CHAPTER 19
Smoke left the saloon the next morning and headed toward Dumplins for breakfast. He had just crossed the street when he heard a voice call out to him.
“Mr. Jensen, look out!” The warning was shouted by Wes, the boy from the stable.
Almost on top of the warning, Smoke felt a blow to the side of his head. He saw stars, but even as he was being hit, he was reacting to the warning so that, while it didn’t prevent the attack, it did prevent him from being knocked down.
When his attacker swung at him a second time, Smoke was able to avoid him. With his fists up, he danced quickly out to the middle of the street, avoiding any more surprises from the shadows. It wasn’t until then that he saw his attacker, a large man with heavy brows and a bulbous nose.
Smoke called out, “What are you doing? Why are you attacking me?”
“Mister,” the man replied with a low growl, “you kilt my brother a few weeks ago.”
Almost instantly, a crowd had gathered around Smoke and the man who had come at him from the shadows. It was still fairly early in the morning. He hadn’t seen anyone on the street when he first came out of the saloon. Where had all these people come from? he wondered before calling out, “Who is your brother?”
“Damn. Have you kilt so many men that you can’t even keep track? It was Sledge Blackwell.”
“I’m sorry about your brother. I didn’t have any choice. He drew against me.”
“Yeah, well, bein’ sorry don’t do much for bringin’ ’im back, does it?” Blackwell caught up with Smoke in the middle of the street.
“Ever’body knows that Sledge Blackwell wasn’t worth a bucket of spit. Why’s Bull fightin’ for ’im?” someone asked.
“Because Bull ain’t got good sense.”
Blackwell threw a long wild swing at Smoke, but it was easy for Smoke to slip away from it, then counterpunch with a quick, slashing left to Blackwell’s face. It was a well-delivered blow, one that would have dropped most men, but Blackwell barely showed the effects. He laughed a low evil laugh. “That the best you got?”
“Somebody ought to stop this,” said a man on the boardwalk. “Bull is almost twice as big as Jensen. He’s goin’ to beat ’im to death.”
“Yeah? Well, Smoke ain’t no little man, and what he’s got is all muscle. I’m goin’ with him.”
With an angry roar, Blackwell rushed Smoke again, and Smoke stepped aside, avoiding the rush. The big man slammed into a hitching rail, smashing through it as if it were kindling. He turned and faced Smoke again.
A hush fell over the crowd as they watched the two men, observing the fight with a great deal of interest, wanting to see if this young man could handle Blackwell.
Smoke and Blackwell circled around for a moment, holding their fists doubled in front of them, each trying to test the mettle of the other. Blackwell swung, a club-like swing which Smoke leaned away from. Smoke counter-punched and again he scored well, but again, Blackwell laughed it off.
Smoke hit Blackwell almost at will, and though the big man continued to shrug off the punches, the repeated blows were beginning to take effect. Blackwell’s eyes began to puff up, and his lip had a nasty cut.
Smoke saw an opening and was set perfectly to deliver the blow. He sent a long, whistling right into Blackwell’s nose and when he felt the nose go under his hand, he knew that he had broken it.
Blackwell’s nose bled, the blood ran down across his teeth and chin. The big man continued to throw great swinging blows toward Smoke, but he was getting clumsier and more uncoordinated with each swing.
Growing exhausted from his ineffective efforts, Blackwell quit swinging and started with bull-like charges, all of which Smoke was able to easily avoid. As Blackwell rushed by with his head down, Smoke stepped to one side and sent a powerful right jab to Blackwell’s neck, connecting with his Adam’s apple. Grabbing his neck, Blackwell went down, gasping for breath.
Smoke stepped up to him and drew his fist back for the final blow, but he stopped when he saw the abject fear in Blackwell’s eyes. “You are a lucky man. You came at me with your fists. If you had come after me with a gun, you’d be dead.”
As Smoke walked away, he saw Wes standing close by. It was his warning that had enabled Smoke to duck, thus ameliorating Blackwell’s first blow. “Thanks, Wes.”
“I never thought you could whup him. He’s a lot bigger ’n you are.”
“Big doesn’t always count,” Smoke said.
“Yes, sir, I seen that. And I’m goin’ to ’member it, too.”
“How is Seven doing?”
Wes smiled. “He’s a great horse, ’n he won’t let anybody aroun’ him unless I say it’s all right.”
“That’s because he knows his friends.” Smoke flipped a quarter to the boy. “Tell you what. Why don’t you give him an extra rubdown today?”
