This Violent Land

(Special from the Summit County Journal)

Sheriff Jesse Hector of Summit County, Colorado, was killed on the 7th instant, while attempting to arrest the perpetrators of a string of deeds so foul as to defy description.

Though the gallant sheriff was shot down, he didn’t fall until he had brought the most severe justice on his assassins. The four men who fell before his deadly shooting were Peter Kotter, Edward Spence, Merlin Morris, and Clell Dawson.

Dawson, discerning readers will notice, had become known throughout the West as a “fast gun.” Said by witnesses to a few of his fights, to be “quick as thought.” Dawson, Kotter, Spence, and Morris are known to be the deadly gang which, over the last two years, have not hesitated to use dynamite in their deadly assaults against their innocent victims.

PSR Ranch, office

“Damn,” Richards said as he read the article.

“What is it?” Potter asked.

“That worthless sheriff got himself killed, and Jensen is still alive.”

“How do you know he’s still alive?”

“Hector had some kind of plan in mind that involved Clell Dawson, but Dawson and the sheriff are both dead, and there is no mention of Jensen.”

“We’ve got to get rid of him, Josh,” Potter said. “He is going to be trouble, big trouble. We’ve got plans, I’ve got plans. I intend to be governor of this territory. I can’t have him causing trouble.”

“We have twelve full-time hands working here at the ranch. The Bury city marshal and both his deputies are on our payroll. I think it’s time they begin to earn their pay. We’ll put the word out that Jensen is to be shot on sight.”

Stratton had listened to the conversation between his partners without comment. Finally, he had something to say. “Yeah, well, there might be a problem with that.”

“There’s no problem,” Richards said. “If they don’t want to kill him, then they’re fired.”

“You said they are to kill him on sight. What does he look like?”

Richards frowned. “What?”

“Smoke Jensen. What does he look like? There ain’t a one of us that’s ever actual seen ’im. We’ve heard what he looks like, big man, broad shoulders, muscular, light hair, but there can’t none of us say that’s for sure.”

“Muley is right,” Potter said. “There ain’t none of us that really knows what he looks like.”

“I ain’t worried about that,” Richards bragged. “There’s enough folks that has seen ’im that we’ll get word when he comes around. And he will come around, you can damn well count on that. I intend to be ready for ’im when he comes.”

Denver, early spring 1874

Marshal Holloway knew Smoke had spent the winter months with Preacher and obviously hadn’t shaved or cut his hair in that time. His hair fell almost to his shoulders, and he wore a full beard. That changed his appearance quite a bit, but Holloway knew him right away despite that.

The marshal was glad to see Smoke. After a heartfelt greeting, he looked at the wanted poster Smoke had given him.

WANTED
DEAD OR ALIVE
The Outlaw and Murderer

SMOKE JENSEN

$10,000 REWARD
Contact the Sheriff at Bury, Idaho Territory.

“Don’t worry about it, Smoke. I’ll get these pulled,” Holloway said.

“No, don’t pull them, Marshal. Leave them out there.”

“What?” Marshal Holloway replied. “Why in heaven’s name would you want to do that?”

“As you can see, the reward is being posted by the sheriff of Bury, Idaho. I’ve never been there, but that tells me where Potter, Stratton, and Richards are. I know they’re behind this, and they’ve either lied to the sheriff or they have him in their pocket. Either way, I want to play this out, so don’t do anything to stop it.”

“Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money, Smoke. You’ll have every bounty hunter in the West looking for you. This much money will bring out people who’ve never thought about bounty hunting before.”

“Including Buck West,” Smoke said.

“Who?”

Smoke smiled. “Buck West. That’s who I’m going to be calling myself for a while. I’m going to Bury to join the hunt for Smoke Jensen.”

“Smoke, you’re crazy as a loon. Did anyone ever tell you that?” Marshal Holloway asked with a little laugh.

Smoke chucked. “Some have told me a few times. Preacher has told me that more times than I can count.”

