Trail Of The Mountain Man//Revenge Of The Mountain Man

“Stop your goddamned babblings, you fool. Give me your money!”

Smoke dug in his trousers and handed the man his slim roll of greenbacks.

Rex counted the money. “Sixty dollars. I charge ten dollars a day to stay here, Jester, unless you work for me, which you don’t. What are you going to do at the end of six days, Jester?”

A woman began screaming from one of the rooms upstairs. Then the sounds of a whip striking flesh overrode the screaming. A man’s ugly laughter followed the sounds of the lashing.

“A slave being punished, Jester,” Rex told him. “We have many slaves in this town. Some live a long, long time. Others last only a few weeks. How long do you think you would last, Jester?”

“I don’t know, Your Majesty.”

“An honest answer. Now answer my original question, Jester.”

“Well, I suppose after my six days are up, I’ll just leave, sir.” After I kill you, Davidson.

From the depths of the crowd, a man laughed, and it was not a very nice laugh. Smoke looked around him; all the hardcases were grinning at him.

“So you think you’ll leave, hey, Jester?” Davidson smiled at him.

“Yes, sir. I hope to do that.”

“Well, we’ll see. If you behave yourself, I’ll let you leave.”

Sure you will, Smoke thought. Right. And Drifter is going to suddenly start reciting poetry at any moment.

Davidson shook the greenbacks at Smoke. “This money only allows you to stay in this protected town. You pay for your own food and lodgings. You may leave now, Jester.”

Smoke stood up.

“Welcome to Dead River, Mr. DeBeers,” Rex said with a smile.

Smoke began walking toward the batwings, half expecting to get a bullet in his back. But it was a pleasant surprise when none came. He pushed open the batwings and stepped out onto the boardwalk. He mounted up, packhorse rope in his hand, and swung Drifter’s bonneted head toward the far end of town, away from the sights and sounds and smells of the dead and slowly dying men and women at the other end of the town. He got the impression that hell must be very much like what he had witnessed coming in.

One thing for sure, he knew he would never forget that sight as long as he lived. He didn’t have to sketch it to remember it; it was burned into his brain.

He wondered what had finally happened to that slave woman he had heard being beaten back at the Bloody Bucket. He thought he knew.

How in the name of God could a place like this have existed for so long, without somebody escaping and telling the horrors that were going on?

He had no answers for that question either.

But he knew that this place must be destroyed. And he also knew that when Marshal Jim Wilde and Sheriff Larsen and the posse members saw this chamber of horrors, there would never be any due process of law. No courts with judge and jury would decide the fate of the outlaws of Dead River. It would be decided on the seventh night, with gunsmoke and lead.

If the posse could help it, no outlaw would leave this valley alive.

Smoke pushed those thoughts out of his mind and concentrated on his own predicament: He did not have a cent to his name and had very few supplies left. Maybe enough to last a couple of days, if he was careful.

Smoke Jensen, the most famous and feared gunfighter in all the West, didn’t know what in the hell he was going to do.

10

“So that’s it.” Sally’s father’s voice was filled with ill-disguised disgust. “What a wretched excuse for a human being.”

Abigal’s face mirrored her shock and horror.

Sally sat with her mother and father in the book-lined study of the mansion. Her father’s room, which few of them had dared enter when they were children. But Sally had never been afraid of doing so. She used to love to sit in her father’s chair and look at all the books about law and justice.

The three of them were alone; her brothers and sisters had left for the evening. And the town was fairly buzzing about the news of the famous gunfighter who was soon to be arriving.

“Why didn’t you tell us when it happened, dear?” her mother asked.

“Because he told me he would kill you both. Then, after he left town, after killing that man, I just did my best to put the incident out of my mind, as much as possible. As the years went by, the memory became dimmer and dimmer. But there is no doubt in my mind that Dagget is the same man who tried to molest me years ago.”

John rose from his chair to pace the room, his anger very evident. Wife and daughter watched him until he composed himself and returned to his leather chair. “The first thing in the morning, I shall inform the authorities as to this scoundrel’s whereabouts. Then we shall begin extradition proceedings to have him returned to New Hampshire to stand trial.”

Sally could not contain the smile that curved her lips. “Father, by the time you do all that legal mumbojumbo, the matter will most probably be taken care of—if it isn’t already tended to. However, Smoke did suggest he cut off Dagget’s head and bring it back here in a sack.”

Abigal turned a bit green around the mouth and began fanning herself. “For heaven’s sake!” she finally blurted. “He was joking, of course?”

“Oh, no, Mother. He wasn’t joking a bit.”

“Just exactly what is your husband doing while you are visiting here, Sally?” John asked.

Sally then explained to her parents what her husband was doing.

“Are you telling us, expecting us to believe,” John said, astonishment in his voice, “that your husband…ah…Smoke, one man, is going to…ah…attack and destroy an entire town of thugs and hooligans and ne’er-do-wells—all by himself? Now, really, Sally!”

“Oh, he’s found some help. And I think you will approve of his methods, Father, or what you think his methods will be—in your New England straight-by-the book mind.”

“You disapprove of law and order, Sally?”

“Of course not, Father. Your way works here; our way works for us in the West. This will not be the first time Smoke has taken on an entire town.” Then she told them about the shoot-out at the silver camp and what had happened in Bury, Idaho.

Her parents sat in silence and stared at her.

“And you can believe what I say, the both of you. I was in Bury. I saw it all. When Smoke gets his back up, you better get out of the way. ’Cause he’s going to haul it out, cock it back, and let her bang.”

“The finest schools in the country and Europe,” John muttered. “And she hauls it out and lets her bang. Incredible.”

Sally laughed openly at the expression on her father’s face. “It’s just a western expression, father.”

“It’s just that it is terribly difficult for us, here in the long-settled East, to fully understand the ways of the West, Sally,” Abigal said. “But we don’t doubt for a moment what you’ve told us. Sally, when Smoke comes out here for a visit, will he be armed?”

“If he’s got his pants on.”

John looked heavenward, shook his head, and sighed. “Yet another delightful colloquialism.”

Sally reached into a pocket of her dress—she was getting too large to wear jeans, but she would have loved to do so, just to see the expression on her parents’ faces—and took out a piece of paper. “This wire came this morning, while you both were out. It’s from Smoke.”

“Shall I contact the governor and have him call out the militia?” John asked his daughter, only half-joking. He wanted to meet his son-in-law, certainly; but he had absolutely no idea what to expect. And just the thought of an armed western gunfighter riding into the town made him slightly nauseous.

Sally laughed at him. “You’re both thinking my husband to be some sort of savage. Well,” she shrugged her shoulders, “when he has to be, he is, to your way of thinking. Yet, he is a fine artist, well-read, and highly intelligent. He knows the social graces; certainly knows what fork and spoon to use. But we don’t go in for much of that where we live. In the West, eating is serious business, and not much chitchat goes on at the table. But I really think you’ll like Smoke if you’ll give him just half a chance.”

Abigal reached over and patted Sally’s hand. “I know we will, dear. And of course he’ll be welcomed here. Now please tell us what is in the wire. I’m fairly bursting with excitement.” She looked at her husband. “This is the most exhilarating thing that’s happened in Keene in twenty years, John!”

“Not yet, dear,” John said. “Smoke hasn’t yet arrived in town, remember.”

Sally laughed so hard she had to wipe her eyes with a handkerchief. She read from the wire. “Smoke has been appointed a deputy U.S. Marshal. This is from the marshal’s office in Denver. He has entered the outlaw town in disguise. They’ll wire me when the operation has been concluded.”

“Well!” John said, obviously pleased. “I’m happy to hear that your husband has chosen the legal way, Sally. He’ll properly arrest the criminals and bring them to trial the way it’s supposed to be, according to the laws of this land.”

Sally smiled. “Father, do you believe pigs can fly like birds?”

“What! Of course not.”

“Father, the only law Smoke is going to hand out to those outlaws will be coming out of the muzzles of his .44s. And you can believe that.”

“But he’s an officer of the law!” the man protested. “More than that, he is operating under a federal badge. He must see to due process. That is his sworn duty!”

Sally’s smile was grim. “Oh, he’ll see that the outlaws get their due, Father. Trust me.”

Smoke made his camp at the very edge of town, pitching his tent and unrolling his blankets. He gathered and stacked wood for a fire. Saving his meager supplies, he cut a pole and rigged it for fishing, walking to a little stream not far away. There he caught his supper, all the while letting his eyes stay busy, checking out the terrain. The stream had to come from somewhere; it didn’t just come out of the ground here. For it was full of trout.

He had deliberately made his camp far enough away so he could not hear the terrible cries and the begging of those men and women at the far end of town, being tortured to death. He wished desperately to help, but he knew for the moment, he was powerless to do so.

Huge peaks rose stately and protectively all around the little valley that housed Dead River. Smoke wondered where and how it had gotten its name. At first glance, he could understand why a lot of people would believe the myth of one way in and one way out. But Smoke knew that was crap, and he felt that most of the outlaws knew it as well. But those who would try to seek escape, when the attack came, would be in for a very ugly surprise when they tried those secret trails. White Wolf and his braves would be in hiding, waiting for them.

As Smoke had ridden to his camp, he had seen the compound where some prisoners were being held; but mostly the town itself was a prison, and he had noticed many slaves had free access to the town.

They obviously had been convinced, probably very brutally, that there was no way out except for the road, so why lock them up? But they were probably locked up at night. The compound, then, must be for any newcomers to the town. Or perhaps those were people being punished for some infraction of the rules.

Or waiting to die.

He wondered if the marshal’s plant, Hope Farris, was in the compound.

Or had she been discovered and killed?

He cleaned his fish and cooked his supper, all the while watching the comings and goings of the outlaws. So far, few had paid any attention to him.

Smoke judged the number of outlaws in the town at right around two hundred, and that was not counting the shopkeepers and clerks and whores. Rex Davidson had himself a profitable operation going here, Smoke concluded, and he was sure King Rex got his slice of the pie from every store in town and from every whore who worked.

Not that there were that many stores; Smoke had counted six. But they were all huge stores. By far, the biggest place in town was the livery stable and barns, a half dozen of them, all connected by walkways. And during bad weather, many men, Smoke guessed, would live and sleep in those barns. He knew that this high up the winters would be brutal ones.

And so far, Smoke had not seen the man called Dagget. He felt sure he would recognize him from Sally’s description. Already he had seen a dozen or more hardcases he had brushed trails with years back; but his disguise had worked. They had paid him no mind, other than a quick glance and equally quick dismissal as being nothing more than a fop and totally harmless.

He wondered if Lone Eagle had hidden his guns behind the privy yet, then decided he had not. Not enough time had gone by since Smoke had met with the brave at the head of the creek.

Smoke heard a harsh shriek of pain from a shack across the wide road. Then a man’s voice begging somebody not to do something again. Wild cursing followed by more shrieks of pain.