“Yes, sir!” Wes replied enthusiastically.
Smoke stepped into Dumplins a few minutes later.
He was greeted warmly by Kathy. “I hope you like biscuits and gravy, because that’s what I’ve made for breakfast this morning.”
“My favorite,” Smoke replied with a smile.
After breakfast, Smoke tried to pay for it, but Kathy refused his money.
Smoke shook his head. “No ma’am. You fed me last night. I don’t intend you to lose money on me.”
“I’m not losing money. Your breakfast has already been paid for.”
“What? Who would do that?”
“Mr. Vaughan picked up your bill,” Kathy said, pointing to the newspaper publisher.
Smoke walked over to him. “Mr. Vaughan, I want to thank you for buying my breakfast, but there was no need for you to do that.”
“It was my pleasure, Smoke.” Vaughan chuckled. “Anyway, it isn’t costing me anything. I paid for it with money that I won from you yesterday, so you might say that you are paying for it yourself.”
“Well, then I don’t feel so bad.”
“By the way, do make it a point to read the Delta Metro today.”
“Delta Metro?”
“That’s my newspaper. The title comes from the delta formed by the confluence of Horse and Coffee creeks,” Vaughan explained. “Not quite the Mississippi River Delta, I admit. But then, metro isn’t any more appropriate than delta, so you might call it poetic license.”
* * *
Later that same day, while sitting at a table in the back of the Salt Lick, Smoke saw his name in print for the very first time.
SMOKE JENSEN, WESTERN HERO
Yesterday our fair town of Buffington rang with the sound of gunfire as three outlaws attempted to hold up the bank. They were stopped and economic disaster was prevented by the heroic and timely intervention of Smoke Jensen.
Like Leonidas at Thermopylae, Smoke stood his ground, defending a young child as he dispatched two of the would-be robbers and forced the third into an ignominious surrender.
It is said that Smoke Jensen is seeking that most perfidious of outlaws, Angus Shardeen, with the intention of bringing him to justice. But Shardeen is a coward who surrounds himself with cowards, believing that there is bravery in numbers. This reporter has taken the measure of Smoke Jensen, and believes that he will find, and bring to justice, Angus Shardeen and his minions. Some may wish to compare Smoke Jensen with Don Quixote, dueling windmills. But I say that if it weren’t for the Don Quixotes of the world, we would be overrun with windmills.
Smoke chose the corner, which not only put his back to the wall, but limited the access to him from either side. One of the bar girls approached him, and he recognized her as the one who had come into his room last night. “Hello, Ida Jean. You aren’t planning on coming into my room again tonight, are you?”
“No. You made it pretty clear last night that you aren’t really interested in that sort of thing.”
“Just because I didn’t want to share my bed with you, doesn’t mean I won’t have a drink with a pretty girl.” He gave her some money and she walked back over to the bar to buy the drinks.
As he watched her, Smoke noticed a man standing at the far end of the bar staring at him. The man had only half an ear on the left side of his face, and he was glaring at Smoke. An old memory flashed back.
“Spread ’er legs out, boys, I’m goin’ to have me a little of this,” one of the men was saying. He was a big ugly man with only half of one of his ears.
“Get away from her!” his ma said. She attacked the man.
“What the hell, Bartell, can’t you handle a young girl and an old woman?” Shardeen asked with a demonic laugh.
The man at the bar was Billy Bartell, one of the men he had seen at the farm that day, and one of the men, it was said, who was still riding with Shardeen. Bartell had no way of recognizing Smoke, but must have had Smoke pointed out to him, because suddenly and without warning, Bartell reached for his pistol.
If Smoke had not recognized him, Bartell may have had an insurmountable advantage. As it was, he did have the advantage of drawing first, and his many years on the outlaw trail had made him a formidable man with a gun. He got his pistol out first, and for a brief second Bartell actually thought he had won. He smiled as he brought his pistol up.
It wasn’t until then that Smoke drew and fired. The bullet hit Bartell in the chest with the impact of a hammer blow, and he was slammed back against the bar before sliding down. He sat there, leaning back against the bar, his gun hand empty and the unfired gun on the floor beside him. He watched as Smoke approached him.
“There ain’t nobody that fast.” Bartell coughed, a body-shaking cough.
“Don’t die yet, Bartell. I want you to know why I killed you.”
“I know you been alookin’ for us. I reckon it’s for the reward.”
