Wrath Of The Mountain Man

Book 32: Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

Shoot A Mountain Man In The Back… On the frontier, a man’s word is his bond, and only fast guns and good friends can save your life. So when Smoke Jensen trusts his gravely injured comrade to the care of a small town doctor, the last thing he expects is an act of betrayal—and a call for revenge… And Get Ready To Look Him In The Eye. Somewhere in his past, Smoke crossed paths with a lowlife who has now built a little kingdom as a frontier sheriff. For the corrupt lawman, holding Smoke's friend hostage is the perfect way to lure Smoke into a deathtrap. Now there’s no choice for the mountain man. He knows how many guns are waiting up ahead. But he won't ever leave a brother behind. And this time, there won't be an enemy left standing—or a bullet left in Smoke's gun… Over 10 Million Johnstone Books In Print!

Release date: July 25, 2017

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 453

Sample

Smoke Jensen and his friends, Cal, Pearlie, and Louis Longmont, turned their horses’ heads south and rode out of the town of Noyes, Minnesota. They rode slumped in their saddles, dog-tired after the months they’d spent in Canada working for William Cornelius Van Horne.

Cal, still excited about the adventures they’d had and the unforgettable scenery of the northern Rocky Mountains, jabbered on and on about how he wished he’d been born in the days of the mountain men.

Louis and Smoke just looked at each other and smiled, for they knew those days hadn’t been nearly as romantic as they’d sounded in the stories Cal had heard around the campfire from Bear Tooth and Red Bingham and Bobcat Bill.

Of course, they weren’t about to tell the young’un that and ruin his ideas about the “good old days.”

They rode on for about two miles, until they came to the railroad station that was their goal.

As they reined in their mounts in front of the stationmaster’s office, Louis stretched and observed, “That was very nice of Bill Van Horne to arrange for us to ride all the way back to Big Rock on the train instead of on horseback.”

“Yeah, it’ll sure save some wear an’ tear on my backside,” Pearlie agreed as he stepped down out of his stirrups. “The way I feel now, if’n I never see another saddle as long as I live it’ll be all right with me,” he added, rubbing his butt with both hands.

Smoke laughed. “Not only that, but Bill said we could ride in James Hill’s own private car on our trip south.”

“Hill?” Cal asked. “Ain’t he the man Bill said bought up all the railroads in this part of the country?”

Smoke nodded. “That’s right, Cal. Hill owns just about every inch of railroad track between here and home.”

“Jiminy, then his own private car ought’a be somethin’ to see.”

“I would imagine it will be rather lavish,” Louis said as he got down off his horse.

“I don’t know what lavish means,” Pearlie said, “but I hope it means it’s stocked right well with food, ’cause I’m hungry enough to eat a bear.”

“Well, now, that’s a surprise,” Cal said sarcastically to his friend. “From the way you was talkin’, I figured you’d be too tired to eat an’ you’d just go right to sleep once we got to the train.”

Pearlie looked at the young man as if he’d uttered a blasphemy. “What? Go to sleep without eating? What kind of man would do that?”

After Smoke spoke to the stationmaster, and their horses and gear were stowed in the cattle car, the man showed them into James Hill’s private car. As they entered, he told them to just pull the bell rope next to the door if they needed anything and a steward would take care of it.

Just before he left, he stopped in the door and looked around the car, shaking his head. “You boys must be powerful friends of Mr. Hill’s,” he said, “’cause this is the first time I’ve ever seen him loan his car out to anyone.” He paused and grinned. “Hell, when the President came out here last year on a tour, Mr. Hill gave him another car. Said this one was too good for politicians to use.”

“Thanks for all your help,” Smoke said, smiling and shutting the door behind the man.

As the stationmaster stepped down out of the car, a man moved out of the shadows next to the station building and stood there staring at the train.

When the stationmaster approached him, the man ducked his head and put a lucifer to the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He looked up, tipping smoke from his nostrils, and gave the stationmaster a lopsided grin. “Howdy,” he said in a friendly tone of voice.

“Hello,” the stationmaster answered. “If you’re here to buy a ticket on this train, you need to see the man in the ticket booth inside the building.”

“Thanks,” the stranger answered. “I might just do that.” He turned toward the building, hesitated, and then he looked back over his shoulder at the stationmaster.

“Uh, by the way, was that man I just saw getting on the train named Smoke Jensen?”

The stationmaster nodded absentmindedly, already thinking about the dozens of things he had to see to before the train could leave the station.

