Code of the Mountain Man

I acknowledge the Furies, I believe in them, I have heard the disastrous beating of their wings.

Theodore Dreiser

Chapter One

No one knew why the outlaws chose to attack the town of Big Rock. It was a very stupid thing for outlaws to attack any western town. For those who inhabited the towns of the West were veterans of the War Between the States, veterans of Indian wars, buffalo hunters—men who had lived with guns all their lives. But Big Rock, located in the high-up country of northern Colorado, was known to be off-limits to anyone who sought trouble.

And most trouble—hunters were as careful to avoid Big Rock as they were to keep from sticking their hands into a nest of rattlers.

Perhaps the outlaws who struck Big Rock that day hit it because the West was taming somewhat. The bad old days were not gone entirely, but they were calming down. Maybe the outlaws felt they could pull it off. They would have fared much better had they pulled off their boots and stuck their bare feet into a bucket filled with scorpions.

“Good morning, Abigal,” Sally Jensen spoke to the woman behind the counter.

“Good morning, Sally,” the shopkeeper’s wife said. “And how are things out at the Sugarloaf?”

The Sugarloaf was the name of their ranch. ‘They’ being Smoke and Sally Jensen.

Both women turned at the sounds of hooves pounding the earth. A lot of horses. Sounded like fifty or more.

“What on earth? . . .” Sally said.

A bullet busted a window of the store and tore through cans of peaches. A second bullet hit Sally on the arm and knocked her down. A child and her dog were trampled under the steel-shod hooves of the galloping horses.

It didn’t take the rampaging outlaws long to discover they’d struck the wrong town as men reached for their pistols and rifles and emptied a few saddles. They raced out of town, whooping and hollering and shooting. But the damage had been done.

“Four people dead,” judge Proctor said grimly. “Including a little girl. Half a dozen more wounded Couple of them seriously. Somebody ride for the Sugarloaf and fetch Smoke. Sally’s been hit.”

“Lord God Amighty!” a citizen breathed. “Them outlaws don’t know it, but they just opened the gates to Hell!”

He waited until he was absolutely certain that Sally was not seriously injured. A neighbor lady would stay with her, tending to her. The hands who worked the Sugarloaf range would make damn sure no one tried to attack the ranch.

“Now you be careful,” Sally told her husband. “And don’t you worry about me. I’m just fine.”

He bent down and kissed her lips. “I’ll see you when I get back.” He walked out of the house and stepped into the saddle.

Sally made no attempt to dissuade her husband. This was the West, and a man had to do what a man had to do. They were bound by unwritten yet strictly obeyed codes. Especially a man like Smoke Jensen.

He rode a big buckskin that he’d caught wild in the mountains and gentled. Because of the way he’d worked with the horse, and the bond that had been established between horse and rider, Smoke was the only human the buckskin would allow on its back.

Smoke was tall, with wide shoulders, heavily muscled arms, and lean hipped. His wrists were huge. And his big hands were as powerful as they could be gentle. His hair was ash-blond, cut short, and his eyes were a cold. unforgiving brown that rarely showed any emotion except when with his wife and children.

He wore two guns, the left-hand gun worn butt-forward, the right-hand gun low and tied down. He was just as fast with one gun as he was with the other. Some said he was the fastest man with a gun who ever lived, but he never sought out or bragged that he was a gunfighter. He was just a man one did not push. He carried a long-bladed knife that he usually shaved with on the trail. Or fought with, whichever was the most important at the time. He’d been raised among old mountain men and some called him the last mountain man. His clothing was earth-tones, his hat brown and flat-brimmed. A Winchester rifle was in the saddle boot.

Leadville was behind him and the Gunnison River just a few hours ahead. He would make the small town just about dark. There was a hotel there, and there he would bed down for the night.

He was in no hurry. He knew he would find the outlaws that had ridden into Big Rock and shot it up, killing and wounding innocent people. If their intentions had been to rob the bank, they had failed miserably. But they had left behind them a bloody main street and sorrow in the hearts of those who had to bury their dead and watch the suffering of those wounded by the indiscriminate bullets.

The sheriff of Big Rock, Monte Carson, had been wounded during the bloody battle, and could not lead the posse that went after the outlaws. Went after them, but finally had to return empty-handed.

The man on the mean-eyed buckskin didn’t need a posse. Didn’t want to be hampered by one. He knew the difference between right and wrong, and he sure as hell didn’t need some fancy-talking lawyer to explain it. As far as he was concerned, lawyers should stick to writing wills and drawing up deeds and such. Keep their noses out of a man’s private business. That was part of the problems facing the world today: too damn many lawyers.

He had kissed his wife goodbye, provisioned up, and ridden out from their ranch in the high lonesome of northern Colorado. Alone.

Nobody attacked Big Rock. Nobody. Not and got away with it. Smoke didn’t believe in cowboys hoorahing a town. People got hurt doing that. A gun was not a toy, and when a man grew up, he put boyhood behind him and accepted the responsibilities of being a man.

Smoke had helped found Big Rock; his blood and sweat and time and effort were ingrained in the streets and buildings. And those outlaws had shot his wife. Nobody shot his wife. Ever. Not and lived to brag about it.

One lawyer, straight from the East and new to Big Rock, had said the outlaws probably had a poor childhood, and that was what caused them to behave in such a barbarous manner. They really shouldn’t be blamed for their actions.

Smoke had slapped him down in the street, jerked him up by the seat of his britches and his shirt collar and dumped him in a horse trough.

Preacher Morrow had tried to talk him out of tracking the outlaws. So had Dr. Colton Spalding and some of the others in the town.

“It’s the 1880s, Smoke,” judge Proctor said. “You just can’t take the law into your own hands anymore.”

The big man who stood by the big buckskin looked at the judge. judge Proctor backed up, away from those terribly hard eyes.

“I’ll be back,” Smoke said, then swung into the saddle.

He swung down from the saddle in front of the livery stable in the small town by the Gunnison River and led the buckskin inside, stripping the saddle and bridle from him and stabling the animal.

“Feed him good,” he told the boy who had appeared out of the gloom of the cavernous building. “Rub him down. Give him a bag of grain.” He looked at the boy. “You sleep in this place?”

“Yes, sir. I got me a room back yonder.” He pointed. The man looked familiar, but the boy just couldn’t place him. He took the coin the man offered him. It was a silver dollar.

“Don’t you have a home, boy?”

“Yes, sir. But my ma lets me stay here during the night so’s I can earn extra money to help out.”

“I’ll leave my saddle here. You look after my gear.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Any strangers in town?”

“Three men rode in late this afternoon. They was too cheap to use the livery. They picketed their horses down by the river. They looked like hardcases. Guns tied down low. They just looked mean to me.”

“How’d they smell?”

“Sir?”

“Did you get close enough to them to smell them?”

“Yes, sir. I did, come to think of it. They sure did smell bad.”

“That’s not the only thing that’s really bad about them. Did they bathe?”

The boy looked at the tall man with the wide shoulders and the massive arms that bulged his shirt with muscles. “Bathe? Ah . . . no, sir.”

“So they still stink?”

“Ah . . . yes, sir. I reckon so, sir.”

“I feel sorry for the undertaker.”

The tall man with the two guns walked out of the livery stable, moving like a great hunting cat, his spurs jingling as he moved. He carried his rifle with him as he crossed the wide street and walked toward the hotel.

The boy hung a nose-bag on the buckskin and began currying the horse as he ate a bait of grain. The boy suddenly stopped his brushing as a coldness washed over him. “Oh, my God!” he whispered, finally placing the big man with the cold eyes. “Oh, my God!”

“Good evening, sir!” the desk clerk called. “It certainly is a quiet evening in our town.”

It won’t be for long, Smoke thought, as he signed the register.

The desk clerk looked at the name on the register and gripped the edge of the counter. His mouth dropped open and worked up and down like a fish. “Ah, bah, bah, bah . . .” He cleared his throat. “The dining room just closed, sir. But I can get you a plate of food sent up to your room if you wish.”

“I wish. Thank you.”

“We’re a very modern hostelry, sir. We have the finest in up to date water closets.”

“Good. Give me the key to my room, have the tub in the facilities filled with hot water, and put a fresh bar of soap in there. Lots of towels. I like lots of clean towels.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir. And I’m sure that room I assigned you has fresh sheets. As a matter of fact, I know it does! It’s such a pleasure having you here with . . .”

Those cold eyes stopped his chatter. It was like looking into a frozen Hell.

The tall man turned and walked up the stairs.

The desk clerk beat on the bell until a man appeared. “Get the marshal— right now! Tell him to deputize the boys. We got big trouble.” Or somebody has, he thought, recalling those three hardcases who rode into town that day.

When the tall man walked down the stairs, four of the men the marshal had deputized took one look at him and exited the lobby, fading into the night. They wanted no part of this hombre. They weren’t cowards; they were all good, solid men who had used a gun on more than one occasion against outlaws or Indians. But they were intelligent men.

“You got business in this town, mister?” the marshal asked.

“Oh, yes,” Smoke replied. “But it’s my business.”

“Maybe I’ll make it mine,” the marshal stood his ground.

“That’s your job. But I have a better suggestion.”

“I’m listening.”

“Go home. Make yourself a fresh pot of coffee. Talk to your wife and family Tell your men to go home and gather their families around them. Get the citizens off the street.”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“I didn’t give you any orders.”

The marshal nodded his head. That was a fact. What Jensen was doing was giving him an out, to save face. The desk clerk was all ears, hanging on every word. Whatever happened here would be all over town in ten minutes. “I’m not afraid of you, Jensen.”

The desk clerk gasped.

“I can see that. You’re a good man, Marshal. The town should be proud to have you behind that star, and the city council should give you a raise.”

The marshal cut his eyes. He was alone. His newly deputized men had gone. “Come to think of it, my wife just baked a fresh apple pie. It’d still be warm.”

“Man shouldn’t pass that up," Smoke said. “Might insult his wife. My wife was insulted the other day when the gang those punks in the saloon was ridin’ with shot her.”

The marshal’s eyes narrowed. No man harmed a woman in the West. Just to jostle one on the street was grounds for a good butt—whipping. “She bad hurt?”

“Caught her in the arm. They killed a little girl.”

“You have a good evening, Mr. Jensen.”

“Thank you, Marshal. I plan to.”

The marshal left the hotel lobby. The palms of his hands were sweaty. He wiped them on his britches. He was a good, tough lawman, having gunned down Bad jack Summers on the main street of this very town only a few months back. But Bad Jack couldn’t shine Smoke Jensen’s boots. The marshal sighed. Come to think of it, a wedge of pie would taste mighty good.

Smoke stepped out of the lobby and moved to the shadows, standing for a moment. He worked his guns in and out of leather a few times. The grips of the .44s seemed to leap into his big hands. He stepped off the boardwalk and into the street, walking to the saloon. He stood for a moment at the batwings, looking in, allowing his eyes to adjust to the lantern light of the interior. He pushed open the batwings, stepped inside, and walked to the end of the bar.

“Whiskey,” he told the pale-faced barkeep. “Out of the good bottle. I don’t like snake heads.”

“Yes, sir.”

Some people who made their own whiskey would drop snake heads into the barrel for added flavor. Smoke was not much for strong drink, but he did enjoy a sip every now and then. The saloon was empty except for Smoke, the barkeep, and three unshaven and dirty men seated around a table next to a wall.

The barkeep poured a shot glass full. “That’s the best in the house, sir.”

“Thank you.” Smoke did not touch his liquor. “Where’s all your business this evening?"

“Everybody left sort of sudden-like a few minutes ago.”

“Is that right. Well, l can sure understand why.”

“Oh?” The barkeep was getting jumpy.

“Stinks in here. Smells like a bunch of damn sorry punks whose mothers didn’t teach them to bathe regularly. Like that stinking bunch of crap over there at the table.”

That made the barkeep real nervous. He moved farther away from the tall, well-built man with the cold eyes and the big hands with flat knuckles. Fighter’s hands.

“What’s that?” one of the men at the table said.

“You heard me, punk. I said you stink.”

The man pushed back his chair and walked toward the bar, the big California spurs jangling. “You’re pushin’, mister. You ain’t got no call to say somethin’ like that.”

“I’ve been around skunks that smell better than you three,” Smoke told him. He lifted the shot glass with his left hand and took a small sip. It was good whiskey.

One of the men at the table laughed. “Take him, Bob.”

Smoke chuckled, but the sound was void of humor. “Yeah, Bob. Why don’t you take me?”

Bob looked back at his buddies. This wasn’t going like it usually did. He’d been a bully all his life, and folks usually backed up and took water when he prodded them. This tall man just laughed at him. Funny kind of laugh. Guy looked familiar, too. He’d seen that face somewheres before.

The tall man turned to face Bob. Dirty, unshaven, and smelly. Smoke grimaced at the body odor. “It wouldn’t be right for you to meet your Maker smelling like an over-used outhouse. Why don’t you boys find a horse trough and take a bath?”

“Huh! What are you talkin’ about, mister. I ain’t a-goin’ to meet my Maker.”

“Oh, yes, you are.” Smoke set the shot glass on the bar. “All three of you.”

“You seem right sure of that,” one of the men seated at the table said.

“I’m positive of it.”

The men at the table smiled. “Three of us and one of you. You’re either drunk or crazy.”

“I’m neither. But I’ll tell you boys that you made a bad mistake getting tied up with Lee Slater and that pack of rabid hyenas that run with him. You made the next to the worst mistake of your lives when you attacked Big Rock the other day and shot those women and kids.”

The third man cleared his throat and asked, “You the law, mister?”

“I don’t need the law to take care of scummy punks like you three.”

The man flushed deeply. But he kept his mouth shut. There was something about this tall man that worried at him. He and most of Slater’s men were west coast outlaws, working from the Canadian border down to Mexico. He didn’t know a whole lot about Colorado and the men who lived there. This tall man with muscles bunching his shirt was just too damn confident. Too calm. He was clean-shaven and smelling like bath soap. Neatly dressed and his hair trimmed. But he was no dandy. The outlaw could sense that. Those guns of his’n had seen a lot of use.

“We ain’t with Lee Slater now,” the second man said.

“You were.”

“You said ‘next’ to the worst mistake,” the punk standing in front of him said. “So that means we made a worser one.”

“You certainly did.”

The three waited. The tall man stood by the bar, half turned, smiling coldly at them. The barkeep was poised, ready to hit the floor.

“Well, damnit!” the second man threw a greasy deck of cards to the table. “Are you going to tell us, or not?”

“One of the women you shot was my wife,” Smoke said.

The third man sighed.

“And who might you be, mister?” the punk facing Smoke asked, a nasty grin on his face.

“Smoke Jensen.” Smoke followed that with a hard left fist that smashed into the punk’s face. It sounded like someone swinging a nine-pound sledge against a side of freshly butchered beef. The punk’s nose exploded in a gush of blood, and the blow knocked him to the floor.

Smoke straightened up with his right hand full of .44 just as the pair at the table jumped to their feet, dragging iron. He shot the two, cocking and firing so fast the twin shots sounded like one report. One was hit in the center of the chest, dead before he hit the sawdusted floor. The second was struck in the throat, the .44 slug making a terrible mess.

The punk he’d punched on the beak was moaning and crawling to his knees when Smoke jerked him up and threw him against a wall, next to the batwings. The punk screamed as ribs popped from the impact. His eyes were filled with fear as they watched the big man walk toward him, those brown eyes filled with revenge.

The punk staggered out the batwings and fell off the boardwalk, landing in the street. “Help!” he squalled. “Somebody come help me!”

The dark street remained as quiet as the grave he would soon be in.

Smoke had holstered his .44. He stood on the boardwalk and stared at the gunslick. “You think you’re bad, boy.” The words were chipped ice flying from his mouth. “Then draw, you sorry piece of crap!”

“You ain’t no badge-toter!” the punk slobbered the words. “I got a right to a trial and all that. You can’t take the law into your own hands.”

Smoke stared at him, his eyes burning with a glow that the young man on the street had never seen coming from any man. It was eerie and unnatural. A dark stain appeared on the front of the young man’s dirty jeans.

“You gonna let me git up, Jensen?” he yelled.

“Get up.”

The punk tried to fake Smoke out, drawing as he was getting to his boots. Smoke drew and shot him in the belly. His second shot shattered the punk’s six-gun. Smoke turned and walked back into the saloon, leaving the outlaw in the dirt, hollerin’ and bellerin’ for his mother.

“You got an undertaker in this town?” he asked the barkeep.

“Ye . . . ye . . . yes, sir!” the barkeep stammered.

“Got us a right good one.”

“Get him.”

“Right now, Mr. Smoke. You bet. I’m gone.”

Smoke reloaded and finished his drink.

“Ain’t much to this bunch of trash,” the undertaker griped. “I’m gonna have to sell their gear to make any money.”

“You do that.”

“You know their names?”

“Nope.”

“Well, I got to have something to put on the markers.”

“You can carve on it, ‘they should have bathed more often.’ ”

Chapter Two

The marshal walked into the hotel’s dining room early the next morning and over to Sm0ke’s table. He pointed to a chair, and Smoke pushed it out with the toe of his boot.

The marshal ordered breakfast—the same thing Smoke and everybody else in the dining room was having: beef, fried potatoes, and fried eggs—and laid several sheets of paper on the table. “These may help you.”

They were flyers, wanted posters sent out by various law enforcement agencies west of the Mississippi River, and by the federal government. One was of Lee Slater.

Lee had to be the ugliest man Smoke had ever seen in his life. Ugly and mean-looking. “He sure isn’t much for looks, is he?”

The marshal chuckled. “He probably didn't win any pretty-baby contests, for sure. But he’s a bad one, Smoke. Vicious. He likes to hurt people. Kills for no reason. These others ride with him. Deke Carey and Curt Holt. They’re both wanted for rape and murder. Everyone in his gang is facing either long prison sentences or a rope.”

“So I heard. His gang was cut down by half a dozen when they hit Big Rock. But it’s still a big gang.”

“The biggest still operating in the West, Smoke. Fifty at least and some place it at closer to seventy-five. He’s always run big bunches. I’ll tell you what I know about him, and then I wish to God you’d leave our town before some punk huntin’ a reputation learns you’re here.”

Smoke did not take umbrage. “I’ll do my best, Marshal.”

“Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Not at all.”

“If you’d never seen him before, how’d you know it was Lee Slater who hit your town?”

“The sheriff recognized him. Monte Carson.”

The marshal smiled. “Ol’ Monte was a rounder in his day. But he was never a crook. just a bad man to fool with.”

“Marriage settled him right down.”

“It usually does. Ask you a few more questions?”

“Sure.”

“How old are you? Early thirties?”

“That’s close enough.”

“I heard what happened to your first wife and baby

boy. I’m sorry. I won’t dwell on that. Now you’ve married again—and a fine lady she is, too, so I’m told—but you’re still apt to go on the prod ever’ now and then. Why?”

Smoke shook his head. “Louis Longmont asked me that a couple of years ago and then answered his own question. Maybe I am the last mountain man, Marshal. There’s something in me that screams out for the high lonesome. Something in me that can’t tolerate punks and thugs and bullies and the like. Back in the hard scrabble hills of Missouri, while my daddy was off in the war, I kept body and soul together by eating turnips—when the garden carne up, that is—and berries and what game I could kill. Many’s the time I went to sleep with my belly growling. But I never stole. I never took what wasn’t mine. And I won’t tolerate them that do. Louis said that some people think I have a Robin Hood complex. But that’s not true. I just don’t like the way laws are changing, Marshal. They’re not getting better, they’re getting worse. I honest to God read in a Chicago newspaper a couple of months ago, that a man shot a burglar breaking into his home and the police put the homeowner in jail! Can you believe that? What in the hell is this world coming to?”

“I know. I read about it myself. But it’s the 1880s now, Smoke. You got to change with the times.”