“It isn’t for the reward. It’s for Janey.”
“Janey?” Bartell got a puzzled look on his face. “Are you crazy? I don’t know nobody named Janey.”
“I didn’t say you knew her. But not knowing her didn’t stop you from raping her when you and Shardeen raided my farm during the war.”
“I raped a lot of women durin’ the war. Some of ’em even liked it.”
“She wasn’t a woman. She was just a girl.”
“How do you know it was me that done it?”
“Because I was there, and I saw you.”
“You was there? You musta been just a kid then. How do you even know what you seen?”
Smoke’s eyes glinted with retribution. “I know. Where is Angus Shardeen?”
Bartell coughed again, another body-racking cough, bringing up blood. “You know what? I think I am goin’ to tell you where he’s at. Only I ain’t doin’ you no favors, ’cause if you find ’im, he’ll kill you.”
“Where is he?”
“Rattlesnake Canyon.” Bartell tried to laugh, but it turned into another blood-oozing cough. “Yeah, you go on out there . . . ’n after he kills you, me ’n you will be meetin’ again . . . ’cause I’m goin’ to be waitin’ for you in hell.”
There was a rattling sound deep in Bartell’s throat, then his head fell to one side as his eyes, still open, glazed over.
Smoke called out, “Anybody know where Rattlesnake Canyon is?”
“It’s about twenty miles west of here,” one of the customers said.
“Thanks.”
“Jensen, if that’s really where he is, you might want to think twice ’bout goin’ out there,” the bartender said. “Shardeen has some bad men with ’im. You go out there alone, you’ll just be committin’ suicide.”
“I thank you for your concern.” Smoke started toward the door.
“You’re goin’ out there anyway, ain’t you?” the man who had spoken to him earlier asked. “You’re goin’ out there, knowin’ that in them rocks he may as well be in a fort, and knowin’ how many men he’s got with ’im.”
Smoke stopped and turned around. “I’ve been after him for a long time. If he was on the moon, and there was some way I could get there, I would go after him.”
“I know that area. Hell, if Shardeen is up there with his men, an army couldn’t get him out of there.”
“I won’t be going with an army,” Smoke said. “It’ll just be me.”
“All by yourself?”
“Yes. The problem with an army is that many men can’t hide or keep quiet. Shardeen and his men would see an army comin’, and they would be able get ready for them. But one man travelin’ alone would more ’n likely be able slip around the rocks and through the crevices and such so as to be able to sneak up on them.”
“Jensen, all I can say is, you got a lot more guts than you got brains.”
Smoke left the saloon and went directly to the stable to get his horse.
Heckemeyer came over to talk to him as he was throwing the saddle over Seven. “I heered what you was plannin’ on doin’. I mean, goin’ after Shardeen ’n all.”
“You aren’t goin’ to try and talk me out of it, are you, Mr. Heckemeyer? Because it won’t do you any good. I’m goin’.”
“I ain’t goin’ to try ’n talk you out of it. I just thought I might give you a little advice. When you get out there, they’s two trails that go to the top,” Heckemeyer said, speaking quietly. “You can stay mounted if you take the lower trail, but you’ll have to leave your horse somewhere if you take the upper trail. The upper trail is a lot steeper and harder, but that’s the one I’d take if I was you.”
Smoke nodded as he tightened the cinch strap.
“Thing is . . . if you take the lower trail, you can be seen for a long way before you get there. You take the upper trail, you’ll be on top long afore anyone has any idee that you’re there.”
“Thanks.” Smoke handed Heckemeyer two dollar bills. “Give one of these to Wes. You keep the other one.”
“Thank you,” Heckemeyer said with a smile.
Smoke swung into the saddle, and with a nod, rode out through the open doors at the front of the stable.
Wes walked over then. “He won’t be comin’ back, will he?”
Heckemeyer gave Wes one of the two dollar bills. “More ’n likely, he won’t even live to see the sun go down. ’N that’s too bad. The world could use more men like him.”
“He ain’t goin’ to get kilt,” Wes said.
“What makes you so sure?”
“I just know.”
* * *
Rattlesnake Canyon was unique in that it had so many perfectly formed arches that it almost looked as if they were man-made, rather than a work of nature. The interior was so well concealed by rocks and ridgelines that its entrance couldn’t be seen unless someone was specifically looking for it. Inside the canyon was a source of water, which made it an ideal place for an outlaw encampment.