The stranger cut his eyes back at the train before he went into the station to buy a ticket. His eyes were filled with hate.

When he got to the ticket booth, he pulled a wad of cash from his vest pocket and placed it on the counter.

“Can I help you, sir?” the ticket man asked.

“Yeah. Can you tell me how far Smoke Jensen and his friends are going?”

The ticket salesman looked down at an open book in front of him and pursed his lips for a moment. “I believe they’re ticketed all the way through to Big Rock, Colorado,” he said, glancing back up at the man standing in front of his window.

“Then give me a ticket to the same place,” the man said, pushing his money under the gated window.

“Yes, sir.”

“And I need to know if I have time to send a wire before the train leaves.”

The ticket man pulled a watch from his vest pocket and shook his head as he looked at it. “No, sir, I don’t believe you do.”

“Damn,” he muttered.

“But I’d be happy to send one for you after the train leaves if you wish.”

When the man nodded, looking relieved, the ticket man pushed a piece of paper and a pencil under the window gate. “Just write out who you want me to send it to and what you want to say and I’ll get it on over to the telegraph office just as soon as the train leaves the station.”

“Uh,” the man stammered, his face burning scarlet. “I can’t write too good.”

The ticket man pulled the paper back and smiled. “Then just tell me what you want to say in your message and I’ll write it for you.”

“It’s to Angus MacDougal in Pueblo, Colorado.” The man thought for a moment and then he said, “Just say our friend is headed for home . . . should be there in ten days.”

“Will there be anything else, sir?” the ticket man asked as he folded up the paper.

The man grinned through thin lips. “No, I think that ought’a ’bout do it.”

After Smoke closed the door and turned around, he saw Louis pouring himself a glass of brandy into a bell-shaped crystal goblet from Hill’s private bar in the corner. Louis swirled the amber liquid for a moment, and then he sniffed delicately of the aroma. His face relaxed and he smiled, as if he had died and gone to heaven.

Cal had taken his boots off and was lying back on the overstuffed sofa, poking the cushions with his hands, feeling how soft they were.

Pearlie was over in the opposite corner and he had his hands on the bell rope, about to pull it.

Smoke cleared his throat loudly. “Pearlie, what are you doing?”

Pearlie glanced over at him, his face blushing slightly and looking embarrassed. “Uh . . . I’m just ringing this here bell to see if the man who answers it can get us some food ’fore I faint from hunger.”

Smoke shook his head, pointing to the corner of the car where a coffeepot was steaming on a fat-bellied stove. “Why don’t you have a cup of coffee to fill your gut until the train leaves the station? Then we can see about getting some grub.”

“Coffee?” Pearlie asked, as if he’d been offered something horrible to eat.

Louis looked up from where he stood at the bar. “And Pearlie, there’s a bowl of sugar and a pitcher of cream here on the bar to sweeten it up with.”

Pearlie grinned halfheartedly and moved toward the potbellied stove. “Well, now,” he said amiably. “I guess now that you mention it, that coffee will do for a start.”

“Coffee does sound good,” Cal said, getting up from his perch on the couch. “But Louis, you’d better dole that sugar out to Pearlie a little at a time if’n you want any left for the rest of us to use,” he added as he followed Pearlie toward the stove.

“You sayin’ I’m a sugar hog, boy?” Pearlie asked, poking Cal in the shoulder with his fist.

“No, not exactly,” Cal answered, rubbing his shoulder and frowning. “It’s just that sometimes you like to put a little coffee in your sugar.”

Two hours later, the men had finished their meal and were sitting around a table in Hill’s private car getting a poker lesson from Louis. Luckily for Cal and Pearlie, they were playing for pennies instead of dollars, because Louis and Smoke were each winning just about every hand.

Just as Louis was leaning over to rake in another pot, the train suddenly slowed, its steel wheels screeching as the engineer applied the brakes with full force.

“What the . . .” Louis began to say when the chips and cards all started to slide across the table from the sudden slowing of the train. Cal moved his head to the side toward the nearby window and called out, “Looky there!” and pointed off to the side of the train.

A group of men could be seen suddenly appearing from a copse of trees near the track, all riding bent down low over their saddle horns, guns in their hands and bandanna masks over their faces.

“Well, I’ll be hanged,” Smoke said, his lips curling into a slight grin of anticipation. “It looks like the train is going to be robbed.”

