Too Soon to Die

“All right. You’ve got to keep the loop shaken out wide,” Smoke told Brad. “Swing it around over your head a few times.”

“How do you keep the loop shaken out if you’re swinging it around your head?” the boy asked.

“Practice. You’ll get to where you can do it.”

“Like drawing and shooting a gun?” Brad said eagerly.

“Right now just worry about roping,” Smoke told him. “It’s a lot more important for a cowboy to know how to do that.”

They were standing out by the corral where Brad had been trying to rope a fence post. The loop kept collapsing on him, but he stuck the tip of his tongue out the corner of his mouth, frowned in concentration, and continued trying to get it right. Smoke stood watching with his hands tucked into his hip pockets.

Brad did well enough with the rope to attempt another throw, but it fell short. As he gathered up the rope again, he said, “My pa was a cowboy. My real pa.”

“I know,” Smoke said. “I’ve heard your ma talk about him a few times. Sounded like he was a fine man.”

“Yeah, I reckon so. I don’t really remember that much. But Louis is a fine man, too.” Brad looked around at Smoke. “Do you think I should start calling Louis Pa?”

“I don’t figure he’d mind,” Smoke said honestly. “But you should do whatever feels right to you. Man’s got to learn how to follow his own instincts. Most of the time, they won’t do wrong by him.”

Brad nodded and went back to working with the rope. A few minutes later, one of his throws sailed out perfectly and settled over the fence post at which he was aiming. “Hey, look at that!” he called excitedly.

“I see,” Smoke said. “But you didn’t pull the loop tight. If that had been a calf, he might have run right out of it.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Brad jerked the rope tight around the post. “I’ll remember next time.”

“I’ll bet you will,” Smoke said.

From the corner of his eye, he saw three cowboys riding out, heading for the range to take care of some chore Cal had assigned to them. One of the riders was Steve Markham, Smoke noted.

Several days had passed since Louis and Melanie’s wedding. Markham had spent that night sleeping in the hayloft in the main barn, along with some other cowhands who had stayed too late at the dance and hadn’t wanted to start back to their home spreads in the middle of the night. They had all ridden out the next morning, but Markham had stayed to talk to Cal about that job.

Cal had come to see Smoke later that morning and said, “I hired that fella Markham. Made it clear, though, we were just taking him on for a month to see how he works out.”

“Was he satisfied with that?”

Cal had chuckled. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anybody as happy to go along with what anybody else says as he is. Carefree is the word, I guess. He said that was just fine and promised we wouldn’t be disappointed in his work.”

“A saddle tramp like that usually doesn’t get worried about too many things,” Smoke had commented.

“No, I guess not.”

“Did you say anything about Pearlie thinking he looked familiar?”

Cal had shaken his head and said, “No, I didn’t think that would be a good idea, but I did ask him what other spreads he’d ridden for. To hear him tell it, he worked for every spread in the Texas and Oklahoma Panhandles, and quite a few in Kansas. Seemed like he was telling the truth, and I didn’t have any reason to challenge what he was saying.”

“All right,” Smoke had replied with a nod. “I trust your judgment. You know that, Cal.”

“I know . . . but I might be wrong one of these days, Smoke.”

“If you ever are, we’ll deal with it then.”

So far, though, Steve Markham seemed to be working out well. Cal had been keeping an eye on him and deemed him to be a good hand, capable of every job he’d been given so far. Given his amiable nature, he also got along very well with the other members of the crew.

Brad noticed the riders and said, “There’s Mr. Markham. He’s pretty funny sometimes. He sure did want to dance with Aunt Denny at the party the other night.”

“Yeah, I saw them dancing,” Smoke said.

“I think he likes her.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Denny had brought up the subject of whether Markham was going to be working on the ranch, and when Smoke told her that he was, he hadn’t been able to tell for sure how she felt about that. She’d seemed a little annoyed, but at the same time, she was the one who’d asked about him.

In the year that Denny had been home, Smoke had grown accustomed to cowboys falling in love with his daughter. It was almost impossible for young men to be around a girl as pretty as Denny without falling for her. So far, she had seemed impervious to their attentions.

