CHAPTER 19
Smoke saw a lot of nervous looks on the faces of the townspeople as he walked around Salt Lick that morning. Rumors had to be spreading that more trouble loomed over the town, even if folks didn’t know all the details yet.
The tension wasn’t totally due to the possible threat from the Bishop gang, either. One of the storekeepers commented to Smoke, “Folks are about to empty my shelves because they’ve started talkin’ about bad weather coming. Everybody wants to be prepared. When the temperature gets down close to zero and the wind is howlin’ and the snow’s comin’ down so thick you can’t hardly see, nobody wants to go out. They just build up the fires in their stoves and fireplaces and huddle at home, and I don’t blame ’em.”
“So you think there’s a storm coming, too?” Smoke asked.
“It sure looks like it, back off to the northwest.”
That was true. A line of dark blue clouds lay off in that direction. They hadn’t been there first thing that morning, but they were now, and they appeared to be moving steadily closer to the settlement.
Smoke mentioned that to Windy when he checked in at the office. The old-timer nodded, obviously satisfied with himself.
“I won’t say I told you so . . .” he began.
Smoke grinned. “That’s all right, Windy. You can say it. I’m perfectly willing to admit that your weather predicting powers are accurate . . . this time, anyway.” Smoke took his watch out of his pocket and opened it to check the time. “But that stagecoach ought to be coming in pretty soon, shouldn’t it? I thought I’d walk down to the station and wait for it, so I can be sure to get that letter to the governor in the mail pouch.”
“I’ll come with you,” Windy offered. “It’ll feel good to stretch my legs. Especially because we’re liable to be cooped up for a while once that norther gets here.”
“That’s what I’m hearing around town. Everybody’s getting ready for it.”
As they walked along the street toward the stage line office, a gust of wind pushed through, stirring up the dust into small whirlwinds around them. Smoke turned his head to look in the direction it came from.
“Air’s got a little bite to it.”
“Gonna be a big bite before it’s over,” Windy said.
Folks on the street began hurrying more as they went about their business, Smoke noticed. They had felt that fresh chill in the air, too.
As they reached the stage station, the door into the office opened and a balding man in spectacles, vest, white shirt, and bow tie stepped out. He held an open watch in his hand.
“Howdy, Eugene,” Windy called. “Stage ain’t late, is it?”
“Not just yet,” the man replied. He snapped the watch closed and slid it back in his pocket. “But it should be getting here any time now.”
Windy introduced Smoke to Eugene Hardisty, the manager of the stage station. Hardisty wasn’t one of the men they had recruited to defend the town if Snake Bishop’s gang attacked. Smoke could tell by looking at him that the man’s eyesight wasn’t very good. His eyes were watery and he blinked frequently behind the rimless spectacles.
“How long does it take for the stage to pick up a new team and head back south?” Smoke asked.
“Not long,” Hardisty replied. “My hostlers are good at their jobs. Of course, Luther and J.J.—that’s Luther Blassingame and J.J. Hanesworth, the driver and guard—usually get something to eat while they’re here, since they arrive around midday. However, today I’m going to advise them to pick up some food from the café and take it with them, instead of lingering over a regular meal. They need to get started back to Amarillo so they can stay ahead of the storm.”
Windy said, “You reckon a stagecoach team can outrun a blue norther?”
“Well, perhaps not completely,” Hardisty allowed. “But if they don’t waste any time, I believe they can beat the worst of it.”
Smoke hoped that turned out to be the case. But as the minutes ticked past, he could tell that Hardisty was beginning to worry. He felt unease stirring, too.
After a while, Hardisty took out his watch, checked the time, and snapped it closed again.
“That’s it,” he said. “The stagecoach is late now.”
Windy scratched his beard and shuffled his feet nervously. “Lots of things can happen to slow down a stagecoach,” he commented. “Don’t have to mean it was anything really bad.”
“Perhaps not, but I’ve never known Luther to be late without a good reason. Today of all days is not a good time for this to happen.”
Smoke and Windy exchanged a glance. Smoke figured the old-timer was thinking the same thing he was.
Not only did they have to worry about all the normal delays that could befall a stagecoach, but there was also the possible threat from Snake Bishop and his gang to worry about. According to the reward posters, Bishop had held up and robbed a number of stagecoaches. The gang had murdered drivers, guards, and passengers, too.
“Was anything particularly valuable supposed to be on today’s stage?” Smoke asked the station manager.
Hardisty hesitated before answering but then said, “I shouldn’t be talking about it, but since you’re the law in Salt Lick now, Mr. Jensen . . . Yes, there’s supposed to be a shipment of cash for the bank. Payday for the ranches in the area will be here before the next run, so the money has to be brought in today.”
“Would anybody who might be inclined to hold up the stage know that?”