Smoke shook his head. “Not me, Marshal. Somebody does me a hurt, I’ll hunt him down and settle it. Eyeball to eyeball. Man kills for no reason, or kills trying to take what isn’t his, hang him. ’Cause he’s no good. Now I read where the country is spending money building prisons.” He shook his head. “It’s a mistake, Marshal. A hundred years from now, people will see that it’s a mistake. But it’ll be too late then. A man who’ll lie and cheat and steal and hurt people and kill at fifteen will do the same damn thing when he’s fifty. I don’t care if this nation builds ten thousand prisons . . . it won’t matter. It won’t stop them. But a bullet will.”

Everybody in the restaurant had stopped eating and was listening to the most famous gunfighter in the world.

“I sass my daddy when I was a kid, he’d a-knocked me slap to the floor. Now we got so-called smart folks back East saying that you shouldn’t whip your children. If that silliness continues and catches hold, can you imagine what it’ll be like in the 1980s? There’ll be no discipline, no respect for law and order. I whip my children, then I hug them to show them I love them and I tell them why I just put a belt to their rears.

“I respect the laws of God, Marshal. I’m an Old Testament man. Eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Hurt me or mine and I'm comin’ after you. And man’s laws be damned!”

The marshal sighed and ate his breakfast. “I hope to God I’m not the lawman who ever has to come after you, Smoke.”

“That day’s coming, Marshal,” Smoke admitted.

“ ’Cause I’ll never change. Someday, a posse will come after me, hunting me down like an old lobo wolf And when they do, the land’s going to run red with blood. Because I won’t go down easy.

“Marshal, if a man is hungry, can’t feed his family, just come to me and I’ll give them food. If they’re down on their luck and really want to work, I’ll give them a job, find one for them, or give them money to keep on hunting for work and eat while they’re doing it. But if I catch someone stealing from me, or hurting my family, or threatening me, he’s dead on the spot.

“It’s a funny thing about laws and lawyers, Marshal. You take a small town that just has one lawyer, he can make a living and that’s just about it. Let a second lawyer move in, and damned if they don’t both get rich.”

Smoke pulled out and rode past the graveyard, located on a barren hilltop just out of town. Three mounds of earth were waiting to be shoveled in the holes.

The marshal had told him some names of men who rode with Lee Slater: Curly Rogers, Dirty Jackson, Ed Malone, Boots Pierson . . . to name just a few. They were all trash and scum. Back shooters and torturers. He had asked if Smoke planned to take on the whole gang by himself?

“Just one gang, isn’t it?”

Smoke headed south, staying between the Cebolla and Cochetopa Rivers. Although the outlaws’ trail was days old, it was not that difficult to follow. Their campsites were trashy reminders of just how sorry a bunch of people he was tracking. Tin cans and bottles and bloody bandages and torn, wore—out clothing clearly marked each night’s site.

With San Luis Peak still to the south of him, Smoke came up on a woman sitting in front of a burned-out cabin. Only the chimney remained. He noticed several fresh—dug graves by the side of the charred ruins. The graves had not been filled in.

The woman’s face bore the results of a savage beating. She looked up at him through eyes that were swollen slits. “You be the law, mister?”

“No. As far as I know there is no law within a hundred miles of here.” He swung down from the saddle and walked to her. She had fixed her torn dress as best she could; but it was little more than rags. “You had anything to eat?”

“A biscuit I had in my pocket. The outlaws token everything else. Before they put the house to the torch. I ain’t able to move.”

Smoke took a packet of food from his saddlebags and gave it to her. “I’ll get you a dipper of water from the well.”

“I wouldn’t,” she told him. “They killed my kids’ dogs and dumped them in the well.”

“Then I’ll get you some water from the creek.”

“I’d appreciate it. I tried to get around, but I can’t. They kicked my ribs in. Left me for dead. I don’t think I got long ’fore I join my husband and girls. Ribs busted off and tore up a lung. Hurts.”

He found a jug and rinsed it out, filling it up with water from the creek. Looking at the woman, he could see that she was standing in death’s door. Sheer determination had kept her hanging on, waiting for help, or more probably, he guessed, someone to come along that would avenge this terrible act.

“Who dug the graves, ma’am?”

“I did. The outlaws made me. Then they used my husband for target practice. Made me and my girls watch. He suffered a long time. My girls was ten and twelve years old. They raped me and made them watch. Then they raped the girls and made me watch. Then they thought they had kicked me to death. I lay real still and fooled them. They done horrible things to me and the girls. Things I won’t talk about. Unnatural things. I been sittin’ here for three days, prayin’ and passin’ out from the pain, prayin’ and passin’ out. Wishin’ to God somebody would come along and hear my story.”

“I’m here, ma’am.”

She drifted off, not unconscious, but babbling. Some of her words made sense, most didn’t. Smoke bathed her face and waited. The woman’s face was hot to the touch, burning with fever. While she babbled, smoke unsaddled Buck and let him roll and water.

“Who you be?” she asked suddenly, snapping out of her delirium.

“Smoke Jensen."

“Praise God!” she said. “Thank you, God. You sent me a warrior. I thank you.”

“Lee Slater’s gang did this?”

“That’s him. I heard names. Harry Jennings, Blackjack Simpson, Thumbs Morton, Bell Harrison, Al Martine. They was a Pedro and a Lopez and a Tom Post.” She coughed up blood and slipped back into delirium.

Smoke took that time to walk to the graves and look at the shallow pits. His stomach did a slow roll-over. The man had been shot to ribbons. His wife had been right: he died hard over a long period of time. The naked bodies of the children would sicken a buzzard. The kids had been used badly and savagely. People who would do this deserved no pity, no mercy . . . and the only justice they were going to get from Smoke Jensen was a bullet.

He filled in the holes and took a small Bible from his saddlebags. He read from the Old Testament and then set about making some crosses. He made four, for he knew the woman wasn't going to last much longer.

“Them names was burned in my head,” the woman said. “I made myself memorize them. They was Crown and Zack. Reed and Dumas and Mac. They was a Ray and a Sandy and some young punks called themselves Pecos, Carson, and Hudson. Three more pimply faced punks hung with them three. They was all savages. Just as mean and vicious as any man amongst ’em. They was called Concho, Bull, and Jeff.”

Smoke rolled one of his rare cigarettes and waited, squatting down beside the dying woman.

“I recollect hearin’ a man they called Lake and another man they called Taylor. Dear God in Heaven it was a long two days they stayed here.” She looked at him. Her eyes were unusually bright and clear. “Did I dream it, or did you put dirt over my family?”

“I buried them and read words from the Bible.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember no more names of them outlaws.”

“I’ll find out who the rest of them were. Did they all . . . ah? . . .” He didn’t know quite how to say it. But the woman did.

“Yes. Several times. One of my girls died while they was abusin’ her. You got kids of your own, Mr. Smoke?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know how I must feel.”

“I believe so.”

“I heard them say they was goin’ to ta.ke over part of Colorado.”

“The only thing they’re going to take over is a grave, ma’am.”

“That’s good. You got a hole dug for me?”

“Yes.”

“I reckon it’s about time then.” She closed her eyes, smiled, and said, “Thank you, God, for sending me a warrior.” Then the woman leaned her head back and died.

Smoke buried the woman and moved on, making camp a few miles from the scene of cruelty and savageness. He would try that little town on the Rio Grande, on the southern edges of the La Garita Mountains; see if any of the scum had ridden in there. What was the name of that place? Yeah, it came to him. Somebody had named it Gap.

Wasn’t much to Gap, Smoke thought, as he approached the town from the north. A saloon, a little hotel, a general store, a cafe and barber shop. Maybe two dozen houses. He swung down in front of the small livery and looked at the man sitting in a cane-bottomed chair in front of the place.

“That horse has got a mean eye on him,” the man said.

“Feed him, curry him, and take care of him,” Smoke said, dropping the reins. “Give him all the grain he wants. And don’t get behind him. He’ll kick the crap out of you.”

“Gonna cost you extra for me to take care of that wall-eyed bastard.”

Buck lifted his head and showed the man his big teeth.

“Don’t call him names. He’s sensitive about that.”

“I’ll make a deal with you,” the man said. “You stable and feed him, and I’ll just charge you for what he eats.”

“That’s fair enough. Livery looks full.”

“Bunch of lawmen in here, U—nited States marshals; stayin’ over to the ho-tel. Chasin’ some gang, they is.” He squinted his eyes. “Don’t I know you?”

“Never been here before in my life.”

“You shore look familiar. I seen your pitcher somewhere. Maybe on a wanted poster?”

Smoke laughed. “Not likely. I ranch up north of here, outside of Big Rock.”

“That’s Smoke Jensen’s country. He’s kilt a thousand men.”

“Not quite that many.”

“You know him?”

“I know him. You got a marshal in this town?”

“Yep. Right over there’s his office.” The man pointed. “Name is Bradley.”

Smoke took his gear and checked in at the hotel. He got the last room available. He registered as Jen Sen.

“Funny name,” the desk clerk said. Then he looked into the coldest eyes he’d ever seen. “No offense meant, mister.”

“You been in this country long?” Smoke asked.

“Just got in from Maryland a few months back.”

“Then learn this: you belittle a man’s name out here, and you’d best be ready to back it up with guns or fists.”

“Here, now!” a man said. “There’ll be none of that around me.”

Smoke turned. A man stood before him with a big badge on his chest that read: “Deputy U. S. Marshal.”

Smoke took in his hightop lace-up boots and eastern clothes. He wore a pistol in a flap holster. He looked at the other men. They were all dressed much the same.

“Who in the hell do you think you are?” Smoke said, taking an immediate dislike for the man.

“United States Marshal Mills Walsdorf.”

“Come to bring peace to the wilderness?” Smoke said with a smile.

“I do not find law enforcement a humorous matter, sir. It’s very serious business.”

“I’d say so. That’s what that woman told me, in so many words, just before I buried her a couple of days ago.”

“What? What? Where did this take place?”

“North of here. Gang of scum rode through and shot her husband to ribbons. Then raped the woman and her two children. Same gang of trash that shot up Big Rock.”

“Did the woman identify the gang?”

“She did.”

Mills waited. Tapped his foot impatiently. “Well, speak up, man! Who were they?”

“Lee Slater’s pack of filth”

“Scoundrels!” one of Walsdorf’s men muttered darkly.

“Which direction did they head, man?” Walsdorf demanded in a tone that told Smoke the man was accustomed to getting his way, when he wanted it.

“South.”

“Oh, say, now!” another Fed said. “I find that hard to believe. We’ve been here several days and have seen no sign of them.”

He didn’t exactly call him a liar, so Smoke let the remark slide and leaned against the front desk. “Where are you boys from?”

“From the Washington, D.C. and Chicago offices,” Walsdorf replied.

Smoke sized up Mills Walsdorf. About his own age, and about his size, although not as heavily muscled in the arms and shoulders. His hands were big and flat knuckled and looked like he’d used them in fights more than once.

“You look familiar,” Mills said. “I’ve seen you somewhere.”

“I do get around.”

Mills spun the register book and snorted at Smoke’s name. Jen Sen. That’s obviously a phony name. Are you running from the authorities?”

“If you represent the authority, I wouldn’t see any need in it.”

“I think, sir, that I do not care for your attitude.”

“I think, sir, that I do not give a damn what you care for.”

Mills drew himself up and stared Smoke in the eyes. “You need to be taught a lesson in manners, sir.”

“And you think you’re just the man to do that, huh?”

“I’ve thrashed better men than you more than once.”

“Cut your bulldog loose, Walsdorf,” Smoke said easily. ‘just anytime you feel lucky.”

Jen Sen, the desk clerk was musing. Jen Sen. Jensen. Smoke Jensen! “That’s Smoke Jensen, Marshal,” he said softly.

The color drained out of Walsdorf’s face. A sigh passed his lips.

“Hear me well, Mr. U.S. Marshal,” Smoke said. “Lee Slater and his gang attacked Big Rock about ten days ago. They killed several people, including a little girl. And they wounded my wife, Sally. The former Sally Reynolds. You’ve probably heard the name, since her family owns most of New England. Nobody shoots my wife, Walsdorf, and gets away with it. Nobody. Not Lee Slater’s bunch, not a marshal, not a sheriff, not the President of the United States. There’s a little town up on the Gunnison, where the Taylor River feeds into it. I found three of Slater’s men there. I hope somebody buried them shortly after I rode out ’cause they damn sure smelled bad alive.

“Now, I’m going to find the rest of that gang, Walsdorf. And I’m going to kill them. All of them. And I don’t need some fancypants U.S. Marshal from back East stumbling around screwing up what trail there is left. You understand me?”

Mills drew back in astonishment. Nobody, nobody had ever spoken to him in such a manner. He shook his finger in Smoke’s face. “Now, you listen to me, Mr. Smoke Jensen. I realize that you have some reputation, but the West is changing. Your kind is on the way out, and it’s past due in coming. Now I . . .”

“Jensen!” the shout came from the street. “Smoke Jensen! Step out here and die!”

“Albert,” Mills said, “step out there and see what that man is bellowing about.”

A man filled the doorway, paused, then stepped inside. He wore a badge pinned to his shirt. He looked at Smoke. “That’s Chris Mathers. He’s a local troublemaker. Pretty good with a gun. Better than I am. You killed his big brother several years ago. He used to ride for a scum named Davidson.”

“I remember Davidson. Ran an outlaw town. I killed him and his personal bodyguard, man by the name of Dagget. I don’t remember any Mathers.”

“Smoke Jensen!” the shout came. “You’re a coward, Jensen. A dirty little boot-lickin’ coward.”

Smoke slipped the hammer thong from his guns.

“There’ll be none of this!” Mills said.

“There’s no law against it,” the local marshal shut him up. Momentarily. “This ain’t back East where you kiss every punk’s butt that comes along. So why don’t you just close your mouth and see how we do it in the West.”

Smoke stepped out onto the boardwalk. “I don’t have any quarrel with you, boy,” he told the young man in the street. “So why don’t you just go on home, and we’ll forget you calling me out.”

“Big tough man!” Mathers sneered. “I always knowed you was yellow.”

“He’s givin’ you a chance to live, boy," the local marshal told him, standing well to one side. “Take it. You’ll never get another one after this day.”

“You shut up,” Mathers told him, without taking his eyes from Smoke. “Make your play, gunfighter.”

Smoke just stood and looked at him.

“I said draw, damn you!” Mathers screamed.

“I got nothing against you, boy. Far as I know, the marshal has no charges against you. So you’re not wanted. Go get your horse and ride on out of here.”

“He’s giving him every chance," Albert said, watching from the hotel lobby’s right front window.

“Yes, he is,” Mills agreed. “He’s a tough man, but seems to be a fair one.”

“I’ll kill you where you stand, Jensen!” Mathers shouted. His hands hovered over his guns. “Draw.”

“I’ll not sign your death certificate, boy,” Smoke told him. “You’ll have to draw on me.”

“Are you ready to die, Jensen?” Mathers shouted.

“No man is ever ready to die, boy.”

Mills grunted, arching an eyebrow at the philosophical uttering from the mouth of the West’s most famous gunhandler. He just didn’t understand these Western men. They could be incredibly crude, then turn about and quote Shakespeare. They could brand cattle and endure the squalls of pain from the cow, then turn right around and shoot somebody who tried to hurt their pet dog.

Mills reluctantly concluded that he just might have a lot to learn about the West and the people who lived here.

“Now!” Mathers yelled, and grabbed for iron.

Smoke’s right hand Colt seemed to leap into his hand. Mathers felt the slug strike him. His own gun was still in leather. The bullet shattered his breast bone and sent bone splinters into his heart. The young man looked up at the clear blue of the sky. He was on his back and could not understand how he got in that position.

“Holy Mother of God!” Albert muttered. “He’s fast as a snake.”

Townspeople began gathering around the fallen young man.

“I’ll pray for you, young man,” the local minister said, clutching his Bible and leaning over Chris Mathers.

But he was talking to a corpse.

Smoke punched out the empty and let it drop to the boardwalk. It bounced and rolled off into the dirt.

“I didn’t come into your town to cause trouble,

Marshal.”

“I know that. What you probably done was save me a lot of trouble. Mathers was born to it and had a killing coming.”

Sm0ke’s smile was a grim one. A hundred years from now, that very statement will come back into the minds of a lot of good, decent, law-abiding people, Marshal.” He walked back into the hotel.

Mills Walsdorf had stepped out onto the boardwalk. He cocked his head to one side and had a puzzled expression on his face upon hearing Smoke’s words.

“Now . . . what in the world did he mean by the?”

“I could try to explain it to you, Mills,” the local marshal said. “‘But people like you never seem to understand until it’s Just too damn late.

Chapter Three

Smoke lingered over his coffee after breakfast, pondering his next move. He didn’t want to pull out and have Mills Walsdorf and his Eastern U.S. Marshals tagging along behind him. For the life of him he couldn’t understand why the government would send men from the big cities out West to catch Western born and reared outlaws. It just didn't make any sense.

Of course, there were a lot of things the federal government did that didn’t make any sense to Smoke.

Like sending seven U.S. Marshals out to round up a gang of fifty or sixty outlaws. That wasn’t a dumb move; that was just plain ignorant. Especially when the marshals didn’t know the country, weren’t familiar with Western ways, and rode their horses like a bunch of English lords and dukes out on a fox hunt.

“May I join you?” Mills broke into his musings.

Smoke pointed to a chair.

“I can’t get used to having no menu,” Mills said.

“It’s on the chalkboard over there,” Smoke replied, cutting his eyes.

“I know where it is! I’m not blind.” He paused, then said, “I’m afraid we got off on the wrong foot yesterday afternoon, Mr. Jensen. I should like to make amends and offer you some employment.”

“The first part is fine with me. Forget the job offer.”

“You would be doing your country a great service by joining us and helping to bring an end to this reign of terror put upon the land by Lee Slater and his men.”

“I intend to put an end to it, Mills. Permanently.”

“The men deserve a fair trial.”

“They deserve a bullet, and that is what they’re going to get.”

“You’re going to force me to stop you, Mr. Jensen.”

Smoke’s eyes were amused as he gazed at the man. “I’d be right interested in knowing how you plan on doing that, Mills.”

“By arresting you for obstruction of justice, that’s how.”

Smoke chuckled. “First you better get yourself a federal warrant for my arrest. Nearest telegraph station is south of here, across the San Juan Mountains. The federal judge is in Denver. I know him. You’ll play hell getting him to sign a warrant against me. And if you get another to sign it, I’ll get the judge in Denver to cancel it. But that’s only part of your problem. The biggest problem facing you would be trying to arrest me.”

“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you, Mr. Jensen?”

“The name is Smoke. And yes, I am. You ever heard of the Silver Camp Shootout?”

“Yes. That was the setting in one of those Penny Dreadfuls written about you. Pure fiction, of course.”

“Wrong, Mills. Pure fact. There were fifteen salty outlaws in that town when I went in. There were fifteen dead men when I rode out. I wasn’t much more than a boy—in age. You ever seen a cornered puma, Mills?”

“No.”

“You ever try to brace me, Mills, and you’ll see one”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Nope. just telling you the way it’ll be.”

“I can have a hundred U.S. Marshals in here in a week, Smoke.”

“You’ll need them. I was raised by mountain men, Mills. I know areas in this country that still haven’t been viewed by white men. I’ll get you so damn lost you’ll have a beard a foot long before you find your way out. I know where to ride, and where not to ride. And that last part is far more important than the first. And as far as you and your boys taking me in, forget it. You’d have to pay too terrible a price. I’ve had as many as five slugs in me, and stayed on my feet shooting. The men who put those slugs in me are rotting in the grave. I’m sitting here drinking coffee. I’d think about that if was you.”

“I don’t think you’d draw on an officer of the law, Smoke.”

“I wouldn’t want to do it. I surely wouldn’t. Most of them just get out of my way and leave me alone. They know I’m not a criminal; they know I work hard and try to live right. Western lawmen also know that you got to put a rabid animal down. There is no cure for what they’ve got.”

“Men are not animals, Smoke.”