Smoke Jensen was no snob. A lot of forty-a-month-and-found cowpokes had the makings of something much better, and if Denny fell in love with some ambitious young man and they wanted to make it on their own, Smoke was just fine with that. He didn’t worry about her getting involved with some shiftless chuck line rider because that just didn’t seem like something Denny would do. Hombres like that might be fine fellows in most ways, but they were better off without wives.

To all appearances, Steve Markham fell into that category . . . and yet Denny was thinking about him, even though at the same time she seemed to be avoiding him. Smoke hadn’t seen them together at all since Markham had signed on. He wondered if that was going to last . . .

The sight of some dust boiling up into the air in the distance broke into Smoke’s thoughts. Markham and the other two cowboys had seen it, too, and reined in. Smoke frowned as a wagon being pulled by a team of four horses came into view, barreling toward the ranch headquarters on the trail that led up to the higher reaches of the ranch, where much of the Sugarloaf’s stock had been moved to summer pasture.

Earlier that morning, the supply wagon being manned by Andy Sawyer and Tex Bell had set out to deliver provisions to several line camps, Smoke recalled. Even though he couldn’t see the two men on the seat well enough yet to identify them, he was pretty sure that was the supply wagon coming toward ranch headquarters. Andy and Tex shouldn’t have been back until sometime that afternoon, he thought as alarm bells began to clamor in his head. Something had to be mighty wrong to make them race back to headquarters.

“Brad, give me the rope and go on back in the house,” Smoke said without taking his eyes off the approaching wagon.

“What’s wrong?”

“Didn’t say anything was wrong, I just think you need to go in the house.”

“But I can tell—” Brad stopped short at the stern glance Smoke gave him. He handed over the lasso, which he’d been coiling up before trying another throw. “Do I need to tell Miss Sally that something’s going on?”

“No,” Smoke responded firmly. “Don’t say anything to Sally or Denny just yet.” No point in upsetting the women if this turned out to be nothing—even though Smoke didn’t believe that was the case.

“All right. But if you need me—”

“I’ll know where to find you.” Smoke dropped the coiled rope over the fence post and walked a few feet to pick up the Winchester that leaned against the corral gate. He didn’t wear a handgun around the ranch.

It was the twentieth century, after all, and the wild old days were over . . . or at least most people thought so. There was usually a loaded rifle or shotgun within easy reach, though. Smoke just didn’t feel comfortable otherwise.

He strode forward, toward Markham and the other two cowboys who still sat their saddles, waiting for the wagon to get there.

Markham said, “Them fellas are comin’ like bats outta hell, Mr. Jensen. That ain’t normal, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” Smoke agreed. He looked at the other two men, who were veteran members of the Sugarloaf crew. “That’s Andy and Tex, isn’t it, boys?”

“I believe so, Smoke,” one of the punchers replied. “They weren’t supposed to be back from the line camp supply run until this afternoon.”

“Yeah, the same thought occurred to me.” Smoke had cradled the rifle under his arm, but he shifted his grip on it so he would be ready to use it if he needed to.

Smoke could see the two men on the wagon seat better. Chunky, curly-haired Andy Sawyer was handling the reins with Tex Bell perched tensely beside him. Andy hauled back on the reins to slow the team. The cloud of dust kicked up by the horses’ hooves and the wagon wheels billowed forward and obscured the vehicle for a moment, as well as making Smoke’s eyes and nose sting. The saddle mounts on which Markham and the other two cowboys sat shifted nervously.

“Smoke!” Andy called in his gravelly voice. “Smoke, we got trouble!”

The air around them cleared as a breeze carried the dust away.

Smoke strode forward and asked, “What is it?”

Andy swallowed hard, tried to find his voice again and couldn’t.

Tex poked a thumb at the wagon bed and said in his laconic fashion, “Back there.”

Smoke walked alongside the wagon and peered over the sideboards. Most of the supplies the men had started with that morning were still there, but they had been rearranged to make some room. Filling that space were two blanket-shrouded shapes. The sight of them made Smoke’s heart sink, as did the all-too-familiar smell that filled his nose.

Andy found his voice again and said, “The Pitchfork line camp was our second stop, Smoke. We could tell somethin’ was wrong soon as we got there, ’cause all the horses were in the corral and they acted spooked. We found Joe Bob and Harley inside the shack. They was dead. Shot all to hell!”