CHAPTER 23
Four of the Sugarloaf hands were wounded, but none of the injuries were life-threatening. The worst one was the bullet-drilled shoulder of the cowboy who had taken cover under the roulette wheel. Cal took all four of the men down the street to the residence and office of Black Hawk’s only remaining physician to get them patched up.
Smoke and the other men checked over the bodies of the rustlers to see if any of them were still alive. That proved not to be the case. Black Hawk’s undertaker would be busy for the next two days nailing together pine coffins, and the local Boot Hill would see a surge in population.
At the same time, Smoke studied the faces of the dead men to see if he recognized any of them. He didn’t. If Monte Carson had been there, he might have known some of them from wanted posters he had seen, but Monte was almost a hundred miles away in Big Rock, or so Smoke assumed, anyway. He wouldn’t have left the town and set out to chase down the rustlers knowing that Smoke was already on the trail.
Steve Markham stood next to the foot of the stairs with his shoulder propped against an unbroken section of banister.
Smoke waved a hand toward the bodies and asked the new hand, “Ever seen any of those hombres before?”
“Why do you reckon I would have, Mr. Jensen?”
“I don’t, necessarily. But they’re rustlers, and somebody who’s worked on as many spreads as you told Cal you have might have run into some of them.”
The concern that had sprung up on Markham’s face at Smoke’s question disappeared. “Oh, That’s a relief. I was worried you thought I might’ve rode with a bunch of no-goods like that. No, sir, I can tell you for certain-sure I never laid eyes on any of those varmints before.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Smoke paused. “I told you and the others to stay down at the cattle pens and keep an eye on those cows.”
“Yeah, I know.” Markham toed the floor and smiled sheepishly. “But then all the shootin’ started, and me and a couple of the other boys just couldn’t resist comin’ up here to lend a hand. I spotted some outside stairs at the back of the place, and we charged up those and busted down the door at the top. That put us in a good position to ventilate those rascals.”
“And save Cal’s life in the process,” murmured Smoke. “I reckon I can’t get too upset over you not doing what I told you, Steve. Just don’t make a habit of it.”
“No, sir, I sure won’t,” Markham promised. “And some of the fellas did stay down there at the pens like you said to do, so it ain’t like all of us abandoned our duty.”
“No, I suppose not.”
The soiled dove who had been used as a hostage and human shield sat at one of the undamaged tables in the saloon with a blanket wrapped around her bare shoulders. She was shaking, and tears had streaked her face. The other girl who worked at the Casa de Oro sat next to her and tried to console her.
A man with a few strands of hair combed over a bald pate patted her on the shoulder and said, “There, there, Jill, it’ll be all right. Just a little ruckus, that’s all.”
Smoke approached the man, who wore a hastily donned suit and a shirt with no collar or tie “You’re the owner of this place, mister?”
“That’s right. Garvey’s the name.”
Smoke nodded toward the bodies that still littered the floor. “You know you were renting rooms to a bunch of rustlers, don’t you?”
“I know it now,” said Garvey, “but I didn’t when they rode in and paid me to stay here. I’m not in the business of asking a bunch of questions, my friend.”
“I don’t recall saying that we’re friends,” Smoke said. “They give you any names?”
“I don’t ask for those, either.” Garvey looked around the room and sighed. “I would like to know who’s going to pay for all this damage, though. Just replacing all the broken windows is going to cost a fortune.”
“I reckon you can go through their belongings and see if they have any cash left from selling those cows they stole from me. By rights that money should be mine, but”—Smoke shrugged—“from the looks of this town, you need it more than I do.”
Garvey’s surly attitude eased a little at that. “You claim they stole that herd they brought in?”
“I do more than claim it. I can prove it. My brand is still on those animals. I’m Smoke Jensen, from the Sugarloaf Ranch.”
The saloonkeeper’s eyes widened. Clearly, he had heard of Smoke. “I, ah, didn’t realize who you were, Mr. Jensen. You’re right about how any cash they have left ought to belong to you—”
“No, I said it was all right, and I meant it. I’m going to get more than half of the rustled stock back, and that’s more than I really expected when we came after the varmints.”
