Shootout of the Mountain Man (14 page)

Angry and unfulfilled, he stopped at the Chinese saloon for a glass of
huangjiu,
and was even more irritated when he saw Emerson playing the Chinese gambling game
of fan t’an.
The fact that Emerson not only understood the game, but was good at it, annoyed Wallace, who had never quite caught the hang of it.

“What are you doing here, Emerson?” Wallace asked.

Startled at the unexpected sound of the sheriff’s voice, Emerson jumped, knocking the pieces off the board. The
t’an kun,
or operator of the game, called out in angry Chinese.

“Ha!” Wallace said. “You pissed off the Chinaman.”

“No, Sheriff, you did,” Emerson said.

The game operator said something else in Chinese, and Emerson replied in the same language.

“You can speak that gibberish?” Wallace said, surprised to hear Emerson and the Chinese man in conversation.

“Yes, and it isn’t gibberish. It is an ancient and honorable language.”

The Chinese man put his hands together and made a slight bow toward Emerson, who returned the salute.

At that moment, another Chinese man showed up, and he began shouting angrily at Wallace.

“What the hell is he jabbering about?” the sheriff asked.

“He says you broke the jaw of the young lady you were with,” Emerson said.

“Young lady, hell. She’s no lady. She’s a whore.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to beat her,” Emerson said.

“Who the hell are you to tell me what rights I have and don’t have?” Wallace replied.

“It’s just common decency.”

“Tell you what, Emerson. Why don’t I just throw you in jail again?”

“For what? I haven’t done anything. I’m not even drunk.”

“You’re gamblin', aren’t you?”

“So what?”

“You can’t gamble in this town unless you are gamblin’ at a place that has a license. Woo doesn’t have a license. None of the Chinamen do.”

“Neither does the Gold Strike Saloon have a gambling license, but folks play poker there.”

“That’s different. Poker is a private game. The saloon doesn’t have anything to do with it. The Chinaman runs this game.”

Emerson stood up and shook his head. “You just won’t leave me alone, will you?” he asked. “All right, I’ll go back to the ranch.”

“No, not the ranch,” Wallace said. “I told you, you are going to jail.”

“I don’t think I want to do that,” Emerson said.

It was mid-afternoon by the time the train reached Cloverdale. Cloverdale was at the end of the line for the Nevada Central Railroad, and at the far end of the depot there was a roundhouse that would be used to turn the engine around for its return trip. Smoke Jensen stepped down from the train, then walked up to the attached stock car as his saddle and rifle were off-loaded and his horse led down the car ramp.

“Is this your horse, mister?” the stationmaster asked.

“Yes. I’m Kirby Jensen.”

Smoke used his real name because it drew less attention than the sobriquet by which he was more widely known.

“You going to take him now, or do you want to put him up?”

“I would like to put him up for a while, if you can recommend a place.”

The stationmaster smiled. “Yes, sir, I certainly can recommend a place. We have a livery here at the depot if you’d like to leave him here.”

“My saddle and my rifle?”

“We can take care of those too.”

“Good,” Smoke said. He took out two dollars and gave it to the stationmaster. “I’ll be back before this runs out.”

Smoke’s conversation with the stationmaster was interrupted by a loud yell coming from the other side of the train, which was still sitting at the station.

“There he goes, Sheriff!” a man’s voice sounded. The shout was followed by the sound of gunshots, and Smoke instinctively drew his pistol, then moved quickly to the rear of the train to see what was going on.

A figure suddenly appeared on the railroad track, having run up the slight grade on the other side. He was a small man, dressed as a cowboy and with a bushy, walrus-type mustache. The young cowboy looked back into the direction from which he had come, and Smoke saw terror in his eyes.

A shot came from the other side of the track, and the cowboy fell, sliding on his back headfirst down the railroad embankment on the near side. Smoke ran over to him and saw bubbles of blood coming from his mouth. He was trying hard to breathe, and Smoke could hear a sucking sound in his chest. He knew then that at least one bullet had penetrated his lungs.

“Oh, damn,” the cowboy said. “Oh, damn, I’ve been kilt, haven’t I?”

Smoke looked up to see two men, both wearing badges, standing on the tracks at the top of the embankment. One of the men was holding a smoking gun in his hand. Putting the pistol in his holster, he came down from the tracks to look at the man he had just shot.

“What about it, Sheriff Wallace? Is he dead?” the other badge-wearing man called from the top of the tracks.

Even as the question was asked, the cowboy drew his last, gasping breath.

“Yeah,” the sheriff replied. “He’s dead.” The sheriff glanced over at Smoke. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I just got off the train,” Smoke replied.

“I didn’t ask how you got here. I asked who you were, and I expect an answer.”

The train whistle blew then and with a rush of steam, a squeak of brakes being released, and a rattling of couplings, it started toward the roundhouse.

“The name is Kirby,” Smoke said. As his name was Kirby Jensen, he wasn’t lying, but he did give the sheriff a name by which few knew him, doing so because he thought that, for the time being, it might be best to stay in the shadows.

“Did you know him?” Sheriff Wallace asked, nodding toward the dead man. “Reason I asked, I’m not going to have to deal with you trying to get revenge for him or anything, am I?”

“I’ve never seen the man before,” Smoke said.

“Well, you’re lucky,” the sheriff said. “His name is Andy Emerson. He rides—that is he rode,” Wallace corrected, “for Milt Poindexter. The son of a bitch has been nothing but trouble for the last year. I’ve had him in jail more often than not.”

“Why did you shoot him?”

“Because he ran when I ordered him to stop,” Sheriff Wallace said.