The door to the cabin was flung open and Smoke watched as a naked man ran out into the road. He was screaming. Then the obscene bulk of Brute Pitman appeared in the door of the shack. He was shirtless, his galluses hanging down to his knees. Brute held a long-barreled pistol in his hand.

The face of the running man was a mask of terror and pain. His body bore the bruises and markings of the many beatings he had endured until he could no longer take any more of it. And because he was naked, Smoke knew that beatings were not the only thing the man had been forced to endure.

But the man’s agony was about to end, Smoke noted, watching as Brute lifted the pistol and jacked the hammer back, shooting the man in the back. The naked man stumbled, screamed, and fell forward, sliding on his face in the dirt and the gravel. The bullet had gone clear through the man, tearing a hole in his chest as it exited. The man kicked once, and then was still.

“How shocking!” Smoke said.

Brute turned, looking at him. “You, come here!” he commanded.

“Not on your life, you obscene tub of lard!”

A dozen outlaws had stopped what they were doing and they were motioning for others to come join them; come listen and watch. For sure, they thought, the fop was about to get mauled.

Brute stepped away from his shack. “What’d you call me, sissy-boy?”

Smoke could see Rex Davidson and another man, dressed all in black from his boots to his hat, walking up the dirt street to join the crowd.

Dagget.

And he wore his guns as Smoke preferred to wear his: the left hand Colt high and butt-forward, using a cross draw.

It was going to be a very interesting match when it came, Smoke thought. For no man wore his guns like that and lived very long, unless he was very, very quick.

Smoke turned his attention back to Brute. The man had moved closer to him. And, Jesus God, was he big and ugly! He was so ugly he could make a buzzard puke.

“Is aid you were a fat tub of lard, blubber-butt!” Smoke shouted, his voice high-pitched.

“I’ll tear your damn head off!” Brute shouted, and began lumbering toward Smoke.

“Only if you can catch me!” Smoke shouted. “Can’t catch me, can’t catch me!”

He began running around in circles, taunting the huge man.

The outlaws thought it funny, for few among them liked Brute and all could just barely tolerate his aberrant appetites. He lived in Dead River because there he could do as he pleased with slaves, and because he could afford the high rent, paying yearly in gold. He left the place only once a year, for one month to the day. Those who tried to follow him, to find and steal his cache of stolen gold, were never seen again.

Smoke knew that he could never hope to best Brute in any type of rough and tumble fight—not if he stayed within the limits of his foppish charade—for Brute was over three hundred pounds and about six and a half feet tall. But he was out of shape, with a huge pus-gut, and if Smoke could keep the ugly bastard running around after him for several minutes, then he might stand a chance of besting him and staying known as a sissy.

It was either that or getting killed by the huge man, and the odds of Smoke getting killed were strong enough without adding to it.

Smoke stopped and danced around, his fists held in the classic fighter’s stance. He knew he looked like a fool in his fancy-colored britches and silk shirt and stupid cap with a feather stuck in it.

“I warn you!” Smoke yelled, his voice shrill. “I am an expert pugilist!”

“I’m gonna pugile you!” Brute panted, trying to grab Smoke.

“First you have to catch me!” Smoke taunted. “Can’t catch me!”

The outlaws were all laughing and making bets as to how long Smoke would last when Brute got his hands on him, and some were making suggestions as to how much they would pay to see Brute do his other trick, with Smoke on the receiving end of it.

“No way, hombre!” Smoke muttered, darting around Brute. But this time he got a little too close, and Brute got a piece of Smoke’s silk shirt and spun him around.

Jerking him closer, Brute grinned, exposing yellowed and rotted teeth. “Got ya!”

Smoke could smell the stink of Brute’s unwashed body and the fetid animal smell of his breath.

Before Brute could better his hold on Smoke, Smoke balled his right hand into a hard fist and, with a wild yell, gave Brute five, right on his big bulbous nose.

Brute hollered and the blood dripped. Smoke tore free and once more began running around and around the man, teasing and taunting him. The crowd roared their approval, but the laughter ceased as Smoke lost his footing, slipping to the ground, and Brute was on him, his massive hands closing around Smoke’s throat, clamping off his supply of air.

“I’ll not kill you this way,” Brute panted, slobber from his lips dripping onto Smoke’s face. “I have other plans for you, pretty-boy.”

Smoke twisted his head and bit Brute on the arm, bringing blood. With a roaring curse, Brute’s hand left his throat and Smoke twisted from beneath him, rolling and coming to his feet. He looked wildly around him, spotting a broken two-by-four and grabbing it. The wood was old and somewhat rotten, but it would still make a dandy club.

Brute was shouting curses and advancing toward him.

Smoke tried the club, right on the side of Brute’s head. The club shattered and the blood flew, but still the big man would not go down.

He shook his head and grinned at Smoke.

“All right, you nasty ne’er-do-well,” Smoke trilled at him. “I hate violence, but you asked for this.”

Then he hit Brute with everything he had, starting the punch chest-high and connecting with Brute’s jaw. This time when Brute hit the ground, he stayed there.

Smoke began shaking his right hand and moaning as if in pain, which he was not.

He heard Davidson say, “Doc, look at DeBeers’s hand. See if it’s broken. Sheriff Danvers? If DeBeers’s hand is broken and he can’t draw, shoot Brute.”

“Yes, sir,” the so-called sheriff said.

An old whiskey-breathed and unshaven man checked Smoke’s hand and pronounced it unbroken.

Smoke turned to Rex Davidson. “I am sorry about this incident, sir. I came in peace. I will leave others alone if they do the same for me.”

Davidson looked first at the unconscious Brute, then at Smoke. “You start drawing me first thing in the morning. Sheriff Danvers?”

“Yes, sir?”

“When Brute comes out of it, advise him I said to leave Mr. DeBeers alone. Tell him he may practice his sickening perversions on the slaves, but not on paying guests.”

“Yes, sir.”

He once more looked at Smoke. “Breakfast at my house. Eight o’clock in the morning. Be there.”

“Yes, sir,” Smoke replied, and did not add the “Majesty” bit.

“Does this place offend your delicate sensibilities, Mr. DeBeers?” Davidson asked.

“Since you inquired, yes, it does.”

It was after breakfast, and Davidson was posing for the first of many drawings.

“Why, Mr. DeBeers?” For some reason, Davidson had dropped the “Jester” bit.

“Because of the barbarous way those unfortunate people at the edge of town are treated. That’s the main reason.”

“I see. Interesting. But in England, Mr. DeBeers, drawing and quartering people in public was only stopped a few years ago. And is not England supposed to be the bastion of civilized law and order…more or less?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“Well, this is still a young country, so it’s going to take us a while to catch up.”

What an idiotic rationalization, Smoke thought. Louis Longmont would be appalled. “Yes, sir, I suppose you’re right.”

“Don’t pander to me, Mr. DeBeers. You most certainly do not think I am right.”

“But when I do speak my mind, I get slapped or struck down.”

“Only in public, Mr. DeBeers. When we are alone, you may speak your mind.”

“Thank you, sir. In that case, I find this entire community the most appalling nest of human filth I have ever had the misfortune to encounter!”

Davidson threw back his head and laughed. “Of course, you do! But after a time, one becomes accustomed to it. You’ll see.”

“I don’t plan on staying that long, sir.” Smoke looked at King Rex, checking for any signs of annoyance. He could see none.

Instead, the man only smiled. “Why would you want to leave here?”

Smoke stopped sketching for a moment, to see if the man was really serious. He was. “To continue on with my journey, sir. To visit and sketch the West.”

“Ah! But you have some of the most beautiful scenery in the world right around you. Plus many of the most famous outlaws and gunfighters in the West. You could spend a lifetime here and not sketch it all, could you not?”

“That is true, but two of the people I want to meet and sketch are not here.”

“Oh? And who might those be?”

“The mountain man, Preacher, and the gunfighter, Smoke Jensen.”

The only sign of emotion from the man was a nervous tic under his right eye. “Then you should wait here, Mr. DeBeers, for I believe Jensen is on his way.”

“Oh, really, sir! Then I certainly shall wait. Oh, I’m so excited.”

“Control yourself, Shirley.”

“Oh, yes, sir. Sorry. Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Getting back to this place…The west, from what I have been able to see, is changing almost daily. Settling. Surely this town is known for what it really is?”

Davidson met his eyes. “So?”

“Do you think this will go on forever and ever? As the town becomes known outside of this immediate area, the citizens will eventually grow weary of it and demand that the Army storm the place.”

“Ummm. Yes, you’re probably right. And I have given that much thought of late. But, young man,”—he smiled and held up a finger, breaking his pose—“this town has been here for twenty years and still going. How do you account for that?”

“Well, when you first came here, I suppose there were no others towns nearby. Now all that has changed. Civilization is all around you and closing in. That, sir, is why I wanted to come west now, before the wild West is finally tamed.”

“Ummm. Well, you are a thinking man, Mr. DeBeers, and I like that. There is so little intellectual stimulation to be found around here.” He abruptly stood up. “I am weary of posing.” He walked around to look at the sketch. “Good. Very good. Excellent, as a matter of fact. I thought it would be. I have arranged for you to take your meals at the Bon Ton Café. I will want at least a hundred of your sketches of me. Some with an outside setting. When that is done, to my satisfaction, then you may leave. Good day, Mr. DeBeers.”

Gathering up his pencils and sketch pads, Smoke left the house, which was situated on a flat that sat slightly above the town, allowing Rex a commanding view. As he walked back to his tent, Smoke pondered his situation. Surely, Rex Davidson was insane; but if he was, would that not make all the others in this place mad as well?

And Smoke did not believe that for a moment.

More than likely, Davidson and Dagget and all the others who voluntarily resided in Dead River were not insane. Perhaps they were just the personification of evil, and the place was a human snake pit.

He chose that explanation. Already, people who had committed the most terrible of crimes were saying they were not responsible for their actions because they had been crazy, at the time, before the time, whatever. And courts, mostly back east in the big cities, were accepting that more and more, allowing guilty people to be set free without punishment. Smoke did not doubt for one minute that there were people who were truly insane and could not help their actions.

But he also felt that those types were in the minority of cases; the rest were shamming. If a person were truly crazy, Smoke did not believe that malady could be turned off and on like a valve. If a person were truly insane, they would perform irrational acts on a steady basis, not just whenever the mood struck them.

He knew for an ironclad fact that many criminals were of a high intelligence, and that many were convincing actors and actresses. Certainly smart enough to fool this new thing he’d heard about called psychiatry. Smoke Jensen was a straight-ahead, right-was-right and wrong-was-wrong man, with damn little gray in between. You didn’t lie, you didn’t cheat, you didn’t steal, and you treated your neighbor like you would want to be treated.

And if you didn’t subscribe to that philosophy, you best get clear of men like Smoke Jensen.

As for the scum and filth and perverts in this town of Dead River, Smoke felt he had the cure for what ailed them.

