Assault of the Mountain Man

Louis was sitting at his usual table in a corner. He 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 moustache. He always wore fine suits, white shirts, and the ubiquitous ascot. Today it was a royal blue. He wore low-heeled boots, and a pistol that hung low in a tied-down holster on his right side. The pistol was nickel-plated, with ivory handles, but it wasn’t just for show. Louis was snake-quick and a feared, deadly gun hand when pushed.

He was engaged in a profession that did not have a very good reputation, and there had been times when he was called upon to use his gun. Those times, he did so with deadly effectiveness. He was also a man with a very strong code of honor, as well as a belief in right and wrong. He had never hired, nor would he ever hire, his gun out for money. 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, he left Louisiana and came West with his parents. They had died in a shantytown fire, leaving the boy to cope as best he could.

He had coped quite well, plying his innate intelligence, along with his willingness to take a chance, into a fortune. He owned a large ranch in Wyoming Territory, several businesses in San Francisco, and a hefty chunk of a railroad.

Though it was a mystery to many why Louis continued to stay with his saloon and restaurant in a small town, he explained it very simply. “I would miss it.”

Smoke understood exactly what he was talking about.

“Smoke, mon ami,” Louis said. “It is good to see you, as always. What will it be? Coffee, beer, wine, or whiskey?”

“It’s before noon,” Smoke replied. “I think a cup of coffee would be fine.”

“Make it two cups,” Sheriff Carson said, coming in behind Smoke.

“I just saw you drinking one cup,” Smoke teased. “Now you are going to drink two more?”

“No, I meant ...” Sheriff Carson laughed when he saw that Smoke was teasing. “I think there is a bit of leg pulling going on here.”

Andre, Louis Longmont’s French cook, brought two cups of steaming coffee, and put them on the table in front of Smoke and Sheriff Carson.

“Do you have any cream and sugar back there, Andre?” Sheriff Carson asked.

“Quelle sorte de cochon grossier detruirait du cafe merveilleux avec la creme et le sucre?” Andre asked loudly and angrily, as he stormed back into the kitchen.

“What the hell did he just say?”

Longmont laughed. “Trust me, Sheriff, you don’t want to know. Suffice it to say that he took umbrage with your request for cream and sugar, in a coffee that he has already declared to be marvelous.”

Sally had come in during the previous exchange, and she called out from the door. “Andre, j’aimerais une tasse de votre cafe sans cremez ou sucre.” The French rolled easily from her tongue.

Andre kissed the tips of the four fingers of his right hand, and opened them toward Sally. “Mme Jensen, la seule personne civilisee dans cette terre sauvage.”

“Why, thank you, Andre. I try to be civilized”—Sally looked at Smoke and Sheriff Carson—“though sometimes, surrounded as I am with such creatures as these, it is difficult.”

Carson looked over at Smoke. “Have we just been put down?”

Smoke laughed. “Monte, you are a married man just as I am. Haven’t you learned by now, never to ask such a question?”

“How is the roundup going?” Sheriff Carson ignored Smoke’s question.

“We’re just getting started,” Smoke replied. “Cattle got scattered from here to hell and back during the winter. I’ve got all hands out finding them, rounding them up, as well as digging them out of sink holes.”

Sally laughed. “Pearlie’s favorite task,” she said sarcastically.

“So, how is the law business going?” Smoke asked.

“Got a new dodger in yesterday,” Sheriff Carson said. “For a man named Bill Dinkins.”

“Bill Dinkins? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”

“He got his name known somewhat back in Kansas,” Sheriff Carson said. “Then when it got too hot for him there, he came here. Last month he and three others tried to hold up the bank in Buffalo.”

“Tried to? He didn’t succeed? What happened?”

“The whole town got down on ’em, that’s what happened. When they came out of the bank, they ran into a hornet’s nest. Half the town was armed and shootin’ at them, and they were shootin’ back. And here’s the thing. Dinkins run out on his men. He could have gone back, helped them get remounted, then ridden on out. The shootin’ wasn’t that accurate, for all that there was a lot of it. All three of his men were shot down in the street, though they went down game. Dinkins ran, and now there’s a nice reward out for him.”

“How much money did he get from the bank?”

Sheriff Carson chuckled. “That’s just it. He didn’t get one red cent. Six men dead, for nothin’.”

“Six men?”

“According to the witnesses—customers in the bank—Dinkins got mad when the teller refused to turn the money bag over to him, so he shot him. There were two more of the townspeople killed outside the bank, plus all three of Dinkins’ men. That made it a total of six.”