“You’re right. Many men aren’t nearly as good as animals. Animals don’t kill for no reason. They kill to protect their mate or their cubs. They fight for territory and food. Only man kills for the fun of it. And there are lots of species of animals who won’t tolerate a rogue animal. One of their kind goes bad, the others will drive it out or kill it.”

“I can’t make you understand,” Mills said, shaking his head.

“One of us can’t,” Smoke said. He stood up and walked out of the dining room, climbing the stairs to his room.

“Keep an eye on his room,” Mills said, after waving one of his men over. ‘just sit right there in the lobby.

It’s the only way out.”

Smoke had paid in advance, as was the custom, and in his room, he gathered up his gear, slung the saddlebags over his shoulder, and climbed out the window, swinging up to the roof. He jumped over to the next building, climbed down, and walked through the alley to the livery, entering the back way.

“Figured you’d be along shortly,” the stableman said, walking back to meet him. “Heard them Eastern lawmen want to capture Lee and his bunch alive for a fair trial and all that.”

“That’s their plan.” Smoke threw a saddle on Buck and secured his gear.

The man spat in the dirt. “I’ll go get you a poke of food for the trail.”

Smoke tried to give him money. The man shook his head. “This one’s on me. I’ll be right back.”

By the time Mills Walsdorf discovered that Smoke was gone, Smoke was halfway between Gap and Beaver Creek.

“He’s what?” Mills jumped up.

“He’s gone,” Winston said glumly. “Liveryman said he pulled out this morning.”

“How?” Mills yelled.

“On his damn horse, I suppose!” the marshal said.

“Oh! . . .” Mills brushed the man aside and ran up the stairs to Smoke’s room. It was empty. “Climbed out the window, up to the roof, and went down into the alley. Damn! Tell the men to provision up and get mounted. We’re pulling out. We have got to see that justice is done. It’s our sworn duty. This lawlessness has got to stop. And by God, I intend to be the one to stop it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Smoke cooked his supper, rested, and then wiped out all signs of his camp before moving on several miles to make his night’s camp. He made a cold camp, not wanting to attract any visitors by building a fire. As he lay rolled up in his blankets, his saddle for a pillow, his thoughts were busy ones.

Was he wrong for being what many called out of step with the times? Was he too eager to kill? Had he reached that point that many men good with a gun feared: had he stepped over the line and begun to enjoy killing?

He rolled over on his back and stared at the stars.

He knew the answer to the last question. No, he did not enjoy killing. He did not enjoy seeing the light fade from a man’s eyes as the soul departed.

Was he too eager to kill? He didn’t think so, but that might be iffy. He had killed a lot of men since those days when he and his father had left that hard-scrabble rocky farm back in Missouri and headed west. But they were men who had pushed him, tried to kill him, or had done him or a loved one harm.

What was that line from Thoreau that Sally loved to quote to him? Yes. He recalled it. “If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a. different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”

But is my drummer beating out the right tattoo? he wondered. Am I marching toward the wrong side of the law? What would I really do if Mills Walsdorf tried to arrest me? Would I draw on a badge?

He drifted off to sleep before an answer came to him.

He slept soundly and was up before dawn, waiting until the sun broke over the horizon before building a small fire to boil his coffee and fry his bacon. He sopped out the grease with part of a loaf of bread the liveryman had put in his poke and then broke camp.

He crossed Beaver Creek and would stay to the east of Wolf Creek Pass and Park Creek. This time of the year, early spring, Wolf Creek Pass would be chancy. He was pretty sure Slater and his pack of hyenas would stay clear of Pagosa Springs—which means “Indian healing waters.” The town was not a new one, and was populated by men who would not look kindly upon outlaws coming in and raising hell.

And Pagosa Springs was also where Smoke, when he was about nineteen years old and still running with the old mountain man, Preacher, had gunned down Thompson and Haywood. A few days prior to that, he had put lead in two men in a tough mining town named Rico.

The name Smoke Jensen was legend in Colorado and those states bordering it to the west, north, and south.

It was wild and beautiful country he was riding through. Still wild and beautiful despite the onslaught of settlers from the East. This was not farming country, although a few were running cattle in the area. There was a little bit of a town down near Mix Lake, just north of the Alarnosa River. That would be ideal for Slater and his crud to hit.

Faint tracks indicated that Slater and his bunch had split up into small groups, but they were all heading in a southeasterly direction. More south than east. That would put the little settlement directly in their path.

And since Smoke had learned that the bunch had worked the west coast for most of their outlaw careers, and really knew little about this country, he had one up on them there. For he had traveled this country since a teenager, and knew short cuts that only mountain men and Indians knew of.

He turned south and put Del Norte peak to his right, riding right through some of the most rugged country the state had to offer . . . and that was saying a mouthful. He climbed higher and higher and nooned with a spectacular view for his dessert.

Uncasing his field glasses, he began a slow careful sweep of the area. He spotted half a dozen smokes from cook fires, all well to the north of his location.

He smiled. Slater and his bunch were hopelessly tangled up, taking the rough and rugged way to the settlement.

Smoke smiled as he chewed on a biscuit filled with roast beef. Come on, Slater, he thought. I’ll be waiting for you.

The settlement was still half a day’s ride ahead of him when he ran into two unshaven and thoroughly mistrustful-looking men riding down the narrow road.

The riders eyeballed him suspiciously as they neared where Smoke sat his horse, his right hand resting near the butt of his .44.

“You boys look like you been riding hard,” Smoke said. “Plumb tuckered out.”

“You figure that’s any of your business?” one asked.

“My, aren’t we grouchy today. just trying to be friendly, boys.”

The other rider muttered curses under his breath.

“Heading down to the settlement, boys?”

The pair reined up. “You got a nose problem, you know that, mister,” one said.

“I don’t have near the problems you boys are about to have.” ,

“Huh? What do you mean by that?”

“What I mean is, if you boys think the reception you got up in Big Rock was hostile, you’re about to learn that was a picnic compared to what’s looking at you now.”

The outlaws had moved their horses so that they both faced Smoke.

“I think, mister,” the bigger of the two said, “that you got a big fat mouth. And I think I’ll just close it e permanently.”

“Before you do that, I got a message for you.”

“From who?”

“From that woman and her two daughters you raped and killed up north of here.”

The two men sat their horses and stared at Smoke.

“And from her husband that you trash used for target practice.”

“You’re about ten seconds away from dyin’, mister.”

Smoke turned Buck, giving him a better field of fire. “Enjoy all the comforts of hell, boys,” Smoke spoke softly.

“What’s your damn name, mister?” the other punk asked.

“Smoke Jensen.”

The outlaws grabbed for their guns, and Smoke emptied two saddles. The bigger of the two scum hit the ground and tried to lift his pistol. Smoke shot him between the eyes, shifted the muzzle of his .44 and put another slug in the second man’s chest.

The dying man said, “You’ll never leave this part of the country alive, Jensen.”

“Maybe,” Smoke told him. “But that isn’t doing you much good right now, is it?”

The outlaw cussed him.

“Tsk, tsk,” Smoke said. “Such language while on the way to meet the Lord.”

The outlaw died in the dirt, a curse on his lips.

Smoke stripped the saddles from the horses and turned them loose. He took the men’s guns and money and shoved the dead over the side of the mountain road. Several miles down the road, he came to a cabin and halloed it.

A man, a woman, and two wide-eyed kids peeked around the corner of the cabin that was set well off the road in a thick stand of timber.

“I’m friendly,” he told him. “Can I water my horse?”

“You can,” the man told him. “I’ll not turn no man away from this house who’s in need.”

“Thanks kindly. Some outlaws tried to rob me up the road a piece. They weren’t very good at their work.” He placed the rifles and pistols on a bench next to the house. “They’re part of a much larger gang that’ll be coming along this road shortly, I’m thinking.” He handed the man a wad of greenbacks he’d taken from the dead outlaws. The eyes of the man and woman widened in shock. “I took this off the dead men, figuring I’d run into someone who needed it more than me. You folks look like you’ve hit some hard times here.”

“You’re a saint, mister,” the woman said. “There must be several hundred dollars there.”

“Probably. I didn’t count it. And I’m no saint, ma’am. Was I you folks, I’d pack me some food and bedding and take off for the deep timber until the trouble is over. Get those kids out of harm’s way.”

“We’ll do that, mister. You the law?”

“No. I’ve been tracking these outlaws since they rode into a town near where I live and shot it up. One of the people they shot was my wife.”

“What’s your name?” the woman asked.

“Jensen, ma’am. Smoke Jensen.”

They were still standing with their mouths hanging open when Smoke rode away.

* * *

Smoke made the settlement by late afternoon and stabled his horse at the livery.

“They got rooms for let over the saloon,” the liveryman told him. “They ain’t much, but they’re better than nothin’. Bonnie’s Cafe serves right good food if the cook ain’t drunk.” He peered at Smoke. “Don’t I know you?”

“I doubt it. First time I’ve ever been here. This town have a name?”

“It’s had three or four. Right now we’re ’twixt and ’tween.”

“You got a marshal?”

“Nope. Had one but he left ’cause we couldn’t pay him . . . among other reasons. Had a bank but it closed. Got one stage a week comes through. Heads north. You wanna go south, you’re in trouble. Starts out in Monte Vista and makes a big circle. Alamosa, Conejos, through here, and back up the grade.”

“You ever heard of the Lee Slater gang?”

“Nope,”

“You will.” Smoke gathered his gear and walked to the saloon, dumping his saddlebags on the bar.

“Got a room for a few days?” he asked the barkeep.

“Take your choice. They’re all empty. The best in the house will cost you a dollar a night. Dollar and a half for clean sheets.”

Smoke tossed some coins on the bar. “Change the sheets. I want a room facing the street.”

“You got it. Number one. Top of the stairs and turn right. You cain’t miss it,” he added drily.

“Tubs inside?” Smoke asked hopefully.

“You got to be kidding! Tubs behind the barber shop. Want me to have one filled up?”

“Please.”

“Fifty cents.”

Smoke paid him and stowed his gear in the room. He walked over to the barber shop and bathed, then had the barber shave him and cut his hair.

“Lilac water?” the barber asked. “Two bits and you’ll smell so good the ladies’ll be knockin’ on your door tonight.”

Smoke handed him a quarter. “How many people in this town?”

“Sixty—five, at last count. We’re a growin’ little community, for sure. Got us the bes’ general store within fifty miles. Freight wagons jus’ run yesterday, and she’s stocked to the overfl0win’.”

Perfect for Slater and his bunch, Smoke thought. They might not get much money out of this place, but they could take enough provisions to last them a month or better while they raided towns, then disappeared back into the mountains.

“Any strangers been riding through?”

“Yeah, they has been, come to think of it. Yesterday, as a matter of fact. Some real hard-lookin’ ol' boys. Stopped over to the saloon and had them a taste, then looked the town over real careful-like.

Made me kind of edgy.”

“Who runs this town?”

“Mayor and town council. Why?”

“ ’Cause you got a big bunch of outlaws probably planning to hit this place within the next few days. I’ve been on their trail for several weeks. Lee Slater’s hunch out of California. They hit my town up north of here and killed several people.”

“Lord have mercy! And us without no marshal.”

“You want a lawman?”

“Sure. But we can’t pay no decent wage.”

"You go get the mayor and the town council. Tell them I’ll work as marshal for a time—free.”

“You got any qualifications to do the job?”

“I think so.”

“You sit right there. Here’s a paper from Denver. It ain’t but three weeks old. I’ll be right back.”

The mayor was the owner of the general store, and the town council was the blacksmith, the saloon-keeper, and the liveryman.

They listened to Smoke and shook their heads, the mayor saying, “That many outlaws would destroy this town. You figure that you’d do any good stoppin’ them, mister?”

“I think so.”

“You ain’t but one man,” the saloonkeeper said.

“Hell, we don’t even know your name.”

“Smoke Jensen.”

The barber sat down in his chair, his mouth open in shock. The liveryman cackled with glee.

“Here’s the badge and raise your right hand, sir,” the mayor said, after he found his voice.

Chapter Four

Smoke was leaning up against an awning post in front of the saloon when Mills Walsdorf and his men rode slowly into town, Three very boring and totally uneventful days had passed with no sign of any of the Slater gang. Mills gave Smoke a very disgusted look as he noticed the star pinned to Smoke’s chest. He turned his horse and stopped at the hitchrail.

He dismounted and sighed as his boots touched the ground. The horse looked as tired as he did.

“Have a good ride, Mills?” Smoke asked.

"Very funny, Jensen,” the federal man said. “Did you kill those two men we found off the side of the road a few miles back?”

“Yes. I did. They accosted me on the trail, and I was forced to defend myself.”

“My God, man! You could have at least given them a decent burial.”

“They weren’t decent people.”

“You’re disgusting, Jensen. The vultures had picked at them.”

“They probably flew off somewhere and died."

Mills ignored that. “Did you really think you could lose us?”

“Only if I wanted to. You may be city boys, but you probably know how to use a compass.”

“To be sure. I’m curious about that badge you’re wearing.”

“I think it’s made of tin.”

A pained look passed Mills’ face. He sighed. “You are a very difficult man to speak with, Jensen. I meant . . .”

“I know what you meant. I believe the Slater gang is heading this way. The town didn’t have a marshal. I volunteered and they accepted my unpaid services.”

“Well, we’re here now, so you can feel free to resign.”

“Oh, well, hell, Mills. That makes me feel so much better. What are you going to do when the Slater gang hits town, talk them to death?”

A flash of irritation passed the federal marshal’s face. He cleared his throat and said, “I intend to arrest them, Jensen. Then we’ll try them and see that they get long prison sentences.”

“How about a rope?”

“I don’t believe in capital punishment.”

“Oh, Lord!” Smoke said, looking heavenward. “What have I done for you to send this down on me?”

Mills laughed at Smoke. “Oh, come now, man! You’re obviously a fellow of some intelligence. You surely know that the death penalty doesn’t work . . .”

“The hell it doesn’t!” Smoke said. “They’ll damn sure not come back from the grave to commit more crimes.”

“That’s not what I mean. It isn’t a deterrent for others not to commit the same acts of mayhem.”

“Now, what bright fellow thought up that crap?”

“Very learned people in some of our finest Eastern universities.”

Smoke said a few very ugly words, which summed up his opinion of very learned people back East. He turned and walked toward the batwings, pausing for a moment and calling over his shoulder.

“There’re rooms upstairs here, Mills. Take your baths across the street behind the barber shop. Don’t try supper at Bonnie’s Cafe this evening. The cook’s drunk. That apple, turnip, and carrot stew he fixed for lunch was rough.”

Mills and his marshals were sitting at one table in the saloon, Smoke sitting alone at another playing solitaire when the batwings shoved open and half a dozen men crowded into the saloon, heading for the bar. They eyeballed the U.S. Marshals and grinned at their hightop lace-up boots, their trousers tucked in.

Mills cut his eyes to Smoke. The gunfighter had merely looked up from his game, given the newcomers the briefest of glances, and apparently dismissed them.

The men lined up at the bar and ordered whiskey. “Hear you got some law in this town, now,” a big cowboy shot off his mouth. “I reckon me and the boys will have to mind our P’s and Qs. We sure wouldn’t want to run afoul of the law.”

The cowboys laughed, but it was not a good-natured laugh. More like a sarcastic, go-to-hell braying of men who looked for trouble and did not give a damn about the rights of anyone else. Smoke didn’t know if they were outlaws or not. But they damn sure were hardcases. Standing very close to the outlaw line.

“Evenin’, Luttie,” the barkeep said.

Smoke had been briefed on the men. The one with the biggest mouth was Luttie Charles, owner of the Seven Slash Ranch. The foreman was named Jake. Neither man was very likeable, and both were bullies, as were the dozen or so hands the ranch kept on the payroll.

“Yeah,” Jake said, after tossing back his whiskey. “Where is this new marshal? I want to size him up and maybe have some fun.”

Smoke had also learned that the last marshal the town hired had not left because the town couldn’t pay him, but because he’d been savagely beaten by men from the Seven Slash, although low pay had played a part in it.

“I hope it ain’t one of these pretty boys,” a hand said, turning and sneering at Mills and his men. “That wouldn’t be no contest a-tall.”

I wouldn’t sell Mills and his men short, Smoke thought. I got a hunch those badge-toters have a hell of a lot more sand and gravel in them than appears. They’ve been dealing with big city punks and shoulder-strikers and foot-padders for a long time. You boys just might be in for a surprise if you crowd them. Especially Mills. He’s no pansy.

Luttie turned to stare at Smoke, sitting close to the shadows in the room. “You, there!” he brayed. “What are you doing?”

“Minding my own business,” Smoke said in a quiet voice. “Why don’t you do the same?”

To a man, the Seven Slash riders turned, looking at the partially obscured figure at the table.

“You got a smart mouth on you, mister,” Luttie said. “Maybe you don’t know who I am.”

“I don’t particularly care who you are.”

The Seven Slash riders looked at one another, grinning. This might turn out to be a fun evening after all. It was always fun to beat hell out of someone.

“Git up!” Luttie gave the command to Smoke.

Smoke, in a quiet voice, told him where he could put his order—sideways.

Luttie shook his head. Nobody talked to him like that. Nobody. Ever. “Who in the hell do you think you are?” Luttie roared across the room.

“The new town marshal,” Smoke told him, shuffling the deck of cards.

“Maybe he’s sittin’ over there in the dark ’cause he’s so ugly,” a hand suggested.

“Why don’t we just drag him out in the light and have a look at him?” another said.

“And then we’ll stomp him,” another laughed.

“That’s Smoke Jensen," the barkeep said.

The hands became very silent, and very still. They watched as Smoke stood up from the table. Seemed like he just kept on gettin’ up. He laid the deck of cards down on the table and walked out of the shadows, his spurs softly jingling as he walked across the floor. He stopped in front of Luttie.

Luttie was no coward, but neither was he a fool. He knew Smoke Jensen’s reputation, and knew it to be true. As he looked into those icy brown eyes, he felt a trickle of sweat slide down the center of his back.

“If there is any stomping to be done in this town,” Smoke told the rancher, “I’ll do it. And I just might decide to start with you. I don’t like bullies.

And you’re a bully. l don’t like big-mouthed fatheads. And you’re a big-mouthed fathead. And you’re also packin’ iron. Now use it, or shut your goddamn mouth!”

Luttie was good with a gun, better than most. He knew that. But he was facing the man who had killed some of the West’s most notorious gunfighters. And also a man who was as good with his fists as he was with a six-shooter.

“I got no quarrel with you,” Luttie said sullenly. “The boys was just funnin’ some.”

“No, they weren’t,” Smoke told him. “And you know it. They’re all bullies, just like you. I’ve heard all about how you and your crew comes into this town, intimidating and bullying other people. I’ve heard how you like to pick fights and hurt people. You want to fight me, Luttie? How about it? No guns. just fists. You want that, Luttie?”

“I shall insure it is a fair fight,” Mills said quietly, opening his jacket to show his badge.

“Luttie,” Jake said. “Them Eastern dudes is U.S. Marshals.”

The rancher’s sigh was audible. Something big was up, and he didn’t know what. But he knew the odds were hard against him on his evening. “We’ll be going, boys,” he said.

Luttie and his crew paid up and left the saloon, walking without swagger. The crew knew the boss was mad as hornets, but none blamed him for not tangling with Smoke Jensen. That would have been a very dumb move. There was always another day.

“What the hell’s he doin’ here?” Jake questioned, as they stood by their horses.

“I don’t know,” Luttie said. “And what about them U.S. Marshals? You reckon they’re on to us?”

“How could they be?” another hand asked, surprise and anger in his eyes. “Not even the sheriff suspects anything.”

“I don’t like it,” Jake said.

“Well, hell! How do you think I feel about it? Come on. Let’s ride.”

“You push hard, Mr. Jensen,” Mills said. “There might have been a killing.”

“You figure his death would be a great crushing blow to humanity?”