The pills were made of lead.

And the doctor’s name was Smoke Jensen.

11

For one hour each day, Smoke sketched Rex Davidson; the rest of the time was his to spend as he pleased. He took his meals at the Bon Ton—the man who owned the place was wanted for murder back in Illinois, having killed several people by poisoning them—and spent the rest of his time wandering the town, sketching this and that and picking up quite a bit of money by drawing the outlaws who came and went. He made friends with none of them, having found no one whom he felt possessed any qualities that he wished to share. Although he felt sure there must be one or two in the town who could be saved from a life of crime with just a little bit of help.

Smoke put that out of his mind and, for the most part, kept it out. He wanted nothing on his conscience when the lead started flying.

He was not physically bothered by any outlaw. But the taunts and insults continued from many of the men and from a lot of the women who chose to live in the town. Smoke would smile and tip his cap at them, but if they could have read his thoughts, they would have grabbed the nearest horse and gotten the hell out of Dead River.

Brute saw Smoke several times a day but refused to speak to him. He would only grin nastily and make the most obscene gestures.

Smoke saw the three who had shoved him around in Trinidad—Jake, Shorty, and Red—but they paid him no mind.

What did worry Smoke was that the town seemed to be filling up with outlaws. Many more were coming in, and damn few were leaving.

They were not all famous gunfighters and famous outlaws, of course. As a matter of fact, many were no more than two-bit punks who had gotten caught in the act of whatever crimes they were committing and, in a dark moment of fear and fury, had killed when surprised. But that did not make them any less guilty in Smoke’s mind. And then as criminals are prone to do, they grabbed a horse or an empty boxcar and ran, eventually joining up with a gang.

It was the gang leaders and lone-wolf hired guns who worried Smoke the most. For here in Dead River were the worst of the lot of bad ones in a three state area.

LaHogue, called the Hog behind his back, and his gang of cutthroats lived in Dead River. Natick and his bunch were in town, as was the Studs Woodenhouse gang and Bill Wilson’s bunch of crap. And just that morning, Paul Rycroft and Slim Bothwell and their men had ridden in.

The place was filling up with hardcases.

And to make matters worse, Smoke knew a lot of the men who were coming in. He had never ridden any hoot-owl trails with any of them, but their paths had crossed now and then. The West was a large place but relatively small in population, so people who roamed were apt to meet, now and then.

Cat Ventura and the Hog had both given Smoke some curious glances and not just one look but several, and that made Smoke uneasy. He wanted desperately to check to see if his guns were behind the privy. But he knew it would only bring unnecessary attention to himself, and that was something he could do without. He had stayed alive so far by playing the part of a foolish fop and by maintaining a very high visibility. And with only a few days to go, he did not want to break that routine. He spent the rest of the day sketching various outlaws—picking up about a hundred dollars doing so—and checking out the town of Dead River. But there was not that much more to be learned about the place. Since he was loosely watched every waking moment, Smoke had had very little opportunity to do much exploring.

He was sitting before his small fire that evening, enjoying a final cup of coffee before rolling up in his blankets, for the nights were very cool this high up in the mountains, when he heard spurs jingling, coming toward him. He waited, curious, for up to this point he had been left strictly alone.

“Hello, the fire!” the voice came out of the campfire-lit gloom.

“If you’re friendly, come on in,” Smoke called. “I will share my coffee with you.”

“Nice of you.” A young man, fresh-faced with youth, perhaps twenty years old at the most and wearing a grin, walked up and squatted down, pouring a tin cup full of dark, strong cowboy coffee. He glanced over the hat-sized fire at Smoke, his eyes twinkling with good humor.

He’s out of place, Smoke accurately pegged the young cowboy. He’s not an outlaw. There was just something about the young man; something clean and vital and open. That little intangible that set the innocent apart from the lawless.

“My first time to this place,” the young man said. “It’s quite a sight to see, ain’t it?”

Smoke had noticed that the cowboy wore his six-gun low and tied down, and the gun seemed to be a living extension of the man.

He knows how to use it, Smoke thought. “It is all of that, young man, to be sure.”

“Name’s York.”

“Shirley DeBeers.”

York almost spilled his coffee down his shirtfront at that. He lifted his eyes. “You funnin’ me?”

Smoke smiled at his expression. “Actually, no. It’s a fine old family name. Is York your first or last name?” he inquired, knowing that it was not a question one asked in the West.

York looked at him closely. “You new out here, ain’t you?”

“Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I am. How did you know that Mr. York?”

The cowboy’s smile was quick. “Just a guess. And it’s just York.”

“Very well.” Smoke noticed that the young man’s eyes kept drifting to the pan of bacon and bread he had fixed for his supper. There were a few strips of bacon left, and about half a loaf of bread. “If you’re hungry, please help yourself. I have eaten my fill and I hate to throw away good food.”

“Thanks,” York said quickly and with a grin. “That’s right big of you. You don’t never have to worry ’bout tossin’ out no food when I’m around.” He fixed a huge sandwich and then used another piece of bread to sop up the grease in the pan.

Smoke guessed he had not eaten in several days.

When York had finished and not a crumb was left, he settled back and poured another cup of coffee. Smoke tossed him a sack of tobacco and papers.

York caught the sack and rolled and lit. “Thanks. That was good grub. Hit the spot, let me tell you. Anything I can do for you, you just let me know. Most”—he cut his eyes suspiciously—“most of the hombres around here wouldn’t give a man the time of day if they had a watch in every pocket. Sorry bastards.”

“I agree with you. But you be careful where you say things like that, York.”

York nodded his agreement. “Ain’t that the truth. Say, you don’t neither talk like nor look like a man that’s on the dodge, DeBeers.”

“On the dodge?” Smoke kept up his act. “Oh! Yes, I see what you mean now. Oh, no. I can assure you, I am not wanted by the authorities.”

York studied him across the small fire, confusion on his young face. “Then…what in the hell are you doin’ in a place like this?”

“Working. Sketching the West and some of its most infamous people. Mr. Davidson was kind enough to give me sanctuary and the run of the place.”

“And you believed him?”

Smoke only smiled.

“Yeah. You might look sorta silly—and I don’t mean no o-fence by that, it’s just that you dress different—but I got a hunch you ain’t dumb.”

“Thank you.” Smoke was not going to fall into any verbal traps, not knowing if York was a plant to sound him out.

The cowboy sipped his coffee and smoked for a moment. “You really come in here without havin’ to, huh?”

“That is correct.”

“Weird. But,” he shrugged, “I reckon you have your reasons. Me, now, I didn’t have no choice at all in the matter.”

“We all have choices, young man. But sometimes they are disguised and hard to make.”

“Whatever that means. Anyways, I’m on the hard dodge, I am.”

He tried to sound proud about that statement, but to Smoke, it came across flat and with a definite note of sadness.

“I’m very sorry to hear that, York. Is it too personal to talk about?”

“Naw. I killed a man in Utah.”

Smoke studied him. “You don’t sound like a man who would cold-bloodedly kill another man.”

“Huh? Oh, no. It wasn’t nothin’ like that. It was a stand-up-and-face-him-down fight. But the law didn’t see it thataway. I guess near’bouts all these people in this lousy town would claim they was framed, but I really was.” He poured another cup of coffee and settled back against a stump, apparently anxious to talk and have somebody hear him out. “You see, I bought a horse from this feller. It was a good horse for fifty dollars. Too good, as it turned out. I had me a bill of sale and all that. Then these folks come ridin’ up to me about a week later and claimed I stole the horse. They had ’em a rope all ready to stretch my neck. I showed ’em my bill of sale and that backed ’em down some. But they was still gonna take the horse and leave me afoot in the Uintahs. Well, I told ’em that they wasn’t gonna do no such a thing. I told ’em that if the horse was rightfully theirs, well, I was wrong and they was right. But let me get to a town ’fore they took the horse; don’t leave me in the big middle of nowheres on foot.”

He sighed and took a swallow of coffee. “They allowed as to how I could just by God walk out of there. I told them they’d better drag iron if that’s what they had in mind, ’cause I damn sure wasn’t gonna hoof it outta there.

“Well, they dragged iron, but I was quicker. I kilt one and put lead in the other. The third one, he turned yeller and run off.

“I got the hell outta there and drifted. Then I learned that I had a murder charge hangin’ over my head. That third man who run off? He told a pack of lies about what really happened.

“Well, bounty hunters come up on me about two or three months later. I buried one of them and toted the other one into a little town to the doc’s office. The marshal, he come up all blustered-up and I told him what happened and added that if he didn’t like my version of it, he could just clear leather and we’d settle it that way.”

He grinned boyishly. “The marshal didn’t like it, and I’ll admit I had my back up some. But he liked livin’ moreun gunfightin’. So I drifted on and things just kept gettin’ worser and worser. I couldn’t get no job ’cause of them posters out on me. I heard about this place and sort of drifted in. I ain’t no outlaw, but I don’t know what else to do with all them charges hangin’ over my head.”

Smoke thought on it. He believed the young man; believed him to be leveling as to the facts of it all. “Might I make a suggestion?”

“You shore could. I’d rather live in hell with rattlesnakes than in heaven with this bunch around here.”

Smoke couldn’t help it. He laughed at the young man’s expression. “York, why don’t you just change your name and drift. And by the way, do you still have the horse in question?”

“Naw. I turned him loose and caught me up a wild horse and broke him. He’s a good horse.”

“Well then, York, drift. Change your name and drift. Chances are that you’ll never be caught.”

“I thought of that. But damn it, DeBeers, I ain’t done nothin’ wrong. At least, not yet. And York is my family name. By God, I’m gonna stick with it. I’m doin’ some thinkin’ ’bout linkin’ up with Slim Bothwell’s bunch. They asked me to. I guess I ain’t got no choice. I don’t wanna hurt nobody or steal nothin’ from nobody. But, hell, I gotta eat!”

“York, you are not cut out for the outlaw life,” Smoke told him.

“Don’t I know it! Look, DeBeers, I listened to some of the men talk ’bout all they’ve done, in here and out there.” He jerked his thumb. “Damn near made me puke.” He sighed heavily. “I just don’t know what to do.”

Could this entire thing be a setup? Smoke wondered, and concluded that it certainly could be. But something about the young cowboy was awfully convincing. He decided to take a chance, but to do it without York knowing of it.

“Perhaps something will come up to change your mind, York.”

The cowboy looked up across the fire, trust in his eyes. “What?”

“I really have no idea. But hope springs eternal, York. You must always keep that in mind. Where are you staying while you’re here?”

“I ain’t got no place. Give that Dagget feller my last fifty dollars. He told me that give me five days in here.” He shook his head. “After that…I don’t know.”

“You’re welcome to stay here. I don’t have much, but you’re welcome to share with me.”