Louis unconsciously reached up and patted the wallet in his coat breast pocket, thick with the money William Cornelius Van Horne had paid them for helping with the surveying for his Canadian Pacific Railroad the past six months. “I’ll be damned if any two-bit train robbers are going to take any of my money!” he exclaimed.

Smoke pulled a Colt pistol from his holster and flicked open the cylinder, checking to see that it was fully loaded. “No one’s gonna take any money from any of us, Louis,” he promised, the grin slowly fading from his face.

“I’ll get our rifles from our gear in the next car,” Pearlie said, referring to the sleeping car next door where they’d stored their valises and saddlebags.

“Bring some extra ammunition too,” Smoke said, glancing out of the window. “It looks like there’re fifteen or twenty riders out there we’re gonna have to contend with.”

He ducked down out of sight, motioning the others to do the same, as the train slowed and the group of riders drew abreast of the car they were in.

A gunshot rang out and the window next to Smoke’s head shattered, sending slivers of glass cascading down onto his back and causing a tiny, solitary drop of blood to appear on his neck. He reached up and wiped it with his finger. “First blood to them,” he said in a low, dangerous voice.

The train continued its rapid deceleration—probably because the robbers had dynamited or obstructed the tracks in some manner, Smoke thought as Pearlie came scuttling back into the car with his arms full of long guns. Smoke took the Henry repeating rifle from Pearlie, and watched as Louis took the ten-gauge sawed-off express gun and an extra box of shells from him.

“You’re gonna have to get awfully close for that to do much damage,” Smoke said.

Louis grinned. “I thought I’d wait until they came knocking on our door and then give them a rather loud greeting,” he said in a light tone of voice that was belied by the dark fury in his eyes.

Smoke nodded. “Good idea. I think I’ll take Cal and Pearlie and slip out the far side of the car when the train stops. When the bandits get off their horses to make their way through the cars, it’ll give us a chance to scatter their mounts.”

Pearlie nodded, grinning. “And then they’ll be trapped out here in the middle of nowhere with nothing to ride off on. Good idea, Smoke.”

When the train finally ground to a complete stop, Louis turned a big easy chair around until it was facing the door, and then took a seat, the express gun across his knees and his pistols on a small table next to the chair. He pulled a long black cigar out of his coat pocket and lit it, sending clouds of fragrant blue smoke into the air. He pulled his hat down tight on his head and leaned back, crossing his legs and smoking as if he were waiting for a friend to visit.

“Good hunting, gentlemen,” he called as he eared back the twin hammers on the shotgun.

“You be careful, you hear?” Smoke said, tipping his head at his friend.

“It is not I that should be careful, pal,” Louis replied, his voice turning hard. “It is those miscreants that are interrupting our trip who should be saying their prayers at this time.”

As Smoke and the boys slipped out of the car and moved slowly down the line of cars toward the front of the train, Cal asked in a low voice, “Smoke, what’s a miscreant?”

Smoke chuckled. “It’s someone without a shred of decency in their character, Cal.”

“Oh,” Cal said, glancing at Pearlie walking next to him. “You mean like someone who’d take the last spoonful of sugar in the bowl and not leave any for his friends?”

“Now Cal, boy,” Pearlie said in a soothing voice, “that there bowl wasn’t near half-full to begin with.”

As they neared the car just behind the engine that contained wood to be burned in the boiler, Smoke heard a harsh voice say, “Watch the hosses, Johnny. We’ll get the passengers’ money and be right back.”

Smoke gave the robbers time to climb aboard the train before he put the Henry in his left hand, sauntered out from between two cars, and walked slowly toward the outlaws’ horses, which were being tended by a large, fat man with a full beard and a ragged, sweat-stained hat set low on his head.

The outlaw’s eyes widened and his hand moved toward his belt as he said, “Who the hell . . . ?”

Smoke drew his Colt in one lightning fast motion and shot the man in the face, blowing him backward off his horse to land facedown in the dirt next to the track, his gun still in its leather.

The other horses jumped and crow-hopped at the sound of the pistol shot until Cal and Pearlie untied them from where they had been hitched to the rail on the railroad car and they shooed them away by waving their arms and shouting.

Soon, only the dead outlaw was left next to the tracks, blood still oozing into a puddle under his head.

Smoke moved up to the engine and found the engineer lying on his side, holding his left arm, a bullet hole in his left shoulder.

Smoke knelt next to him. “Are you gonna be all right?”