Mills chuckled. “Sometimes your speech is so homey it’s sickening. Other times it appears to come straight from the classics. I’m new to the West, Mr. Jensen . . .”

“Smoke. Just Smoke.”

“Very well. Smoke. I have much to learn about the West and its people.” .

‘We saddle our own horses and kill our own snakes.”

“And the law?”

“We obey it for the most part. Where there is law. But when you come up on people rustling your stock, a man don’t usually have the time to ride fifty miles to get a sheriff. Things tend to get hot and heavy real quick. Someone starts shooting you, you shoot back.”

“I can understand that,” Mills said. He smiled at Smoke’s startled expression “I’m not the legal stickler you think I am, Smoke. There are times when a person must defend oneself. I understand that. But there are other times when men knowingly take the law into their own hands, and that’s what I’m opposed to.”

“Like you think I’m doing?”

Mills smiled. “As you have been doing,” he corrected. “Now you are sworn in as an officer of the law. That makes all the difference.”

“And you really believe that?”

“In most cases, yes. In your case, no.”

Smoke laughed.

“You became legal—in a manner of speaking—simply as a means to achieve an end. The end of Lee Slater and his gang. What would you do should Lee and his men attack this town, right now?”

“Empty a lot of saddles.”

“And be killed doing it?”

“Not likely. I’m no Viking berserker. Anyway, I don’t think he’s going to attack this town.”

“Oh? When did you change your mind?”

“During the course of the day.”

“And what do you think he’s going to do?”

“I have an idea. But it’s just a thought. I’ll let you know when I have it all worked out. And I will let you in on it, Mills. You have my word.”

“Fair enough.”

“Are some of you going to be in town tomorrow?”

“Yes. We’re waiting on word from the home office. We sent word where we’d be from that little settlement on the Rio Grande. The stage runs in a couple of days.”

“I appreciate you staying close. I’ll pull out early in the morning to do some snooping. Be back late tomorrow night.”

Smoke could tell the man had a dozen questions he would like to ask. But he held them in check. “I’ll see you then.”

Smoke pulled out several hours before dawn, pointing Buck’s nose toward the east, staying on the south side of the Alamosa River. Luttie’s Seven Slash Ranch lay about twenty miles south of the town.

Luttie was up to something besides ranching. Those hands of his were more than cowboys; Smoke had a hunch they were drawing fighting wages. If that was true, who were they fighting, and why?

At the first coloring of dawn, Smoke was on a hill overlooking Luttie’s ranchhouse. He studied the men as they exited the bunkhouse heading for chow in a building next to it. He counted fifteen men. Say three or four were not in yet from nightherding; that was a hell of a lot of cowboys for a spread this size.

So what was Luttie up to?

Smoke stayed on the ridges as long as he dared, looking things over through field glasses. For a working ranch, there didn’t seem to be much going on. And he found that odd. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen any cattle on his way in. What he had seen were a lot of signs proclaiming this area to be “posted” and “no trespassing allowed.” Odd. Too many odd things cropping up about the Seven Slash Ranch.

It was time to move on; his position on the ridge was just too vulnerable. He tightened the cinch and swung into the saddle. He hadn’t learned much, but he had learned that something very odd was going on at the Seven Slash Ranch. And Smoke didn’t think it had a damn thing to do with cattle.

“So what is going on?” Mills asked.

The men were sitting on the boardwalk in front of the saloon, enjoying the night air. Mills was contentedly puffing on his pipe, and Smoke had rolled a cigarette.

“I don’t know. Luttie could say he stripped his range during roundup, and a range detective would probably accept that. But he hasn’t run any cattle in several years on the ground that I covered today. Any cattleman could see that. So why does he have the big crew, all of them fighting men?” Smoke smiled. “Maybe I know.”

“Share it with me?”

“It’s just a guess.”

“A lot of good police work starts right there.”

“It might be that he’s hit a silver strike and wants it all for himself, mining it out in secret. But a better guess is that he’s running a front for stolen goods.”

“I like the second one. But I have some questions about that theory. Why? is one. He’s a rancher who has done very well, from all indications. He is a reasonably monied man. I suppose we could chalk it up to greed; however, I think, assuming you’re correct, there must be other reasons.”

“Why, after all the years of outlawing on the west coast, would Lee Slater put together a gang and come to Colorado?" Smoke questioned. “The west coast is where all his contacts and hiding places would be.” '

“Where are you going with this, Smoke?”

“I don’t know. I’m just trying to put all the pieces together. I may be completely off-base and accusing an innocent man of a crime. All I’ve got is gut hunches. Can you do some background work?”

“Certainly. But on whom?”

“Luttie Charles and Lee Slater.”

That got Mills’ attention. He took the pipe out of his mouth and stared at Smoke. “How could they be connected?”

“Maybe by blood.”

The Lee Slater gang seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth. Five days went by with no word of any outlaw activity in the area.

The sheriff of the county and two of his deputies rode into town, and Sheriff Silva almost had a heart attack when he learned that Smoke Jensen was the new town marshal.

“By God, it is you!” he said, standing in the door to the town marshal’s small office. He frowned. “But why here, of all places?”

Smoke laid it out for the man, but said nothing of his suspicions of Luttie Charles.

The sheriff nodded his head. “We heard he was in this area. If he is, he's found him a dandy hidey hole.”

Smoke had him an idea just where that might be. But he kept that to himself. “Can you make me a deputy sheriff of this county?”

“Sure can. It’d be a honor. Stand up and raise your right hand.”

After being sworn in, Smoke and Sheriff Dick Silva sat in the office and drank coffee and chatted. Mills and his men were out of town, roaming around, looking for signs of the Slater gang.

“It could be,” the sheriff said, “that Slater learned about the new silver strikes to the north and east of here. The big one’s up around Creede, but we’ve got some dandy smaller ones in this area.”

“Any gold?”

“A few producing mines, yeah. The stage line is putting on more people, and they’ll be running through here every other day commencin’ shortly. This town’ll boom for awhile. But you know how that goes.”

Smoke nodded his head. The rotting ruins of former boom towns dotted the landscape of the West. They flourished for a few months or a few years, until the gold or silver ran out, and then died or were reduced to only a few hangers-on, scratching in the earth for the precious metals.

“I’ve seen a few boom towns in my life.”

“You rode with Ol’ Preacher, didn’t you, Smoke?”

“Yes. He raised me after my dad was killed. I knew all the old mountain men. Beartooth, Dupree, Greybull, Nighthawk, Tenneysee, Pugh, Audie, Matt, Deadlead. Hell of a breed of men, they were. I hated to see them vanish.”

One left, the sheriff thought, taking in the awesome size of the man seated before him. Smoke’s wrists were as large as some men’s arms. If he hit you with everything he had, the blow would do some terrible damage to a man’s face.

“Tell me everything that’s on your mind, son," the sheriff urged in a quiet tone. “You’ve been steppin’ around something for an hour.”

Dick Silva was no fool, Smoke thought. He’s a good lawman who can read between the lines. But what if he’s a friend of Luttie’s, or on his payroll? How to phrase this?

“I had a little run-in with Luttie Charles the other night,” he said, figuring that was the best way to open up.

The sheriff spat and clanged the cuspidor. “I don’t have much use for Luttie. When he first come into this country, years back, he was a hard-workin’ man. I didn’t approve of the way he built up his ranch—he was one of them homesteader burners, if they got in his way—but the sheriff back then was easy bought and in his pocket. I ain’t,” he said flatly. “Luttie steps cautious-like around me.”

“I took a ride over to his place the other day. He appears to be a man who don’t like visitors.”

“All them posted signs?”

Smoke nodded.

“They went up about five years ago. ’Bout the same time the bottom dropped out of the beef market—for a while—and Luttie took to hirin’ hardcases to ride for him. I’ve run off or jailed a few of his hands. But he’s got some bad ones workin’ for him.”

“And no cattle,” Smoke dropped that in.

“You noticed too,” the sheriff said with a smile.

“Of course, there is no law that says a man has to run cattle on his ranch if he doesn’t want to.”

“Exactly. But it sure makes me awful curious about just how he’s earnin’ a livin’.” He shook his head. “I know where you’re goin’ with this, Smoke. But I have no authority to go bustin’ up onto his property demandin’ to know how he earns his livelihood. And a judge would throw me out of his chambers if l tried to get a search warrant based on our gut hunches.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Say it all, Smoke.” Sheriff Silva smiled. “You’re one of my deputies now. You can’t hold back from the boss.”

“I’ve got a hunch there is some connection between Slater and Luttie. I’ve asked a U.S. Marshal to check their backgrounds. He’s doing that now. Probably be a week or more before anything comes back in.”

“You’d make a good lawman, Smoke.”

“I’ve toted a badge more than once,” he replied with a smile. “County, state, and federal. Mills Walsdorf doesn’t know that, though.”

“What do you think of the man?”

“I like him. I thought he was a pompous, stuffed-shirt windbag when I first met him. But he sort of grows on you. He sure has some funny ideas about enforcing the law. He doesn’t believe in the death penalty”

The sheriff almost choked on his chew. “What?”

“Says it’s barbaric and doesn’t accomplish anything. Says criminals aren’t really to blame for what they do.”

“Say what?”

“Says it’s home life and pressure from friends and so forth that cause criminals. Rejection and things like that. Says all sorts of real smart folks back in fine Eastern universities thought all this out.”

Sheriff Silva shook his head‘ “I hope them thoughts of his don’t never catch on. In a hundred years, criminals would be runnin’ the country.”

Chapter Five

It was a very weary and dejected-looking band of U.S. Marshals that rode back into town late in the afternoon. After a bath and a shave, Mills walked over to Smoke’s office. He was almost dragging his boots in the dirt from exhaustion.

“Cover a lot of ground, did you?” Smoke asked, pouring the man a cup of coffee from the battered pot on the stove.

“More than I care to repeat anytime soon.” Mills sat down with a sigh and accepted the cup of coffee. “And didn’t accomplish a damned thing.”

“No,” Smoke corrected. “Don’t look at it like that. You accomplished a great deal, in fact.”

“I’d like to know what?”

“You Saw the country, and if you’re just half as smart as I think you are, you committed it to memory. You know where good water is now. You found some box canyons and now know to stay out of them. You found good places to bed down for the night. You found where outlaws might hole up. You know where good river and stream crossings are located. And you saw some of the most beautiful country in all the world.”

Slowly, a smile crinkled the marshal’s mouth.

“Yes. You’re right on all counts, Smoke.” He peered over the rim of his coffee cup at the new gold badge on Smoke’s chest. “Say, now. Where did that come from?”

Smoke told him of Sheriff Silva’s visit.

“The sheriff checks out as a good, honest lawman. He’s a rancher that got caught up in the market bust years back and turned to police work. His ranch rebounded, but he was hooked on police work by that time, and the people of the county like him. He earns enough money from both vocations to insure he can’t be bought."

“Find out anything about Luttie Charles?”

“A few things. The people around here don’t like him and don’t trust him. He says he came here from Texas, but people doubt that. Oklahoma Territory seems to be the general consensus. Early on he let it slip that he’s fairly knowledgeable about that part of the country.”

“So why would he lie about it?”

“You know the answer to that as well as I do. He’s hiding something in his past. But he could be running away from a wife. It’s certainly happened to other men.”

“With Luttie, it’s more like a rope he’s running from.”

“Agreed. But proving it is another matter. I have feelers out. It’ll take some time.”

“You’d better get some rest. You look like you’re all in.”

“Yes. I'll see you in the morning.”

Smoke did some paper work then locked up the office and stepped out into the gathering dusk of evening. He began his walking of the settlement’s streets. That didn’t take long, and he headed for Bonnie’s Cafe for a cup of coffee.

Movement at the edge of town stopped him. Smoke stepped into a weed-grown space between the empty bank building and the general store and waited.

There it was again. But at this distance, he couldn’t tell if the movement was human or animal. He removed his spurs and put them in his pocket while he waited and watched, not staring directly at the mysterious shape, for some people can sense being watched. The form began to take shape as it drew nearer, staying in the shadows. It was a man, no doubt about that, and moving slowly and furtively.

The man ducked down the far side of Bonnie’s Cafe, and Smoke took that time to run silently across the street and into the alley that ran between the combination saddle shop/gunsmith building and the saloon.

Staying close to the building, but not brushing against it, he pulled iron and eased the hammer back just as the man stepped into the rear of the alley.

Smoke dropped down to one knee and said, “You looking for someone, partner?”

The man fired, the muzzle blast stabbing the darkness with a lance of flame. The bullet slammed into the building, a foot above Smoke’s head.

Smoke let the hammer down, and his slug brought a scream of pain and doubled the man over. A rifle barked from across the street, and that slug howled past Smoke’s head. Smoke flattened on the ground and rolled under the building, hoping a rattlesnake was not under there and irritated at being disturbed.

The rifle barked again, just as lamps were turned up in the homes and businesses of the settlement.

“Goddamnit, Jesse!” the man Smoke had shot screamed. “You done killed me!” He moaned once and said no more.

Running footsteps reached Smoke, followed by the sounds of galloping hooves. He rolled out from under the building just as Mills and his men came running out of the saloon, in various stages of dress, or undress. Mills had jerked on his high—top boots, not laced up, and put on his hat. He was dressed in hat, boots, and long-handles.

“Bring a lamp over here,” Smoke called. “One’s down in the alley.”

“Don King,” the barber said, as the dead man was rolled over into his back. “Rides for Luttie Charles.”

“He don’t no more,” Bonnie said, peering over the man’s shoulder.

“I heard him yell that someone named Jesse shot him,” Mills said.

“He put the second slug in him,” Smoke said. He looked at the barber. “You act as the undertaker?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Smoke. I do a right nice job, too, if I do say so myself.”

“Leastwise, he ain’t never had no customers complain,” Bonnie said.

“Stretch him out in your place, then,” Smoke told the man. “It’s cool enough so he’ll keep for a day.

Mills, you and me will take a ride out to break the sad news to Luttie Charles first thing in the morning.”

“I’ll be up at five.”

They left before dawn and were on Seven Slash range as the sun was chasing away the last of the shadows of night. They stopped at a wooden, hand-painted sign nailed to a tree.

TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT

“Certainly gives a person a warm feeling of being wanted, doesn’t it?” Mills said drily.

Smoke laughed. Despite their differences of opinion concerning law and order, he liked the federal marshal. He was looking forward to seeing the man get into action. He had a hunch Mills would be hard to handle if you made him mad.

Mills shifted his badge to the front of his coat. “So they’ll be sure to see it,” he said.

“Makes a dandy target,” Smoke told him. “Might stop a bullet if it was fired from a far enough distance.”

“You’re so full of good cheer early in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

“Just hold it right there, boys,” the voice came from behind them. “And keep them hands in sight.”

“I’m a United States Marshal,” Mills said, without looking around. “And this is Deputy Jensen. I have six of my men fifteen minutes behind us . . ."

Pretty good liar, Smoke thought. Quick, too.

“. . . Cease and desist and come forward.”

“Do what?”

“Get your butt around here so’s we can see you,” Smoke made it plainer.

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“You think you can get both of us?” Smoke asked. “If you do, you’re a fool.”

‘just sit your saddles.” The man walked around to face them.

“Now you’ve seen me,” Smoke told him. “If you ever again put iron on me, I’ll kill you. Now put that rifle away.”

“Just pointing that weapon at me could mean prison for you,” Mills told him.

“All right, all right!” the hardcase said, lowering the muzzle. “I’m just following orders from the boss. What do you want here?”

“To see your boss,” Smoke told him. “Let’s go.”

“He ain’t up yet. He don’t get up ’til eight. Likes to work at night.”

Smoke smiled.

‘Jesus Christ!” Luttie hollered, as Smoke grabbed him by the ankle and dragged him out of bed. “What the hell’s goin’ on here?” Luttie’s butt bounced on the floor, and he came up in his long johns swinging both fists.

Smoke staggered him with one punch, grabbed him by the neck and the back-flap and threw him down the stairs of the two story ranch house.

“Your approach to law and order is quite novel, to say the least,” Mills observed.

“It gets their attention,” Smoke told him, as they walked down the stairs to stand over a dazed and befuddled Luttie.

Smoke tossed Don King’s personal effects to the floor. “Those belong to one of your hands. He tried to kill me last night. Somebody named Jesse shot him after I did. Get Jesse out here and do it now.”

“No one named Jesse works for me,” Luttie muttered, crawling to his bare feet. Smoke drew, cocked and fired so fast it was a blur. He put a slug between Luttie’s bare feet.

“Yeeeyow!” the man hollered and danced, as the splinters dug into his feet.

“I said get Jesse here,” Smoke said.

‘Jesus Christ!” Luttie bellered. “Jake, go get Jesse over here.” He glared at Smoke. “I hate you!”

“I’m all broken up about it. Aren’t you going to be neighborly and offer us some coffee?”

“Hell with you!”

“Disgusting lack of hospitality,” Mills said.

“Hell with you, too,” Luttie told him.

The men stood and stared at each other for a moment.

The foreman, Jake, reentered the house. “Jesse didn’t come back last night. His bunk ain’t been slept in.”

“We have a description of him,” Mills said. “I’ll get a federal warrant issued for his arrest, charging him with murder and attempted murder of a law officer.”

“Now both of you get out of my house!” Luttie yelled.

Smoke looked at the man’s soiled long-handles. “You need to do something about your personal hygiene, Luttie.”

“Get out of here!” the man screamed.

“What do you want done with the remains of poor Don King?” Smoke asked.

“Bury him!” Luttie yelled. “In the ground.”

“He didn’t have but two dollars on him,” Mills said. “A good box costs far more than that. I personally would suggest one lined with a subtle shade of cloth, perhaps with a soft pillow on which to lay his poor dead head. A simple service will suffice, with the minister reading from the . . .”

“Shut up!” Luttie roared. “Goddamnit! I don’t care if you read from a tobacco sack. Just get out of my house and put the man in the ground. Send me the bill.”

“You’re a true lover of your fellow man, Luttie,” Smoke said, trying to keep a straight face. It was hard to do: the buttons on Luttie’s back flap had torn loose, and he was trying to hold it up with one hand.

“I’m sure the service will be tomorrow,” Mills said, continuing to play the game with Smoke.

“Shall I tell everyone you'll be in attendance?”

Luttie started jumping up and down like a great ape in a cage. “GetoutGetoutGetoutGetout!” he screamed.

“I think we have overstayed our welcome,” Smoke said. “Do you agree, Marshal?”

“Quite. Shall we take our leave?”

“Oh, let’s do!”

Luttie was screaming obscenities at them as they rode away. Both breathed a little easier when they were out of rifle shot.

“Luttie, them two ain’t got a lick of sense!” Jake said, when he had calmed Luttie down. “And a crazy man’s dangerous!”

That set Luttie off again, jumping around and hollering.

“I think he needs a good dose of salts,” a hardcase suggested. “Maybe his plumbin’s all plugged up?”

“For a man that don’t believe in going to the extreme with law and order,” Smoke said, “you sure can jump right in there and help stick the needle to suspects.”

“Oh, I think a bit of agitation is good for the soul. The man is unbalanced. You realize that?”

“Uh-huh. And now I hope you’re not going to tell me that because he’s about half nuts he shouldn’t be shot if he drags iron on someone.”

“There is some debate on that, I will admit. But a dangerous person is dangerous whether he’s normal or insane. Besides, there are degrees of insanity. Luttie Charles is not a drooling idiot confined to a rocking chair. He simply lost control back there for a moment. He’s a very cunning man.” He chuckled. “Wouldn’t you lose control if someone grabbed you by the ankle and jerked you out of a sound sleep, then knocked you down and threw you down the stairs?”

Smoke smiled. “I might at that.” He shook his head. “That was sure some sight.”

Laughing, the men put their horses into an easy canter and headed back to town. Smoke noticed that Mills had stopped bobbing up and down like a cork in the water and was riding more and more like a Westerner.

