CHAPTER 8
Smoke Jensen froze with his hand still a few inches from the butt of the .44. He had adopted the alias Buck West fairly recently. The men he was looking for, the men responsible for the deaths of his father and brother, had the law in their pockets, and they knew he was after them. Hoping to get him off their trail, they had managed to have some reward dodgers distributed with Smoke’s name and description on them, along with false accusations of crimes he hadn’t committed.
So Smoke had grown a beard to change his appearance somewhat and started going by the name Buck West. The problem was, trouble still seemed to follow him around, and it wasn’t long before Buck had a reputation as a gunman and was wanted, also unjustly, by the law as well.
Judging by the stern tone of the man who had told him not to move, that hombre was a lawman. He just sounded like he packed a badge.
Without moving, Smoke said, “Take it easy, Marshal. Don’t get trigger-happy.”
“I never pulled a trigger unless it needed pulling,” the man replied. “How’d you know I’m a deputy U.S. marshal?”
“Wild guess,” Smoke said dryly.
The man grunted. “Because you know the law’s after you. All right, West. You don’t deny that you are Buck West, do you?”
“Would it do any good if I did?”
“Not a lick. You match the description on all the posters I’ve seen. So keep your hands in plain sight and don’t reach for that hogleg. Slide away from the Sharps.”
Smoke did as he was told. He knew he was fast enough that, more than likely, he could throw himself over onto his back, draw and fire the .44, and drill the marshal before the lawman could get him.
But that would mean killing a man who was just trying to do his job. Probably an honest man, at that. Some of the badge toters who worked for his enemies were every bit as crooked as those men were, but Smoke didn’t know that about the man who had the drop on him and couldn’t just assume it to be true.
He had never killed a man who didn’t need killing, to paraphrase what the marshal had said a moment earlier, and he wasn’t going to start now.
“I’m moving,” he said. He scooted to the side until the Sharps was far enough away that he would have to make a jump for it to reach it.
“Now stand up,” the lawman ordered.
“I’ll have to put a hand down to do that.”
“Make it the left hand. Keep the right up in the air where I can see it.”
The marshal had no way of knowing this since Smoke had been lying on his belly but had a second Colt stuck in his waistband on the left side. He could reach it easily, and he was almost as swift and accurate with his left hand as he was with his right.
But he didn’t make the try. He put his left hand on the rock to balance himself and climbed to his feet. Then he raised the left hand, too, without waiting to be told to.
“Turn around. Nice and easy.”
Smoke did so. He saw a sturdy figure standing at the edge of some brush on the hillside above him. The man held a Henry rifle in a rock-steady grip. Sunlight reflected from the badge pinned to his vest.
As the lawman came closer, Smoke saw that he was middle-aged, with quite a bit of gray in the brown hair under a tan hat. His face was rugged, with a strong jaw and chin. Bushy brows overhung his eyes. He was an inch or two taller than Smoke.
“Got a hideout gun, do you?” he said in an accusatory tone.
“It’s just a spare,” Smoke said. “It’s not hidden. But I could have reached for it a minute ago, if I really was the outlaw you think I am, Marshal.”
“You claimin’ you’re an innocent man, despite all those reward dodgers on you?” A bark of laughter came from the marshal. “Reckon I’ve heard that one plenty of times before. Try another one on for size, West.”
Smoke shook his head. “It would be a waste of time if I did, wouldn’t it?”
“Damn sure would.”
“So I don’t reckon you want to know what’s going to happen to that stagecoach headed this way.”
The marshal caught his breath. “When I spotted you skulkin’ around and watching the road through Eagle Valley down there, I figured you were after that coach! You know it’s carrying a load of nuggets and dust.”
“I know about the coach,” Smoke said, nodding. “But I wasn’t fixing to rob it.”
“Then why else would you be hiding up here above the trail, in a good place to bushwhack it when it comes along?”
“Because I wanted to see if those other fellas who have been trailing it were going to try a holdup.”
“Other fel—”
The marshal had been coming closer as they talked. As he frowned and started to ask Smoke what he was talking about, he got too close. Smoke made his move.
His left arm flashed out and knocked the Henry’s barrel upward. He struck even faster with his right, because he wanted to keep the lawman from firing a shot if he could. If the Henry went off now, it might ruin everything.
Smoke’s right fist crashed into the marshal’s jaw. The man’s head snapped back and his hat flew off. Smoke grabbed the Henry’s barrel and tore the rifle away from him. Quickly, he slammed the Henry’s butt into the marshal’s chest, not hard enough to do any permanent damage but with enough force to knock the already off-balance man off his feet. The marshal landed hard on the rock and lay there momentarily stunned.
Smoke stepped back and drew the .44. “Now you’re the one who needs to not do anything foolish, Marshal.”
The lawman caught his breath enough to sputter some curses. He pushed himself up on an elbow but didn’t move after that, because he was staring down the barrel of Smoke’s revolver.
“If you’re gonna kill me, go ahead and do it, you damned owlhoot,” he rasped.
“I’m not going to kill anybody,” Smoke said. He lowered the Colt and pouched the iron. “Well, I’m not going to kill you, Marshal. What’s your name, anyway?”
“Madigan,” the man said with a scowl on his face. “Deputy United States Marshal Jonas Madigan.”
“I want you to listen to me for two minutes, Marshal Madigan. If you do, then when I’m finished I’ll give this Henry back to you, and if you’re still bound and determined to arrest me, I reckon I won’t be able to stop you. Maybe not even that long,” Smoke added, “because I reckon that stagecoach will be here in less than a minute.”