“You should listen to that old coot more often. All right. If that’s the way you want it, I won’t do anything to call them in.”

Holloway took a sheet of paper from his desk, wrote something on it, then gave it to Smoke. “But if you get picked up by a legitimate officer of the law, show him this.”

To whom it may concern. Kirby “Smoke” Jensen is a deputy U.S. marshal working undercover on a case for me. If you have questions, contact by telegraph Uriah Holloway, United States Marshal, Denver, Colorado Territory.

Somewhere between the Big Lost River and the Craters of the Moon, Idaho Territory

The bearded, long-haired man who called himself Buck West had left the train with his horse at Idaho Falls and had been riding for a few days since then, acting like a drifting bounty hunter would. When he came upon a trading post, he dismounted, tied his horse, and went inside.

He almost wished that he hadn’t stopped. The place was dark, filthy, and filled with the stench of sour beer and rotgut whiskey. Smoke bought bacon, beans, and coffee from an ugly clerk who smelled as bad as his store.

He saw some wanted posters on the wall, including one for him. “Thirty thousand dollars for Smoke Jensen? Last one I saw was for ten thousand.”

“I reckon they want him pretty bad,” the clerk said.

“They who?” Smoke asked.

“The sheriff up in Bury.”

“Still, thirty thousand dollars. That’s a lot of money for a county sheriff to be puttin’ up, don’t you think?”

“Word I’ve heard is that there’s some wealthy businessmen up in Bury that’s actually the ones that’s puttin’ up the money.”

“Why would they do that, do you think?”

“Damned if I know. I reckon they’re just good citizens, is all.”

“A man could sure do a lot with thirty thousand dollars,” Smoke mused.

He thanked the clerk, moved to the bar, and ordered a glass of whiskey—not because he particularly wanted it, but because he wanted information and bartenders seldom talked to anyone who wasn’t drinking.

“The good stuff,” he told the bartender.

The man replaced one bottle and reached under the counter for another. “This here is the best we got.” When Smoke nodded, he poured.

Smoke paid for the drink, then lifted the glass. It smelled like bear piss. Keeping a bland expression on his face, he took a sip, and decided that it tasted even worse.

“Come from the East, did you?” the bartender asked.

“What makes you think I came from the East?”

“That’s the way you rode in.”

Another voice asked, “Did you see four men riding together?” The question came from one of the cardplayers behind Smoke.

Smoke turned around, taking in the measure of the man. “As a matter of fact I did. And so did the Blackfeet.”

“Blackfeet? Damn. You reckon the Injuns got them four?”

“I expect they did. I didn’t hang around to see.”

The man was astonished. “You mean you just rode off without so much as lending a hand?”

“I was just one more man. Nothin’ I could’ve done to help.”

“Then I reckon that makes you a coward, don’t it?” the cardplayer said accusingly. The man stood up.

Smoke put the shot glass of bear piss on the rough bar slowly and deliberately. Obviously, his antagonist knew his way around guns. He was wearing two. One was low and tied down.

“I suppose you could say that,” Smoke replied. “You could also say I was just being careful.”

“Nah, you weren’t careful. You was scared. You know what I think, slick? I think it makes you yellow.” The man’s dirty hands hovered over his guns. “I think I’ll just kill you for that.”

Smoke shook his head. “No, you won’t. You might try to kill me, but you won’t get the job done. Fact is, if you do try, you’re goin’ to wind up dead, yourself. Is that really what you want?”

Without another word, Smoke’s challenger made a lightning-fast dip toward his gun, but Smoke’s draw was faster than lightning. His pistol roared. The bullet plunged into the gunman’s heart, and he was dead even before he collapsed over the table in front of him, scattering cards along with the greenbacks and coins in the pot.

The other men in the game didn’t move as Smoke holstered his gun.

After a long moment, they began gathering up the money. One of them took hold of the dead man’s coat and hauled him off the table and onto the floor.

The game went on.