“Well, I appreciate your generosity.” Garvey pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his mostly bald head. “There’s no denying that all of us left in Black Hawk are struggling to make ends meet these days. I’m afraid that in another year or two this will be a ghost town.” He brightened slightly as he put the handkerchief away. “But you never know. Things could change. One of the mines could strike a rich new vein, and that’s all it would take to make Black Hawk a boomtown again. Say, speaking of the mines, if you don’t want to drive those cows all the way back to your ranch, you ought to talk to Jack Buell at the Fountain Mine. He’ll give you a decent price for them and save you all that trouble, to boot.”
Smoke nodded and said, “I was already thinking about doing that.”
By that afternoon, the bodies had been hauled away and Garvey had men working to repair the damage at the Casa de Oro. They boarded up the broken windows. New glass would have to be brought from Denver. Smoke didn’t know if the saloonkeeper would go to that much expense, given the town’s declining state, or just leave the boarded-up windows like they were, but that was none of his business. He left Cal in charge of things in town and rode up to the Fountain Mine, following the directions that Garvey gave him.
Jack Buell turned out to be the sort of mine superintendent Smoke had met numerous times in the past, tough, smart, and hardheaded. He drove a hard bargain, too, but he and Smoke concluded a deal for the cattle.
“I’ll leave them there in the pens and have them butchered as we need them,” Buell explained. “There’s no place up here to keep that many cows.”
“Better be careful they don’t get stolen again,” Smoke warned.
“Folks in Black Hawk will keep an eye on them. The town’s pretty dependent on this mine these days.”
Again, those arrangements were none of Smoke’s business. He shook hands with Buell, wished the man well, and headed back down the mountain to Black Hawk, arriving there late in the afternoon.
After Smoke told Cal about the deal he’d made with Buell, the foreman said, “Garvey at the saloon says we can stay there tonight since he doesn’t have any other guests at the moment, and he claims the two of you reached an accommodation about the money those rustlers had. I figured you’d want to wait and get started back home first thing in the morning, since there’s no real hurry now.”
“That’ll be fine,” Smoke said with a nod. “Any time I’m away from home, though, I start getting the feeling that it’ll be good to be back.”
Cal laughed. “I feel the same way about the Sugarloaf.”
It wasn’t just the Sugarloaf, Smoke mused. He was eager to see his family again.
The man with the wounded shoulder was staying at the doctor’s house since he was the most badly hurt of the ranch hands. The others had suffered only nicks from the bullets flying around. Smoke paid a visit to the wounded man, and the doctor told him it might be several days before he would be in good enough shape to make the long ride.
“I can get back all right, Smoke,” the cowboy assured him. “I don’t want the rest of you fellas havin’ to wait around here because of me.”
“Are you sure about that, Dave?” asked Smoke.
“Yeah. Wish I could get in the saddle sooner, but Doc Knight here says it ain’t a good idea.”
Smoke took a double eagle from his pocket and handed it to the sawbones. “That ought to take care of the bill.”
“That will more than cover it,” the man said, nodding. “I’m obliged to you, Mr. Jensen.”
“Just take good care of Dave.”
Satisfied that he’d done all he could for the wounded man, Smoke returned to the Casa de Oro as dusk settled down over the town. Inside the saloon, some of the men were drinking and playing cards. Jill, the soiled dove who had been so upset after the gun battle, and the other girl who worked there approached a few of the cowboys. Jill appeared to have gotten over the close call, and her obviously pragmatic nature had risen to the forefront again.
Smoke wasn’t going to say anything if any of the men wanted to take the doves upstairs. He hired ranch hands, not choirboys. He watched with some interest, though, as Jill sidled up to Steve Markham and said something to him. Markham smiled at her, but he shook his head, and Jill moved on to one of the other punchers.
Markham’s reaction to Jill’s proposition was none of his business, Smoke told himself yet again . . . but at the same time, he was sort of glad to see it, and he wasn’t sure why.