“That’s mighty white of you, DeBeers. And I’ll take you up on that.” He grinned at Smoke. “There is them that say you’re goofy. But I don’t think so. I think you’re just a pretty nice guy in a bad spot.”

“Thank you, York. And have you ever thought that might fit you as well?”

The grin faded. “Yeah, I reckon it might. I ain’t never done a dishonest thing in my life. Only difference is, you ain’t got no warrants hangin’ over your head. You can ride out of this hellhole anytime you take a notion. Me? I’m stuck, lookin’ at the wrong side of society!”

The next morning Smoke left the still-sleeping York a full pot of coffee, then took his sketch pad and went walking, as was his custom every morning. As the saloon came into view, Smoke noticed a large crowd gathered out front, in the street. And it was far too early for that many drinkers to have gathered.

“Let’s have some fun!” Smoke could hear the excited shout.

“Yeah. Let’s skin the son of a bitch!”

“Naw. Let’s give him to Brute.”

“Brute don’t want no dirty Injun.”

“Not unless it’s a young boy,” someone shouted with hard laugh.

“Hold it down!” a man hollered. “Mr. Davidson’s got a plan, and it’s a good one.”

Smoke stepped up to a man standing in the center of the street. “What on earth has happened here?”

The outlaw glanced at him. “The guards caught them an Injun about dawn. He was tryin’ to slip out over the mountains. No one knows what he was doin’ in town.” The man shut up, appraising Smoke through cool eyes, aware that he might have said too much.

“He must have slipped in on the road,” Smoke said quickly, noting the coolness in the man’s eyes fading. “It would be impossible to come in through those terribly high mountains around the town.”

The outlaw smiled. “Yeah. That’s what he done, all right. And there ain’t no tellin’ how long he’s been tryin’ to get out, right?”

“Oh, absolutely. I think the savage should be hanged immediately.” Smoke forced indignation into his voice.

The outlaw grinned. His teeth were blackened, rotted stubs. “You all right, Shirley. You’re beginnin’ to fit right in here. Yeah, the Injun’s gonna die. But it’s gonna be slow.”

“Why?” Smoke asked innocently.

“Why, hell’s fire, Shirley! So’s we can all have some fun, that’s why.”

“Oh. Of course.”

A man ran past Smoke and the outlaw, running in that odd bowlegged manner of one who has spent all his life on a horse.

“What’s happenin’, Jeff?” the outlaw asked.

“Mr. Davidson tole me to get the kid, York. Says we gotta test him. You know why?”

“Yeah.”

Neither man would elaborate.

Smoke felt he knew what the test was going to involve, and he also felt that York would not pass it. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Smoke wandered on down to the large crowd gathered in front of the saloon and tried to blend in.

The crowd of hardcases and thugs and guns-for-hire ignored him, but Smoke was very conscious of Rex Davidson’s eyes on him. He met the man’s steady gaze and smiled at him.

Davidson waved the crowd silent. “I have decided on a better plan,” he said as the crowd fell quiet. “Forget York; we know he’s a wanted man. There are some of you who claim that our artist friend is not what he professes to be. Well, let’s settle that issue right now. Bring that damned Indian out here.”

Smoke felt sure it would be Lone Eagle, and it was. He was dragged out of the saloon and onto the boardwalk. He had been badly beaten, his nose and mouth dripping blood. But his face remained impassive and he deliberately did not look at Smoke.

“Drag that damned savage to the shooting post,” Davidson ordered. He looked at Smoke and smiled, an evil curving of the lips. “And you, Mr. Artist, you come along, too.”

“Do I have to? I hate violence. It makes me ill. I’d be upset for days.”

“Yes, damn it, you have to. Now get moving.”

Smoke allowed himself to be pushed and shoved along, not putting up any resistance. He wondered if any Indians were watching from the cliffs that surrounded the outlaw town and concluded they probably were.

And he also had a pretty good hunch what the test was going to entail.

The crowd stopped in a large clearing. In the center of the clearing, a bullet-scarred and blood-stained post was set into the ground.

Lone Eagle turned to face the crowd, and when he spoke, his voice was strong. “I do not need to be tied like a coward. I face death with a strong heart, and I shall die well. I will show the white man how to die with honor. Which is something that few of you know anything about.”

The crowd of hardcases booed him.

Lone Eagle spat at them in contempt.

He had not as yet looked at Smoke.

Smoke was shoved to the front of the crowd and a pistol placed into his hand.

“What am I supposed to do with this weapon, Mr. Davidson?”

“Kill the Indian,” Rex told him.

“Oh, I say now!” Smoke protested shrilly. “I haven’t fired a gun in years. I detest guns. I’m afraid of them. I won’t be able to hit the savage.”

Lone Eagle laughed at Smoke, looking at him. “The white man is a woman!” Lone Eagle shouted. And Smoke knew he was deliberately goading him. Lone Eagle knew he was going to die and preferred his death to be quick rather than slow torture, torture for the amusement of the white men gathered around. He might have chosen the slow way had he been captured by another tribe, for to die slowly and with much pain was an honor—if at the hands of other Indians. But not at the hands of the white men. “The silly-looking white man is a coward.”

“You gonna take that from a damned Injun, Shirley?” a man shouted.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Hell, sissy-boy. Kill the bastard!”

Smoke lifted the pistol and pretended to have trouble cocking it. He deliberately let it fire, the slug almost hitting an outlaw in the foot. Smoke shrieked as if in fright and the outlaw cussed him.

The others thought it wildly funny.

“Watch it there, Black!” an outlaw yelled. “He lift that muzzle up some you liable to be ridin’ side-saddle!”

The man whose foot was just missed by the slug stepped back into the crowd and gave Smoke some dirty looks.

“Shoot the goddamn Indian, DeBeers!” Davidson ordered.

Smoke lifted the pistol and cocked it, taking careful aim and pulling the trigger. The slug missed Lone Eagle by several yards, digging up dirt. The outlaws hooted and laughed and began making bets as to how many rounds it would take for Smoke to hit his target.

“Try again, Shirley,” Davidson told him, disgust in his voice.

“What a silly, silly man you are!” Lone Eagle shouted. “If you had two pistols and a rifle and shotgun beside you, you still would not be able to hit me. It is good they are out of your sight. You might hurt yourself, foolish man.”

Lone Eagle was telling Smoke that his weapons had been hidden as planned.

“Shoot the damned Injun, Shirley!” Dagget hollered in Smoke’s ear.

“All right! All right!” Smoke put a hurt expression on his face. “You don’t have to be so ugly about it!”

Smoke fired again. The slug missed Lone Eagle by a good two feet.

“Jesus Christ, DeBeers!” Dagget said, scorn thick in his voice.

“The pistol was fully loaded, Shirley,” Davidson told him. “You have four rounds left.”

Lone Eagle turned his back to Smoke and hiked up his loincloth, exposing his bare buttocks; the height of insult to a man.

Facing the crowd, Lone Eagle shouted, “There are little girls in my village who are better shots than the white man. Your shots are nothing more than farts in the wind.”

“If you don’t kill him,” Davidson warned, “you shall be the one to gouge out his eyes. And if you refuse, I’ll personally kill you. After I let Brute have his way with you.”

Smoke cocked the pistol.

Lone Eagle began chanting, and Smoke knew he was singing his death song.

He fired again. This time, the slug came much closer. Lone Eagle’s words changed slightly. Smoke listened while he fumbled with the gun. Lone Eagle was telling him to miss him again, and then he would charge and make the outlaws kill him; it was too much to ask a friend to do so. He told him that his death could not be avoided, that it was necessary for the plan to work. That for years it would be sung around the campfires about how well Lone Eagle had died, charging the many white men with only his bare hands for a weapon.

And it was a good way to die. The Gods had allowed a beautiful day, warm and pleasant.

Smoke cocked the pistol and lifted it, taking aim.

Lone Eagle sang of his own death, then abruptly he screamed and charged the line of outlaws and gunslingers. Using the scream as a ruse to miss him, Smoke emptied the pistol and fell to the ground just as Lone Eagle, with a final scream, jumped at the line and a dozen guns barked and roared, stopping him in midair, flinging him to the ground, bloody and dead.

Rex helped Smoke up. “You’ll never change, Shirley,” he said disgustedly. “Do us all a favor and don’t ever carry a gun. You’d be too dangerous. Hell, you might accidentally hit something!”

Smoke fanned himself. “I feel faint!”

“If you pass out, DeBeers,” Dagget told him, contempt in his eyes and his voice, “you’ll damn well lie where you fall.”

“I can probably make it back to the camp before I collapse,” Smoke trilled.

“Stand aside, boys!” an outlaw said with a laugh. “Shirley’s got the vapors!”

“Come on, boys! The drinks are on me.”

As they passed by him, several hardcases jokingly complimented Smoke on his fine shooting.

Smoke looked first at Davidson and Dagget, standing by his side, and then at the bullet-riddled and bloody body of Lone Eagle. “Isn’t anyone going to bury the savage?”

Dagget laughed, cutting his eyes to Davidson. “I think that’d be a fine job for Shirley, don’t you, Rex?”

“Yes.” That was said with a laugh. “I do. There is a shovel right over there, DeBeers.” He pointed. “Now get to it.”

It took Smoke more than a hour to dig out a hole in the rocky soil, even though he dug it shallow, knowing the chief would take the body from the ground and give it a proper Indian burial.

When he got back to his camp, York was laying on his blankets, looking at him, disgust in his eyes.

Smoke flopped down on his own blankets. “What a horrible experience.”

“They wasn’t no call to kill that Injun. He wasn’t even armed and probably was lookin’ for food. You was missin’ him deliberate, wasn’t you?”

Smoke made up his mind and took the chance. “Yes, York, I was.”

“I figured as much. Can’t nobody shoot that bad. ’Specially a man who was raised up on a farm the way you claim to be. You puttin’ on some sort of act, DeBeers. But you best be damn careful around here. This is a hellhole, and they ain’t nothin’ but scum livin’ here.”

“I know. Davidson at first said if I didn’t kill the Indian, he was going to give me to Brute Pitman and then have me gouge out the Indian’s eyes.” Smoke let the mention of his putting on an act fade away into nothing, hoping York would not bring it up again.

York lay on the ground and gazed at him. “I heard of Brute; seen him around a couple of times. He’s a bad one. If they’d a tried that, I’d have been forced to deal myself in and help you out.”

“You’d have gotten yourself killed.”

“You befriended me. Man don’t stand by his friends when they in trouble ain’t much of a man or a friend. That’s just the way I am.”

And Smoke felt the young cowboy was sincere when he said it. “I agree with you. You know, at first, they were going to make you kill the Indian.”

“I’d a not done it,” he said flatly. “My ma was part Nez Percé. And I’m damn proud of that blood in my veins. And I don’t make no effort to hide that fact, neither.”

And judging by the scars on his flat-knuckled hands, York had been battling over that very fact most of his life, Smoke noted.

