CHAPTER 10
Salt Lick
“So he just let you go,” Mrs. Dollinger said. “Allowed you to take your horse and a spare mount and ride away while he was inside the stagecoach station fussing and cooing over a newborn baby.”
“That’s right,” Smoke said with a smile. “I think it pained him a whole heap to do it, too. But that baby tipped the scales in my favor. If that little girl hadn’t been born when she was, Jonas might have taken me in, and then there’s no telling what might have happened. I had some mighty powerful enemies back in those days.”
“Did you write to him? Wait, of course you did, I know that. The two of you became good friends over the years.”
“Yeah, I let him know what happened to me and how the whole thing played out. And we kept in touch, so I was able to follow his career as a lawman, too. The letters sort of dwindled over the years, though. I knew he’d taken a job as a town marshal in Texas, but that was the last I’d heard from him until I got his recent letter.”
“That was quite an exciting tale. Did you embellish it, the way those men do who write yellowback novels about you?”
Smoke grunted. “You’ve seen some of those, have you?”
“Jonas has a collection of them. He’s quite proud of knowing the hero of all those stirring tales.”
“Well, most of those fellas do more than embellish what actually happened. They just make things up out of thin air, and nine times out of ten, it’s so outlandish that nobody with any sense could believe it.” Smoke shrugged. “Folks seem to enjoy them, though. Nothing wrong with something that helps to pass the time.”
“And you didn’t actually answer my question.”
“No, ma’am, I did not,” Smoke said.
A footstep caught the attention of both of them. The front door opened, and Jonas Madigan stepped out onto the porch with a blanket wrapped around him.
“Thought I heard somebody talking out here.”
Mrs. Dollinger got quickly to her feet, followed by Smoke. “Jonas, you shouldn’t be up and about, especially not in this chilly air.”
“I’ve slept away most of the day,” Madigan growled. “A man can’t sleep all the time. And in the long run, I don’t reckon a little cold air will have any effect on what ails me, good or bad.”
“Perhaps not, but still, you should go lie down—”
“No, I’ve done that enough for a while,” he said firmly. “But I’ll tell you what I will do. I’ll sit in that comfortable armchair in the parlor, and you can tuck this blanket in around my legs if you want to, Miriam. Then Smoke and me will have ourselves a talk, get caught up on everything. Maybe even have a cigar or two. How’s that sound, Smoke?”
“I’ll pass on the cigar, Jonas, but I could do with a cup of coffee.”
“It’s settled, then,” Madigan said. “Come on in. I want to hear all about how things are going up there on that ranch of yours, Smoke.”
* * *
Several miles south of Salt Lick, Sid Atkins and Bart Rome hunkered next to a tiny fire, trying to stay warm without attracting any attention. The flask of whiskey they passed back and forth helped with that.
In addition, every slug of the Who-hit-John they downed made the plan they had come up with seem even better and more likely to work.
Rome was still worried, though. He said, “You know the boss won’t ever forgive us for double-crossing him. That means there’s a good chance he’ll never stop trying to hunt us down and get his revenge.”
Atkins waved the flask dismissively. “He’ll have other things to worry about. Anyway, there’ll be other banks, with bigger hauls than this one. Sure, he’ll be mad, but he’ll get over it.” Atkins tipped the flask to his mouth and took a swallow. “Besides, neither of us rode with him for all that many years. We owe more loyalty to ourselves than we do to him.”
“Maybe . . . but I can’t help but worry he won’t see it that way.”
“Then we just need to stay far enough ahead of him that he won’t ever have a chance to catch up to us.” Atkins handed the flask to Rome. “I’m thinkin’ after we get over in New Mexico Territory, we can cut south, maybe head down across the border into Old Meh-hee-co. Away from all these cold winds. Plenty of tequila to warm your innards and hot-blooded little señoritas to warm your bed . . .”
His voice trailed off in a wistful sigh.
“All that’s fine,” Rome said after he’d taken a drink, “but first we’ve got to take care of business here.”
“We will, don’t worry about that,” Atkins assured him. “As soon as it gets good and dark.”
They had some jerky and stale biscuits and made a sparse supper on that as the afternoon light faded. When night fell, they put out the fire, which made the air feel even colder. But there were still a few renegade Comanches roaming the high plains, and the sight of a fire might be too tempting if any of those warriors happened to be where they could see it.
“The stars are out,” Rome said. “It’s late enough, Sid. Let’s go get this done.”
“You’re right,” Atkins agreed. “Salt Lick looked like the sort of place where they roll the boardwalks up as soon as the sun goes down. I don’t reckon anybody will be around to give us any trouble.”
“As long as we don’t make too much racket getting into the bank. Are you sure you’ve got enough dynamite to blow the vault door open?”
“Sure, I’m sure! If you know what you’re doin’, all it takes is one stick of the stuff, and I know what I’m doin’. I used to work in a mine, and we set off charges all the time.”
“Back in the days when you were an honest man, eh?”
“Well,” Atkins said with a chuckle, “I may have had an honest job, but I ain’t sure I was ever what you’d consider an honest man.”