Madigan didn’t waste time pondering. He jerked his head in a nod and said, “Talk. Make it fast.”
“Earlier this morning, I was back in the hills to the east. I saw that stagecoach stopped at a way station, and I also spotted half a dozen men watching the station from a hiding place on top of a nearby ridge. When the coach left, they followed it. I know the coach carries gold on this run sometimes, and I knew this valley was here with the road that twists around so much. Seemed like a good place to overtake the stage and rob it. They wouldn’t want to jump it in the hills. Too big a chance that if the team stampeded, it might go off the trail into a ravine or something where they couldn’t reach it.”
“You got all of that just from what little you saw?” Madigan asked.
“I’ve been around enough outlaws to know how they think,” Smoke said, then added significantly, “That doesn’t mean I’m one of them.”
Madigan looked interested despite what probably had been his resolve not to believe Smoke’s story. He asked, “What were you gonna do?”
“I was watching to make sure my hunch was right.” Smoke shrugged. “If it was, I thought I’d try to stop the holdup. I figured if I picked off one of the varmints from up here, they might come after me instead.”
“You can make a shot like that from here?”
“I can make the shot,” Smoke said.
After a couple of seconds, Madigan nodded. “For some reason, I believe you.”
“About the shot or the robbery?”
“Maybe both.”
A sudden rattle of gunfire from out in the valley made both men look in that direction. Smoke said, “There’s proof of some of it, anyway.”
Madigan scrambled to his feet with a vitality that belied his years. “Blast it, gimme my rifle!”
Smoke tossed the Henry to him and said, “I’ll give you a hand, Marshal.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
“Six to one odds are pretty steep.”
“Six to two ain’t that much better.”
“Might be enough,” Smoke said as both of them broke into a run toward the trees. Smoke figured Madigan had left his horse tied up close to where his own mount waited.
Since there were two of them now, they wouldn’t have to try to draw off the outlaws. They could take the road agents on directly, instead. They were outnumbered, sure, but they would have the element of surprise on their side.
Smoke lunged up the slope and into the trees. His black stallion, Drifter, threw his head up when Smoke appeared. The rangy stallion must have sensed that action was imminent. Smoke yanked the reins loose from the sapling where they were tied and practically vaulted into the saddle.
Horse and rider burst out of the woods. Twenty yards away, Madigan, now in the saddle on a big roan, emerged from the trees, as well. As he and Smoke circled the rock outcropping where Smoke had been lying earlier, Madigan called over the hoofbeats, “If this is a trick, West, I’ll make sure you die before I go under.”
“No trick, Marshal. I don’t have any use for stagecoach robbers.”
That was true. Earlier, when Smoke had realized he might have stumbled onto a developing holdup, he had tried to talk himself out of interfering. He told himself it was none of his business, and he dang sure wasn’t wearing a lawman’s star, so he had no excuse for mixing in.
Trouble was, Emmett Jensen had raised him to be honest, back there on the hardscrabble farm in the Missouri Ozarks. Some of the things Smoke had done since leaving home might be regarded as questionable by some folks, but what was it Cole Younger—also a Missouri boy—had said?
“We were victims of circumstances. We was drove to it”.
Yes, sir. Most of what Smoke had done since that day his pa and his brother Luke had ridden away to fight the Yankees, he had been driven to by circumstances . . . or fate, if a man wanted to call it that.
Down below, the stagecoach had come into view, careening along the road with dust from the team and the wheels boiling up behind it. Galloping through that dust came six men on horseback. Flame spurted from the muzzles of their guns as they fired after the racing vehicle.
The jehu on the driver’s box leaned forward on the seat to make himself a smaller target as he cracked his whip around the ears of the leaders. He bellowed curses at the horses to urge them on to greater speed.
Beside the driver, a guard knelt on the seat, facing backward so he could fire back at the pursuers with a Henry rifle. The man worked the rifle’s lever and sprayed lead at the would-be robbers, but his shots didn’t seem to be doing any good. None of the outlaws faltered.
At each bend, the driver had to haul back on the reins. The stagecoach could take those curves only so fast without toppling over. A wreck like that would be the end of the line for the driver and guard.
Smoke wondered if there were any passengers inside the coach.
Just as that thought went through his mind, the question was answered. An arm thrust out through one of the windows. Crimson flame bloomed from the gun the man held, along with a spurt of powder smoke. He fired several more times, but his shots didn’t appear to do any good, either. Every time the coach slowed for a turn, the pursuers on horseback closed in a little more.
“They haven’t seen us yet!” Madigan called to Smoke.
“Good! Then they won’t know what hit ’em!”
Both men had to avoid rocks and brush as they continued their headlong plunge down the hill. The black stallion’s nimble-footedness allowed Smoke to get slightly ahead.
They angled their course to intersect that of the stagecoach and the outlaws giving chase. Smoke drew his .44 from its holster, wrapped the reins around the saddle horn, and used his left hand to pull the spare gun from his waistband. With irons in both hands, he guided Drifter with his knees. The horse lunged onto the road just as the stagecoach flashed past, clattering and bouncing. Madigan reached the road just a few seconds after Smoke.
That put them between the stagecoach and the outlaws. A couple of the horses broke stride for an instant as their riders realized they were facing unexpected opposition.
The next second, all the would-be robbers knew it as Smoke’s guns flashed and exploded in a rolling roar of gun-thunder.