Pursuit Of The Mountain Man

“Comin’ right up, Marshal.”

“See you around,” the stranger said.

“See you.”

The front door opened and closed and the stranger was gone, walking across the still frozen street to the hotel.

“Sorry, Marshal,” Jack said. “I didn’t know he was a friend of yours.”

The marshal sipped his coffee. “Jack, do you have any idea at all who that was?”

“Some yeller-bellied tinhorn,” Jack replied.

The gambler smiled.

The marshal’s eyes were bleak as he turned his head to look at the young man. “Jack, you’ve done some dumb things in the years that I’ve known you. But today took the cake. That was Smoke Jensen.”

Jack swayed for a moment, grabbing at the bar for support. The gambler kicked a chair across the floor and the marshal placed it upright for Jack to sit in. Jack Lynch’s eyes were dull and his face was pale. A bit of spittle oozed out of one corner of his mouth.

“I knew it was him as soon as he stood up and I seen that left-hand gun in a cross-draw,” the gambler said.

“And ... you didn’t say nothin’ to me?” Jack mumbled the words.

“Why should I? It was your mouth that got you into it. You’re a loud-mouth, pushy kid. It would have served you right if Jensen had drilled you clean through.”

Jack recovered his bluster and now he was embarrassed. He stood up from the chair. His legs were still a little shaky and he backed up to the bar and leaned against it. “You can’t talk to me like that, gambler.”

The marshal was more than a little miffed at Jack’s attitude. He’d pulled him out of one situation; be damned if he’d interfere in this one. He walked over to a table and sat down.

Across the street, in his room, Smoke had taken pen and paper and was writing to his wife, Sally.

“Don’t push me, kid,” the gambler said. “I’ve lived too long for me to take much crap from the likes of you. Jensen just didn’t want to kill you. He’s tired of it. I haven’t reached that point yet.”

“You son of a ...” Jack grabbed for iron.

The gambler shook his right arm and a derringer slipped into his hand. He fired both barrels of the .41. Jack coughed and sat down on the floor.

Smoke thought he heard gunshots and paused in his writing. When no more shots were heard, he dipped the nib into an ink well and began writing.

Dear Sally,

How are you? I miss you very much but hope you are having a good time visiting family and friends back east ...

The gambler broke open the .41 derringer and reloaded. Jack’s eyes were on him. The front of Jack’s white shirt was spreading crimson.

“I don’t want to die!” Jack cried.

“You should have thought about that before you strapped on that iron, boy,” the marshal told him.

“It hurts!”

“I ’spect it does.”

... Nothing seems to change here, Sally. The only place where I am reasonably assured of being left alone is on the Sugarloaf. But you know the urge to see the land is strong within me, and I shall not be tied down like a vicious yard dog. This evening, while I was having supper, another young punk tried to goad me into drawing ...

“I want you out of town on the next stage, gambler,” the marshal told the man.

“Would you have told Jensen that?” the gambler asked. The marshal met his eyes. “Yes.”

The gambler nodded his head. “Yes, I think you would have. All right, marshal. I’ll leave in the morning.”

“Fair enough.”

... I must go still further, up into Wyoming, then maybe across into Idaho, to find the bulls I’m looking for, Sally. If it were just a little bit warmer, I would sleep under the stars and not even enter towns except for provisions. But I fear this married man has grown too accustomed to comforters, feather ticks, and rugs on the floor on cold mornings. And, I must add, the nearness of you ...

“Put on my headstone that I was a gunfighter, will you, Marshal?” Jack said, his voice growing weak.

“If that’s what you want, Jack.”

“It don’t hurt no more.”

“That’s good, Jack.”

“I can’t hear you, Marshal. Speak up. They’s a roarin’ in my ears. I’m a-feared, Marshal Brackton! Is there really a hell, you reckon?”

... I’m in a little town just south of the Uinta Mountains, Sally. I knew the marshal here, and he intervened this evening and saved a young man from death, at least at my hands. I’m going into the high country tomorrow, Sally. Where there are no towns and hopefully, no young hellions looking to make a reputation. I shall