Earlier in the day, after that arrogant pup of a lawman in Salt Lick had put the run on them and they had ridden out of town to wait for dark, the two men had unsaddled their horses. Now they got the rigs back on their mounts.
“I wish there was some way to pull this job without the people in town even knowing we were there,” Rome commented as they rode north, into the wind.
“Well, there ain’t,” Atkins said, “unless you want to hang around these parts long enough to find out who the bank president is, so we can grab him and force him to open the vault. And we don’t have that much time to waste.”
“No, we don’t,” Rome agreed with obvious reluctance.
“So that means all we can do is blow the vault, grab as much loot as we can, and light a shuck outta there. Even though we’ll have to move fast, we ought to have a pretty good payday.”
“You know, it’s not too late to turn around and go back to join the others, like we were supposed to.”
“Thinkin’ like that is why we ain’t ever in charge of anything, Bart. A fella who just does what he’s told never gets to decide anything for himself. He’s just half a man, really . . . the order-followin’ half.”
“All right, all right,” Rome said, sounding like he was getting irritated. “Let’s get on to town and rob that damn bank.”
* * *
Windy Whittaker drove up late in the afternoon with a wagon that had chunks of firewood stacked in the back. Smoke helped him unload the wood and carry it around to the rear of the house, where there was a bin in which it was stored. The chunks were small enough they could be used in the wood-burning stove in the kitchen.
“Did you cut and split this wood, Windy?”
“Naw. Where would I do that?” The bearded old-timer waved a hand at the surrounding countryside. “There ain’t what you’d call an abundance o’ trees in these parts. Fella name of Fred Cunningham has it freighted in from elsewhere in the state, and then he sells it.” Windy sniffed and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “When folks first started settlin’ in these parts, they burned mostly buffalo dung, on account of that’s what there was more of than anything else. It ain’t the best-smellin’ stuff in the world, though, so these days, folks prefer firewood when they can get it. When they can’t, they make do.”
“Have you been around Salt Lick since it was founded?” Smoke asked.
“Me? Shoot, no. I’ve always been fiddle-footed. Reckon I’ve roamed over most o’ the frontier from the Rio Grande to the Milk River. I just blew into these parts a couple o’ years ago.” He laughed. “Blew into. On account o’ folks call me Windy.”
“Yeah, I got that,” Smoke said dryly. “For some reason, it just seemed like you might have been around here longer.”
“That’s ’cause I’m the sort o’ fella who, once you get to know me, you feel like we been pards for years an’ years.”
Smoke nodded and said, “Yeah, I can see what you mean.”
They had just put the last of the wood in the bin when the back door opened and Miriam Dollinger looked out.
“Windy, Jonas wants you to stay for supper.”
Windy jerked his hat off. His whiskery face creased in a grin as he said, “Why, ma’am, I’d be plumb honored to do so. If I wouldn’t be puttin’ nobody out, that is.”
“Not at all,” she told him. “There’s plenty of food, and Jonas enjoys your company.”
“I always enjoy visitin’ with him, too.” Windy glanced at Smoke. “But the marshal’s already got comp’ny . . .”
“A man can’t have too many friends,” Smoke said. “You’re welcome as far as I’m concerned.”
Windy bobbed his head. “In that case, then, Miz Dollinger, I’ll sure be happy to accept the kind invite.”
“The two of you come on in,” Mrs. Dollinger said. “I’ve just put on a fresh pot of coffee.”
Supper was an enjoyable affair with the four of them sitting around the kitchen table. Madigan wore a thick robe and groused about how he should have gotten dressed, but he had to admit the robe was comfortable. Miriam kept the coffee cups filled. They had beans and cornbread and thick slices of ham, simple fare but very good and filling. They finished off the cornbread with glasses of cold buttermilk that made for good dunking.
When the meal was over, Madigan leaned back in his chair and sighed contentedly. “I have to say, between that fine food and even better company, this is the best I’ve felt in quite a spell. I’m mighty obliged to all of you for lifting the spirits of a decrepit old man.”
Miriam was sitting to his right. She rested her hand on his and smiled as she said, “You’re not all that decrepit, Jonas.”
“I wouldn’t say that. But I don’t mind you saying it, Miriam.”
Windy Whittaker had kept the conversation going during supper with a series of colorful stories about his travels and adventures. To hear Windy tell it, he was acquainted with every famous frontiersman from Kit Carson to Wild Bill Hickok to Buffalo Bill Cody.
“Ever run into an old mountain man called Preacher?” Smoke asked the old-timer when he, Madigan, and Windy had moved into the parlor while Miriam said she would clean up.
“Preacher?” Windy slapped his thigh. “Why, sure, me an’ that ol’ reprobate go ’way back. I know I don’t look near old enough to have been out here durin’ the mountain man days, but I got in on the tail end o’ that time. Went to one of the very last rendezvous they had on the Green River, and Preacher was there. Shinin’ times, son, shinin’ times.”
