Sugarloaf Ranch
Not one for riding in a buckboard, Smoke let Sally drive the rig while he rode next to it. As he rode down the trail toward town, Smoke glanced down at Sally, recalling the way the moon had made her silk nightgown glimmer like molten silver the other night. When it suited her to do so, Sally wore men’s pants, and she was doing so this morning, but it did not detract one bit from her femininity. This morning she was carrying a silver-plated .32 revolver. She wasn’t a fast-draw artist, but she was smooth with the revolver, and she always hit where she aimed.
Smoke was actually leaving for Frisco this morning in order to meet with Byron Davencourt so he could make arrangements for selling his cattle. It would have been a lot quicker to go by train, and he did intend to return by train, but he intended to go on horseback all the way from Big Rock to Frisco in order to scout the best route for driving the cattle. Sally chose this morning to come into town as well, not only to prolong her good-bye to Smoke, but also so she could do some shopping. They rode together into Big Rock, laughing and talking as they did so. Despite the length of time they had been married, they still enjoyed each other’s company, and this morning was no exception.
When they reached Big Rock and rode down Main Street, they saw Sheriff Monte Carson standing on the boardwalk in front of his office, drinking a cup of coffee.
As Smoke and Sally rode past the sheriff’s office, the sheriff raised his cup in a salute. “Good mornin’, Smoke, Sally. Where are you two headed?” Carson called.
“Meet me at Longmont’s and I’ll tell you all about it,” Smoke called back.
Carson nodded and then he pitched his coffee onto the dirt. Smoke and Monte Carson had become very good friends over the past few years. Carson had once been a well-known gunfighter, though he had never ridden the owlhoot trail.
Smoke was responsible for the fact that Carson was the sheriff of Big Rock. It had all come about when an ambitious and totally unscrupulous rancher named Tilden Franklin made plans to take over the county. He hired Carson to be the sheriff of Fontana, a town just down the road from Smoke’s Sugarloaf spread. When Carson learned that the man’s plans were to have a sheriff who would wink at his lawlessness, he put his foot down and informed Franklin that Fontana was going to be run in a law-abiding manner from then on.
Franklin, with the intention of showing Carson who was the real boss of Fontana, sent a bunch of his riders into town to teach the upstart sheriff a lesson. The men seriously wounded him and killed Carson’s two deputies, taking over the town. In retaliation, Smoke founded the town of Big Rock, and he, Sheriff Carson, and a band of aging gunfighters returned to Fontana to clean house and make things right.
When the fracas was over, Smoke offered the job of sheriff of Big Rock to Monte Carson. Carson accepted the offer, and wound up marrying a grass widow and settling into the sheriff’s job as if he had been born to it. Neither Smoke nor the citizens of Big Rock ever had cause to regret the fact that Carson had taken the job.
Now, aging somewhat, heavyset, and growing a bit of a paunch thanks both to his wife’s excellent cooking and his aversion to any real physical labor, Carson still had the qualities that made a good sheriff. He was quick and deadly accurate with a handgun, and he was honest. If you obeyed the law and didn’t cause any trouble in his town, you would have no trouble with him. Cross the law, and a significant number of young gunnies learned that age and weight had not lessoned the sheriff’s effectiveness.
“Smoke, you go on down to Longmont’s. I’ll join you in a little while,” Sally said. “I need to stop in to Lucy’s Dress Emporium for a few minutes.”
“You are buying another dress, with as many dresses as you have in the armoire?” Smoke asked. Before Sally could answer, Smoke held up his hand as if waving her off. “Don’t get me wrong, I think you are beautiful in any dress you choose to wear.” He chuckled. “Heck, you are beautiful even when you aren’t wearing anything at all,” he added.
Sally smiled. “If you are trying to make me blush right here in front of everybody, it isn’t going to work.”