Hardisty shook his head. “I don’t see how. I was aware of it, as was my counterpart in Amarillo, and a few people at the bank there, I suppose, as well as Abner Hawkins here. But we’re talking about honest, trustworthy individuals, most of whom I’ve known for a long time.”
“What about the driver and guard?”
“Are you implying that Luther or J.J. might have tipped off some outlaws?” Hardisty asked as he glared at Smoke. “I’d trust my life to either of those men.” One shoulder rose and fell slightly. “Of course, I realize that you aren’t personally acquainted with them, Marshal, so naturally you might be suspicious. But I can vouch for them, I assure you.”
“Good enough for me,” Smoke said with a nod.
“Besides, neither of them would have known until the last minute that the cash was going out today, although they might have surmised as much from previous instances of such shipments.”
“Reckon we ought’a ride south and see if we can find out why the coach is late?” Windy asked Smoke.
“I’m not sure it’s late enough yet to warrant that, Marshal,” Hardisty said. “But of course, that’s up to you.”
“We’ll give it another few minutes,” Smoke said. “But if it doesn’t show up pretty soon, I think we should saddle and ride, Windy.”
The old-timer nodded.
Smoke had another idea. “I’ll walk down to the bank and go up on the roof. That way I ought to be able to see a good long way to the south. Maybe I can spot the coach, or at least the dust from it.”
“If you don’t, maybe we should head on out.”
“I agree. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
The day before, Shug Russell and Enoch Jones had placed a ladder in the alley behind the bank and used it to reach the roof. The ladder was still there, being employed by the guards who had taken over since. Smoke climbed it easily and swung his leg over the low wall around the bank’s flat roof. Two men he hadn’t met stood there, each with a pair of field glasses. They had taken over for Lomax and Lawson earlier in the day.
The sentries knew who Smoke was, of course. They shook hands and introduced themselves as Griff Adams and Ben Sinclair.
Smoke said, “Have either of you noticed any dust off to the south?”
“You mean from that outlaw gang?” Adams asked.
“Actually, the stagecoach is late,” Smoke said. “I was hoping maybe you’d spotted it.”
Sinclair shook his head and said, “Not a thing, Marshal.” He held out his pair of field glasses. “But you’re welcome to have a look.”
Smoke took the glasses and lifted them to his eyes as he faced to the south. He turned his head slowly from left to right, studying the flat terrain that stretched as far as the eye could see. Nothing out there, he told himself.
Then he stiffened as he spotted something. At first, he wasn’t sure if anything was actually there, but after a moment he was confident that his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. There really was a column of dust rising and moving toward Salt Lick.
The two sentries had seen Smoke’s reaction. Ben Sinclair asked, “Do you see something, Marshal?”
“Is it that no-good Bishop gang?” Griff Adams added with a mixture of worry and anticipation in his voice.
“I don’t think it’s the outlaws,” Smoke replied. “There’s not enough dust for a bunch as big as that one is supposed to be. More than likely it’s the stagecoach.” He handed the field glasses back to Sinclair. “Something must have happened to slow it down, but maybe it wasn’t too bad.”
Smoke said so long to the two men and climbed back down the ladder. He walked quickly to the stage station, where Windy and Eugene Hardisty waited for him with anxious expressions on their faces.
“See anything?” Windy asked before Hardisty could ask the same question.
“I did,” Smoke said. “There’s a little dust cloud headed this way. Looks about the right size to be coming from a stagecoach.”
Hardisty let out a heartfelt sigh of relief. “Oh, thank heavens. I’ll tell the hostlers to get the fresh team ready.” Another gust of wind blew along the street. “Luther’s going to have to hurry on his way back to Amarillo if he wants to stay ahead of that norther.”
He hurried off into the barn next to the office while Smoke and Windy waited in front of the building. While they were standing there, Windy asked, “You didn’t see nothin’ suspicious while you was up there on the bank roof, did you, Smoke?”
“Not a thing. The two men posted there seemed pretty alert. I’m sure they’ll let us know if they spot any signs of trouble.”
In a few minutes, the column of dust was close enough to be seen with the naked eye. It rose and then flattened out and streamed off to the south, an indicator of the rising wind from the north. After another couple of minutes, Smoke’s keen eyes were able to make out the dark shape at the base of the dust cloud and knew that was the stagecoach.
Windy saw the same thing and said, “Here it comes.”
The coach rolled into Salt Lick and came up the main street. Smoke tensed as he realized only one man was on the box, instead of the two that were expected.
“What in thunderation!” That startled exclamation came from Windy, who had noticed the same thing. “That’s just Luther Blassingame on the box. Where’s Hanesworth?”
The jehu swayed wildly back and forth with every bounce of the stagecoach. Smoke said, “He looks like he’s hurt. I don’t know if he can stop that team.”
Indeed, the coach hadn’t slowed down. A few people in the street had to scurry to get out of its way. A man shouted angrily at the driver, but Blassingame didn’t seem to hear.