After Smoke dismounted, he let Seven go, but not ground tethered. He was free to graze and water. Remembering what Heckemeyer had told him about the two trails, Smoke took the upper one, staying close to the wall, and taking advantage of the many rocks and protrusions. He passed through apertures when possible, rather than going around or over the long fingers. The climb up to the top of the promontory was easy enough at first with an inclining ledge that allowed him to walk upright. The higher he got, the more narrow the ledge became until finally the only way he could stay on the ledge was by holding on to whatever rocks and protrusions he could grab. Then the ledge disappeared altogether, and at the very end of the climb, he had to go straight up, finding footholds and handholds where he could. Finally he reached the top.
From a concealed position, he saw several men sitting around a campfire about two hundred yards away. They were drinking coffee as casually as if they were in a downtown café, showing no concern about anyone approaching them, and why should they? There were five of them, and they were well fortified. Also, as Heckemeyer had promised, Smoke’s approach had been totally unnoticed.
Smoke could see the men, but he couldn’t approach them directly. Boulders and draws would provide them cover in any gunfight, but the two hundred yards between him and them were wide open, with very few positions along the way where he might be able to take cover.
Lying on his stomach, Smoke used a looking glass to peruse the campsite. He was able to pick out Shardeen, the prominent scar on his face making him easy to spot. Smoke counted six more men and . . . no. As he studied the faces, he realized there were only five more men. The sixth person was a woman.
At first, he thought she was one of them, then he saw that her arms and legs were bound. Whoever the woman was, she was their prisoner!
Smoke gave some consideration to just shooting Shardeen. After all, the Jayhawker was the one he wanted. If he killed him, he could just leave the others behind, then go after Potter, Stratton, and Richards—the men his pa had been after.
Smoke put the looking glass in his pocket and jacked a round into the Henry, then aimed at Shardeen. His finger rested on the trigger, but he didn’t shoot. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t just shoot Shardeen and leave. He couldn’t leave the woman at the mercy of the others. He was sure they would kill her.
With a sigh of frustration, Smoke kept the Henry cocked, then stood up and walked toward the encampment. For the first twenty-five yards or so, nobody noticed him. Nobody expected anyone to just walk in on them.
“When in the hell is Bartell comin’ back? He’s s’posed to bring me a bottle of whiskey,” one of the men complained.
Smoke recognized him as Tim Shardeen, the man he and his father had encountered a few years ago, when they first started West.
“Hell, Tim. More ’n likely he’s took your money and bought hisself a woman,” one of the others replied, and they all laughed.
“He better not have done that.”
“Bartell’s not coming back,” Smoke said, his voice startling those gathered around the campfire.
“What the hell?” Tim shouted. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the man who killed Bartell.”
One of the other men, responding more quickly to the unexpected intrusion, pulled his pistol and fired. Smoke fired back, never lifting the rifle higher than his waist. The man with the pistol went down.
Smoke fired two more times, killing two others. The remaining three men ran behind cover, leaving only the woman exposed.
In the open as he was, Smoke was at a disadvantage. He ran quickly to a small rock that did little to provide cover for him. They began shooting at him, the bullets hitting the rocky ground all around him, whining as they ricocheted away.
A puff of gun smoke hung just over one of the distant boulders, indicating that someone was behind it. Smoke aimed at the corner of the boulder and waited.
A few seconds later, a man’s head rose up, just far enough for the man to see where to shoot.
It was all the opening Smoke needed. He squeezed the trigger and watched a little spray of blood and brain detritus fly out from the bullet wound in the outlaw’s head.
The shooting stilled. A long period of silence was finally broken by a man’s shout. “Shardeen? Shardeen, you yellow belly! Don’t you leave me here all alone!”
Was Shardeen really leaving? Or was it merely a ploy? Smoke wondered.
“Shardeen! Come back here, you low-assed chicken!”
After that last shout, Smoke heard the clatter of horseshoes on the rocky surface as a horse galloped away.
The man shouted more obscenities, the tone of his voice betraying his anger and fear.
“Mister, it looks like you’ve been deserted. There’s only one of you left,” Smoke called out from behind his scant rock.
“Who the hell are you?” the disembodied voice shouted.
“My name is Smoke Jensen. Who are you?”
“The name is Hanks.”
“Hanks? That name doesn’t mean anything to me. I didn’t come for you, Hanks. I came for Shardeen.”
“Yeah, well, you mighta come for Shardeen, but you have near ’bout kilt all of us.”