The engineer nodded. “Yeah, but somebody needs to put some wood in the boiler or we’re gonna lose all our steam.”

Smoke glanced over his shoulder. “Cal, would you help this man and do what he says while Pearlie and I go after the robbers?”

“Aw shucks, Smoke,” Cal groused as he climbed up into the cab of the engine. “Pearlie gets to have all the fun.”

“We just don’t want you getting yourself shot again an’ bleedin’ all over Mr. Hill’s fine car,” Pearlie teased, “you bein’ such a magnet for lead an’ all.”

“Now Pearlie,” Cal argued, his face turning red. “I ain’t been shot in over three weeks now.”

Smoke laughed. “That might be because we haven’t been in any gunfights for three weeks, Cal.”

Cal bent and helped the engineer to his feet as Pearlie and Smoke jumped down out of the engine and headed back along the tracks toward the passenger cars.

They eased up into the first one, and Smoke was surprised when a female passenger threw up her hands and screamed, “Oh, no, they’ve come back to rape and kill us!”

Smoke smiled and motioned for her to put her hands down. “No, ma’am. We’re here after the robbers,” he explained as he and Pearlie moved down the aisle between the seats.

She took one look at Smoke’s handsome face and broad shoulders and her voice seemed a mite disappointed when she said, “Then you aren’t going to rob the men and rape the women?”

“Not this time,” Smoke called back over his shoulder with a grin.

Smoke and Pearlie moved through three more cars before catching up to the robbers in the car just before Hill’s private one that Louis was in.

Smoke motioned for Pearlie to kneel down in front of the door, and then stood over him as he jerked the door open.

The crowd of robbers in the aisle collecting passengers’ money and jewels glanced back over their shoulders in time to see Smoke and Pearlie open fire, Smoke working the lever of the Henry so fast his shots seemed to be one long explosion.

Six outlaws went down before the others could return fire, and then it was wild and poorly aimed as they shouted and screamed and backed through the far door of the car, which was so filled with gunsmoke they could barely be seen.

The bandits in the lead jerked open the door to Hill’s car and rushed inside, to be met by the thundering explosion of twin ten-gauge barrels hurling buckshot at them.

Four more men went down, shredded and almost cut in half by the horrendous power of the express gun.

The seven men remaining alive dove off the train out of the connecting door to the cars, and began running as fast as they could back up the tracks to where they thought their horses were tied.

They slowed and looked around with puzzled expressions when they came to Johnny’s dead body.

“Where the hell are the hosses?” one of the men hollered, whirling around and looking in all directions.

From thirty feet behind him, Smoke said, “They’re gone, you bastards!”

The robbers turned and saw Smoke and Pearlie and Louis standing there, side by side, their hands full of iron.

“There’s only three of them, boys, let’s take ’em!” one of the men shouted.

“Uh-uh,” came a voice from behind the outlaws. Cal stood there just outside the engine, his Colt in his hand. “There’s four of us,” he said, a wide grin of fierce anticipation on his young face.

Nevertheless, the outlaws swung their pistols up and opened fire.

In less than fifteen seconds it was all over and every gunman lay either dead or dying next to the train. Blood pooled and saturated the dry earth of the tracks.

Smoke and Pearlie and Louis approached the group of bodies on the ground cautiously, kicking pistols and rifles out of reach of the wounded men who were groaning and writhing on the ground.

Cal said softly, “Dagnabit!” as he glanced down at his thigh, noting a thin line of red where a bullet had creased his upper leg, burning rather than tearing a hole in his trousers.

He quickly turned to the side so his friends couldn’t see the wound, calling, “I’m just gonna go on up and make sure the engineer is all right.”

When the engineer looked at the blood staining Cal’s pants leg, Cal shook his head. “Don’t say nothin’ ’bout this to my friends, all right?”

The wounded engineer just grinned, having heard what Pearlie and Smoke had said about Cal being a magnet for lead. “I promise not to say nothin’, if you’ll be so kind as to build me a cigarette while we wait for the steam to build.”

Carl Jacoby sat staring out of the train window next to his seat, sweat beading on his forehead and running down his cheeks as he thought about just how fast with a gun Smoke Jensen and his friends had proved to be.

Jacoby was one of Johnny MacDougal’s best friends . . . or at least he had been until Jensen and his men had shot his friend down in the streets of Pueblo, Colorado, last year. Jacoby hadn’t been there, being sick with the grippe at the time, but he’d been told Jensen had shot Johnny down in cold blood without even giving him a chance to clear leather.