“He isn’t armed.”

“He ran,” Wallace repeated, as if that was all the explanation he needed.

“What difference does it make if he ran? It’s not like he was going to get away from you, is it? You know his name, you know where he works.”

“Mister, you are that close to interfering with the law,” Wallace said, obviously irritated by Smoke’s comments.

By now, a crowd began to gather around Emerson’s body, as many of the people who had been at the depot were drawn to the scene by the excitement. Smoke, not wanting to be a part of the circus, drifted away.

As Smoke walked back to the depot, he saw a paper boy standing at the edge of the platform, selling newspapers.

“Get your
News Leaf here!”
the boy was shouting. “Paper, paper,
Clover dale News Leaf here!”
The boy looked up at Smoke. “Is Mr. Emerson dead?” the paper boy asked.

“Yes.”

“I’d better get back to the newspaper office and tell Mr. Cutler. He’ll be a’ wantin’ to write a story about it, I reckon.” Then, reverting to his entrepreneurial spirit, he turned his attention to Smoke, a potential customer. “You just get into town?”

“Yes.”

“Then I expect you’ll be wantin’ a copy of the
News Leaf.
It’ll give you all the news of the town, and it’ll also tell you all about the hangin'.”

“The hanging?”

“Yes, sir, come Friday, there’s goin’ to be a hangin’ right here in town. Why, if you was to walk down the street a bit, you’ll see the gallows. It’s goin’ to be some thin’ to see, I’ll bet.”

“Are you going to watch it?” Smoke asked.

The smile left the boy’s face. “No, sir,” he said. “I reckon Mr. Cabot done what they said he done. I mean, he was caught red-handed by them folks that was on the train and all. But he was always just real nice to me. Bought a paper from me ever’ week. And once he give me a quarter tip for no reason at all. I think watchin’ a hangin’ might be excitin’ and all that, but I ain’t in no particular mind to see Mr. Cabot hang.”

“I’ll take a paper,” Smoke said.

“Yes, sir. That’ll be five cents.”

“Five cents? Most papers cost only two cents.”

“Yes, sir, folks keep tellin’ Mr. Cutler that, but he says that as long as he’s the only newspaper in town, he figures he can charge whatever folks will pay for it.”

Smoke chuckled as he handed the boy a nickel. “I guess he has a point,” he said.

The boy handed him the paper, which consisted of a single sheet that was printed on both sides. As promised, the lead story concerned Bobby Lee Cabot.

After reading the story Smoke perused the advertisements finding one for a hotel.

D
EPOT
H
OTEL

Fremont Street, Cloverdale, Nevada

W
ILLIAM
R. C
HAMBERLAIN

Proprietor

Folding the paper up and sticking it in his pocket, Smoke left the depot, stepping out onto Fremont Street. Seeing the gallows at the far end of the street, Smoke decided to walk down for a closer inspection.

“You here for the hangin'?” someone asked as he passed one of the business establishments.

Looking toward the sound of the voice, Smoke saw an old, white-haired man sitting on a chair that was tipped back against the front of the apothecary. The man was whittling on a stick.

“Maybe,” Smoke said.

“It’s goin’ to be quite a show,” the white-haired man said. He turned his head and expertly spit a stream of tobacco over the boardwalk and into the dirt between the two buildings. “It’s a shame they’re hangin’ the wrong fella, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Hell, it was Frank Dodd that done the actual shootin'. They was two or three folks that was on the train that night that seen ever’thing. This here fella they’re about to hang wasn’t doin’ nothin’ but sort of standin’ back. But the judge said that don’t matter. He was there so that makes him as guilty as Dodd.”

“Do you know the man they are going to hang?” Smoke asked.

“I seen him around a few times,” the white-haired man replied. “Always seemed like a decent sort to me. Don’t seem to me like he would be the kind to get hisself mixed up with someone like Dodd. Course, you never can tell about some folks. What you see in ‘em ain’t always what they really are.”

“I have to agree with you,” Smoke said.

“He tried to say in his trial that he wasn’t really ridin’ with Dodd, that he was hooked up with him only so he could set a trap for him for the law.”

“Do you believe that?” Smoke asked.

The old man spit again. “Don’t reckon it makes no never mind what I believe,” he said. “I wasn’t on the jury, and the jury didn’t believe none of it.”

“I’d be interested in whether or not you believed him,” Smoke said.

“Why? What difference does it make to you?”

“No difference. I was just curious, is all.”

“Well, I know what it’s like to be curious, so I’ll tell you.” The old man pulled out a pouch of tobacco and stuck a handful in his mouth. He chewed it a bit to get it to where he wanted it before he spoke again. “I believe him.”

“Why?”

“If for no other reason, it’s because I don’t believe the sheriff,” the old man said. “If you ask me, the sheriff is about as crooked as they come. And seein’ as Cabot said he was s’posed to be workin’ with the sheriff, and the sheriff is sayin’ something directly opposite, why, in my book, there ain’t no question as to which one of ‘em I believe.”

As Smoke continued down toward the gallows, he thought of the old man’s condemnation of the sheriff. That mirrored the doubt that Sheriff Jacobs had expressed about Sheriff Wallace. And, of course, Smoke’s own interaction with Wallace tended to support that idea. From what Smoke could determine about the killing of the young cowboy, it would seem that the sheriff had little justification to shoot.

When Smoke reached the gallows, he saw several people standing around, their attention drawn not only to the gallows, but to a huge, crudely painted sign. The sign had not been nailed to the gallows, but was on the ground leaning up against the platform.