Smoke laughed again. “Sally, I gave up trying to make you blush a long time ago. It’s just that you don’t choose to wear dresses all that often. I mean, look at what you are wearing right now. I’m just wondering why you would even want another dress, is all.”
“For your information, Mister Jensen, it just so happens that the dress I am buying this morning will not be for me,” Sally said. “It just so happens that Maria’s birthday is coming up this week, and this dress is for her.”
“Oh, yes, Maria’s birthday,” Smoke replied. “I had forgotten about that. Yes, if this is for Maria, be my guest.”
“Thank you, Mister Jensen, for your permission. Not that I needed it,” she added, though her smile and the twinkle in her eyes softened her words.
After Sally stopped in front Lucy’s Dress Emporium, Smoke rode on down to Longmont’s, dismounted, then went inside. As was his custom upon entering any saloon, he stepped immediately to the side and pressed his back up against the wall. He stood there a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the lower light inside while he looked for possible trouble among the patrons. Even though he knew he was almost as safe in his friend’s restaurant as he was in his own house, he’d been hunted and tracked for more than half his life, and the habit of caution was so ingrained in him that when he was cautious, he didn’t even notice it.
The owner of the saloon and restaurant, Louis Longmont, was sitting at his usual table in a corner. He smiled as he watched his friend go through his regular ritual. Louis was a lean, hawk-faced man, with strong, slender hands, long fingers, and carefully manicured nails. He had jet-black hair and a black pencil-thin mustache. He was dressed in a black suit, with white shirt and a crimson ascot. He wore low-heeled boots, and a pistol that hung in tied-down leather on his right side. The pistol was nickel-plated, with ivory handles, but it wasn’t just for show, for Louis was snake-quick and a feared, deadly gunhand when pushed.
Although Louis was engaged in a profession that did not have a very good reputation, he was not an evil man. He had never hired his gun out for money. And while he could make a deck of cards do almost anything, he had never cheated at poker. He didn’t have to cheat. He was possessed of a phenomenal memory, could tell you the odds of filling any type of poker hand, and was an expert at the technique of card counting.
Louis was just past thirty. When he was a small boy, Louis left Louisiana and came West with his parents. His parents had died in a shantytown fire, leaving the boy to cope as best he could.
Louis had coped quite well, plying his innate intelligence and willingness to take a chance into a fortune. He owned a large ranch up in Wyoming Territory, several businesses in San Francisco, and a hefty chunk of a railroad.
Though it was a mystery to many why Louis continued to stay with his saloon and restaurant in a small town, Louis explained it very simply.
“If I left the business, I would miss it,” he said. Smoke understood exactly what he was talking about.
Still standing just inside the door, Smoke glanced over and saw his friend smiling at him. He returned the grin, then moved across the floor to take a seat at Louis’s table.
Louis was shuffling a deck of cards and dealing poker hands. He turned up three hands, studied them for a moment, then pointed to the hand that was still facedown.
“If I were a betting man—and incidentally I am—I would bet on this as the winning hand,” he said.
“What makes you think so? This one has a pair of aces,” Smoke said, pointing to one of the hands.
“I think this will have three of a kind,” Louis said. “Small cards to be sure, but three will beat a pair of aces.” He turned up the cards to expose three sixes, a jack, and a queen.
“I’m glad I didn’t bet,” Smoke said.
“Did Miss Sally remain behind at Sugarloaf?” Louis asked as he picked up all the cards and folded them back into the deck.
“No, Sally came with me. She will here shortly.”
Louis’s smile broadened. “Ah, good, good. I am always glad to see you, my friend, but the lovely Mademoiselle Sally?” Louis raised his hand to his lips and, putting his thumb and forefinger together, made a kissing motion. “It is well known that Mademoiselle Sally’s beauty brings joy to a dreary world.”
“Do I have to keep reminding you, Louis, that Sally is not a mademoiselle? We are married.”
“Yes, mon ami, I know you are married,” Louis said, “but l’espoir est éternel. Hope is eternal,” he translated.