Being also hopelessly in love with Johnny’s older sister, Sarah, Jacoby had at once told the family he would do anything they wanted to help them get even for Johnny’s untimely death. He’d hoped this would endear him to Sarah, but she hadn’t seemed to notice him when he made the offer just after her brother’s funeral. She’d been quiet and kind of off in her own world, as if she was thinking of something else.

Old Angus MacDougal, eaten up with grief and the need for vengeance, had questioned Sheriff Wally Tupper about where Jensen and his friends had been heading after they’d killed his son. Sheriff Tupper had said that one of the men, a William Cornelius Van Horne, was a famous Canadian railroad builder.

Angus had done some checking, and afterward he’d sent Carl up to Canada to follow Jensen and his men and to let the old man know when they headed back to the States so he could avenge his son’s death.

He’d told Jacoby to stay out of Jensen’s way, not to brace him or to let him know he was being watched, but just to keep an eye on him and make sure they didn’t leave Canada without Jacoby knowing about it.

Jacoby had done so gladly, sure that no one could have bested Johnny in a fair fight, him being the quickest man with a short gun Carl had ever seen—that is, until the gunfight he’d just now witnessed.

He was watching out the window as Jensen and the three men with him went up against outlaws who outnumbered them two to one. He’d gasped in disbelief when he’d seen the cowboys blow the outriders off their feet without even breaking a sweat.

Hell, he thought, sleeving sweat off his forehead, I was watching Jensen when he drew and I still didn’t see his hand move, it was so fast, and the gents with him were just a hair slower, if that.

He didn’t think the outlaws would’ve gotten a single shot off if they hadn’t already had their guns in their hands, and still they hadn’t managed to draw blood from Jensen or any of his friends.

Jacoby shook his head, remembering how many times he’d been tempted over the past six months to just step up to Jensen and draw his gun and shoot the bastard. His stomach grew queasy at the thought of what would have happened had he been so foolish—he’d be lying dead and buried in the godforsaken wilderness above the border, that’s what. He snorted. Hell, as fast as Jensen is and as slow as I am, he’d have had time to build and light himself a cigarette and still could’ve shot me deader’n yesterday’s news.

He turned his head from the sight of the men from the train picking up the dead outlaws’ bodies and stacking them in an empty boxcar, and thought about what he was going to do next. He knew that if he continued on his mission for Angus MacDougal, sooner or later he would have to go up against Jensen and his friends, and that thought scared him half to death.

On the other hand, if he quit now and headed back to Pueblo with his tail between his legs, he was sure Sarah MacDougal would never give him another look—at least not the kind of look he’d want her to give him. She’d more than likely think him a coward and a fool, and would never again give him the time of day.

Damn Johnny to hell, he thought angrily. If he’d just kept his mouth shut and hadn’t tried to play the big man like usual, I wouldn’t be in this mess.

Jacoby looked up as the conductor came down the aisle, telling all the passengers that they would be on their way shortly and that all of their money and valuables would be returned to them at the next stop, thanks to Smoke Jensen and his friends.

“Uh, sir,” Jacoby asked, raising his hand like a schoolkid to get the conductor’s attention.

“Yes, sir?” he asked, stopping next to Carl’s seat.

“Will there be a telegraph at the next stop?” Carl asked, almost hoping the man would say no.

“Why, yes, I believe there is, sir.”

“Thanks,” Carl replied, turning his mind to just what he was going to say to Angus. He knew he’d better warn him about Jensen’s ability with a gun, but he didn’t want to come off sounding like he was afraid of the man, even though the plain truth of the matter was that he was more frightened of Jensen than of anything else he could imagine. Carl scrunched down in his seat and pulled his hat down over his eyes. This was going to take some heavy thinking before they got to the next stop if he was going to get it right.

After all, he remembered, Angus MacDougal didn’t exactly take kindly to being told he was wrong about anything, and especially not about this.

Angus MacDougal sat on his porch smoking a corncob pipe, still wearing his black mourning suit, even though it’d been more than six months since his only son had been shot down in the streets of Pueblo, Colorado.

He glanced up from his reverie at the sound of hoofbeats rapidly approaching his ranch house. He nodded slowly to himself when he recognized the portly figure of Sheriff Wally Tupper riding toward him. Must be some news from Carl, he thought, getting slowly to his feet and stretching to get the kinks out. He felt like he’d aged ten years since Johnny died, but then the death of a loved one will tend to do that to a person, he reasoned as he walked down the porch and waved a greeting at the sheriff.