“Come on out into the open, and let me see you,” Smoke invited. “I think we can palaver a little, then both of us go on our way.”
“I ain’t acomin’ out lessen you do.”
“We can come out at the same time.”
Hanks tried a bit of negotiating. “You said you didn’t come for me?”
“That’s right.”
“Then why don’t you just ride away?”
“I’m not leavin’ the woman here.”
“Why not? She ain’t nothin’ to you.”
“I’m not leavin’ her here,” Smoke said again a bit stronger. “Now, if you want this to end, put your gun in your holster and come on out.”
“I’ll come out, but I ain’t puttin’ my gun away.”
“All right. Come on. As long you aren’t shooting.”
“You said we’d come out at the same time,” Hanks replied.
“I’ll count to three.”
Smoke counted. At three, he stepped cautiously out into the open.
A small man with a narrow face and a hook nose came out from behind the boulder across from Smoke, gun in hand, though the gun was pointing down.
Smoke stood up and walked toward him, still holding the rifle. “Do you have any idea where Shardeen might have gone?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Why shouldn’t you? He ran off, didn’t he? You don’t owe him anything.”
Hanks was obstinate. “I don’t owe you nothin’ neither.”
Smoke walked backwards to the woman, keeping his eyes on the outlaw.
Although out in the open during the entire exchange of gunfire, she hadn’t been hit, but her eyes were wide open with fear. So far, she had not uttered a sound.
“Let me get you untied. Then we’ll get you back home.” Smoke put the rifle down and leaned over to untie the woman.
“Look out!” she shouted suddenly.
In one motion, Smoke drew and fired at Hanks, who was raising his pistol and thumbing back the hammer.
With a bullet in his chest, he stumbled back with a look of shock and pain on his face. He dropped his gun, then slapped both hands over the wound. “How did you—?” was as far as he got before tumbling over, dead.
“Chugwater, Wyoming,” the woman said as Smoke untied her.
“That’s where you live?”
“No. That’s where Shardeen will be going.”
“How do you know?”
“He has a woman there. Lulu Barton.”
“You know this woman?”
“She’s my sister.”
* * *
Sally Reynolds’ first day in Bury, Idaho, was nearly her last. Nobody had met her at the train, so leaving her luggage at the depot to be picked up later, she started down the boardwalk toward the address that was on the acceptance letter she held in her hand.
Suddenly, she heard and felt the concussion of something whizzing by her very fast. Concurrent with her hearing the report of a gunshot, a bullet crashed through one of the square panes of the big glass window next to her. Actually, it was two gunshots, one right on top of the other. She turned and looked out into the street. Two men faced each other with smoking guns in their hands. She stared at them in shock for a moment, then one of the two men fell to the dirt.
“Miss!” A very attractive and expensively dressed woman called out to her. “Get in here, off the street! Quickly!”
Sally didn’t need a second invitation to hurry into the building, which turned out to be a dress shop.
“There’s likely to be more shooting. Clay, the man who was just shot, has a brother,” the pretty woman said. “I expect Jeb will be coming out into the street shortly, wanting revenge.”
“Heavens,” Sally said. “Does this sort of thing go on often?”
“Fairly often.”
True to the pretty lady’s prediction a second man walked into the street, firing his pistol. The two men continued to shoot at each other until the second man, Sally assumed it was Jeb, went down. The first man put his gun back in the holster, then started toward a nearby saloon as several others rushed forward to congratulate him.
“It’s over now,” the pretty lady said.
“I must say, this was quite a dramatic welcome to Bury,” Sally said.
“Just arrived?”
“Yes, by train a few minutes ago.”
“Have you come to work at the Pink House?”
“The Pink House?”
The woman nodded. “For Miss Flora.”
Sally shook her head. “I don’t know who Miss Flora is.” She smiled. “My name is Sally Reynolds, and I’m the new schoolteacher.”
“A schoolteacher, are you? Well, Miss Reynolds, it’s good to meet you. I’m Janey Garner.” Janey remembered Miss Margrabe, and gave a passing wonder as to where she might be.
“Do you work at the Pink House? Whatever that is.”
“No, I’m a business manager for PSR,” Janey replied.
“PSR?”
“It’s a ranch, the Potter, Stratton, and Richards. Only it’s not just a ranch, it’s a huge ranch.”
“A lady ranch manager? That’s most impressive. You must be as intelligent as you are beautiful.”
Janey laughed and extended her hand. “Sally, I think you and I are going to wind up being very good friends.”