As far as Smoke could recall, he had never heard Preacher mention anything about someone called Windy Whittaker, but he supposed it was possible Windy was telling the truth. Smoke had heard plenty of stories about and from the old mountain man, but he didn’t know everything Preacher had done, or everyone he had met.
“What about Jamie Ian MacCallister?”
“Rode the river with that ol’ boy many a time!”
Smoke hadn’t met Jamie MacCallister, although Preacher had shared numerous adventures with Jamie. Smoke was fairly well acquainted with Jamie’s son Falcon. Again, he didn’t recall any connection between the MacCallisters and Windy Whittaker. But it didn’t really matter, Smoke mused, whether Windy was stretching the truth or not. He was an entertaining old codger, and Madigan seemed to enjoy having him around, so that was good enough for Smoke.
Windy spun a few more yarns, and then Madigan began to yawn. “Sorry, boys,” the former lawman said. “I shouldn’t be sleepy, as much as I napped during the day, but I’m startin’ to get a mite weary.”
“You should turn in, then,” Smoke suggested.
“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Miriam said as she came into the parlor. She had put on an apron while she was cleaning up, but it was off now, signifying that she was through with the chores. “I’ll go straighten up your bed.”
“Blast it, that’s not necessary,” Madigan said. “It’s not like I waller around so much that I turn it into a rat’s nest.”
“You’ll be more comfortable and sleep better if I freshen it up.” Miriam smiled and turned to leave the room.
Madigan waited until she was gone to say quietly, “That woman sure does like to fuss over me.”
“Yeah, you’d think she was married to you or something,” Smoke said with a smile.
Windy said, “Any fella who was lucky enough to get hitched to Miz Miriam could sure enough count hisself fortunate. She’s darned near about the nicest, prettiest woman I ever saw in all my borned days.”
“She is that, all right,” Madigan agreed. “Give me a hand, Smoke.”
Smoke helped his old friend out of the chair where he sat and then went with him down the hall to the bedroom. With assistance from Smoke and Miriam, Madigan got into bed. Miriam pulled a chair up close and said, “I’ve brought a new book for us to read, Jonas, by Mr. Twain. It’s called The Prince and the Pauper. It’s supposed to be quite a thrilling historical adventure.”
Madigan chuckled. “I’ll bet it’s not as thrilling as Smoke Jensen Battles the Bandits of Buzzard’s Canyon.”
“You’ll be better off sticking with Mark Twain,” Smoke told him with a grin.
Miriam turned down the lamp slightly, then picked up the book she had placed on the bedside table earlier. As Smoke left the room and eased the door closed behind him, he heard her reading in a soft but compelling voice.
The smell of tobacco smoke drew him out to the porch, where Windy sat in one of the rocking chairs, puffing on an old corncob pipe. Smoke took the other chair. The air was chilly, but the wind had died down, so it was fairly pleasant, a crisp late autumn evening.
“She readin’ to him?” Windy asked quietly.
“Yep. Something by Mark Twain.”
Windy nodded. With the pipe stem still clenched between his teeth, he said, “Them two ought to get married while they still can. I ain’t never been much of a believer in what you call your matrimonial bliss, but they was made to pull in double harness, if you ask me. Damn shame they never found each other as more than friends until it was this late.”
“Better late than never, they say.”
“You a married man, Smoke?”
“I am. To a beautiful girl named Sally. I don’t know what I’d do without her. Hope I never have to find out. How about you, Windy?”
“Me?” The old-timer waved a hand. “Shoot, what woman with a lick o’ sense would ever get hitched to a crusty ol’ badger like me? I wintered with Injun tribes a few times and had squaw wives for a spell, and there was this redheaded gal who run a sportin’ house up in Cheyenne and me and her got along real well, well enough that we decided to set up housekeepin’ together for a while, so she gave up the sportin’ house and I, uh, gave up the line o’ work I was in just then. If we’d stayed together, we might’ve got hitched someday, but after a spell we didn’t get along as well as we used to, so we decided . . . well, she decided . . . that it’d be better if I was to sort of mosey along, and by that time, to tell you the truth, I was kinda ready to take off for the tall an’ uncut my own self, so I give her a big ol’ goodbye smooch and she told me to rattle my hocks ’fore she trimmed these whiskers o’ mine with a Bowie knife.” Windy sighed. “Yes, sir, she was a good ol’ gal, Roberta was, even if she was a mite on the pestiferous side now and then.”
Smoke had listened to the torrent of words, wondering when Windy was going to run out of steam, and since it appeared that the old-timer was finished, at least for now, Smoke indulged his curiosity by asking about something that had caught his attention while Windy was talking.
“What line of work was that?”
“What line o’ work was what?”
“The one you gave up when you moved in with Miss Roberta.”
Windy cleared his throat and said, “Oh, well, that was so long ago, I don’t hardly remember—”
The sudden, totally unexpected sound of an explosion somewhere in Salt Lick dropped the curtain on the old man’s clearly reluctant answer. Both men bolted to their feet, and Smoke’s hand dropped to the gun on his hip.