sheriff a lesson. The men seriously wounded him and killed Carson’s two deputies, taking over the town. In retaliation, Smoke founded the town of Big Rock, and he, Sheriff Carson, and a band of aging gunfighters returned to Fontana to clean house and make things right.
When the fracas was over, Smoke offered the job of sheriff of Big Rock to Monte Carson. Carson accepted the offer, and wound up marrying a grass widow and settling into the sheriff’s job as if he had been born to it. Neither Smoke nor the citizens of Big Rock ever had cause to regret the fact that Carson had taken the job.
Now, aging somewhat, heavyset, and growing a bit of a paunch thanks both to his wife’s excellent cooking and his aversion to any real physical labor, Carson still had the qualities that made a good sheriff. He was quick and deadly accurate with a handgun, and he was honest. If you obeyed the law and didn’t cause any trouble in his town, you would have no trouble with him. Cross the law, and a significant number of young gunnies learned that age and weight had not lessoned the sheriff’s effectiveness.
“Smoke, you go on down to Longmont’s. I’ll join you in a little while,” Sally said. “I need to stop in to Lucy’s Dress Emporium for a few minutes.”
“You are buying another dress, with as many dresses as you have in the armoire?” Smoke asked. Before Sally could answer, Smoke held up his hand as if waving her off. “Don’t get me wrong, I think you are beautiful in any dress you choose to wear.” He chuckled. “Heck, you are beautiful even when you aren’t wearing anything at all,” he added.
Sally smiled. “If you are trying to make me blush right here in front of everybody, it isn’t going to work.”
Smoke laughed again. “Sally, I gave up trying to make you blush a long time ago. It’s just that you don’t choose to wear dresses all that often. I mean, look at what you are wearing right now. I’m just wondering why you would even want another dress, is all.”
“For your information, Mister Jensen, it just so happens that the dress I am buying this morning will not be for me,” Sally said. “It just so happens that Maria’s birthday is coming up this week, and this dress is for her.”
“Oh, yes, Maria’s birthday,” Smoke replied. “I had forgotten about that. Yes, if this is for Maria, be my guest.”
“Thank you, Mister Jensen, for your permission. Not that I needed it,” she added, though her smile and the twinkle in her eyes softened her words.
After Sally stopped in front Lucy’s Dress Emporium, Smoke rode on down to Longmont’s, dismounted, then went inside. As was his custom upon entering any saloon, he stepped immediately to the side and pressed his back up against the wall. He stood there a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the lower light inside while he looked for possible trouble among the patrons. Even though he knew he was almost as safe in his friend’s restaurant as he was in his own house, he’d been hunted and tracked for more than half his life, and the habit of caution was so ingrained in him that when he was cautious, he didn’t even notice it.
The owner of the saloon and restaurant, Louis Longmont, was sitting at his usual table in a corner. He smiled as he watched his friend go through his regular ritual. Louis was a lean, hawk-faced man, with strong, slender hands, long fingers, and carefully manicured nails. He had jet-black hair and a black pencil-thin mustache. He was dressed in a black suit, with white shirt and a crimson ascot. He wore low-heeled boots, and a pistol that hung in tied-down leather on his right side. The pistol was nickel-plated, with ivory handles, but it wasn’t just for show, for Louis was snake-quick and a feared, deadly gunhand when pushed.
Although Louis was engaged in a profession that did not have a very good reputation, he was not an evil man. He had never hired his gun out for money. And while he could make a deck of cards do almost anything, he had never cheated at poker. He didn’t have to cheat. He was possessed of a phenomenal memory, could tell you the odds of filling any type of poker hand, and was an expert at the technique of card counting.
Louis was just past thirty. When he was a small boy, Louis left Louisiana and came West with his parents. His parents had died in a shantytown fire, leaving the boy to cope as best he could.
Louis had coped quite well, plying his innate intelligence and willingness to take a chance into a fortune. He owned a large ranch up in Wyoming Territory, several businesses in San Francisco, and a hefty chunk of a railroad.
Though