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

naturally auburn, a henna-tinted red. Her eyes were shaded, her cheeks were rouged, and her lips were painted.
    The dye and makeup was because of Minnie’s occupation, which technically was saloon hostess, though other sobriquets were used, such as hurdy-gurdy girl, parlor girl, and soiled dove. In truth, she was a prostitute, but Bobby Lee saw more than that in her. Minnie had been present all during his trial, and had cried bitter tears when Bobby Lee was sentenced.
    “Oh, Bobby Lee,” she said. “I can’t stand it. I know you sent that letter to Sheriff Wallace, you told me about it. But I can’t get anyone to believe me. I’m so sorry.”
    “Don’t worry about it,” Bobby Lee said.
    “How can I not worry about it?” She pointed toward the front of the building. “Do you know they are building a gallows right now in front of this very building?”
    “Yes, I’ve heard them at work. Minnie, I need you to do something for me.”
    “What? What do you want?” Minnie asked. “I’ll do anything you ask.”
    “I want you to send a telegram for me.”
    “A telegram? To the governor?” She shook her head. “It won’t do any good, Bobby Lee. I’ve already sent a telegram to the governor.”
    “No, not to the governor,” Bobby Lee said. “I want you to send this to a friend of mine. If there is anybody in the world who can do anything for me, it will be him.”
    “All right, give me the name of the person, tell me what you want to say and where you want it to go,” Minnie said. “I’ll send it.”
    After Minnie received her instructions and left, Bobby Lee lay back down on his bunk again to resume staring at the ceiling above. Outside, he could hear the sounds of the men as they continued to work on the gallows.
    “All right, boys, lift up the cross tree,” one of the carpenters shouted. “There you go. Hold it in position while I get it nailed down.”
    The carpenter’s vocal instructions were followed by the banging of the hammer.
    Realistically, Bobby Lee knew the chances were only about one in one hundred that the telegram would reach its destination. According to the sentence of the judge, he was to hang on the thirty-first. That was only one week away.
    Bobby Lee was sure that Minnie would send the telegram—he had that much faith in her—but he really had no sense of confidence that the telegram would actually get through. He had asked her to send it to Buck West, rather than Smoke Jensen, believing that by so doing it would get Smoke’s attention more quickly. Now he wondered if perhaps he had been too smart by half. What if the telegram didn’t reach Smoke? For that matter, what if the telegram did reach Smoke, but because it was addressed to Buck West, he chose to do nothing about it?
    One thousand miles east from the Cloverdale Jail, in the town of Big Rock, Colorado, a rather sizable crowd was watching a spirited horseshoe pitch. A tossed horseshoe hit the peg, made a loud clang, spun around the peg, then settled down.
    “Ringer!” Jason Whitman shouted. “Looks like Smoke beat you, Floyd.”
    “Damn,” Floyd said. “Smoke, is there anything you can’t do? ‘Cause if there is, I sure want to give you a go on it.”
    “Sally says I can’t knit worth a damn,” Smoke said.
    “Is that a fact? Well, I’ll tell you what,” Floyd said. “I believe I’ll just take up knittin’ so’s I can find somethin’ I can beat you at.”
    The others laughed at the barber’s lament. Floyd Carr had been the champion horseshoe thrower for Big Rock for three years running. He had about convinced himself that he was the best in the entire state of Colorado, and didn’t believe it when he was told by those who had seen Smoke throw horseshoes for fun out at his ranch that Smoke was better.
    Reluctantly, Smoke had taken up Floyd’s challenge, and had just beaten him in three straight games.
    Accepting the accolades of those gathered for the match, Smoke begged out of a celebratory drink at