Shootout of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone Page B

said.
    Those who were close enough to overhear Clark halted their own conversations and turned their attention toward the two men to see where this would lead.
    “Yeah, that’s what I thought you might say.”
    “I didn’t have any choice,” Clark said. “He drew first.”
    “Mister, I don’t believe he drew first. If he had, you’d be dead now. Mind, I ain’t sayin’ Dewey ain’t the kind who would draw first. I’m just sayin’ that he was that good with a gun that iffen he had drawn first, you’d be dead now.”
    “I’m not goin’ to have any trouble with you, am I, friend?” Clark asked. “The reason I ask is, I hadn’t planned to kill Gibson, and I don’t have any plans to kill you. But if you push this any further, I just may have to.”
    There was a long silent pause as everyone in the saloon waited to hear the response to Clark’s challenge. Then a tall, silver-haired, dignified-looking man stood from one of the tables in the back of the room.
    “Jeff, back down,” he called to the man who had confronted Clark.
    “Mr. Sinclair, I don’t think this fella is tellin’ the truth,” Jeff said. “You know’d Dewey Gibson as well as I did, seein’ as he used to ride for you. You know how good with a gun he was, and you know damn well that if he had draw’d first like this here feller is claimin', this feller would be dead.”
    “You want to kill somebody, or else get yourself killed over someone like Dewey Gibson?” Sinclair asked.
    “No, but—”
    “There ain’t no buts,” Sinclair said. He turned to face the others in the saloon. “Gentlemen, I think nearly all of you know me. Some of you, like Jeff here, have ridden for me. But just in case there is someone here who doesn’t know me, my name is Martin Sinclair. I own the Bar S Ranch. You may remember that Dewey Gibson used to ride for me, but I fired him, and I want you to know why I fired him. Two years ago, I hired some Mexicans to do some work for me, and one of them had a little twelve-year-old girl. The Mexicans left before the work was done, before I even paid them any money. It was a couple of weeks later that I learned why they left. It was because Gibson raped that little twelve-year-old girl. When I called him on it, he admitted that he had done it, but said he didn’t think it mattered none, since she wasn’t nothin’ but a Mex and would probably grow up to be a whore anyway. As far as I am concerned, Dewey Gibson was nothing but a low-down sorry son of a bitch and if he got himself killed, then I say good riddance.”
    Sinclair looked back over at the young cowboy who had questioned Clark. “Jeff, you still want to kill someone, or what’s more than likely, from the way I gauge this fella, get yourself kilt over Dewey Gibson?”
    “No, sir, I don’t reckon I do,” Jeff replied. “Sorry, mister,” he said to Clark. “I reckon I spoke without thinkin'. Hope you don’t take no offense to it.”
    “No offense taken,” Clark said.
    “Mr. Peterson?” Sinclair called over to the bartender.
    “Yes sir, Mr. Sinclair.”
    “Suppose you give everyone a drink, on me.”
    “Yes, sir!” the bartender replied enthusiastically. Then, he shouted to the entire saloon. “You heard Mr. Sinclair, boys. Step up and name your poison.”
    There were fourteen men and three women in the saloon, and all rushed to the bar to get their drink. Clark held his beer out toward Sinclair and nodded his thanks. Sinclair nodded back. The older man had defused a possible situation.

Chapter Nine

    The trip from Cheyenne, Wyoming, to Battle Mountain, Nevada, took Smoke seventeen hours. The Pacific Flyer was a premier train, running on the high iron, which required all the other trains on the line, the locals and the freight trains, to move aside to give the right-of-way to the “varnish.” Also, because it was a premier train, first-class passengers enjoyed all the comforts of a Pullman Parlor Car, which allowed Smoke to pass a relaxed