York followed Smoke’s eyes. “Yeah. I’m just as quick with my fists as I am with my guns.” His eyes dropped to Smoke’s big hands. “And you ain’t no pilgrim, neither, Mr. Shirley DeBeers. Or whatever the hell your name might be.”

“Let’s just leave it DeBeers for the time being, shall we?”

“’Kay.” York took off his battered hat and ran fingers through his tousled hair. “DeBeers?”

“Yes, York?”

“Let’s you and me get the hell gone from this damn place!”

12

There was no doubt in Smoke’s mind that York was serious and was no part of Davidson’s scheme of things in or around Dead River. The young cowboy was no outlaw and had made up his mind never to become one. But Smoke had three days to go before the deadline was up and the posse would strike. He had a hunch that would be the longest three days of his life. He looked at York for a moment before replying.

“I’m just about through sketching Davidson. He has indicated that he would allow me to leave after that.”

“Like I said before—and you believed him?”

“I have no choice in the matter.”

“I guess not. But I still think you’re draggin’ your boots for some reason. But I’ll stick around just to see what you’re up to. Don’t worry, DeBeers. I’ll keep my suspicions to myself.”

Again, Smoke had nothing to say on that subject. “What are you going to do on the outside, York?”

York shook his head. “I don’t know. Drift, I reckon. I just ain’t cut out for this kind of life. I think I knowed that all along. But I think I owe it to you for pointin’ it out.”

“Stay out of sight, York.” Smoke picked up his sketch pad. “I have to go sketch Davidson. Even though I certainly don’t feel up to it.”

“What if Davidson won’t let you leave here like he says he will?”

“I don’t know. Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Bridges don’t worry me,” York said glumly. “It’s that damn guarded pass that’s got me concerned.”

The next two days passed without incident. York stayed at Smoke’s camp—and stayed close. Smoke continued his sketching of Rex Davidson, and his opinion that the man was a conceited and arrogant tyrant was confirmed. The man remained friendly enough—as friendly as he had ever been to Smoke—but Smoke could detect a change in him. He appeared tense and sometimes nervous. And there was distance between them now, a distance that had not been there before. Smoke knew that Davidson had never really intended to let him leave. He did not think that Rex suspected he was anything except the part he was playing, what he claimed to be. It was, Smoke felt, that Rex had been playing a game with him all along; a cat with a cornered mouse. A little torture before the death bite.

“I’m becoming a bit weary of all this,” Davidson suddenly announced, breaking his pose. The afternoon of the sixth day.

“Of what, sir?” Smoke lifted his eyes, meeting the hard gaze of the man.

“Of posing, fool!” Davidson said sharply. “I have enough pictures. But as for you, I don’t know what to do about you.”

“Whatever in the world are you talking about, Mr. Davidson?”

Rex stared at him for a long moment. Then, rising from the stool where he’d been sitting, posing, he walked to a window and looked out, staring down at his outlaw town. He turned and said, “I first thought it was you; that you were the front man, the spy sent in here. Then I realized that no one except a professional actor could play the part of a fool as convincingly as you’ve done…and no actor has that much courage. Not to come in here and lay his life on the line. So you are what you claim to be. A silly fop. But I still don’t know what to do with you. I do know that you are beginning to bore me. It was the Indian. Had to be. The marshals hired the Indian to come in here and check on us.”

“Sir, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But Smoke knew. Somewhere in the ranks of the marshals or the sheriffs or the deputies, there was a turncoat. Now he had to find out just how much Rex Davidson knew about the plan just twenty-four hours away from bloody reality.

And stay alive long enough to do something about it, if he could.

“That damn woman almost had me fooled,” Davidson said, more to himself than to Smoke. He had turned his back again, not paying any attention to Smoke. “It was good fun torturing her, DeBeers; I wish you had been here to see it. Yes, indeed. I outdid myself with inventiveness. I kept her alive for a long time. I finally broke her, of course. But by the time I did, she was no more than a broken, babbling idiot. The only thing we learned was that the marshals were planning on coming in here at some time or the other. She didn’t know when.”

“Sir, I—”

Davidson whirled around, his face hard with anger. “Shut your goddamn mouth, DeBeers!” He shouted. “And never interrupt me when I’m speaking.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course, she was raped—among other things. The men enjoyed taking their perversions upon her.” He was pacing the room. “Repeatedly. I enjoyed listening to her beg for mercy. Dagget can be quite inventive, too. But finally I wearied of it, just as I am rapidly wearying of you, DeBeers. You’re really a Milquetoast, Shirley. I think I’ll put you in a dress and parade you around. Yes. That is a thought.”

Smoke kept his mouth shut.

Davidson turned back to the window, gazing out over his town of scum and filth and perversion. “I have not left this place in years. I stay aware of what is going on outside, of course. But I have not left this valley in years. It’s mine, and no one is going to take it from me. I will not permit it. I know an attack is coming. But I don’t know when.”

Smoke knew then why the sudden influx of outlaws. Somehow, probably through outriders, Davidson had gotten the word out to them: If you want to save your refuge, you’d better be prepared to fight for it.

Or something like that.

With King Rex, however, it had probably been put in a much more flowery way.

“Ah, sir, Your Majesty?” Smoke verbally groveled, something he was getting weary of.

“What do you want, Shirley?”

“May I take my leave now, Your Magesty?”

“Yes, you silly twit!” Davidson did not turn from the window. “And stay out of my sight, goofy. I haven’t made up my mind exactly what I’m going to do with you. Get out, fool!”

I’ve made up my mind what to do with you, King Rex, Smoke thought, on his way out. And about this time tomorrow, you’re going to be in for a very large surprise. One that I’m going to enjoy handing you.

He gently closed the door behind him. He was smiling as he walked down the hill from the King’s house. He had to work to get the smile off his lips before he entered the long main street of Dead River.

In twenty-four hours, he would finally and forever shed his foppish costume and strap on his guns.

And then Dr. Jenson would begin administering to a very sick town.

With gunsmoke and lead.

Smoke was conscious of York staring at him. He had been sliding furtive glances his way for several hours now, and Smoke knew the reason for the looks. He could feel the change coming over him. He would have to be very careful the remainder of this day, for he was in no mood to continue much longer with his Shirley DeBeers act.

York had just returned from town and had been unusually quiet since getting back. He finally broke his silence.

“DeBeers?”

“Yes, York?”

“I gotta tell you. The word is out that come the morning, you’re gonna be tossed to the wolves. Davidson is gonna declare you fair game for anybody. And you know what that means.”

Mid-afternoon of the seventh day.

“Brute Pitman.”

“Among other things,” York said.

“What size boots do you wear, York?”

“Huh! Man, didn’t you hear me? We got to get the hell gone from this place. And I mean we got to plan on how to do it right now!”

“I heard you, York. Just relax. What size boots do you wear?”

The cowboy signed. “Ten.”

“That’s my size. How about that?” Smoke grinned at him.

“Wonderful!” The comment was dryly given. “You lookin’ at gettin’ kilt, and you all het up about us wearin’ the same size boots. You weird, DeBeers.”

With a laugh, Smoke handed York some money. “Go to the store and buy me a good pair of boots. Black. Get me some spurs. Small stars, not the big California rowels. Don’t say a word about who you’re buying them for. We’ll let that come as a surprise for them. Think you can do that for me, York?”

“Why, hell, yes, I can! What do you think I am, some sort of dummy? Boots? ’Kay. But I best get you some walkin’ heels.”

“Riding heels, York,” Smoke corrected, enjoying the look of bewilderment on his new friend’s face. “And how many boxes of shells do you have?”

“One and what’s in my belt. Now why in the hell are you askin’ that?”

“Buy at least three more boxes. When you get back, I’ll explain. Now then, what else have you heard about me, York?”

“You ain’t gonna like it.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It might give me more incentive to better do the job that faces me.”

York shook his head. “Weird, DeBeers. That’s you. Well, that Jake feller? He’s been makin’ his brags about how he’s gonna make you hunker down in the street and eat a pile of horse-droppin’s.”

“Oh, is he now?”

“Yeah. He likes to be-little folks. That Jake, he’s cruel mean, DeBeers. That one and them that run with him is just plain no-good. He makes ever’ slave that comes in here do that. I’ve had half a dozen or more men tell me that. All the men here, they think it’s funny watchin’ Jake force folks to eat that mess.”

“I wonder how Jake would like to eat a poke of it himself?”

York grinned. “Now that’d be a sight to see!”

“Don’t give up hope, York. Would you please go get my stuff for me?”

“Sure.” He turned, then stopped and whirled around to face Smoke. “I can’t figure you, DeBeers. You’ve changed. I noticed that this morning.”

“We’ll talk when you get back, York. Be careful down in town. I think things are getting a bit tense.”

“That ain’t exactly the way I’d put it, but whatever you say.” He walked off toward town, mumbling to himself and shaking his head. Smoke smiled at the young man and then set about preparing himself mentally for what the night held in store.

And he knew only too well what lay before him when the dusk settled into darkness in the outlaw town.

There was no fear in Smoke; no sweaty palms or pounding heart. He was deathly calm, inside and out. And he did not know if that was an asset or liability. He knew caution, for no man lived by the gun without knowing what was about him at all times. But Smoke, since age sixteen, had seldom if ever at all experienced anything even remotely akin to fear.

He sat down on his ground sheet and blankets and calmly set about making a pot of coffee. He looked up at the sound of boots striking the gravel. Brute Pitman stopped a few yards away, grinning at him.

“Go away, Bruce. The smell of you would stop a buzzard in flight.”

Brute cussed him.

Smoke smiled at him.

“I’m gonna enjoy hearin’ you holler, pretty-boy,” Brute told him, slobber leaking past his fat lips. “With you, I’m gonna make it las’ a long time.”

Smoke made no reply, just sat on the ground and stared at the hulking mass of perversion. He allowed his eyes to do the talking, and they silently spoke volumes to the big slob.

Brute met the gaze and Smoke’s smile was wider still as something shifted in the hulk’s eyes. Was it fear touching Brute’s dark eyes? Smoke felt sure that it was, and that thought amused him. Brute Pitman was like so many men his size, a bully from boyhood. He had bulled and heavy-shouldered his way through life, knowing his sheer size would keep most from fighting back. But like most bullies, Brute was a coward at heart.

“Something the matter, Brute?”

That took him by surprise. “Huh! Naw, they ain’t nothin’ the matter with me, sissy-boy. Nothin’,” he added, “that come night won’t clear.”

“You best watch the night, Brute,” Smoke cautioned. “Night is a time when death lays close to a man.”

“Huh! Whatda you talkin’ ’bout now, pretty boy. I don’t think you even know. I think you so scared you peein’ your drawers.”

Smoke laughed at him. Now he didn’t care. It was too close to the deadline to matter. By now, the men from the posse would be approaching the ranch and would be changing horses for the last time before entering the mountain pass. Already, the Utes would be slipping into place, waiting for the guards to change.

