CHAPTER 5
Smoke had never been in Salt Lick, but Jonas Madigan had described the settlement in his letters. So Smoke knew he was in the right place, even before he saw the gilt letters on the front window of a small building that read SALT LICK TRIBUNE. That would be the newspaper office, Smoke mused.
Might be as good a place as any to find the information he needed, he decided. He reined the stallion over to the hitch rail in front of the building and dismounted.
The front half of the room had a couple of desks in it, with nobody sitting at them. The printing press was in the back half of the room, behind a short wooden railing with a gate in it. There were also a couple of composing tables back there, shelves holding various pieces of equipment, and several waist-high cabinets that Smoke knew would contain trays of type.
The press made a clattering racket as a man in an ink-smeared canvas apron operated it. A boy who looked to be about twelve years old picked up one of the sheets that came off it, being careful to hold the paper by the edges so he wouldn’t smear the freshly printed ink.
“Looks good, Pa,” the boy called over the noise of the printing press. He had as deep a voice as Smoke had ever heard coming out of a youngster’s mouth, sort of a cross between a bullfrog’s croak and a foghorn.
The boy set the sheet aside, hitched up his trousers, and plucked a half-smoked cigar from an ashtray sitting atop one of the cabinets. He puffed on the cigar like an experienced smoker.
“Blast it, Ralph,” the man said. “Get that stogie out of your mouth. Your ma will kick my hind end to Fort Worth and back if she catches you smoking.”
“Ma ain’t comin’ in here and you know it.” Ralph had brown hair and freckles on his pugnacious face. “She hates the sound of the press and the smell o’ ink. Good thing we don’t, ain’t it?”
“Isn’t it,” the man corrected halfheartedly, as if he knew it wouldn’t do any good, the same way he’d sounded when he told the boy to stop smoking the cigar. He inclined his head toward the front of the room and went on, “Anyway, we’ve got a customer. You don’t want to make a bad impression.”
Ralph glanced at Smoke and said, “Oh. Sorry.” He set the cigar back in the ashtray and strode over to the railing. He thrust his hand out and went on, “Put ’er there, mister. Welcome to the Salt Lick Tribune.”
“Howdy,” Smoke said as he shook hands with the boy. For a second, given the cigar, Ralph’s deep voice, and his general demeanor, Smoke wondered if he was actually dealing with a little fella like Preacher’s old friend Audie, the former professor who had survived a hazardous life as a mountain man for many, many years, despite being only three feet tall.
No, Ralph was an actual child, Smoke decided, just an unusual one.
“What can we do you for?” Ralph went on, as if he ran the business here. He sounded hopeful as he added, “Need to take out an ad?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” Smoke said. “But I’m looking for someone, and when I saw your office, I figured a newspaper would be a good place to ask.”
“We’re in the business of chargin’ folks to tell ’em what they want to know.”
The printing press had fallen silent. The man who had been operating it walked toward the railing as he wiped his ink-stained hands on a rag.
“Don’t be so mercenary, Ralph,” he said. “There are other things in life besides making money.”
“Yeah, things that waste your time when you could be turnin’ a profit,” Ralph responded.
The man held out his hand to Smoke. “Edward Warren,” he introduced himself. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Smoke said as he clasped the man’s hand. “I’m Smoke Jensen.”
While Warren and Smoke were introducing themselves, Ralph had turned discreetly and reached back to sneak the cigar out of the ashtray. He had just put it in his mouth and taken a puff on it when Smoke said his name. Ralph’s jaw dropped, and the cigar fell to the floor at his feet. The way he gaped at Smoke showed that he had completely forgotten about the stogie.
“Smoke Jensen!” he exclaimed after a few seconds of stunned silence. “The Smoke Jensen?”
Warren turned to look curiously at his son. “You’ve heard of Mr. Jensen, Ralph?”
“Heard of him? Shucks, Pa, everybody’s heard of Smoke Jensen! There’s not a more famous gunfighter anywhere on the frontier!”
“Well, I don’t know about that, son,” Smoke said with a smile.
Warren frowned. “You’re not looking for trouble, are you, Mr. Jensen?”
Smoke held up both hands, palms out. “No, sir. Just information, like I said. Do you happen to know Jonas Madigan? Used to be the marshal here in Salt Lick?”
The newspaperman’s frown became more one of confusion than worry. “Marshal Madigan? Of course, I know him. Everybody in Salt Lick does.” He caught his breath. “Wait a minute. You haven’t come here to shoot Marshal Madigan, have you?”
