William W. Johnstone - Shootout of the Mountain Man

William W. Johnstone

with J. A. Johnstone

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Copyright 2010 William W. Johnstone

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PUBLISHERS NOTE

Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstones outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstones superb storytelling.

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eISBN-13: 978-0-7860-2589-3
eISBN-10: 0-7860-2589-3

First printing: December 2010

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Printed in the United States of America

Smoke Jensen was in Longmonts saloon playing cards with a few of his friends. Louis Longmont wasnt playing, but he was nearby, leaning up against the wall, adding his own comments to the conversation that flowed around the card table.

Smoke was only partially participating in the conversation, and was only partially participating in the card game, as was demonstrated when he failed to respond to the dealers request.

Smoke? Garrett said. Garrett, a stagecoach driver, was one of the other players.

What?

How many cards?

I pass.

What do you mean you pass? Youve already matched the bet.

Oh, uh, Ill play these.

Smoke whats got into you? Louis asked. You seem to be somewhere else.

I fold, Smoke said.

Laying his cards facedown on the table, Smoke got up. Not until he stood could anyone get a good enough look at him to be able to gauge the whole of the man. Six feet two inches tall, he had broad shoulders and upper arms so large that even the shirt he wore couldnt hide the bulge of his biceps. His hair, the color of wheat, was kept trimmed, and he was clean shaven. His hips were narrow, though accented by the gun belt and holster from which protruded a Colt .44, its wooden handle smooth and unmarked.

Smoke walked to the bar, moving to the opposite end from a young man who had come in a few minutes earlier. Smoke had noticed him the moment the young man came in. He was wearing his pistol low on his right side, with the handle kicked out. He was sweating profusely, though it wasnt that hot. He had ordered one beer as soon as he came in, but hadnt taken more than one sip the whole time he was there.

Smoke had seen men like this before, young gunsels who thought the fastest way to fame was to be known as the man who had killed Smoke Jensen. He knew that as soon as the young man got up his nerve, he would make his move. It was that, the upcoming confrontation with this man, that had taken Smokes mind away from the conversation and the game.

Louis came over to the bar.

Are you all right, Smoke? Youre acting rather peculiar.

Better not stand too close to me, Louis, Smoke said under his breath.

What?

Smoke nodded toward the young man at the opposite end of the bar. The young man was leaning over the bar, staring into his beer with his hands on either side of the glass.

Louis looked toward the man, then saw what Smoke had seen. It appeared that the nervous young man was trying to gather his nerve.

Draw me a beer, will you? Smoke asked.

Louis nodded, walked over to draw a mug of beer, then set it before Smoke. Without glancing again at the young man at the far end of the bar, Louis stepped away from Smoke, giving him all the room he might need.

Smoke did not overtly stare at the young gunman, but even though it appeared that he was uninterested in his surroundings, he was maintaining a close watch. Because of that, he was ready when the young man finally made his move.

Draw, Jensen! the young man shouted, turning away from the bar as he made a grab for his pistol.

I already have, Smoke replied calmly.

The young man had his pistol only half withdrawn when he realized that he was staring down the barrel of a gun, the pistol already in Smokes hand.

What thehow did you do that? the young man asked, taking his hand off his pistol, then raising both of his hands. Dont shoot, dont shoot! he begged.

By now, all conversation throughout the saloon had stilled, the card game had stopped, and everyone was paying attention to the drama that was playing out before them.

Pull your gun out, very slowly, using only your thumb and forefinger, Smoke ordered.

What are you goin to do, mister? the young man asked. Are you goin to kill me?

Why not? You were going to kill me, werent you?

Yeah, I reckon I was, the young man answered.

Drop your pistol in there, Smoke said, pointing to a nearby spittoon.

In the spittoon? No, I wont do that, the young man replied.

Oh, I think you will, Smoke said. He thumbed back the hammer, and the deadly double click of the sear engaging the cylinder sounded exceptionally loud in the now-quiet saloon.

All right, all right, the young man said. Stepping over to the spittoon, he made a face, then dropped the pistol into it. It caused the brown liquid to splash out onto the floor.

Smoke holstered his pistol.

Louis, he called.

Yes, Smoke.

Give the young man a new beer. On me.

Mamake it whiskey, the young man said.

Louis poured a shot and gave it to the would-be gunman. With a shaking hand, he lifted the glass to his lips, then tossed it down.

Whats your name? Smoke asked.

The names Clark, the young man answered. Emmett Clark.

Why did you want to kill me, Emmett Clark?

Its a matter of honor, Clark answered.

Honor? You think it is honorable to kill someone?

If you call them out and do it face-to-face, Clark said. And if youre payin someone back for somethin they done to you.

Boy, Ive never done anything to you, Smoke said. Ive never even heard of you.

Not to me, you aint. But you done it to my kin. You kilt my pa. I was only fourteen when you kilt him, but I taught myself how to shoot sos I could get things all square.

What was your pas name?