Everything was in motion; it could not be stopped now.

“Get out of my sight, Brute. You sickin’ me.”

Brute hesitated, then mumbled something obscene under his breath and walked down the small hill. Twice he stopped and looked back at Smoke. Smoke gave him the finger, jabbing the air with his middle finger.

“Crazy!” Brute said. “The bassard’s crazy! Done took leave of his senses.”

Smoke heard the comment and smiled.

Brute met Cat Ventura on his way down. The men did not speak to each other. Cat stood over Smoke, staring down at him.

“I would wish you a good afternoon,” Smoke told him, “but with you here, it is anything but that.”

Cat stared at him, ignoring the remark; Smoke was not sure the man even knew what he meant by it. “I seen you somewheres before, artist,” the gunfighter, outlaw, and murderer said. “And you wasn’t drawin’ no pitchers on paper, neither.”

“Perhaps if you dwell on it long enough, it will come to you in time, Mister-whatever-your-name is. Not that I particularly care at this juncture.”

“Huh! Boy, you got a damn smart mouth on you, ain’t you? I’m Cat Ventura.”

“Not a pleasure, I’m sure. Very well, Mr. Meow. If you came up here to ask me to sketch you, my studio is closed for the time being. Perhaps some other time; like in the next century.”

“You piss-headed smart ass! When the time comes, I think I’ll jist stomp your guts out; see what color they is. How ’bout that, sissy-pants?”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Mr. Purr. I really have my doubts about you doin’ that.”

Before he turned away to walk back down the hill, Cat said, “I know you from somewheres. It’ll come to me. I’ll be back.”

“I’ll certainly be here.”

Smoke lay on his ground sheet and watched a passing parade of outlaws visit him during the next few minutes. Some walked up and stared at him. A few made open threats on his life.

He would have liked to ask why the sudden shift in their attitude toward him, but he really wasn’t all that interested in the why of it.

Smoke checked the mountain sky. About three hours until dusk. He rose from the ground and got his fishing pole, checking the line and hook. Jake and Shorty and Red had been watching him, hunkered down at the base of the hill. Out of the corner of his eyes, Smoke saw them all relax and reach for the makings, rolling and lighting cigarettes. He stepped back into the timber behind his camp, as if heading for the little creek to fish and catch his supper. Smoke assumed his line of credit at the Bon Ton Café had been cut off. The food hadn’t been all that good anyway.

Out of sight of the trio of outlaws, Smoke dropped his pole and walked toward the center of town, staying inside the thin timber line until he was opposite the privy and the pile of lumber behind the saloon. He quickly stepped to the lumber, moved a couple of boards, and spotted the rolled-up packet.

The back door to the saloon opened, a man stepping out. “What you doin’, boy? Sneakin’ around here. You tryin’ to slip out, pretty-pants?”

Smoke looked up as the man closed the door behind him and walked toward him. His hand closed around a sturdy two-by-four, about three feet long and solid. “Just borrowing a few boards, sir. I thought I might build a board floor for my tent. Is that all right with you?”

The outlaw stepped closer, Smoke recognizing him as a wanted murderer. “No, it ain’t all right with me. You jist git your butt on out of here.”

Smoke could smell the odor of rotting human flesh from those unfortunates hanging from the meat hooks at the edge of town. Those few still alive were moaning and crying out in pain.

Smoke looked around him. They were alone. He smiled at the outlaw. “Playtime is all over, you bastard.”

“What’d you say to me, fancy-pants?” The man stepped closer, almost within swinging distance. Just a few feet more and Smoke would turn out the man’s lights. Forever.

“I said you stink like sheep-shit and look like the ass end of a donkey.”

Cursing, growling deep in his throat, the outlaw charged Smoke. Smoke jerked up the two-by-four and laid the lumber up against the man’s head. The outlaw stopped, as if he had run into a stone wall. His skull popped under the impact. He dropped to the earth, dying, blood leaking from his ears and nose and mouth.

Smoke dropped the two-by-four and quickly dragged the man behind the privy, stretching him out full length behind the two-holer. He could only be seen from the timber.

Smoke took the man’s two .44s and punched out the shells from the loops of his belt. He grabbed up his own guns and walked back into the timber, heading for his campsite.

He was smiling, humming softly.

They had said their good-byes to their wives and kids and girlfriends and swung into the saddle, pointing the noses of their horses north, toward the outlaw town.

One deputy from an adjoining county had been caught trying to make it alone to Dead River. He had been brought back to face Jim Wilde. It turned out his brother was one of the outlaws living in Dead River. The deputy was now locked down hard in his own jail, under heavy guard.

The members of the posse were, to a man, hard-faced and grim. All knew that some of them would not live through the night that lay before them. And while none of them wanted to die, they knew that what lay ahead of them was something that had to be done, should have been done a long time back. The outlaw town had been a blight on society for years, and the time had come to destroy it and all who chose to reside within its confines.

The riders each carried at least two pistols belted around their waists. Most had two more six-guns, either tucked behind their belts or carried in holsters, tied to their saddles. All carried a rifle in the boot; some had added a shotgun, the express guns loaded with buckshot. The men had stuffed their pockets full of .44s, .45s, and shotgun shells.

The posse rode at a steady, distance-covering gait; already they had changed horses and were now approaching Red Davis’s place. While the hands switched saddles, the men of the posse grabbed and wolfed down a sandwich and coffee, then refilled canteens. All checked their guns, wiping them free of dust and checking the action.

“Wish I was goin’ with you,” Davis said. “I’d give a thousand dollars to see that damn town burned slap to the ground.”

Wilde nodded his head. “Red, there’ll be doctors and the like comin’ out here and settin’ up shop ’bout dark. Some of us are gonna be hard-hit and the slaves in that town are gonna be in bad shape. You got your wagon ready to meet us at the mouth of the pass?”

“All hitched up.” He spat on the ground. “And me and my boys will take care of any stragglers that happen to wander out when the shootin’ starts.”

Jim Wilde smiled grimly. Between the Utes and Red Davis’s hard-bitten hands, any outlaws who happened to escape were going to be in for a very rough time of it. Red’s ranch had been the first in the area, and the old man was as tough as leather—and so were his hands.

Red clasped Jim on the shoulder. “Luck to you, boy. And I wanna meet this Smoke Jensen. That there is my kind of man.”

Jim nodded and turned, facing the sixty-odd men of the posse. The U.S. Marshal wore twin .44s, tied down. He carried another .44 in his shoulder holster and a rifle and a shotgun in the boots, on his horse. “All right, boys. This is the last jumpin’-off place. From here on in, they’s no turnin’ back. You gotta go to the outhouse, get it done now. When we get back into the saddle, we ain’t stoppin’ until we’re inside Dead River.” He glanced at the sinking sun. “Smoke’s gonna open up the dance in about an hour—if he’s still alive,” he added grimly. “And knowin’ him he is. Anybody wanna back out of this?”

No one did.

“Let’s ride!”

The guards along the pass road had just changed, the new guards settling in for a long and boring watch. Nothing ever happened; a lot of the time many of them dozed off. They would all sleep this dusky evening. Forever.

One guard listened for a few seconds. Was that a noise behind him? He thought it was. He turned, brought his rifle up, and came face to face with a war-painted Indian. He froze, opening his mouth to yell a warning. The shout was forever locked in his throat as an axe split his skull. The Ute caught the bloody body before it could fall to the ground and lowered it to the earth. The body would never be found; time and wind and rain and the elements and animals would dispose of the flesh and scatter the bones. A hundred years later, small boys playing would discover the gold coins the outlaw had had in his pockets and would wonder how the money came to be in this lonely spot.

His job done, for the moment, the brave slipped back into the timber and waited.

Up and down the heavily guarded narrow road, the guards were meeting an end just as violent as the life they had chosen to live. And they had chosen it; no one had forced them into it. One outlaw guard, who enjoyed torturing Indians, especially children, and raping squaws, was taken deep into the timber, gagged, stripped, and staked out. Then he was skinned—alive.

Their first job done, the Indians quietly slipped back and took their positions around the outlaw town of Dead River. With the patience bred into them, they waited and watched, expressionless.

York looked up and blinked, at first not recognizing the tall muscular man who was walking toward him, out of the timber. Then he recognized him.

“Damn, DeBeers. I didn’t know you at first. How come you shaved off your beard?”

“It was time. And my name is not DeBeers.”

“Yeah. I kinda figured it was a phony. And I didn’t believe that Shirley bit, neither.”

“That’s right. You get my boots and spurs?”

York pointed to a bag on the ground. He had never seen such a change in any man. The man standing in front of him looked…awesome!

Smoke was dressed all in black, from his boots to his shirt. His belt was black with inlaid silver that caught the last glows of the setting sun. He wore a red bandana around his neck. He had buckled on twin .44s, the left handgun worn butt-forward, cross-draw style. He had shoved two more .44s behind his belt.

“Ah…man, you best be careful with them guns,” York cautioned. “You packin’ enough for an army. Are you fixin’ to start a war around here?”

“That is my hope, York.”

“Yeah?” Somehow, that did not come as any surprise to York. There was something about this tall man that was just…well, unsettling. He poured a cup of coffee and sipped it, hot, strong, and black. He looked at the tall man. Naw, he thought, it couldn’t be. But he sure looked like all the descriptions York had ever heard about the gunfighter. “Who are you, man?”

Smoke pulled a badge from his pocket and pinned it to his shirt. “I’m a United States Deputy Marshal. And as far as I’m concerned, York, all those warrants against you are not valid. And when we get out of here, I’ll see that they are recalled. How does that sound to you?”

York took a sip of coffee. Oddly, to Smoke, he had shown no surprise. “Sounds good to me, Marshal.” He stood up and pulled a gold badge out of his pocket and pinned it on his shirt. “Buddy York is the name. Arizona Rangers. I was wonderin’ if you plan on corralin’ this town all by your lonesome.”

“That’s a good cover story of yours, Ranger,” Smoke complimented him.

“Well, took us six months to set it up. The dodgers that are out are real. Had to be that way.”

“I gather you have warrants for some people in here?”

“A whole passel of them, including some on Dagget.”

“There is a large posse on the way in. They’ll be here just at dusk. The Utes have taken care of the guards along the road.”

York looked up at the sky. “That’s a good hour and a half away, Marshal.” He was grinning broadly.

“That’s the way I got it figured, Ranger. Of course, you do know that you have no jurisdiction in this area?”

“I’ll worry about that later.”

“Consider yourself deputized with full government authority.”

“I do thank you, Marshal.”

“You ready to open this dance, Ranger?” Smoke sat down on a log and buckled on his spurs. He looked up as York opened another bag and tossed him a black hat, low crowned and flat brimmed. “Thanks. I am ever so glad to be rid of that damned silly cap.” He tried the hat. A perfect fit.

“You did look a tad goofy. But I got to hand it to you. You’re one hell of a fine actor.”