“Shucks, Pa!” Ralph said, his voice booming like a bass drum. “Smoke Jensen ain’t the sort of gunfighter who goes around shootin’ lawmen. He just shoots bank robbers and rustlers and owlhoots like that.”
“I don’t plan on shooting anybody,” Smoke said. “Jonas is an old friend of mine, and I’m just here to pay him a visit, that’s all.”
Warren blew out a relieved breath. “Oh. That’s all right, I suppose. A good thing, actually. A visit from an old friend might lift his spirits. In case you haven’t heard, he’s been doing rather . . . poorly.”
Smoke nodded and said, “Yes, I know. I had a letter from him, up in Colorado where I live, and although he didn’t go into detail, he mentioned that his health wasn’t good and he’d like to see me again.” Smoke paused, then added, “He is still alive?”
“As far as I know. And I think I would have heard if there had been any bad news.”
“He’s at home?”
“That’s right. And before you ask, I’ll be happy to tell you where to find it. When you leave here, go on to the corner and turn left onto Crosby Avenue. The marshal’s home will be the eighth house on your right, close to the edge of town.”
Smoke nodded. “I’m obliged to you, Mr. Warren. It’s good to meet you. And you, too, Ralph. You might want to take a look down at the floor, though. That stogie’s leaving a burned spot.”
“Oh, shoot!” Ralph yelped as he bent over quickly to pick up the cigar. The front door of the newspaper office opened as he straightened, and when he looked in that direction, his eyes widened in alarm. His father snatched the cigar butt away from him and stuck it in his mouth.
Smoke glanced over his shoulder and saw a young, pretty woman with upswept blond hair entering the office.
“Howdy, Ma,” Ralph said. “I, uh, I didn’t expect to see you here.”
She smiled, but then her expression turned frosty when she looked at her husband. “Edward, I thought we talked about you smoking around Ralph. It’s a bad influence on him. If you keep doing it, he might want to pick up the filthy habit himself someday.”
Warren took the cigar out of his mouth and stubbed it out in the ashtray as he said, “Yes, of course, you’re right, Evelyn. We were just busy getting the paper out, and I forgot what I was doing. Old habits, you know. They sometimes come back without you even realizing.”
“Well, it’s your job to realize such things where our son is concerned.”
Smoke figured it was time for him to withdraw from this situation, so he nodded to Warren and Ralph, said, “Thanks for the information, fellas,” and pinched the brim of his hat to Mrs. Warren as he went by. “Ma’am.”
He heard Evelyn Warren saying something else as he closed the door, but he couldn’t make it out. He grinned as he went to his horse. Seemed like Edward Warren had his hands full with both his wife and his son.
Smoke continued looking around Salt Lick as he rode toward the next intersection. He noticed the bank on the corner to his right. Up ahead on the left, two doors past the intersection, was a sturdy-looking building with a sign hanging from the awning out front that read MARSHAL’S OFFICE. A man stood on the boardwalk in front of the office door, his back straight and his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt.
The man’s head swiveled toward Smoke. He stiffened even more. He turned and strode toward the intersection, lifting his left hand as he did so.
“Hold it right there, mister,” he called.
Smoke didn’t care for the man’s tone. For a second, he was tempted to just ignore the command and keep riding.
Then, with a sigh, he pulled back gently on the stallion’s reins and turned the horse toward the man who had hailed him. He had spotted the afternoon sun reflecting off the badge pinned to the man’s shirt.
This would be the hombre who had replaced Jonas Madigan as Salt Lick’s marshal.
Smoke brought the stallion to a stop in front of a hitch rail. The lawman stood on the boardwalk on the other side of the rail, giving Smoke an intent stare.
“Something I can do for you, Marshal?”
“This seems to be Salt Lick’s day for visitors.”
Smoke didn’t know what that meant, but he didn’t care enough to ask.
“You can start by telling me who you are and what you’re doing here,” the marshal said.
He rubbed Smoke the wrong way just enough to be annoying. Smoke said, “What I’m doing is riding down a public street. As for who I am, I’m not sure you’ve got any call to be asking that.”
The marshal’s face darkened with anger. “An attitude like that is enough to get you thrown behind bars, mister,” he snapped. “I would’ve just run you out of town, like those last two saddle tramps, but if you want to get mouthy about it, I’ll be glad to oblige.”
The man was young, probably not even thirty yet, and clearly full of himself, puffed up by the badge he wore. Smoke would have enjoyed sticking a pin in him and letting out some of that hot air, but he didn’t want to take the time and trouble. Also, he usually cooperated with representatives of the law . . . when they would let him.
“Take it easy, Marshal,” he said. “I meant no offense. It’s just that I’m on my way to visit a sick friend, and I’d like to go ahead and get there.”