Smoke laughed, and was still laughing when Sheriff Carson came into the saloon, breathing a little heavily from having walked down from his office.
“Have I missed a joke?” he asked.
“Alas, my gendarme friend,” Louis said. “The joke is on me.”
“How about a round of beers on me?” Smoke said. “I’m heading down to Frisco and could use one for the trail.”
“Why Frisco?” Louis asked as he signaled the bartender.
“Yes, Mr. Longmont?” the bartender called to him.
“Bring us three beers, will you, Andrew?”
“Yes, sir, right away.”
With the beers ordered, Louis turned his attention back to Smoke. “You were about to tell us why you were going to Frisco.”
“I’m going there to meet a cattle buyer named Davencourt. Turns out he has a contract to supply beef to the army, and I figure he is going to be in the market.”
“But can’t you sell your beef here? To C.D. Montgomery, or one of the other buyers?”
“I could,” Smoke said. “But Davencourt is paying more, providing I deliver the cattle to the railhead in Frisco.”
“I see,” Longmont said. “Do you think he will pay enough to make it worth your while to take your cattle to Frisco?”
“I think he will. At least, that’s what I intend to find out with this trip.”
“That sounds smart to me,” Carson said. “No wonder Sugarloaf is the most successful ranch around. You are always on top of things.”
“Ha, don’t give me credit for this,” Smoke said. “This was all Sally’s idea.”
“Yes, I know. She is not only beautiful, she is also very smart,” Louis said. He sighed. “Ah, what a woman.”
“Oh, say, Smoke, do you remember a fella by the name of Van Arndt?” Carson asked. “Reece Van Arndt?”
“Yes, I remember him,” Smoke said. “As I recall, he tried to hold up a train a few years ago.”
“As you recall,” Carson said with a chuckle. “Tried is right. He tried, but he didn’t succeed because of you, my friend. His gang was killed and he wound up going to prison.”
“Good place for him,” Smoke said.
“I would agree with you,” Carson said. “Unfortunately, he is no longer there. I got a wire a few days ago from Warden Parker at the prison.”
“Don’t tell me Van Arndt has escaped.”
Carson shook his head. “He didn’t escape, he was let out. He served his time and is now a free man. The warden thought you might like to know that.”
“Why would he think that?” Smoke asked. “Has Van Arndt made any specific threats?”
“I don’t know and Warden Parker didn’t say,” Carson replied. “All I know is that his telegram just said that I should advise you that Van Arndt has served his time and has been released. If you want to know the truth, I expect Parker is just being extra cautious is all.”
“I don’t fault him for his caution and I appreciate you bringing me the information,” Smoke said. “I’ve had a passel of people after me in my life—so if somebody new is added to the bunch that call themselves my enemy, it’s always good to know his name.”
“Smoke Jensen, let’s just see how good you really are with a gun! I’m callin’ you out, you son of a bitch!”
The loud shout and angry challenge got the attention of everyone in the saloon, and all talking stopped in mid conversation as the other patrons looked up to see what was going on.
Looking toward the sound of the voice, Smoke saw Lucas Keno standing just inside the door. There was an expression of rage and hatred on the cowboy’s face, and he was holding a pistol leveled at Smoke.
“What are you doing, Keno?” Smoke asked.
“Cal and Pearlie have both told me that you are the best with a pistol they ever saw. So, I was just wonderin’ how good you really are. Because, you see, I’m pretty good myself. And what I thought is, we’d just see which one of us is the best in a fair fight.”
“It’s hardly a fair fight when you are already holding a gun in your hand,” Longmont said.
Keno smiled, an evil, mirthless smile.
“Well, now, you see, the way I look it, that’s what is going to make it a fair fight,” he said. “I figure if you really are as good as ole’ Cal and Pearlie say you are, then I might just need me an advantage.”