The next several days were long and boring. Providing Jake had been telling the truth back at the ranch house, Jesse had left the country.

“If that’s the case,” Mills observed, “it’s probably for fear that Luttie would shoot him because he and that other wretch failed to kill you.”

Later on that day, shortly after the stage had run, Mills came to the marshal’s office. “This is it,” he said, smiling and waving a piece of paper. He sat down. “It seems that Lee Slater—and Slater is his Christian name—was born in Oklahoma. He left their farm when he was about fifteen, after raping and killing a neighbor girl. He had a younger brother that disappeared shortly after robbing a stagecoach and making off with a strongbox filled with thousands of dollars. The boys were named Lee and Luther.” Mills smiled again. “Luther’s middle name was Charles.”

“It’s good enough for me, but I doubt a jury would convict on it.”

“Nor do I. My superiors have given me orders to stay out here until Lee Slater and his band of thugs are contained.” He sighed. “At the rate I’m going, I may as well move my belongings out here and transfer my bank account.”

“Oh,” Smoke said, pouring them both coffee. “It’s not that bad. I tell you what I’ll bet you: you stay out here a few more months, Mills, and this country will grab you. Then you won’t want to leave.”

“I’m afraid you may be right. Do you have any sort of plan, Smoke? I seem to be fresh out.”

The gunfighter shook his head. “No, I don’t, Mills. It seems to me—and I’m no professional lawman—that all we can do is wait for something to break, then jump on it like a hound on a bone.”

Mills had noticed that Smoke had adopted a small cur dog he’d found wandering the town, eating scraps and having mean little boys throw rocks at it. After a lecture from Smoke Jensen about being cruel to animals, Mills was of the opinion the boys might well grow up to be vegetarians. Smoke had been rather stern.

Smoke had bathed the little dog and fixed it a bed in the office. The dog now lay in Smoke’s lap, contented as Smoke gently petted it.

“You’re a strange man, Smoke,” Mills had to say.

“You don’t appear to care one whit about the life of a person gone wrong, yet you love animals.”

“Animals can’t help being what they are, Mills,” Smoke said with a gentle smile. “We humans can. We have the ability to think and reason. I don’t believe animals do; at least not to any degree. We don’t have to rob and steal and lie and cheat and murder. That’s why God gave us a brain. And I don’t have any use for people who refuse to use that brain and instead turn to a life of crime. You read the Bible, Mills?”

“Certainly. But what has the Bible got to do with animals?”

“A lot. I think animals go to Heaven."

“Oh, come now!” Mills gently scoffed.

“Sure. And our Bible is not the only Good Book that talks of that. Our Bible says in Ecclesiates: ‘For the fate of the sons of men and the fate of beasts is the same; as one dies, so dies the other. They all have the same breath, and man has no advantage over the beasts; for all is vanity.’ Paul preached about it, too. And my wife, who is a lot more religious than me, says that John Wesley came right out and outlined what he thought animals would experience in Heaven. John Calvin also admitted that he thought animals were to be renewed.”

Mills shook his head. “You never cease to baffle me, Smoke. You’re a . . . walking contradiction. You mentioned some other Good Book. What are you talking about?”

“The Koran. ‘You haven’t read it?”

“Good God, no! And you have?”

“Yes. Sally ordered a copy for me. I found it very interesting.”

Mills studied the man for a moment. Before him was the West’s most notorious gunfighter—no Jensen wasn’t notorious; “famous” was a better word—and the man was calmly discussing the world’s religions. And sounding as if he did indeed know what he was talking about.

“You think you’ll go to Heaven, Smoke?” Mills asked gently.

“I don’t know. God loved His warriors. I do know that. But I like to think that maybe there is a middle ground for men like me.”

“Like Valhalla?”

“Yes.”

“Another personal question, Smoke?”

“Sure.”

“How many men have you killed?”

“I honestly don’t know, Mills. Over a hundred, surely, and possibly two hundred. I’ve got a lot of blood on my hands, I won’t deny that. Jesse James gave me my first pistol, way back during the war, when I was just a kid in Missouri. A Navy .36, it was. I carried that old pistol for a long time. And put some men in the ground with it.”

“What happened to it?”

“I think it’s in a trunk up at the ranch house.”

“You have children, Smoke?”

“Oh, yes. They’re in France with their grandparents, traveling and getting an education. Baby Arthur had to go for medical treatment. Their mother couldn’t go because she gets deadly ill on ship.”

“Outlaws killed your first wife, didn’t they?”

“Yes. And smothered my baby son in the cradle while they were raping Nicole.”

Mills knew the story. It was legend. At first he thought it was all a big lie. Now he knew it was all true. How a young Smoke Jensen tracked them down and killed them all. Castrated one of them and cauterized the terrible wound with a white hot running iron.

Frontier justice, Mills concluded, doesn’t leave any room for gray areas. It’s all black and white and very final.

“I found Sally about a year later,” Smoke said.

“We married and have been together and very happy since then. You married, Mills?”

The U.S. Marshal shook his head. “No. I haven’t found the right woman yet, I suppose.” He smiled, rather sadly, Smoke thought. “But I‘m still looking."

“I hope you find you a good woman, Mills. There’s one out there. Just keep looking.”

One of Mills’ men, Winston, stuck his head in the office door. “About half a dozen men riding in, Mills. They look like thugs to me.”

Smoke smiled. Probably half the men in the West look like thugs. He put the little dog in its bed and walked to the window. Winston had been correct in his assessment of the riders.

Deke Carey and Dirty Jackson were among the six men. He’d seen pictures of Deke, and Smoke had had a run-in with Dirty some years back, when both had been much younger.

“You know them?” Mills asked.

“I know them.”

Mills watched as Smoke slipped the leather thongs off the hammers of his .44s. “It’s come to that?”

“It’s come to that.” Smoke stepped out on the boardwalk.

Chapter Six

Dirty cut his eyes as the six outlaws rode slowly past the marshal’s office. His smile was savage.

“We’ll arrest them,” Mills said.

“On what charge? There aren’t any warrants on them that I’m aware of.”

“Then we have no right to interfere with their freedom of travel.”

Smoke chuckled at that. “Deke there, he’s a backshooter, a thief, and a child molester. Dirty has done it all: cold-blooded murder, rape, robbery, torture, kidnapping. I told him years ago that if I ever laid eyes on him again, I’d kill him. And that is exactly what I intend to do.”

“But you said there are no warrants on them!”

“None in Colorado. But I’ve been holding one just for him for years.”

“Where is it?”

Smoke patted the butt of a .44. “Right here in Mr. Colt. Now, Mills, you and I have become friends over the past week or so. But this is personal between Dirty and me. He killed a little girl in Nevada some years back. He bragged about doing it and then left town just ahead of the posse. He’s fixing to come to trial over that killing. Right shortly”

“But . . .”

“Mills, lead, follow, or get the hell out of my way.”

Smoke stepped off the boardwalk just as the outlaws were entering the saloon. Seconds later the saloon emptied of locals.

Smoke pushed open the batwings and stepped inside, Mills right behind him. Smoke heard Dirty asking for a room for the night.

“Not in this town, Dirty,” Smoke called out. “The only room you’re going to get is a pine box. And if there isn’t enough coins in your pocket to buy a box, we’ll roll you up in your blankets and plant you that way.”

Mills gasped at the sheer/audacity of Smoke.

Dirty turned and faced Jensen. The man was big and dirty and mean-looking. He wore one gun tied down and had another six-shooter shoved behind his belt. “You got no call to talk to me like that, Jensen.”

“You ever ridden back to Nevada to put flowers on the grave of that little girl you killed, Dirty?”

Dirty flushed under the beard and the dirt on his face. “I was drunk when that happened, Jensen. Man can’t be held responsible for what he does when he’s drunk.”

“Yeah,” Smoke said sourly. “The courts will probably hold that to be true one of these days. But ‘one of these days’ don’t count right now.”

Mills grunted softly.

“Give him a drink,” Smoke told the barkeep. “On me. Enjoy it, Dirty. It’s gonna be your last one.”

Deke Carey moved away from the bar to get a better angle at Smoke.

“Stand still, Deke,” Smoke told him. “You move again and I’ll put lead in you.”

Deke froze to the floor, both hands in plain sight. “You think you can take us all, Jensen?”

“Yes.”

Mills had moved to one side, one thumb hooked over his belt buckle. Smoke had noticed several days before that the federal marshal carried a hideout gun shoved behind his belt, under his jacket.

“Who’s your funny-lookin’ friend, Jensen?” another of the six asked.

“I am United States Marshal Walsdorf,” Mills informed him.

“Well, la-tee-da,” a young punk with both guns tied down said with a simper. “A U—nited States Marshal. Heavens!” He put a hand to his forehead and leaned up against the bar. “I’m so fearful I think I might swoon.”

Mills was across the room before the punk could stand up straight. Mills hit the smart-mouthed punk with a hard right fist that knocked him sprawling. He jerked him up, popped him again, and threw him across the room. The punk landed against the cold pot-bellied stove. The stove fell over, the stovepipe broke loose from the flue collar, and the two-bit young gunny was covered with soot.

“Show some respect for the badge, if not for me,” Mills said.

“I don’t like your damn attitude!” another gunny said. “I think I’ll just take that badge and shove . . .”

The only thing that got shoved was Mills’ fist, smack into the gunny’s mouth. Mills hit him two more times, and the man slumped to the floor, bleeding from nose and mouth and momentarily out of it.

Mills swept back his coat, put his hand on the butt of his short-barreled Peacemaker .45 and thundered, “I will have law and order, gentlemen!”

“Halp!” the soot-covered punk yelled. “I cain’t see nothin’. Halp!”

“Let’s take ’em, Greeny!” Dirty said.

But Smoke was already moving. He reached Dirty before the man could drag iron and loosened some of Dirty’s teeth with a short, hard right.

Greeny swung at Mills and almost fell down as Mills ducked the punch. Mills planted his lace-up boots and decked the outlaw.

Smoke jabbed a left fist into Deke’s face three times, the jabs jarring the man’s head back and bringing a bright smear of blood to his mouth. He followed the jabs with a right cross that knocked Deke to the floor.

“By the Lord!” Mills shouted. “This is exhilarating.” He just got the words out of his mouth when the punk hit him on top of the head with the stovepipe and knocked him spinning across the room.

Smoke splintered a chair across the punk’s teeth, the hardwood knocking the kid up against a wall.

The barkeep climbed up on the bar and jumped onto Deke’s back just as the man was getting to his boots. Deke threw the smaller man off and came in swinging at Smoke.

Bad mistake on Deke’s part.

Smoke hit him with a left—right combination that glazed the man's bloodshot eyes and backed him up against the bar. Smoke hit him twice in the stomach and that did it for Deke. He kissed the floor and began puking.

Dirty hit Smoke a sneak punch that jarred Smoke and knocked him around. Smoke recovered and the men stood toe to toe and slugged it out for a full minute.

Mills was smashing Greeny’s face with short, hard, brutal blows that brought a spray of blood each time his big fists impacted with the outlaw’s face.

The soot-covered kid climbed to his boots and decided to take on the barkeep.

Bad mistake on the kid’s part. The barkeep had retreated to the bar and pulled out a truncheon, which he promptly and with much enthusiasm laid on top of the punk’s head. The punk’s eyes crossed, he sighed once, and hit the floor, out cold.

Dirty backed up and with Smoke’s hands still balled into fists, grinned at him and went for his gun.

Smoke kicked the man in the groin, and Dirty doubled over, coughing and gagging. Smoke stepped forward and kicked the murderer in the face with the toe of his boot. Dirty’s teeth bounced around the floor. He screamed and rolled away, blood dripping from his ruined mouth.

Deke grabbed for his guns, and Smoke shot him twice in the belly, the second hole just an inch above the first. Deke tried to lift his pistol, and Smoke fired a third time, the slug hitting the man in the center of the forehead.

Dirty rolled to his boots and faced Smoke, a gun in each hand, his face a bloody mask of hate.

Smoke had pulled both .44s and started them thundering. He was cocking and firing so fast it seemed a never-ending deadly cadence of thunder. Puffs of dust rose from Dirty’s jacket each time a .44 slug slammed into his body. Dirty clung to the edge of the bar, his guns fallen to the floor out of numbed fingers.

“Jesus!” the barkeep said. “What’s the matter with him? Why don’t he say something?”

“Because he’s dead,” Smoke said.

Dirty Jackson fell on his face.

Greeny was moaning and crawling around on the floor. The kid was beginning to show some signs of life. The other two had wisely decided to stay on the floor with their hands in plain sight.

“You others, get up!” Smoke told the two outlaws, wide-eyed and on the floor. “And haul the kid and that jerk over there to their boots.”

Greeny and the punk were jerked up. “The punk goes to jail,” Smoke said. “The others get chained to that tree by the side of the office.”

“Hey, that ain’t right!” Greeny said. “What happens if it rains?”

“We give you a bar of soap.”

“Damn!” Albert said, looking at his boss. “How come we miss all the fun, Mills?”

Mills was dabbing horse liniment on yesterday’s jaw bruise and ignored the question.

“You know, Smoke,” Hugh said. “You really can’t keep those men chained up to that tree.”

“Why?” Smoke asked, scratching the little dog behind the ears.

“Because they’re human beings and as such, have basic rights accorded them by the Constitution.”

Mills smiled. He’d already gone over that with Smoke. He would have gotten better results by conversing with a mule.

“Greeny didn’t think much of the rights of those people he killed up in Canada, Hugh. Lebert didn’t give a damn for the rights of those women he kidnapped and raped. Augie didn’t have anybody’s rights in mind when he tortured a man to death.” Smoke held up several wire replies. “It’s all right there. Deputies will be coming for Lebert and Augie. Royal Canadian Mounted Police will be here for Greeny. And I’m going to hang the punk back yonder in the cell.”

“I ain’t done nothin’!” the kid squalled. “You ain’t gonna hang me!”

“Oh, yes, I am, kid. I say you were the one who

killed that poor man back up the trail. I say you was the one who raped and killed those poor little girls. And that’s what I got you charged with. You’re gonna hang, punk.”

Winston started to protest. Smoke held up his hand. The cell area was behind and to the right of the main office, and the kid could not see what was going on, only hear, exactly how Smoke had planned it.

“Ever seen a hanging, kid?” Smoke called.

“No!”

“It’s a sight to behold, boy. Sometimes the neck don’t break, and the victim just dangles there while he chokes to death. Eyes bug out, tongue pooches out and turns black . . .”

“Shut up, damn you!”

“. .. Fellow just twists there in the breeze. Sometimes it takes five minutes for him to die . . .”

“Darmn you, shut up!” the kid screamed.

“Awful ugly sight to see. Plumb disgusting. And smelly, too. Victim usually looses all control of himself . . .”

The kid rattled the barred door. “Let me out of here!” he yelled.

“. . . Terrible sight to see. just awful. Sometimes they put a hood on the victim—I’ll be sure and request one for you—and when they take that hood off—once the man’s dead—his face is all swole up and black as a piece of coal.”

“Jensen?” the kid called, in a voice choked with tears.

“What do you want, kid?”

“I’ll make a deal with you.”

Smoke winked at Mills and the others. “What kind of a deal, kid?”

“I know lots of things.”

“What things?”

“We got to deal first.”

“You don’t have much of a position to deal from, boy. Your trial is coming up in a couple of days. The jury’s already picked. And they’re eager to convict. Folks around here haven’t seen a good hanging in a year or more. Gonna be dinner on the grounds on the day you swing. Did you hear that hammering a while ago?”

“Yeah.” The kid blew his nose on a dirty rag.

“What was all that racket?”

“Fellows building a gallows, boy. That’s where you’re going to swing.”

“I told you I’d deal!” His voice was very shaky.

“Start dealing, boy. You don’t have long.”

“Don’t let Greeny and Lebert and Augie know nothin’ about his, Marshal.”

“You have my word on that.”

“I’m ready when you are.”

Smoke looked at Mills. “He’s all yours, Mills. You wanted it legal, you got it legal.” He smiled. “This time.”

“Needless to say, we won’t tell the kid that hammering and sawing was a man building a new outhouse.”

“He might not see the humor in it.”

“Get your pad and pen, Winston,” Mills said. “Let’s see what the kid has to say.”

In exchange for escaping the hangman’s noose and that short drop that culminated in an abrupt and fatal halt, the kid—his name was Walter Parsons—had quite a lot to say. He said he didn’t know nothin’ about Lee Slater and Luttie Charles bein’ related, but they was close friends . . . or so Lee had said. But the gang was hidin’ out on Seven Slash range. East of the ranch house and south of the Alamosa River. Wild country. They was plannin’ to rob the miners and the stages carryin’ gold and silver and Luttie was goin’ to handle the gettin’ rid of the boodle end of it.

How many in the gang?

The kid reckoned they was about fifty or sixty. He didn’t rightly know since they wasn’t camped all together. But it was a big gang.

How many people had the kid robbed and raped and murdered?

Bunches. Used to be fun, but now it was sort of borin’. All them people did was blubber and slobber and beg and cry and carry on somethin’ awful. It was a relief just to shoot them in the head to shut them up.

“Disgusting!” Mills said, tossing the signed confession onto Smoke’s desk. “I have never in my life heard of such depravity as that which came out of Parsons’ mouth.”

“You relaxing your stand on hanging now, Mills?” Smoke asked.

He received a dirty look, but Mills chose not to respond to the question.

“What are you doing to do with the kid?”

Mills shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t allow the return of that vicious little thug back to a free society. That would be a grave injustice. The judge is going to have to decide that issue.”

“He’s never going to change.”

“I know that,” Mills said. “It’s a dreadful time we live in, Smoke.”

“It’s going to get worse, Mills. Count on it. Now, then, what about Luttie?”

“We can’t move against him on just the word of a common hoodlum. We’ve got to have some proof that he is, indeed, a part of this conspiracy. How about Greeny and Lebert and Augie? Have they agreed to talk?”

“You have to be kidding. Those are hardened criminals. They’ll go to the grave with their mouths closed. They’re not going to assist the hangman in their own executions.”

“When will the deputies and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police come for them?”

“They said as soon as possible. Probably in a week or so.”

“I’ve got to move the kid out of here and up to Sheriff Silva’s jail. For safekeeping.”

“All right. Why not do that now and as soon as the kid is gone, I’ll pull those three scumbags in from the tree.”

“I would hate for a supervisor to ride by and see them chained out there,” Winston said.

Smoke shook his head. “I’ll be sure to take them some tea and cookies the first chance I get.”

At Smoke’s insistence Mills sent four of his men out early the next morning, taking the kid to the county seat and to a better and more secure jail. They would be gone at least three days and possibly four.

Smoke took down all the sawed off double-barreled shotguns from the rack and passed them around. “Clean them up, boys, and load them up. Don’t ever be too far away from one.”

“Are you expecting trouble?” Mills asked. “From whom and why?”

“Yes, I’m expecting trouble. From whom? Either Lee Slater or his brother . . .”

“His assumed brother,” Mills corrected. “Yes. I see. They could not want the three we have here talking and implicating either of them. Now I see why you insisted on sending more men than I thought necessary to the county seat with Parsons. I thank you for your insistence, Smoke. Parsons would be the more likely of the four to crack—as he did.”

Smoke nodded his agreement as he loaded up the sawed-off with buckshot.

Winston hefted the shotgun shells in his hands. “These are heavy, too heavy for factory loads.”

“I had the gunsmith across the street load them for me. They’re filled with broken nails and ball-bearings and whatever else he had on hand.” He looked first at Mills, then at Winston and Moss. “Any of you ever shot a man with a Greener?”

They shook their heads.

“Close in they’ll cut a man in two. Makes a real mess. Fastest man in the world won’t buck the odds of a sawed-off pointed at his belly.”

“You’ve shot men with these types of weapons?” Moss asked.