Both men stuffed their pockets full of shells.

Rifle in hand, York said, “What is your handle, anyways?”

“Smoke Jensen,” the tall, heavily muscled man said with a smile.

York’s knees seemed to buckle and he sat down heavily on a log. When he found his voice, he said, “Holy jumpin’ Jesus Christ!”

“I’m new to the marshaling business, Ranger. I just took this on a temporary basis.” Then he explained what had happened at his ranch, to his wife.

“Takes a low-life SOB to attack a lone woman. I gather you want Davidson and Dagget and them others all to yourself, right?”

“I would appreciate it, Ranger.”

“They’re all yours.”

Smoke checked his guns, slipping them both in and out of leather a few times. He filled both cylinders and every loop on his gunbelt, then checked the short-barreled pistol he carried in his shoulder holster. Breaking open the sawed-off shotgun, he filled both barrels with buckshot loads. Smoke looked on with approval as the ranger pulled two spare .44s out of his warbag and loaded them full. He tucked them behind his belt and picked up a Henry repeating rifle, loading it full and levering in a round, then replacing that round in the magazine.

“I’ll tell you how I see this thing, Ranger. You don’t have to play this way, but I’m going to.”

“I’m listenin’, Smoke.”

“I’m not taking any prisoners.”

“I hadn’t planned on it myself.”

The men smiled at each other, knowing then exactly where the other stood.

Their pockets bulging with extra cartridges, York carrying a Henry and Smoke carrying the sawed-off express gun, they looked at each other.

“You ready to strike up the band, Ranger?”

“Damn right!” York said with a grin.

“Let’s do it!”

13

Marshal Jim Wilde’s posse had an hour to go before reaching Dead River when Smoke and York stepped into the back of the saloon. Inside, the piano player was banging out and singing a bawdy song.

“How do we do this?” York asked.

“We walk in together,” Smoke whispered.

The men slipped the thongs off their six-guns and eased them out of leather a time or two, making certain the oiled interiors of the holsters were free.

York eased back the hammer on his Henry and Smoke jacked back the hammers on the express gun.

They stepped inside the noisy and beer-stinking saloon. The piano player noticed them first. He stopped playing and singing and stared at them, his face chalk-white. Then he scrambled under the lip of the piano.

“Well, well!” an outlaw said, laughing. “Would you boys just take a look at Shirley. He’s done shaven offen his beard and taken to packin’ iron. Boy, you bes’ git shut of them guns, ’fore you hurt yourself.”

Gridley stood up from a table where he’d been drinking and playing poker—and losing. “Or I decide to take ’em off you and shove ’em up your butt, lead and all, pretty-boy. Matter of fact, I think I’ll jist do that, right now.”

Smoke and York had surveyed the scene as they had stepped in. The barroom was not nearly filled to capacity…but it was full enough.

“The name isn’t pretty-boy, Gridley,” Smoke informed him.

“Oh, yeah? Well, mayhaps you right. I’ll jist call you shit! How about that?”

“Why don’t you call him by his real name?” York said, a smile on his lips.

“And what might that be, punk?” Gridley sneered the question. “Alice?”

“First off,” York said. “I’ll tell you I’m an Arizona Ranger. Note the badges we’re wearing? And his name, you blow-holes, is Smoke Jensen!”

The name was dropped like a bomb. The outlaws in the room sat stunned, their eyes finally observing the gold badges on the chests of the men.

Smoke and York both knew one thing for an ironclad fact: The men in the room might all be scoundrels and thieves and murderers, and some might be bullies and cowards, but when it came down to it, they were going to fight.

“Then draw, you son of a bitch!” Gridley hollered, his hands dropping to his guns.

Smoke pulled the trigger on the express gun. From a distance of no more than twenty feet, the buckshot almost tore the outlaw in two.

York leveled the Henry and dusted an outlaw from side to side. Dropping to one knee, he levered the empty out and a fresh round in and shot a fat punk in the belly.

Shifting the sawed-off shotgun, Smoke blew the head off another outlaw. The force of the buckshot lifted the headless outlaw out of one boot and flung him to the sawdust-covered floor.

York and his Henry had put half a dozen outlaws on the floor, dead, dying, or badly hurt.

The huge saloon was filled with gunsmoke, the crying and moaning of the wounded, and the stink or relaxed bladders from the dead. Dark gray smoke from the black powder cartridges stung the eyes and obscured the vision of all in the room.

The outlaws had recovered from their initial shock and had overturned tables, crouching behind them, returning the deadly hail of fire from Smoke and Arizona Ranger York.

Smoke had slipped to the end of the bar closest to the batwing doors, and York had worked his way to the side of the big stage, crouching behind a second piano in the small orchestra pit. Between the two of them, Smoke and York were laying down a deadly field of fire. Both men had grabbed up the guns of the dead and dying men as they slipped to their new positions and they now had a pile of .44s, .45s, and several shotguns and rifles in front of them.

A half-dozen outlaws tried to rush the batwings in a frantic attempt to escape and were met by a half-dozen other outlaws attempting to enter the saloon from the outside. It created a massive pileup at the batwings, a pileup that was too good for Smoke to resist.

Slipping to the very end of the long bar, Smoke emptied a pair of .45s taken from a dead man into the panicked knot of outlaws. Screaming from the men as the hot slugs tore into their flesh added to the earsplitting cacophony of confusion in the saloon.

Smoke grabbed up an armload of weapons and ran to the end of the bar closest to the rear of the saloon. He caught York’s attention and motioned to the storeroom where they had entered. York nodded and left his position at a run. The men ran through the darkened storeroom to the back door.

Just as they reached the back door it opened and two outlaws stepped inside, guns drawn. Smoke and York fired simultaneously, their guns booming and crashing in the darkness, lancing smoke and fire, splitting the heavy gloom of the storeroom. The outlaws were flung backward, outside. They lay on the ground, on their backs, dying from wounds to the chest and belly.

“York, you take the north end of town,” Smoke said. “I’ll take the south end.” He was speaking as he was stripping the weapons from the dead men.

York nodded his agreement and tossed Smoke one of two cloth sacks he’d picked up in the storeroom. The men began dumping in the many guns they’d picked up along the way.

“Find and destroy the heathens!” a man’s strong voice cut the night. “The Philistines are upon us!”

“Who the hell is that?” York whispered.

“That’s Tustin, the preacher. Has to be.”

“A preacher? Here?” The ranger’s voice was filled with disbelief.

The gunfire had almost ceased, as the outlaws in the saloon could not find Smoke or York.

“Oh, Lord!” Tustin’s voice filled the night. “Take these poor unfortunate bastards into the gates of Heaven and give us the strength and the wherewithal to find and shoot the piss outta them that’s attackin’ us!”

“I ain’t believin’ this,” York muttered.

Smoke smiled, his strong white teeth flashing in the night. “Good luck, York.”

“Same to you, partner.”

Carrying their heavy sacks of weapons and cartridge-filled belts, the men parted, one heading north, the other heading south.

York and Smoke both held to the edge of the timber as they made their way north and south. The town’s inhabitants had adopted a panicked siege mentality, with outlaws filling the streets, running in every direction. No one among them knew how many men were attacking the town. Both York and Smoke had heard the shouts that hundreds of lawmen were attacking.

Just before Smoke slipped past the point where he could look up and see the fine home of Davidson, he saw the lamps in the house being turned off, the home on the hill growing dark.

And Smoke would have made a bet that Davidson and Dagget had a rabbit hole out of Dead River, and that both of them, and probably a dozen or more of their most trusted henchmen, were busy packing up and getting out.

Just for a moment, Smoke studied the darkened outline of the home on the hill. And then it came to him. A cave. He would be a hundred dollars that King Rex had built his home in front of a cave, a cave that wound through the mountain and exited out in the timbered range behind Dead River. And he would also bet that White Wolf and his braves knew nothing of it. It might exit out into a little valley where horses and gear could be stored.

Cursing in disgust for not thinking of that sooner, Smoke slipped on into the night, seeking a good spot to set up a defensive position.

He paused for a moment, until York had opened fire, showing Smoke where the ranger had chosen to make his stand. And it was a good one, high up on the right side of the ridge overlooking the town, as Smoke stood looking north. With a smile, Smoke chose his position on the opposite side of the street, above the first store one encountered upon entering the outlaw town.

Below him, the outlaws had settled down, taking up positions around the town. Smoke could see several bodies sprawled in the street, evidence of York’s marksmanship with his Henry.

A handful of outlaws tried to rush the ranger’s position. Hard gunfire broke out on either side and above York’s position. White Wolf’s Utes were making their presence known in a very lethal manner. For years, the outlaws had made life miserable for the Utes, and now it was payback time. With a vengeance.

A horseman came galloping up the street, toward the curve that exited the town. The man was riding low in the saddle, the reins in his teeth and both hands full of six-guns. Smoke took careful aim with a rifle he’d picked up in the saloon and knocked the man out of the saddle. The rider hit the ground hard and rolled, coming up on his feet. A dozen rifles spat lead. The man was hit a dozen times, shot to bloody rags. He dropped to the roadway, his blood leaking into the dirt.

The horse, reins trailing, trotted off into an alley.

Smoke hit the ground, behind a series of boulders, as his position was found and rifles began barking and spitting in the night, the lead ricocheting and whining off the huge rocks, spinning into the night.

A Ute came rolling down the hill crashing against the boulder behind which Smoke was hiding. Smoke rolled the brave over and checked his wound—a nasty wound in the brave’s side. Smoke plugged it with moss and stretched the Indian out, safe from fire. The Ute’s dark eyes had never left Smoke’s face, and he endured the pain without a sound.

Smoke made the sign for brother and the Indian, flat on his back returned the gesture. Gunfighter and Indian smiled at each other in the gunfire-filled night above the outlaw town.

Smoke picked up his rifle as the Indian, who had never let go of his rifle, crawled to a position on the other end of the line of boulders. Smoke tossed him a bag of cartridges and the men began lacing the town with .44 rifle fire. The .44s, which could punch through a good three inches of pine, began bringing shouts and yells of panic from the outlaws in the town below.

Several tried to run; they were knocked down in the street. One outlaw, his leg twisted grotesquely, tried to crawl to safety. A slug to the head stopped his strugglings.

Smoke spoke to the Ute in his own language. “If they ever discover how few we are up here, we’re in trouble, brother.”

The Ute laughed in the night and said, “My people have always fought outnumbered, gunfighter. It is nothing new to us.”

Smoke returned the laugh and began working the lever on his Henry, laying a line of lead into a building below their position. The sudden hard fire brought several screams of pain from inside the building. One man fell through a shattered window to hang there, half in and half out of the building.

The Ute shouted a warning as a dozen outlaws charged their position, the men slipping from tree to tree, rock to rock, working closer.