“That’s quite an advantage, Keno,” Sheriff Carson said. “In fact, it is so much an advantage that if, by some wild chance, you would happen to kill Smoke or anyone else in here, it would be considered murder in the first degree. We hang people for that in this state.”
“Yeah, I reckon it is a big advantage, ain’t it?” Keno replied, his smile growing larger. “I tell you what I’ll do for you, Jensen. I’ll give you a chance to stand up and face me. And I won’t shoot until I see you start to pull your gun.”
Smoke smiled, and his smile was broad and genuine.
“What are you smiling at, you son of a bitch? Don’t you understand what’s goin’ on here?”
Now Sheriff Carson and Longmont were smiling as well.
“Have you all gone crazy?” Keno asked, his voice rising in pitch as his frustration and anger intensified. Smoke was showing no fear, and that wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. “I’m the one that’s holdin’ the gun here. Or ain’t you people noticed that?”
“Oh we’ve noticed all right,” Smoke said. “Drop the gun, Keno. Drop the gun and you might live.”
“What are you talking about?” Keno asked, still confused by the strange reaction. “Why would I do a foolish thing like that?” Keno asked.
“Because if you don’t drop your gun right now, I will be forced to put a .32-caliber ball in your head,” a woman’s calm and well-modulated voice said.
Sally’s words were augmented by the deadly double click of the cylinder being engaged as the hammer was being pulled back by her thumb.
“Hi, Sally,” Smoke said easily. “Do you want a beer?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Sally replied. “Louis, tell Andrew to draw one for me while I shoot Mr. Keno in the back of his head for not dropping his pistol when I told him to.”
“No! No!” Keno said. “I’m dropping it, I’m dropping it. Don’t shoot!” He opened his hand and the pistol fell to the floor with a loud thump.
“Damn,” Sheriff Carson said. “I walked all the way down here. Now I have to put Keno in jail before I can even have a beer.”
“Darlin’, pick up Keno’s gun and bring it to me,” Smoke said.
Stepping around Keno, Sally reached down to pick up his pistol; then she took it over to the table. The wooden pistol grip was still shattered from the impact of the bullet when Smoke had shot it a few days earlier. Smoke held it out toward Keno.
“Damn, you haven’t gotten that fixed yet?” he asked. “I thought you were supposed to be so all-fired good with a gun. Nobody who is good with a gun would let one stay in such a bad condition as this.”
Smoke removed the cylinder and slipped it into his pocket. Then, using his pocketknife, he extracted the firing pin. After that, he walked over and dropped the gun into a half-full spittoon.
“No need to put him in jail, Sheriff, he didn’t actually do anything,” Smoke said, handing the empty cylinder to Carson. “Suppose you hold on to this for a couple of days.”
“All right,” Carson said, taking the cylinder from Smoke.
“You don’t have to be doin’ me no damn favors,” Keno said.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Keno, I’m not doing you any favors,” Smoke said. “I’m just telling you straight out to get out of my sight and stay out of my sight. Because next time I see you, I’ll kill you.”
Smoke delivered the words in an even, calm, and cool voice. That had the effect of making the threat much more frightening and believable than if he had spoken the words in anger.
Keno stood in the door for a moment longer, as if trying to digest the words.
“What?” Keno said. “Sheriff, did you hear that? This man just threatened to kill me.”
“Yes, I heard the man,” Sheriff Carson said. He made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Get out of here, now, before I kill you myself.”
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere without my pistol.”
Carson pointed to the spittoon where Smoke had deposited Keno’s pistol.
“There it is,” Sheriff Carson said. “Fish it out, and it’s yours.”
Keno walked over to the spittoon, looked down into it, hesitated for a moment, then, making a face of disgust and revulsion, stuck his hand down into the little brass pot. A few seconds later, he pulled his pistol without the cylinder out, and with it, and his hand, dripping a brown, slimy oozing liquid, walked quickly out of the saloon.
Keno was chased from the saloon by the laughter of nearly a dozen customers.