Smoke strode out into the street, took off his hat, and waved it over his head. The horses saw him and spooked a little. That accomplished Smoke’s goal of getting them to slow down. He dodged out of the way but was able to grab the harness on one of the leaders and haul the horse to a stop. The other members of the team halted as well.
“Luther!” Windy called as he ran forward. “Luther, what in blazes happened?”
Blassingame didn’t respond. Smoke saw the dark bloodstains on the man’s faded blue shirt. Blassingame swayed again, and this time he didn’t even try to catch himself. He fell over on his side and then rolled off the seat to fall heavily to the ground next to the coach’s left front wheel. Neither Smoke nor Windy could get there in time to break his fall.
They arrived at his side a second later, though, and Windy dropped to his knees beside the jehu.
“Damn it, Luther, you’re shot all to pieces!”
Windy was right about that. Smoke saw that Luther Blassingame had at least three bullet wounds in his torso and had lost quite a bit of blood from each of them. He must have suffered quite a bit of damage internally, too. With those injuries, Smoke wasn’t sure how the man was even still alive.
“Luther!”
That shout came from Eugene Hardisty, who had emerged from the barn and seen his driver’s bloody shape sprawled on the ground next to the coach. Hardisty rushed forward and dropped to a knee on Blassingame’s other side.
Windy got an arm around Blassingame’s shoulders, lifted him slightly, and propped him up on a leg. Looking around at the crowd that was starting to gather, Windy said, “Somebody fetch a bottle from Apple Jack’s! Luther needs some bracin’ up!”
A few shots of whiskey weren’t going to do Blassingame any good in the long run, Smoke knew, but in a way Windy was right. The liquor might revive the wounded man and give him enough strength to allow him to tell them what had happened.
More townspeople crowded around. The stagecoach’s arrival would have drawn a considerable amount of attention, anyway. Such things always did, because they broke up the monotony of life in a frontier settlement. With word already spreading that the driver had been shot, more and more people hurried up to see what was going on.
Smoke thought that Blassingame might have died before falling off the coach, but a groan came from the driver, proving that he was still alive. Windy propped him up a little higher and said, “Luther, can you hear me? Luther!”
Blassingame’s eyelids fluttered a few times, then opened. His lips moved, but no sound came out, at least none that Smoke could hear. He gave the muttering crowd a stern look and said, “Everybody quiet down.”
His commanding tone got results. A hush fell over the street. When Blassingame opened his mouth again, Smoke leaned forward to hear what the man had to say.
“Out . . . outlaws . . . jumped . . . the coach,” Blassingame rasped. Every word cost him an obvious effort. Blood trickled from both corners of his mouth. “Twenty men . . . maybe more . . . shot . . . J.J. . . . killed . . . passengers.”
One of the bystanders reached over, grasped the handle of the coach’s door on this side, and twisted it. A woman screamed at the sight of the three corpses lying in bloody heaps on the vehicle’s floor.
Smoke stepped over and closed the door. “Everyone stay back,” he ordered. “Somebody fetch the undertaker for these gents.”
Then he returned his attention to Luther Blassingame, who was still painfully gasping out words.
“Salt lick . . . south . . . of town,” he said, and Smoke figured he was referring to the geographical feature that had given the settlement its name. That must have been where the outlaws attacked the coach. “Was able . . . to hide . . . in that gully . . . near there . . . They thought . . . I was dead . . .”
So that was how Blassingame had escaped from the bandits when the guard and the passengers had been killed. He wasn’t going to survive for long, however, as badly wounded as he was.
A man pushed through the crowd and announced, “Here’s that bottle you wanted, Windy!” He held out an uncorked bottle of whiskey.
Windy snatched it and held the bottle to Blassingame’s mouth. He dribbled a little of the fiery stuff between the jehu’s lips. Blassingame choked and coughed, but then he swallowed more of the whiskey and appeared to strengthen slightly.
“Once they was . . . gone . . . I crawled outta . . . the brush . . . got back on the stage . . . headed for town . . .”
That must have required a herculean effort, Smoke knew. During the drive into Salt Lick, Blassingame would have lost even more blood and gotten even weaker, but he had clung to life somehow . . . and clung to the reins, as well, to guide the team the rest of the way here.
Windy gave him another drink, and from that Blassingame was able to find the strength to lift a bloody hand and clutch at the old-timer’s arm.
“Had to make it . . . had to warn you . . . Bishop! . . . It was . . . Snake Bishop . . . and his gang! . . . And they’re . . . they’re headed . . . here . . . headed for . . . Salt Lick!”
Blassingame stiffened in Windy’s arms and his eyes went wide. Another breath rasped in his throat as he drew it in. It came back out in the sort of rattling sigh that Smoke had heard too many times in his life. He didn’t have to see Blassingame’s eyes glaze over to know that the man was dead.
Blassingame’s final words hung there in the shocked silence surrounding him.