“I’ve shot men with muzzle-loaders, cap and ball, Sharps .52, .Navy .36 and Colt and Remington and Starr .44-s and .45s. I’ve shot them with a Remington .41 over and under. I’ve used knives, tomahawks and chopping axes more than a time or two. If somebody was trying to kill me or mine, I’d drop him with a hot horseshoe if that was all I could find at the moment. Gentlemen, I just have to ask a question. You all have sidestepped it before, but level with me this time. Why in the hell did your superiors send you men out here?”

Mills cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable, and both Winston and Moss blushed.

Smoke waited.

“Truth time,” Winston muttered.

“Yes,” Mills said. “Quite. Smoke, we are all new to the West, and to its customs. Tenderfeet, as I’ve read. We’ve worked the cities and smaller Eastern towns, but never west of the Mississippi. The United States Marshal’s office is being upgraded in manpower, and, well, while we are not amateurs in this business, we, ah . . .”

Smoke held up a hand. “Let me finish it: you were sent out here to get bloodied?”

“That, ah, is a reasonably accurate assessment, yes.”

“Well, you might get that chance sooner than you think. Here comes Luttie with his whole damn crew!”

Chapter Seven

“Maybe they‘re coming in to put flowers on Don’s grave?” Winston said.

Smoke turned to look at him. The man had a twinkle in his eye. Mills and Moss were both smiling. The U.S. Marshals were new to the West, and perhaps had not yet been bloodied in killing combat, but they had plenty of sand and gravel in them, and a sense of humor.

“I’m sure,” Smoke said, picking up the sawed-off shotgun. “Shall we step outside and greet the gentlemen?”

Luttie and Jake rode at the head of the column, and they both gave Smoke and the federal marshals curt nods, then turned toward the hitchrails at the saloon. They dismounted, looped the reins and walked into the barroom.

“I don’t think they liked the sight of these shotguns,” Winston said.

“I’m sure they didn’t,” Smoke said. He sat down on the bench in front of the office. Mills sat down beside him, Moss and Winston stood nearby.

“I wonder what they’re up to,” Moss said.

“A show of force?” Mills questioned. “If so, what is the purpose? We rode right up into their lair the other day. They must know that we’re not going to be intimidated.”

“I don’t know whether any of them is that smart,” Smoke replied. “If I had to take a guess, I’d guess that this move is a diversion of some sorts.”

Mills was thoughtful for a moment. “Yes. I agree. Luttie and his Seven Slash bunch keeps our attention here, while the Slater gang strikes somewhere in the county. But where?”

“Nowhere close, you can bet on that. Around Silver Mountain, maybe.” He shook his head. “And it could be that Slater’s gang is going to hit the marshals escorting the kid . . . maybe to shut the kid’s mouth. Or they’re coming in here to try to break their friends out of jail.”

“If that bunch hits my men in force, my people won’t have a chance,” Mills said softly.

“I just hope I’ve impressed upon your people to shoot first and ask questions later,” Smoke said.

“You know they won’t do that.”

“Then if Slater and his bunch hits them, they’re at best wounded and at worst dead meat, Mills. I tried to impress upon you all that this is the West. I don’t seem to be a very good teacher.”

He stood up and stepped off the boardwalk.

Mills’ voice stopped him. “Where are you going?”

“It’s a warm day. A mug of cool beer would taste good right about now.”

“Step right into the lion’s den, huh?”

“Might as well. We did pretty well in there the last time, didn’t we?”

Mills smiled. “I should be ashamed of myself for saying this, but we damn sure did!”

“We miss all the fun,” Winston said glumly.

“Don’t count on that continuing,” Smoke told him, as they stepped up to the batwings of the saloon. “Once inside, Mills and I will stay together. Moss, take the right end of the bar. Winston, you take the left. Don’t turn your back completely on these ol’ boys. We’ll see how smart Luttie is. If he tries to brace us, we’ll put what’s left of the bunch in jail and keep them there.”

“What will we do with the rest of them?” Moss asked innocently.

Smoke looked at him. “Somebody will bury them.”

He pushed open the doors and stepped inside, walking to the bar, the others right behind him.

Luttie and his crew had spread out all over the table area of the saloon, and that told Smoke a lot. None of it good.

“Setup,” Mills mumbled.

“Yeah,” Smoke returned the whisper. “Glad you picked up on it.”

“What are you two love—birds a-whisperin’ about?” a Seven Slash hand yelled.

“You reckon they’re sweet on each other, Paul?” another said with a laugh.

“That’d be a sight to see, wouldn’t it—them a-smoochin’.”

“Maybe we ought to see if they’d give us an advance showin’?”

“Now that there’s a right good idea,” another said.

“Now, boys,” Luttie said, a strange smile on his lips. “You know I can’t allow nothin’ like that to take place. Them fellows is lawmen. They’s to be respected. Besides, that’s the famous Smoke Jensen yonder. He’s supposed to be the fastest gun in all the West. You boys wouldn’t want to brace the likes of him, now, would you?”

His crew—and the table area filled with them—all burst out laughing. I V

“I won’t have no more of this, now, boys,” Luttie said. “Although I’m not too sure about me givin’ you orders when you’re on your own time. Might be some law agin that. What do you say about it, Mr. Fancy—Pants U.S. Marshal?”

“I would say that you don’t have any authority to give orders when your hirelings are off the job,” he said stiffly.

“Hireling?” a cowboy said. “Ain’t it a fancy title, though?”

“Not really,” Mills told him, a tight smile on his lips. “It means anyone who will follow another’s orders for money—such as a thug or a mercenary”

Smoke was half turned, his left side facing the crowded table area. “When he gets up, Mills,” he whispered, his lips just barely moving, “kill him.”

Mills shook his head minutely. “I can’t do that, Smoke.”

The cowboy pushed back his chair. “Are you callin’ me a thug, Whistle-Britches?”

“Get ready,” Smoke whispered. “Cock that Greener, Mills.”

“Actually, no,” Mills raised his voice. “I was merely explaining to you the dictionary definition of a hireling. If you take exception to my remark, then you must have a low opinion of yourself.”

“Huh?” the cowboy said.

“Charlie,” another hand said. “I think he done insulted you. But I ain’t real sure.”

Luttie and Jake were staying out of it. Luttie had voiced his objections about his hands’ needling any further, so in a court of law, he would be clear of any wrongdoing. But courts of law didn’t impress Smoke Jensen. Six—gun action was much more to his liking.

“That remark of mine would only be taken as a blot on one’s escutcheon if the party to whom it was directed was in actuality, a thug or mercenary,” Mills further confused the cowboy and most of his buddies, including his boss and the foreman.

"What’d he say?” Jake whispered to Luttie.

“Hell, don’t ask me. Sounded dirty.”

“Gawddam, boy!” another Seven Slash hand said.

“Cain’t you talk English?”

“I was,” Mills responded.

“A blot on one’s escutcheon comes from medieval times,” a man spoke from a corner table. Smoke cut his eyes. The man wore a dark suit with a white shirt and string tie. He’d seen him get off the stage earlier. “An escutcheon is a shield, upon which a coat of aims was painted. In other words, it means a stain on one’s honor.”

“Who the hell are you?” Charlie demanded.

“No one who would associate with the likes of you,” the stranger said.

“Damn, Charlie,” a hand said. “I think the stranger done insulted you, too.”

“Now, look here,” Charlie said. “I’m gettin’ tarred of being insulted.”

“You could always leave,” Smoke offered him an option.

“And you could always shut your trap,” Charlie told him.

“I’m right here, Charlie,” Smoke told him. “Anytime you think you have the cajones to brace me without all your buddies to back you up.”

Nice way of making him stand alone whether he fishes or cuts bait, Moss thought. I’ll keep that in mind.

The cowboy looked hard at Smoke and then sat down without another word.

“You just saved your own life, cowboy,” the stranger said, rifling a deck of cards.

Charlie mumbled something and concentrated on his beer.

It isn’t going to work, Luttie thought, staring at Smoke. The man is just too damn sure of himself and has the reputation to back it up. He’s . . . Luttie couldn’t think of the word, right off.

“Intimidating” was what he was searching for.

And who in the devil was that stranger sitting over there? He didn’t think Jensen knew who he was either.

Smoke could sense the steam going out of the hardcases seated around the saloon. Four double-barreled Greeners at this distance would take out about half the crowd, inflicting horrible wounds on those they didn’t kill outright. He’d seen men soak up five .44 caliber slugs and still stay on their boots and keep on coming. He had never seen anybody take a close-up shotgun blast and keep going.

Smoke watched as Luttie and Jake exchanged glances. Both men knew that whatever momentum they might have had was gone.

“Drink your drinks, play cards, do some tobacco buying or whatever,” Smoke told them. “First one of you that makes trouble, I either put in jail or kill. Let’s go, boys.”

Before he could leave the bar, a young man jumped to his boots. “They call me Sandy!” he yelled. “And I say without that shotgun, you ain’t nothin’, Jensen.”

“Don’t be a fool, lad,” the stranger said. “You don’t have a prayer. Sit down and shut up and live.”

“You don’t show me nothin’ either, mister!” Sandy said.

“Don’t crowd me, lad,” the stranger said. “I came into town to do some gambling and some relaxing on my way to California. I have no quarrel with you. So don’t crowd me.”

“Stand up, you funny talkin’ dude!” Sandy yelled.

Smoke placed the man then. The accent had been worrying him. Earl Sutcliffe. And the Earl was not a first name. He really was an earl over in England. At least he had been until he killed a man after a game of chance (the man had been cheating); The man had been a duke, which was higher than an earl, and a man of considerable power. A murder warrant had been issued for Sutcliffe, and he had fled to America. Here he had made a name for himself as a very good and very honest gambler . . . and one hell of a gunfighter.

“That’s Earl Sutcliffe, Sandy,” Smoke said. “Sit down and finish your beer, and there’ll be no hard feelings.”

Earl Sutcliffe! Luttie thought. Now what in the hell was he doing in this jerkwater town?

“Stand up, Sutcliffe!” Sandy yelled the words that would start his dying on this day.

“Here now!” Mills said. “You men stop this immediately.”

“Shut up,” Smoke told him. “This is none of your affair.”

Mills gave him a dirty look. But he closed his mouth.

“I said stand up!” Sandy yelled.

Earl put down the deck of cards and pushed back from the table. He slowly stood up, brushing back his coat on the right side.

“Primitive rites of manhood,” Mills said in a whisper.

“Young man,” Earl said. “I do not wish to kill you.”

“You kill me?” Sandy snorted the words. “Dude, you the one that’s gonna die.”

“I don’t think so. But I suppose stranger things have happened.” Without taking his eyes off of Sandy, Earl spoke to Luttie. “You are his employer. You could order him to stop this madness.”

“Sorry, Earl. The kid’s on his own time today. What’s the matter, you afraid of him?”

Earl smiled. “One more time, lad: give this up.”

Sandy smiled, sure of himself, his youthfulness overriding caution. The young think of death only as something that happens to someone else, never themselves. “Anytime you’re ready,” he told the Englishman.

Sutcliffe shot him. The draw was as fast as a striking rattler. The kid never had a chance to clear leather. The slug took him in high in the chest, driving through a lung and slamming him back, sitting him back down in the chair he should have stayed in . . . with his mouth closed.

He opened his mouth and blood stained his lips as he struggled to speak. “You! . . .” he managed to gasp.

“Sorry, lad,” Earl said, holstering his six-gun. “I tried to tell you.”

“Tell me! . . .” Sandy said.

“It’s too late, now,” Earl’s words were softly offered.

“I’m cold,” Sandy said.

Mills shook his head as he watched the young man hover between life and death, with death racing to embrace him, rudely shoving life aside.

Luttie’s hands sat silent, occasionally letting their eyes shift to the muzzles of those deadly sawed—off shotguns, all four of them pointed in their direction. To a man they wanted blood-revenge, but to a man they all knew that this was not the time or the place.

“I’ll be damned!” Sandy suddenly blurted. “Would you just look at that!”

“What are you seein’?” Charlie asked him, his words just above a whisper.

“You hear that?” the kid said, as blood dripped from his mouth onto his shirt front.

“What are you hearin’?” Charlie asked him.

Sandy’s head lolled to one side, and he closed his eyes.

“Nothing, now,” Mills said. “He just died.”

The Seven Slash men rode out shortly after Sandy died. They took the body with them, to be buried on Seven Slash range.

“They’ll be back,” Smoke said. “Tomorrow, next week, next month. But they’ll be back. And when they come back, they’ll do their damnest to tear this town apart.”

“I concur,” Mills said.

“That was pushed on me,” Earl said. He had sat back down and was shuffling a deck of cards. “I really did not want to kill the lad.”

“I know it,” Smoke told him. “I’ve had a hundred pushed on me.”

“What’s going on in this town?” the Englishman asked. “I stopped here because it seemed so peaceful.”

Smoke had the barkeep draw him a mug of beer and carried it over to Earl’s table, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “How’d you like to be a deputy sheriff of this county?”

Earl looked startled. “I beg your pardon?”

Smoke smiled and Mills laughed out loud.

“If you’ve got some time to spare, I’m authorized to pay you fifty dollars a month as a deputy.”

“Fifty dollars a month?” Earl said, a smile not only on his lips but also reaching his eyes. “My, how could I possibly refuse such a generous offer?”

“There is a bedroom in the back of the jail,” Smoke said. “And you can take your meals over at Bonnie’s Cafe. Providing the cook isn’t drunk.”

“Oh, I say, now. And bed and board is included too. I suppose I could spare a couple of weeks to lend a hand in the keeping of law and order.”

“We’ll be facing anywhere from fifty to seventy-five hardcases, Earl,” Smoke felt obliged to tell the man. “Maybe more than that.”

Earl arched one eyebrow. “This sounds intriguing. You have certainly piqued my curiosity, Mr. Jensen.”

“Smoke.”

“Very well . . . Smoke, it is. Let’s take a stroll over to the livery and choose a mount for me. I’m very picky when it comes to horseflesh.”

“Then you’ll take the job?”

“But of course!”

Mills shook his head. He wondered how many warrants were out on Earl Sutcliffe. This was certainly an odd way to maintain law and order. Quite novel. He would have to do a paper on this and perhaps submit it to a New York newspaper for publication. The West certainly was a strange place, he concluded. He’d never seen anyplace quite like it.

The bartender was throwing sawdust on the pool of blood on the floor by the chair where Sandy had died as the men walked out the batwings.

Chapter Eight

Earl Sutcliffe looked at the star pinned to his shirt and chuckled.

“You find something amusing about being on the

side of law and order?” Mills asked.

“Oh, I’ve always been on the side of law and order,” the Englishman replied. “Providing it is good, fair, and just law and order.”

“And in England? . . .” Mills left that open.

“In my case justice did not prevail.”

“What can I say? It happens here, too.”

Earl patted the butt of his six-gun. “It will never again happen to me.”

“That isn’t justice.”

Earl smiled. “Oh, that depends entirely upon who is giving and who is receiving, doesn’t it?”

“How did? . . . I mean . . .” Mills didn’t know exactly how to phrase the question.

“How did an English nobleman become a gunfighter of dubious reputation in the wild American West?” Earl smiled at the U.S. Marshal.

“Thank you, yes.”

“I have always been good with cards, and lucky. I soon realized that if I was going to earn my living as a gambler I had better learn to be more than proficient with a firearm. There are people who, when someone is winning, will always cry cheat.”

“And you don’t cheat?”

“No. That is not to say I don’t know how, because I certainly do. But I don’t have to cheat to win. And I don’t win all the time. Just enough of the time so I earn a nice income.”

“And this?” Mills waved his hand at the town. “Why am I doing it? Why don’t we just say that there is as much Robin Hood in me as there is in Smoke Jensen. Neither one of us particularly cares for the rich who use their power to remain above the law.”

“I can understand your feelings on the subject. But I’m not aware of any rich person who ever wronged Smoke. Besides, Smoke is a wealthy man in his own right.”

Earl laughed. “Oh, so am I, Mr. Walsdorf. My home in England has forty-five rooms. My inheritance was enormous. But what does that have to do with justice?”

Mills walked away, muttering to himself.

Smoke had been listening from a doorway and stepped out to stand by the Englishman. “He’s a good man, Earl. And damn tough, too. He’s just hooked on Eastern law enforcement. Or, most probably, what Eastern lawyers are teaching.”

“And it’s spreading, Smoke. It’ll be another ten years or so before it really makes an impact out here. But it’s coming.”

Smoke grimaced. “First time a man gives me an order telling me I can’t protect what is mine with a gun, he better get ready for a showdown.”

“It’s coming.”

Smoke shook his head and changed the subject. “Mills is no spring chicken. He’s been with the Marshal’s Service since getting out of college. I can’t understand why he hasn’t had some of those ideas of his kicked out of his head.”

“He’s not been a field man for very long, I should imagine. And that is perhaps where the promotions are.”

“You may be right. Well, let’s get some supper and talk over some options.”

“Why don’t we just locate the outlaws and go in shooting?” Earl suggested.

Smoke chuckled. “A man after my own heart. I suggested that to Mills. He says that is not the proper way to go about bringing men to justice.”

Earl gave Smoke a quick, bemused glance. “The man does have a lot to learn, doesn’t he?”

Smoke nodded his head in agreement. “I just hope he stays alive long enough to learn it.”

“I came as soon as I heard about this terrible act of violence against you, Sally,” the man said.

“Thank you, Larry,” Sally Jensen said. She was sitting in the parlor in a rocker, her arm in a sling.

The preacher’s wife, Bountiful, was sitting in the next room, but well within earshot. It just wasn’t proper for a woman, especially a married woman, to receive a man alone. Besides, Bountiful didn’t trust this slick-haired New York City man, all duded up and smelling of bay rum and the like. He had something up his sleeve and she would bet on that.

Sally looked at Lawrence Tibbson and wondered what in the world he was doing Out here in Colorado. She hadn’t seen him in several years. And she’d been with her mother then, shopping in the city. She had allowed Larry to escort her to a few functions in college, very few, but he had never—by any stretch of the imagination-—been her beau. Although he would have liked to have been.

“All your old college chums are very worried about you, Sally,” Larry said.

“Worried about me?” Sally asked. “Why, for heaven’s sake?”

“Well, my word, Sally! You’ve been shot! Living out here in this wild, lawless, God-forsaken place.

And . . .” He shook his head.

“And what, Larry?”

He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nothing, Sally.”

“Larry,” she said coyly, and batted her eyes at him. That used to do it in college.

It did it this time, too. He sighed and said, “Sally, the word is that . . . well, how to say this?”

“Just come right out and say it, Larry. That’s the way out here.”

“The day of the wild west is over, Sally. It’s finished, or soon will be. Despite the play and all the articles and Penny Dreadfuls written about Smoke, the people back East are beginning to look upon him as a cold-blooded killer. And you are being dragged in the dirt as well.”

It didn't come as any surprise to Sally She’d already heard from some of her old college friends. There was a not-so-subtle movement on in some quarters back East to discredit Smoke, and mark him as a mad—dog killer without conscience. Some were even calling for a federal investigation of him, including sending some United States Marshals out West. She didn’t know whether anything had come of that suggestion.

“Go on, Larry.”

“I know your parents are abroad, and plan to stay for some time, but your brother Jordan is very upset about all this awful talk about you.”

“Pure flapdoodle, Larry. That’s all it is.”

Bountiful listened for another five minutes, and then with a frown on her face she walked silently to the doorway and stepped outside. She waved at a hand coiling a rope by the corral.

“Yes, ma’am?” he said, after running over to the house.

“Ride!” she told him. “Get into town, find Monte and find out where Smoke is. Get word to him.” She told him what she had overheard.

The hand threw the rope down, his face tight with anger. “I’ll go in there and stomp that varmint right now!”

“No!” Bountiful told him. “Finding Smoke is more important. He might be in danger of being taken back East to stand trial in some federal court. There are in U.S. Marshals after him. They might already be with him, and he doesn’t know they’re to arrest him.”

The hand nodded his head. “You watch that skunk in yonder, Miss Bountiful. He’s just too slick for my likin’.”