Tupper climbed down out of the saddle and held up an envelope in his hand as he climbed the steps to the porch. “Got this here wire for you from Carl Jacoby, Angus,” he said, his voice deferential as if he worked for Angus instead of the town of Pueblo. “It came in on the telegraph just this mornin’ and I rode right out here to bring it to you first thing,” Tupper said.

Angus took the paper, his eyebrows knitting together over a scowling face. “What’s it say?” he asked.

“I dunno,” the sheriff replied, his face screwing up in fright. “I wouldn’t presume to read a wire addressed to you, Angus. You know that.”

Angus smiled a half smile, reveling in the look of fear and trepidation on the sheriff’s face. He couldn’t help it, he just loved to intimidate other men, especially men who were supposed to be in authority.

“I know you’d better not, Wally,” he said in a low, hard voice. “Now go on into the kitchen and have the cook fix you some coffee while I read this, and then we’ll talk.”

Angus slit the envelope with a thumbnail and pulled out the folded sheet of paper. It was indeed a telegram from Carl Jacoby. Angus squinted his eyes—it looked to be from some pissant town in Minnesota that he’d never heard of before. Sighing at the indignities old age put on him, Angus reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a pair of reading spectacles he’d taken to using in the last year when he found he was unable to read the local newspaper without holding it way out at arm’s length.

The telegram read:


Angus crumpled up the paper and gritted his teeth so hard his jaw creaked. He whirled around and stomped across the porch and into his house. He found Sheriff Tupper drinking coffee out of a mug and flirting with his Mexican housekeeper, Lupe.

Angus took a deep breath and tried to calm down as Lupe poured him a cup of coffee and put it on the table in front of him.

“Would you excuse us, Lupe?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice soft. “Man talk.”

“Certainly, Señor,” she said, and quickly vanished from the dining room.

Tupper raised his eyebrows when he saw the crumpled sheet of paper in Angus’s hand. “Bad news?” he asked over the rim of his cup.

Angus didn’t answer until he’d gotten to his feet and walked over to the cabinet against the wall. He opened the door, took out a bottle of whiskey, and poured a dollop into his coffee, pointedly not offering any to Tupper.

“Tell me again about the day my boy Johnny was shot down, Wally,” Angus ordered shortly as he took a sip of his whiskey and coffee.

“You sure you want to hear all that again?” Tupper asked, his face showing his discomfort. The day he’d brought Johnny’s body home to Angus, he’d thought for a moment the old man was going to kill him, as if he’d done something wrong.

“I asked, didn’t I?” Angus responded angrily, slamming his cup down so hard the coffee sloshed over the rim.

“Well,” Tupper began quickly, trying to picture that day in his mind, “from what I heard from those who were there, Johnny and the boys had been drinking a mite, an’ they proceeded to tease Jensen and the men with him about how they smelled. Shortly, one of those old mountain men riding with Jensen jumped up and . . . uh . . . ” Tupper hesitated, trying to decide how graphic to get with his description of the events. Finally, he decided to be a bit vague. “Jumped up and knocked Johnny to the floor.”

“And Johnny hadn’t drawn on the man up till then?” Angus asked, his eyes full of sorrow and anger.

“Nope,” Tupper replied. “Matter of fact, Johnny was flat on his back after the man attacked him without no warning,” he said, shading the truth a mite because he knew that was what the old man wanted to hear.

“What happened then?”

“Well, sir, Johnny’s friends took him outside an’ they waited for Jensen and his men to come out of the Feedbag an’ into the street.”

“And when they did?”

“This is where the stories all get a mite different,” Tupper said. “Johnny and his friends all had their guns in their hands when I got there, but only Johnny’s had been fired, an’ he’d only gotten off the one shot. But the man with Jensen, a William Cornelius Van Horne, said Johnny and his men had fired at them first an’ started the fracas.”

Angus drained his cup, his face pale at hearing once again how his boy had died. “And you believed him, even though none of the boys managed to get a shot off?”

“I didn’t have no choice, Angus. This Van Horne man carries a lot of weight in the state, an’ he knows the governor personally.”

“And tell me again, just how many times was my boy shot?” Angus asked.

“Uh, the undertaker said he had over six slugs in him, Angus.”

“And you honestly think, knowing how fast Johnny was with a six-gun, that he could be stand