“What sick friend?”
“Jonas Madigan.” Smoke nodded toward the badge on the marshal’s chest. “The man who used to pack that star.”
The marshal glared. “You look like a gunman to me. If you’ve got a score to settle with Marshal Madigan and heard that he was sick, you’ll have to go through me first.”
Well, that was an admirable attitude, Smoke thought, even though the marshal was still a stiff-necked pain in the rear end. He shook his head and said, “No settling scores. Jonas and I are old friends, and that’s the truth. You can come along to his house with me just to make sure, if you want to.” Smoke paused. “By the way, since you asked me, my name is Smoke Jensen.”
A woman passing by on the boardwalk on the other side of the street stopped and called across, “Excuse me, sir. Did I just hear you say that your name is Jensen?”
Smoke looked around as she stepped down from the low boardwalk and started toward them. She was middle-aged, wearing a brown dress and hat, and was still rather attractive. The thick, dark brown hair under the hat had a few strands of gray in it, and a few wrinkles were visible on her face, but overall, those things just gave her character instead of detracting from her looks.
The marshal held up his left hand toward her and said, “Now, Mrs. Dollinger, you’d better stay back. This saddle tramp might be dangerous—”
“If his name is Smoke Jensen, he’s no saddle tramp,” the woman said crisply. “In fact, he’s one of the most successful ranchers in Colorado, and he’s a well-known adventurer and pistoleer. More importantly, he’s one of Jonas’s friends!”
“I tried to tell you, Marshal,” Smoke drawled.
The young lawman looked both angry and embarrassed. He said, “He could be lying about who he is—”
“I don’t think so. I’ve seen pictures of Smoke Jensen in the illustrated magazines, and I’m certain that’s who this gentleman is.”
Smoke swung down from the saddle and took off his hat. “Thank you for stepping in, ma’ am,” he said. “I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with the marshal.”
She held out a graceful, gloved hand. “I’m Mrs. Miriam Dollinger, Mr. Jensen.”
“It’s a pleasure and an honor, Mrs. Dollinger,” Smoke said as he took her hand.
“I was just on my way to Jonas’s house right now. Would you care to accompany me?”
“I’d like that just fine, ma’am.”
Clearly bothered by being ignored, the marshal said, “Wait just a minute. I’m not finished with you, Jensen.”
“I think you are, Ted,” Mrs. Dollinger said. “I’m sorry. Marshal Cardwell, I meant to say.”
Smoke saw the amusement in her eyes and had a hard time not grinning himself. She had slipped a barb into the stuffed-shirt lawman better than he could have. She offered Smoke her right arm, and he linked his left with it. They started along the street, with him leading the stallion.
“Just wait . . . I didn’t . . .” Marshal Cardwell sputtered behind them. With a frustrated sigh, he gave up and called after them, “Just watch your step while you’re in Salt Lick, Jensen!”
Smoke turned his head and threw back over his shoulder, “I’ll do that, Marshal, thanks.”
He and Mrs. Dollinger walked on. After they had gone a short distance, she said quietly, “Ted can be an absolute popinjay at times, but he’s really not a bad sort once you get to know him, Mr. Jensen. He’s awfully young for the responsibility that’s been thrust upon him.”
“Taking over for Jonas, you mean?”
“That’s right.” Her expression and demeanor grew more solemn. “Ted was a perfectly competent deputy, as long as he had Jonas telling him what to do. Once the decisions were his and his alone, I think he started to doubt himself. And in order to make up for that, he acts like he does.”
“I expect Jonas left some mighty big footprints to follow.”
“He certainly did. Salt Lick was quite a wild place at one time, you know. Jonas tamed it down until it’s a fine place for decent folks to live.”
“He was always good about things like that,” Smoke agreed.
“This town owes him a great debt. More than we can ever repay, in fact, even if . . . if we had longer to do so.”
The slight catch in her voice made Smoke look over at her. Her face was drawn with emotion now.
“How long does he have left?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not a doctor, Mr. Jensen, and even Dr. Stannard would admit that whatever he told you, it would only be a guess. But not long, surely.” She hugged his arm a little tighter. “I’m glad you got here in time. I was hoping you would.”
“You knew I was coming?”
“Jonas and I are friends, too. I knew he had written to you. In fact, I mailed the letter for him.”
Smoke wondered briefly if there was still a Mr. Dollinger. For a moment, he thought he had heard something in the woman’s voice that spoke of a deeper connection than mere friendship.
But that was none of his business, and just then Miriam Dollinger went on, “Here we are. This is Jonas’s house.”