“I’ll watch him for me and Sally. You ride.”

“I’m gone!”

She stepped back into the house in time to hear Sally ask, “Larry, exactly why did you come all the way out here from the city?”

“Why . . . to take you back where you belong, Sally.”

“I beg your pardon?” Sally’s words were filled with astonishment.

“Sally, this is still a wild and savage land. You don’t belong out here. There is no culture, nothing that even resembles refinement . . . the nicer things in life. I have come to ask you to leave this place and return to the city. Not necessarily to be with me, although that is my highest aspiration. Sally, I believe once there, out of this horrible place, you will see things in a much different light and . . .”

Sally held up a hand. “That’s enough, Larry! Actually, that is far too much. If my husband were here, he’d throw you out of the house for saying such things.” Actually, what Smoke would probably do is shoot you! But she kept that thought to herself. “Larry, you must be insane to suggest such things.”

“I have only your best interests at heart, Sally.”

“I appreciate that, Larry. Now listen to me. I am a married woman with children. I love my husband very much, and I am quite happy here on the Sugarloaf . . .”

“The what?”

“The Sugarloaf—that is the name of our ranch, Larry. And I intend to stay here until I die, and be buried here. Is that understood?”

“Sally, haven’t you understood a word I’ve said? What are you going to do when your husband is sentenced to prison?”

“Prison? What are you talking about, Larry?”

“A federal judge is right now contemplating issuing federal warrants for Smoke’s arrest. All the wild men of the West are dead or dying, Sally. Most of the famed gunfighters and outlaws have met their just due. Very learned men in the field of crime have met and concluded that violence begets violence and also that the poor criminal has been greatly misunderstood. They have urged President Arthur to abolish capital punishment and to set up programs to reeducate inmates and ban the carrying of guns nationwide . . .”

Sally started laughing. She laughed until tears momentarily blinded her. She wiped them away just about the time Bountiful stopped laughing in the next room.

“I fail to see anything amusing about this, Sally,” Larry said stiffly.

“It’s going to be far less amusing when somebody tells my husband he can’t carry a gun, Larry. What nut came up with the idea that the poor criminal has been misunderstood?”

“I would hardly call Dr. Woodward a nut, Sally.”

“Dr. Woodward?”

“Yes. He has just returned from Europe where he studied with some of the greatest doctors in the world, whose specialties include the mind . . .”

“Psychiatrists.”

“Why, yes, that’s right. I . . .”

“Get out of here, Larry. Leave. Now. Go on back to the city and don’t come West again. This is no place for you. And don’t ever again suggest I leave my husband. Now, go, Larry.”

When Larry had driven off in his rented buggy, Bountiful came into the room. “You heard?” Sally asked.

“Yes. I sent a hand into town to tell Monte. He’ll get word to Smoke. Do you suppose there is anything to what he said, Sally?”

“Yes. I’m afraid there is.” She shook her head.

“The poor misunderstood criminal. What is this world coming to?”

* * *

Earl Sutcliffe was doing his best not to yawn as Mills droned on. “And in conclusion,” Mills said, “it is the belief of many knowledgeable people that the criminal should not be treated nearly so harshly as we have done in the past. The criminal is literally pushed into a life of crime due to peer pressure and his social and/or economic station in life.”

“Incredible,” Earl said.

“Yes, isn’t it. You see, Dr. Woodward has found that in many cases, say, a boy from the wrong side of the tracks falls in love with the daughter of a rich man . . . of course the two worlds can never meet. That traumatizes the young man and leaves him feeling rejected and disillusioned and angry. If he then goes out and robs or kills, it isn’t really his fault.”

Earl sighed. “Mills, do you really believe that nonsense?” '

“Nonsense, sir?” .

Wes. Nonsense. Because that is what it is. Most people who grow up in poverty don’t turn into murderers. Most do their best to work their way out of a bad economic situation. Your Dr. Woodward is simply trying to cover up for a group of very sorry, worthless, no-good people who want something for nothing and will go to any lengths to get it. And the only length they deserve is the number of feet in a hangman’s rope. Good day, sir.” He rose from the bench and walked into Smoke’s office.

Smoke smiled at him. “Did Mills make a convert out of you, Earl?”

“Not hardly. The man is well-educated but totally out of touch with reality.” He looked up at the rumble of a stagecoach pulling into town.

Both men watched as Mills was handed a small packet of mail by the driver. The man sat down on the bench and read, occasionally looking across the street at Smoke’s office, a startled expression on his face.

“It concerns one of us,” Earl opined.

“Any warrants out on you?”

“None that I am aware of. You?”

“I don’t think so. However, anything is possible. I’ve been hearing rumors that are coming from back East. Somebody back there doesn’t like me very much.”

“So it’s true, then,” Earl muttered.

“You’ve heard them?”

“Yes. I was in St. Louis just a few months ago. I spoke with a man from Chicago who asked if I knew you. I told him only by reputation. He had heard that some federal judge back East was pushing to have some warrants reissued on you. Something about a shooting that happened years ago. Over in Idaho.”

“Damn!” Smoke swore. “That was back in ’73. I wasn’t much more than a kid when I helped destroy the town of Bury and killed Richards, Potter, and Stratton. They were the men who helped kill my brother and my father, and who hired the men who raped and killed my first wife and killed our baby son.”

Earl grunted. “Then they certainly deserved killing. Tell me, those three you mentioned—did either of them have any relative or family friend in a position of power back East?”

“Not that I know of. But it could be. But there were no warrants issued from that shooting. I’m certain of that. And I know damn well I left those men dead.”

“Well, somebody has an axe to grind with you. And from the look on Mills’ face, he isn’t too happy with the letters he just received. Want a wager as to the identity of the party mentioned in those missives?”

“No bet. But he’s a pretty straightforward type of fellow. If they’re about me, he’ll tell me.”

They watched as Mills showed the documents to Winston and Moss. The men read the letters and shook their heads. Mills folded the letters and tucked them in an inside pocket of his jacket. The three of them then walked across the street and entered the office.

Mills came right to the point. “Smoke, we need to talk.”

“You look like you just swallowed a green persimmon, Mills. What’s the matter?”

“It isn’t good news, Smoke.” He poured a cup of coffee and sat down. “A federal judge in Washington is just about to put his signature to warrants. They’re murder warrants, Smoke. On you. Three of them.”

“The names of the men I’m supposed to have killed?”

“Potter, Richards, and Stratton.”

“I killed them, for a fact. Over in Idaho, years ago. But it was a stand up and fair fight. Me against the three of them.”

“Tell me about it, Smoke.”

Smoke’s mind went spinning back through the long years.

“All right, you bastards!” Smoke yelled to Richards, Potter, and Stratton. “Holster your guns and step out into the street, if you’ve got the nerve.”

The sharp odor of sweat was all mingled with the smell of blood and gunsmoke, filling the summer air as four men stepped out into the bloody, dusty street. All around the old town were the sprawled bodies of gunhands that had been on the payroll of the three men. They had taken on Smoke Jensen. They had died. Nineteen men had tried to kill Smoke in the ruin of an old ghost town out from Bury. Only three of them were still standing.

Richards, Potter, and Stratton stood at one end of the block. A tall bloody figure stood at the other. All their guns were in leather.

“You son of a bitch!” Stratton screamed, his voice as high-pitched as an hysterical woman. “You’ve ruined it all!” He clawed at his .44.

Smoke drew and fired before Stratton could clear leather. The man fell back on his butt, a startled expression on his face. He closed his eyes and toppled over.

Potter grabbed for his gun. Smoke shot him twice in the chest and holstered his gun before the man had stopped twitching in the dust.

Richards had not moved. He stood with a faint smile on his lips, staring at Smoke.

“You ready to die, Richards?” Smoke called.

“As ready as any man ever is,” Richards replied. There was no sign of fear in his voice. His hands were steady by the butts of his guns. “Your sister, Janey, gone?”

“Yep. She took your money and hauled her ashes out.”

“Trash, that’s what she is.”

“You’ll get no argument from me on that.”

“It’s been a long run, hasn’t it, Jensen?”

“It’s just about over.”

“What happens to all our holdings around here?”

“I don’t care what happens to the mines. The miners can have them. I’m giving all your stock to the decent, honest punchers and homesteaders.”

A puzzled look spread over Richards’ face. “I don’t understand. You did . . . all this!” He waved a hand. “For nothing?”

Someone moaned, the sound painfully inching up the street.

“I did it for my pa, my brother, my wife, and my baby son.” '

“It won’t bring them back.”

“I know.”

“Good God Almighty. I wish I had never heard the name Jensen.”

“You won’t ever hear it again, Richards. Not after this day.”

Richards smiled and drew. He was snake-quick, but hurried his shot, the slug digging up dirt at Smoke’s boots.

Smoke shot the man in the shoulder, spinning him around. Richards grabbed for his left-hand gun, and Smoke fired again, the slug taking the man in the chest. Richards cursed Smoke and tried to lift his Colt. He managed to cock it before Smoke’s third shot took him in the belly and knocked him down to the dirt. He pulled the trigger, blowing dust into his face and eyes. He tried to crawl to his knees but succeeded only in rolling over onto his back, staring at the blue of the sky.

Smoke walked up to the man.

Richards opened his mouth to speak. He tasted blood on his tongue. The light began to fade around him. “You’ll . . . you’ll meet . . .”

Smoke never found out who he was supposed to meet. Richards’ head lolled to one side, and he died.

Smoke holstered his guns and walked away.

“His brother,” Mills said. “Has to be. The judge’s name is Richards.”

“Well, then, he’s just as sorry as his damn brother was,” Smoke said. “And I’ll tell you this, Mills: no man will ever put handcuffs on me. No man.”

“Smoke . . .”

“No man, Mills. That was a fair fight, and judge Richards can go right straight to hell and take his warrants with him.”

Mills wore a crestfallen expression. “What if I’m ordered to arrest you?”

“Tell them you can’t find me. Ignore it. Quit your job. But don’t try to put cuffs on me. The warrants are bogus, Mills. It’s a made-up charge. There were dozens of people who witnessed that fight from the hillsides around the town. Don’t force my hand, Mills. It’s not worth your life, or any other lawman’s life.”

“You’d draw on me, Smoke?” the U.S. Marshal asked in a soft tone.

“If you forced me to do it. Lord knows I don’t want to drag iron against you, or any lawman, for that matter. But I won’t be arrested for something I didn’t do.”

“Smoke, the Marshal’s Service knows you’re here! If judge Richards signs those warrants, I will have no choice but to place you under arrest.”

“We all have choices, Mills. We all come to crossroads sometime in our lives. Many times the legal road is not the right road.”

Mills looked at Earl Sutcliffe. “And you, sir?”

“I stand by Smoke. I’ve talked to too many people who were at that fight in the ghost town. It was exactly as Smoke called it. I can have a dozen of the West’s most famed gunslicks in here in a week . . . all to stand by Smoke Jensen. If you want a bloodbath, just try to arrest Jensen.”

Mills shook his head. “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. He and his men left the office.

“Goddamn a bunch of political appointees,” Earl swore, which was something he did rarely. “Your government is becoming like the one I left across the waters: out of control.”

“Can you imagine what it will be like a hundred years from now?” Smoke asked, sitting down and picking up the little puppy from its bed by his desk. Earl grimaced. “That, my friend, is something that boggles the mind. But let’s concentrate on the present. What are you going to do if the judge signs those warrants?” .

“I damn sure won’t be placed under arrest.”

Smoke took paper from his desk and dabbed pen into the ink well. “I’ll write a friend of mine up in Denver. He’s a federal judge. I’ll ask him to look into the matter. I’ll ask him to block those warrants until a complete investigation is done into the matter. I’ll take the legal course until the road ends.”

Earl did not have to ask what Smoke would do once, or if, that legal road came to a blockade. He knew only that if any man tried to arrest Smoke Jensen for something he was innocent of, the streets would run red with blood. And Earl Sutcliffe knew this, too: he would do the same thing.

There comes a time when legal proceedings came into direct conflict with a law-abiding person’s basic human rights.

And this was damn sure one of those times.

Earl walked outside, leaving Smoke’s pen-scratching behind him. He looked up and down the wide street of the tiny village. “Don’t send good men in here to do a bad thing,” he muttered. “Because if you do, you’ll force another good man to turn bad. And I’ll be standing by his side,” he concluded.

Chapter Nine

The stagecoach ran and Smoke had mail. He tore open the letter and quickly scanned the contents. Sheriff Monte Carson of Big Rock wrote that he now had flyers from the United States government proclaiming Smoke Jensen to be an outlaw and a murderer. There was a ten thousand dollar price on his head. Events were moving very fast, and he advised Smoke to haul his ashes out of there until this matter could be resolved.

Smoke showed the letter to Earl.

“I’ll go with you,” the Englishman said.

Smoke nixed that. “I’d appreciate it if you’d stay on here as marshal and deputy sheriff. Mills is going to need help with the outlaws.”

The man met his eyes. “The system is turning against you, yet you still have law and order in your heart. I don’t know that I could feel so magnanimous toward such a system.”

“Without some form of law, the country would revert to anarchy, Earl. I’ll head for the high country and wait until things straighten out. I’ve got some good people working in my behalf.”

“I’ll go purchase a few things for you at the store and arrange for a pack horse. I’ll have things ready to go in a hour. Did Mills receive any mail this run?”

Smoke smiled and handed Earl a letter from the U.S. Marshal’s office in Washington, D.C. “I told the driver I’d see that Mills got this. Next time the stage runs, give this to him.”

Earl chuckled. “I don’t believe that delay will disappoint Mr. Walsdorf one bit.”

Smoke grinned. “I may be on the run, but I’m going to see if I can’t harass Luttie Charles and the Slater gang while I’m dodging the law.”

“One-man wrecking crew?”

“I’ve done it before.”

“You’ll stay in this area?”

“Oh, yes. I’ll check back with you from time to time. If the town fills with U.S. Marshals, tie a piece of black cloth on the bridge railing north of town. I’ll be warned then.”

“Will do.”

“Take care of my little dog for me, will you, Earl?”

“I certainly shall.”

“I anticipated this, so I moved my gear out of the hotel yesterday and stowed it in the shed out back.”

“I’ll go get you provisioned.”

Smoke sat down behind the desk and cleaned his .44s and his rifle. He filled a pouch full of shotgun shells and cleaned a Greener. He put on a fresh pot of coffee to boil and then went out back to the shed. There he checked on the bag of dynamite he’d bought along the trail coming here and carefully inspected his fuses and caps, then replaced them in a waterproof pouch and rewrapped the bag in canvas.

He checked his clothing in his saddle bags and found they had not been disturbed; the same with his bedroll and ground sheet. He went back into the office and picked up the little dog, petting it.

“You behave yourself now,” he said softly. “Mind Earl, You hear?”

The little dog wriggled and squirmed and licked his hand, and Smoke smiled at its antics.

Earl opened the door. “You’re all set,” he said.

“The food should last five or six days if you’re careful. I put half a dozen boxes of .44s in the pack for you.”

“I’ll pull out now, then. Leave the back way. Take care of yourself, Earl.”

The Englishman winked at him. “You take care of yourself, friend. I told the livery man to get lost for a few minutes. You should have no trouble.”

Smoke slipped out the back, picked up his gear from the shed, and made his way to the livery stable. Buck was about ready to kick in the walls of his stall. He was a horse that liked to ramble, and he’d been confined to a stall for just too damn long. He tried to step on Smoke’s foot, and when that failed, tried to bite him.

“Settle down, damnit,” Smoke told him, smoothing out the blanket and tossing the saddle on him, cinching it down. For once, Buck didn’t try to puff up on him. Smoke stowed his gear on the pack horse, one of the strongest and best-looking pack animals he’d ever seen, and led both horses out the back. He swung into the saddle and looked back at the town.

“You better hunt you a hole, Judge Richards,” he spoke softly. “ ’Cause when this is over, I’m coming after you and I’m going to stomp your guts into a greasy puddle. And that’s a promise, you damn shyster.”

He touched his spurs to Buck’s sides, and they moved out, heading into the wild country of southern Colorado.

Smoke made his first night’s camp just off the Continental Divide Trail. As was his custom, he cooked his supper over a hat-sized fire, then erased all signs of it and moved several miles before bedding down for the night. It was a cold camp, but a safe one.

Up before dawn, he walked the area several times, stopping often to listen. The horses were relaxed, and Buck was better than a watch dog. Satisfied that he was alone, Smoke built a small fire against a rock wall and cooked his breakfast of bacon and potatoes and boiled his coffee.

After eating, he washed his dishes, packed them, and sat back down for a cigarette and some ruminating.

First of all, he wanted to find the Slater gang and start his little war with them. He could not get the picture of that man and woman and the girls he’d found along the trail out of his mind. Men who would do something like that were not to be considered human beings, and it would be very unfair to call them animals. Animals didn’t do things like that. Animals killed for a reason, not for sport and fun. He had promised the dying woman that her grief and pain would be avenged. And Smoke always kept his promises.

He picketed the pack animal in the deep woods, near plenty of water and graze, and saddled Buck. “You ready to go headhunting, boy?”

Buck swung his big head and looked at Smoke through mean eyes. Buck was anything but a gentle animal. Smoke could handle him, and the horse had never harmed a child. But with adults whom he disliked, and that was most of them, the animal could be vicious.

“I thought so,” Smoke said, and swung into the saddle.

He climbed higher, staying in the thickest timber and brush he could find and letting Buck pick his way. Coming to a halt on a ridge that offered a spectacular view for miles around in all directions, Smoke dismounted and took field glasses from his saddlebags and began carefully scanning the area.

His sweep of the area paid off after only a few minutes. He knew where the mining camps were, and where the few homesteaders lived—this was not a country for much farming other than small gardens—and discounted them. With a smile on his lips, he put his binoculars back into the saddlebags and mounted up.

He figured it was time to be sociable and do some calling on folks. Two hours later, he picketed Buck and hung his spurs on the saddle horn. Taking his rifle, he began making his way through the timber, carefully and silently working his way closer to what he figured was an outlaw camp. He bellied down in thick underbrush when he got within earshot of the mangy-looking bunch of hardcases.

“I’m a-gittin’ tarred of this sittin’ around doin’ nothin’,” a big, ugly-looking man said. “I say we go find us some homesteaders with kids and have our way with the girls.”

“Nice young tender girlies,” another man said with a nasty grin. “I like to hear ’em squall.” He pulled at his crotch. “I like to whup up on ’em, too.

I like it when they fight.”

“Maybe we could find us a man to use as target practice,” another mused aloud. “Kill ’im slow. That’s good fun.”

“Slater says we got to wait,” yet another outlaw said. “They gonna be shippin’ out gold and silver in a few days, and we wait until then.”

“Let’s hit the town,” a man suggested, leaning over and pouring a tin cup full of coffee from a big pot. “We’re runnin’ out of grub and besides, they’s wimmin in that little town. I seen me a big fat one. I like fat wimmin. More to whup up on when they’s fat.”

Smoke shot him in the belly.

The gut-shot outlaw screamed and threw the coffee pot, the contents splashing into another man’s face. The scalded punk howled in pain and rolled on the ground, both hands covering his burned face.

The gunny who liked to rape little girls jumped to his boots, his hands filled with six-shooters. He looked wildly around him. Smoke took careful aim and shot a knee out from under the man, the .44 slug breaking the knee.

The man folded up and lay screaming on the ground, his broken knee bent awkwardly. He would be out of action for a long time.

Smoke lined up a punk who’d grabbed up a rifle and put a round in the center of his chest. The man dropped like a rag doll and did not move. He had fallen into the campfire, and his clothing ignited in seconds. The stench of burning flesh began to foul the morning coolness.

Smoke shifted positions as the outlaws fell into cover and began slinging lead in his direction. He rolled for several yards and then belly-crawled a dozen more yards, coming up behind a huge old fallen log.

“Somebody pull Daily outta that far!” a man yelled. “He’s a stinkin’ up ever’thang.”

“You pull him out,” another suggested.

“You go to hell!” the first man told him. “I ramrod this outfit, and you do what I tell you to do.”

The second man told the ramrodder where he could ram his orders. Bluntly.

Smoke waited, his Winchester .44 ready. He caught a glimpse of a checkered shirt and lined it up. It was a man’s arm. Smoke waited, let out some breath, took up the slack on the trigger and let the rifle fire. The man screamed and rolled on the ground, the bullet-shattered arm hanging painfully and uselessly. The .44 slug had hit the man’s elbow. Another out of action.

A smile of grim satisfaction on his lips, Smoke began working his way back, not wanting to risk any further shots. If he waited much longer, the hunter would soon become the hunted.

Back with Buck, he stepped into the saddle and took off in search of a hole.

“Damnit, Earl!” Mills hollered, waving the letter. “This is tampering with the mail. That’s against the law.”

“I didn’t tamper with anything,” the Englishman said. “The driver handed Smoke the mail, and Smoke told me to give this to you. I gave it to you.”

“You assisted him in getting away!”

“As far as I knew, he was a. free man. He could leave anytime he chose.” He shrugged. “He chose to leave.”

Mills stomped out of the office. The men who had escorted the prisoner up to the county seat had returned. Mills started hollering for them to saddle up, they had to find and arrest Smoke Jensen.

The marshals all looked at one another. Going after outlaws was one thing. Tangling with Smoke Jensen was quite another matter.

A trio of deputy sheriffs, come to fetch one of the prisoners in jail, exchanged glances. One asked, “You boys are gonna go do what?”

“We’re going to arrest Smoke Jensen,” Albert said glumly.

“What the devil for?” a deputy asked.

“Federal warrants,” Mills told him, walking up to the group standing on the boardwalk in front of the saloon. “The prisoners can remain in By the powers vested in me by the United States government, I am hereby deputizing you men as deputy U.S. Marshals. You will accompany us in the pursuit and arrest of Smoke Jensen.”

“You can go right straight to hell, too,” a deputy told him. “I ain’t got nothing against Smoke Jensen.”

“Me, neither,” another said.

The third deputy turned and started toward the alley.

“Where are you going?” Mills demanded.

“To the outhouse,” the man called over his shoulder. “And as full of it as you are, you best do the same.”

“You men do not seem to understand the gravity of this situation!”

“I understand this,” a deputy told him. “You go after Smoke Jensen, you’re gonna come back—if you come back at all—acrost your saddle.”

“Yeah,” the second deputy said. “If I was you, I’d sit on that warrant for a time. Smoke is a respected rancher of some wealth. I’ll wager than warrant ain’t worth the paper it’s written on. Besides, do you know what you’d get if you crossed a grizzly bear and a puma and a rattlesnake and a timber wolf and some monster outta Hell?”

“I have not the vaguest idea.”

“You’d get Smoke Jensen. You best leave him alone. That ol’ boy was born with the bark on and was raised up by mountain men and Injuns. They’s tribes all over the West sing songs about how feeroocious Jensen is. ’Sides, you ever heard of gunslingers name of Charlie Starr, Monte Carson, Louis Longmont, Johnny North, Cotton Pickens, and the like?”

“Of course, I’ve heard of them! What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Man, how’d you like to see them ol’ boys and thirty more just as randy come a-foggin’ in here, reins in their teeth and hands full of Colts, all of ’em mad at you?”

“That . . . would not be a pleasant sight,” Mills admitted.

“Pleasant sight! You couldn’t see nothin’ like it this side of Hell! Now you just pull in your horns and give that warrant time to rest, Mr. U.S. Marshal. Things will work out. You keep your nose out of Smoke Jensen’s business. That way, you’ll stay alive.”

“I have a job to do, sir!”

“So do we,” the deputy said. “But sometimes you got to let common sense take over. Smoke’s killed a lot of sorry ol’ boys in his time, but he ain’t no back-shootin’ murderer. All them he put in the ground was either stand-up fair fights—and usually he’s facin’ two or three at a time—or punks that was after him and he waylaid ’em to shorten the odds. You think about that warrant, mister. You think a long time about it. The longer you think, the longer you got to live.”

The deputies collected their prisoner and pulled out that afternoon. The RCMP were due in town within the next several days. Mills looked at Earl, looking at him.

“You’ll stay to sign the papers and give the prisoner to the Canadians?”

“Uh-huh. Where are you going?”

“I have a man to arrest.”

“You best use pen and paper in the office, then,”

Earl said solemnly.

“To do what, sir?” Mills asked.

“To leave me the name of your next of kin.”

Foolishly, the outlaws in the camp Smoke attacked came after him. He led them on a goose hunt in the mountains and then tired of the game. He dismounted and took his rifle from the boot, then selected a position on a ridge where he could effectively cover his back trail.

The gang came in a rush, whipping their lathered and tired horses. Smoke emptied two saddles, and the others retreated down the slope, for the moment out of range. Smoke nibbled on a cold biscuit, took a sip of water, and waited. The old mountain man Preacher had taught him many things as a boy, one of which was patience.

After several moments, a man shouted out, “Who you be up yonder?”

“An avenging angel!” Smoke returned the shout, then shifted positions.

He could not hear the reply, if any, but he was certain the mutterings among the scum were highly profane.

“What’s your beef with us?” someone finally shouted.

Smoke shifted his eyes, sensing that conversation on the part of the outlaws would be nothing more than a cover for someone trying to slip around and flank him.

But he had not chosen his position without an eye for detail. To his left lay a sheer rock face. To his right, a clear field of fire, virtually without cover for anyone except a very skilled Indian warrior. The outlaws would have to come at him from the front.

“You deef up there?”

Smoke offered no reply. A few shots were fired at him, but they fell far short of his position. It was an impasse, but one that Smoke knew he would win simply because he had more patience than the outlaws. The men he had shot lay sprawled on the trail. One he had shot dead, the other had died only moments before, gutshot and dying hard, calling out for God to help him. The same God the girls he had helped rape and torture had called out to, no doubt.

Smoke watched as the men broke cover and ran for their horses. He waited and watched as they rode back down the trail. Smoke slipped back to Buck, booted his rifle, and took off. He would hit another outlaw camp that evening. He liked the night. He was very good in the night. The Orientals had a word for it that Smoke had read in a book Sally had bought for him. Ninja.

He liked that.

* * *

“That dude is still at the hotel, ma’am,” a hand reported to Sally. “He’s gonna get his ashes hauled if he don’t stop with the bad mouth against Smoke.”

“He’d just sue you,” Sally told him.

“One of them,” the hand said disgustedly. “I’m afraid so. What’s he saying about my husband?”

“That Smoke has turned cold-blooded killer. That he enjoys killin’. That he’s crazy. Monte is gonna have to put him in jail for his own protection if this keeps up.”

Sally nodded her head. “I wired friends back East to check into whether there is any connection between Judge Richards and Larry. They could find none—at least on the surface. I don’t believe there is any connection. Larry is just meddling, hoping to discredit Smoke in my eyes.”

“You want me to conk him on the head and toss him in an eastbound freight wagon, ma’am?”

Sally laughed. “No, Jim. But I’m not going to ask anyone to protect him, either. Larry is, I’m afraid, going to learn a hard lesson about the West and its people.”

“He’s liable to end up in a pine box, ma’am.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “There is always that possibility. But he’s a man grown, and has to take responsibility for his words and deeds. I warned him of the consequences if he persisted in spreading vile gossip about my husband. We’ll just let the chips fall, Jim."

“It won’t be long, ma’am. Somebody’s gonna tell that greenhorn lawyer to check, bet or fold pretty darn quick.” He put his hat back on his head. “And, ma’am . . . it’s likely to be me that does it.”

Sally watched the hand walk back to the bunkhouse. She knew that the West was, in many respects, a very tolerant place. A person’s past was their business. A handshake was a deal sealed. A person gave their word, it was binding. And if you bad-mouthed somebody, you had damn well better

be prepared to back it up with guns or fists. It was the code, and the code was unwritten law in the West.

“Larry,” she muttered, “you’re heading for a stomping if you don’t close that mouth.”

Chapter Ten

“That’s it, mister!” a cowboy said to Larry. “I’ve had your flappin’ mouth. Now shut the damn thing and shut it now!”

Larry turned in his chair and stared at the man. The others in the cafe fell silent. For days the citizens in and around Big Rock had put up with the Easterner’s bad—mouthing of Smoke Jensen. Most of them felt it was just the man’s ignorance and let it slide. But it was getting wearing . . . very wearing. The cowboy from Johnny North’s ranch was one of those Smoke had befriended, and he had had quite enough of Larry’s mouth.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Larry questioned, removing his napkin from his shirt-front and laying it on the table.

“I said for you to close that flappin’ trap of yours,” the cowboy said. “Smoke ain’t here to defend himself agin your lyin’ mouth. And I for one have had enough of it.” He pushed back his chair and stood up, walking to Larry’s table.

“Sir,” Larry said, “I have a right to an opinion. That is a basic right. One only has to look at Jensen’s record of brutality and callousness to see that the man has no regard for law and order and the rights of others. I . . .”

The cowboy slapped him out of the chair. Larry’s butt bounced on the floor. He stared up at the man, his mouth bloody from the callused hand of the cowboy. His eyes were wide from shock.

Larry looked over at the sheriff. Monte Carson was recovering from his wounds, his left arm still in a sling where the .45 slug had busted his forearm.

He stared at Larry with decidedly unfriendly eyes.

“Do something!” Larry hollered.

“What do you want me to do?” Monte questioned.

“This brute assaulted me!” Larry yelled, crawling to his knees and grabbing the back of a chair for support. “I want him placed under arrest.”

“You’re under arrest, Clint,” Monte said, sugaring his coffee.

“The fine for disturbing the peace is two dollars,” Judge Proctor said, carefully cutting the slice of beef on his lunch plate.

Twenty silver dollars hit the floor from the pockets of patrons seated around the cafe.

Willow Brook, wife of the town’s only lawyer, Hunt, counted the money on the floor. “I think that means you can break the law a few more times, Clint,” she said.

“What?” Larry screamed. “What kind of justice is this?”

“Western kind,” Clint said, and jerked the man up by his shirt.

“Unhand me, you heathen!” Larry yelled.

Clint did just that. He tossed Larry out the front door, and the man landed in a horse trough.

“And don’t come back in here!” the cafe owner yelled, once Larry had bubbled to the surface. “You are now officially barred from dinin’ in my establishment.”

“The cuisine was terrible anyway!” Larry yelled.

“I ain’t never served nothin’ like that in my life!” the cook screamed from the back.

“Ignorant oaf!” Larry said, stepping out of the horse trough with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances. “I’m going to sue everybody in that establishment!” He pointed at the cafe.

Monte walked to the door. “Get off the street, or I’ll put you in jail for attempting to incite a riot,” he told Larry

“You’ll put me in jail!” Larry shouted. He shook his finger at the sheriff. “You’ve not heard the last of this, sir,” he warned. “I am an attorney of some reputation. I can assure you all that the consequences will be dire. I . . .”

“You got nine more chances, Clint,” Monte said.

The cowboy stepped out onto the shaded boardwalk, and Larry took off running toward the Majestic Hotel. His shoes squished with every step. His ears were flame-red from the laughter he was leaving behind him.

Mills Walsdorf led his men some twelve miles out of town and halted the parade.

“What’s up, Mills?” Moss asked.

“We make camp here.”

“Lot of daylight left,” Winston pointed out the obvious.

“We have to make plans,” Mills told them, swinging down from the saddle. “And that might take several days. Perhaps even a week or more. We can’t just go riding willy-nilly after Smoke Jensen.”

The U.S. Marshals looked at each other and smiled. Harold said, “I wondered why you bought so many provisions.”

“We must always be prepared. We’re on our own now, men. No one back in town knows where we are. I told Earl we were heading east.”

“But we rode north!” Sharp said.

“Precisely.”

“I’ll gather some firewood,” Winston said, turning his head to hide his smile.

“We’ll all gather wood,” Mills said‘ “Since we’re going to be here for some time.”

Smoke saw to his horses’ needs first, rubbing them down carefully and picketing them near graze and water. He then ate a cold and early supper. He slipped off his boots and stuck his feet into moccasins that had been made especially for him. They were Apache moccasins, with high leggings that would prevent his trousers from catching on low branches or underbrush. He blackened his face with dirt and tied a dark bandana around his forehead.

He checked his guns and his knife, then picked up his rifle and slung it over his shoulder.

He knew where another of Slater’s camps was, having checked the area carefully with his field glasses, spotting the smoke and mentally marking the location. This coming night was going to turn deadly for some of the outlaws.

Smoke was moving long before twilight placed its dusky hand upon the high country. He was dressed in clothing that would blend with the night and the terrain, and there was nothing on him that would rattle or clank. Moonlight, when it came up, might reflect off the brass of his .44 rounds in his ammo belt, but that was the only thing unnatural about him in the gathering gloom. He slipped through the timber and brush like a wraith.

The outlaws were a careless bunch. Smoke spotted their campfires long before he caught sight of any human movement. When he was within hailing distance of them, he squatted down and became as one with the brush. He moved only his eyes as he studied the encampment.

He concluded that Slater had split his people up into at least three bunches. Maybe four since he wasn’t sure of the size of the gang. This gang of trash and thugs numbered about fifteen. They were all heavily armed, their weapons looking well-used but well-cared for.

Smoke moved closer, to better listen.

The outlaws were bitching about the inactivity and the lack of women and whiskey. They bragged about the men and women they had killed and raped and tortured. Smoke’s face tightened in silent rage as the men laughed about the two little girls they’d had back up the trail.

Smoke knew which two girls they were talking about.

He’d buried them both.

He watched one man leave the bonfire-lighted area and move toward the dark timber, toward where Smoke squatted, waiting to strike. The man was removing his galluses as he walked to find a spot to relieve himself.

He was taking his last walk.

Smoke wiped his bloody blade clean on the dead man’s shirt and shifted positions after rolling the body under some brush. He moved right to the edge of the encampment, very close to where an outlaw lay on his dirty blankets, his head on a knapsack probably filled with his possibles.

Smoke edged closer and looked with disgust at what was tied to the man’s saddle. A human scalp. Blonde hair. Long blonde hair. He knew where that came from, too. One of the little girls he’d buried.

Smoke cut the man’s throat with a movement as furtive as a ghost and as fast and as deadly as a viper. He eased the man’s head down until his chin was resting on his chest. With the bloody knife in his hand, Smoke backed away, again shifting positions, working his way around to the other side of the camp. He paused along the way to wipe his blade clean on some grass.

“Hey, Frank!” one outlaw yelled. “Did you get lost out in them woods?”

Frank lay as silent as the woods.

“Frank?” the call was repeated several times by half a dozen of the thugs.

The outlaws looked at one another, suspicion and a touch of fear entering their eyes.

“Dolp ain’t moved none,” one outlaw observed, looking at the man with his head on his chest.

“All that hollerin’ would have been shore to wake him up,” another remarked.

“Well, he ain’t moved. Somebody go over yonder and kick him a time or two.”

A man walked over to Dolp and nudged him with the toe of his boot. Dolp’s head lolled to one side and he fell over, the movement exposing the horrible wound on his neck.

Smoke eared back the hammer on his Winchester.

The outlaw screamed, “His throat’s been cut.”

Smoke shot him, the .44 slug severing his spine. The man slumped to the ground in a boneless heap.

The camp erupted in a mass of yelling, running men, all grabbing for their weapons and firing in every conceivable direction, hitting nothing but air.

Smoke shot one in the belly, doubling him over, and dotted another’s left eye with lead. He decided it was time to haul out of there; he’d pushed his luck and skill far enough.

He left behind him a camp filled with frightened and confused outlaws. They were still shooting at shadows and hitting no more than that. However, Smoke thought, if he was lucky, two or three of them might shoot one of their own.

“They had a bad home environment,” he muttered, as he silently made his way back toward his horses. “I’m going to have to remember to tell Sally about this new excuse for becoming a criminal. She probably could use a good laugh.”

An hour later he rolled up in his blankets and was asleep in two minutes. He did not worry about the outlaws finding his camp. They were probably still trying to figure out what had hit them on what they considered to be home ground. And had they been more careful, it would have been safe ground. It was rugged country; no country for a tenderfoot. And a man could easily live off the land—there were bear, deer, elk, and plenty of streams in which to fish. But an outlaw wasn’t going to do anything like that; they were too damn lazy and sorry. If they couldn’t steal it, they didn’t want it.

Smoke woke up to the sounds of a jaybird fussing at him, telling him it was a pretty day and to stop all that lollygagging around in the bed. As was his custom, Smoke did not move for a moment, letting his eyes sweep the terrain around him for trouble. He spotted nothing to indicate trouble. Birds were singing, and the squirrels were jumping and dancing from limb to limb. He rolled out of his blankets and pulled on his boots, put his hat on his head, and slung his guns around his waist.

He chanced a very small fire to boil his coffee. When the coffee was ready, he put out the fire and contented himself with a cold breakfast of bread and some berries he’d picked from nearby bushes.

By now, he figured, riders would have gone out from the camps he’d attacked, and Lee Slater, if he was not a stupid man, and Smoke didn’t think he was—just a no-good, sorry excuse for a human being—would be pulling in his people, massing them for some planning. That was fine. Smoke figured he’d done enough head-hunting in this area. Today he would begin his ride over to the Seven Slash range and see what mischief he could get into there.

He pondered his future as he sipped his coffee. It would be at least another day or two before his friend, the federal judge up in Denver, received his letter. Another day or two before whatever action he took—if any, and that was something Smoke had to consider—went into effect.

But a much more dangerous aspect of his situation had to be taken into consideration: bounty hunters. As soon as word hit the country that a reward was out for Smoke Jensen and judge Richards probably made it dead or alive—the country would be swarming with bounty hunters and those looking for a reputation as the man who killed Smoke Jensen.

Well, he thought, I’ve done this before, so it’s nothing new to me. I’ll just have to ride with my guns loose and my eyes missing nothing.

He broke camp, saddled up, and headed for Seven Slash range.

“Had to be Jensen,” Lee Slater spoke to some of his men. “Nobody else would be that stupid . . .”

It never occurred to Lee that stupid had nothing to do with it. “Skilled” was the word he should have used in describing Smoke’s attack on his camps.

“. . . He’s got to be tooken out. And tooken out damn quick. He could screw up the whole plan.”

“What plan?” a gunny who called himself Tap demanded. “All we been doin’ for clays is sittin’ around on our butts. If somethin’ don’t happen pretty damn quick, I’m pullin’ out for greener pastures.”

Zack nodded his head in agreement. “I’m with Tap. We got money in our pockets and no place to spend it. They’s thousands of dollars worth of gold and silver in this area, and we ain’t doin’ a damn thing about takin’ it. I’m tarred of sittin’ around. Let’s get into action, Lee.”

Lee knew he could not hold his men back much longer. Not and keep his gang together And he knew he had to do that because there was strength in numbers. Luttie was moving too slow to suit Lee. He couldn’t understand why his brother was dragging his boots. He needed to see Luttie, but it was risky leaving the mountains just for a visit.

“Couple more days, Zack,” the outlaw leader said.

“I promise you . . .”

The men all looked up at the sound of a rider coming into camp. “I got news!” the rider yelled.

He swung down and poured himself a cup of coffee, then walked over to Lee, waving the other men close in.

“Well?” Lee demanded. “What news?”

“Lemme drink some coffee, man!" the outlaw said. “Catch my breath. I been ridin’ all night to get here.” He drained his cup and tossed the dredges. “A federal judge back East done put out warrants on Smoke Jensen. Murder warrants from that shootin’ over to Idaho some years back. Three warrants. The reward money totals over thirty thousand dollars to the man who brings him in—dead or alive.”

“Well. now,” Lee said, sitting down on a log. ‘Ain't that something? What’s Jensen doin’ about this sicheation?"