Smoke quickly reloaded the Henry and laid two .44s on the ground beside him, one by each leg. There was no doubt in his mind that the outlaws would certainly breach their position, and then the fighting would be hand to hand.

Smoke heard the ugly sound of a bullet striking flesh and bone, and turning his head, he saw the Ute fall backward, a blue-tinged hole in the center of his forehead. With his right hand, Smoke made the Indian sign for peaceful journey and then returned to the fight.

He took out one outlaw who made the mistake of exposing too much of his body, knocking the man spinning from behind a tree; a second slug from Smoke’s rifle forever stilled the man.

Then there was no time for anything except survival, as the outlaws charged Smoke’s position.

Smoke fought savagely, his guns sending several outlaws into that long darkness. Then his position was overrun. Something slammed into the side of his head, and Smoke was dropped into darkness.

14

He was out for no more than a few seconds, never really losing full consciousness. He felt blood dripping down the side of his face. He was still holding onto his guns, and he remembered they were full. Lifting them, as a dozen shapes began materializing around him in the night, Smoke began cocking and pulling the triggers.

Hoarse screams filled the air around him as the slugs from his pistols struck their mark at point-blank range. Unwashed bodies thudded to the ground all around him, the dead and dying flesh unwittingly building a fort around his position, protecting him from the returning fire of the outlaws.

Then, half-naked shapes filtered silently and swiftly out of the timber, firing rifles and pistols. By now, the remaining outlaws were too confused and frightened to understand how a man whom they believed to be dead from a head wound had managed to inflict so hideous a toll on them.

And then the Utes came out of the timber, and in a matter of seconds, what had been twenty outlaws were no more than dying, cooling flesh in the still-warm mountain air slightly above Dead River.

The Utes vanished back into the timber, as swiftly and as silently as they had come.

Smoke reloaded his guns, pistols, and rifles, and slung the rifles across his shoulders. He wrapped his bandana around his head and tied it, after inspecting his head-wound with his fingers and finding it not serious; he knew that a head wound can bleed hard and fast for a few moments, and then, in many cases, stop.

He loaded his pistols, then loaded the sawed-off shotgun. Then he began making his way down the hill, back into the town of Dead River. He was going to take the fight to the outlaws.

He stopped once to tie a white handkerchief around his arm, so not only the Indians would know who he was but so the posse members would not mistakenly shoot him.

He slipped down to the building where the outlaw was still hanging half out of the window and quietly checked out the interior. The building was void of life. Looking up the street, he could see where he, York, and the Utes had taken a terrible toll on the population of the outlaw town. The street, the alleys, and the boardwalks were littered with bodies. Most were not moving.

He did not know how much time had transpired since he and Ranger had opened the dance. But he was sure it was a good half hour or forty-five minutes.

He slipped to the south a few yards and found a good defensible position behind a stone wall that somebody had built around a small garden. Smoke pulled a ripe tomato off the vine, brushed the dust off it, and ate it while his eyes surveyed the street, picking out likely targets.

He unslung the rifles, laid his sack of guns and cartridges by one side, the express guns by his other side, and then picked up and checked out a Henry.

He had found a man stationed on top of a building. Sighting him in, Smoke let the other outlaws know he was still in the game by knocking the man off the roof with one well-placed shot to his belly. The sniper fell screaming to the street below. His howling stopped as he impacted with earth.

Putting his hand to the ground, Smoke thought he could detect a trembling. Bending over, being careful not to expose his butt to the guns of the outlaws, he pressed his ear to the ground and picked up the sound of faint rumblings. The posse was no more than a mile away.

“York!” he yelled.

“Yo, Smoke!” came the call.

“Here they come, Ranger! Shovel the coals to it!”

Smoke began levering and pulling the trigger, laying down a blistering line of fire into the buildings of the town. From his position at the other end, York did the same. The Utes opened up from both sides of the town, and the night rocked with gunfire.

“For the love of God!” Sheriff Larsen cried out, reining up by the lines of tortured men and women on the outskirts of town. His eyes were utterly disbelieving as they touched each tortured man and woman.

“Help us!” came the anguished cry of one of the few still alive. “Have mercy on us, please. We were taken against our will and brought here.”

The posse of hardened western men, accustomed to savage sights, had never seen anything like this. All had seen Indian torture; but that was to be expected from ignorant savages. But fellow white men had done this.

Several of the posse leaned out of their saddles and puked on the ground.

“Three or four men stay here and cut these poor wretches down,” Jim Wilde ordered, his voice strong over the sound of gunfire. “Do what you can for them.”

“Jim!” Smoke called. “It’s Jensen. Hold your fire, I’m coming over.”

Smoke zigzagged over to the posse, catching the reins of a horse as the man discounted. “Your horses look in good shape.”

“We rested them about a mile back. Let them blow good and gave them half a hatful of water. How’s your head?”

“My Sally has hit me harder,” Smoke grinned, swinging into the saddle. He patted the roan’s neck and rubbed his head, letting the animal know he was friendly.

“You comin’ in with us?” the marshal asked.

“I got personal business to tend to. There’s an Arizona Ranger named York up yonder.” He pointed. “I forgot to tell him to tie something about his arm. He’s a damn good man. Good luck to you boys.”

Smoke swung the horse’s head, and with a screaming yell from the throats of sixty men, the posse hit the main street hard. The reins in their teeth, the posse members had their hands full of .44s and .45s, and they were filling anybody they saw with lead.

Smoke rode behind the buildings of the town and dismounted, ground-reining the horse. He eased the hammers back on the express gun and began walking, deliberately letting his spurs jingle.

“Jensen!” a voice shouted from the forward darkness. “Smoke Jensen!”

Stepping behind a corner of a building, Smoke said, “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Cat Ventura here. You played hell, Jensen.”

“That’s what I came here to do, Ventura.”

Step out and face an ambush, you mean, Smoke thought. “No, thanks, Ventura. I don’t trust you.”

As soon as he said it, Smoke dropped to the ground. A half-dozen guns roared and sparked, the lead punching holes in the corner of the building where he’d been standing.

Smoke came up on one knee and let the hammers fall on both barrels of the sawed-off shotgun. He almost lost the weapon as both barrels fired, the gun recoiling in his strong hands.

The screaming of the wounded men was horrible in the night. Smoke thought of those poor people at the end of town and could not dredge up one ounce of sympathy for the outlaws he’d just blasted.

He reloaded the shotgun just as Cat called out, “Goddamn you, Jensen.”

Smoke fired at the sound of the voice. A gurbling sound reached his ears. Then silence, except for the heavy pounding of gunfire in the street.

He slipped out of the alley and looked down at what was left of Cat Ventura. The full load of buckshot had taken him in the chest and throat. It was not pretty, but then, Cat hadn’t been very pretty when he was alive.

Smoke stepped over the gore and continued his walking up the back alley. The posse had dismounted and were taking the town building by building. But the outlaws remaining were showing no inclination to give up the fight. The firing was not as intense as a few moments past, but it was steady.

Smoke caught a glimpse of several men slipping up the alley toward him. He eased back the hammers of the express gun and stepped deeper into the shadows, a privy to his left.

Smoke recognized the lead man as an outlaw called Brawley, a man who had been in trouble with the law and society in general since practically the moment of birth. There were so many wanted posters out on Brawley that the man had been forced to drop out of sight a couple of years back. Now Smoke knew where he’d been hiding.

Smoke stepped out of the shadows and pulled both triggers. The sawed-off shotgun spewed its cargo of ball bearings, nails, and assorted bits of metal. Brawley took one load directly in the chest, lifting the murderer off his feet and sending him sprawling. The man to Brawley’s right caught part of a load in the face. Smoke recalled that the man had thought himself to be handsome.

That was no longer the case.

The third man had escaped most of the charge and had thrown himself to the ground. He pulled himself up to his knees, his hands full of .44s. Holding the shotgun in his left hand, Smoke palmed his .44 and saved the public the expense of a trial.

“The goddamn Injuns got Cahoon!” a hoarse yell sprang out of the night.

Smoke turned, reloading the sawed-off, trying to determine how close the man was.

“Hell with Cahoon!” another yelled. Very close to Smoke. “It’s ever’ man for hisself now.”

Smoke pulled the triggers and fire shot out of the twin barrels, seeming to push the lethal loads of metal. Horrible screaming was heard for a moment, and then the sounds of bootheels drumming the ground in death.

Smoke reloaded and walked on.

At a gap between buildings, Smoke could see York, still in position, still spitting out lead from his Henry. The bodies in the street paid mute testimony to the ranger’s dead aim.

A man wearing a white armband ducked into the gap and spotted Smoke.

“Easy,” Smoke called. “Jensen here.”

Smoke could see the badge on his chest, marking him as a U.S. Marhsal.

“Windin’ down,” the man said. “Thought I’d take me a breather. You and that Arizona Ranger played hell, Smoke.”

“That was our intention. You got the makin’s? I lost my sack.”

The man tossed Smoke a bag of tobacco and papers. Squatting down, out of the line of fire, Smoke and the marshal rolled, licked, and lit.

Smoke could see the lawman had been hit a couple of times, neither of the wounds serious enough to take him out of a fight.

“I figure the big boys got loose free,” Smoke spoke over a sudden hard burst of gunfire. He jerked his head. “That’s Davidson’s big house up yonder on the ridge….”

Jim Wilde almost got himself plugged as he darted into the alley and slid to a halt, catching his breath.

“I dearly wish you would announce your intentions, ol’ hoss,” the marshal said to him. “You near’bouts got drilled.”

“Gimme the makin’s, Glen, I lost my pouch.” Jim holstered his guns.

While Jim rolled a cigarette, Smoke elaborated on his theory of the kingpins escaping.

“Well, let us rest for a minute and then we’ll take us a hike up yonder to the house. Check it out.” He puffed for a moment. “I’ve arranged for a judge to be here at first light,” he said. “The hands from Red Davis’s place is gonna act as jury. Red’ll be jury foreman. Soon as we clean out the general store, I got some boys ready to start workin’ on ropes.”

“Hezekiah Jones the judge?” Glen asked.

“Yep.”

“Gonna be some short trials.”

“Yep.”

“And they’s gonna be a bunch of newspaper folks and photographers here, too.”

“Yep.”

An outlaw tried to make a break for it, whipping his horse up the street toward the edge of town. A dozen guns barked, slamming the outlaw out of the saddle. He rolled on the street and was still.

Glen looked at the body of the outlaw. “I’m thinkin’ there might not be all that many to be tried.”

Jim Wilde ground out the butt of his smoke under his heel and stood up. “Yep,” he said.

Jim was known to be a spare man with words.

15

The battle for the outlaw town of Dead River was winding down sharply as Smoke and the marshals made their way up the hill to Rex Davidson’s fine home. They passed a half-dozen bodies on the curving path, all outlaws. All three men were conscious of eyes on them as they walked up the stone path…. Utes, waiting in the darkness, watching.

Somewhere back in the timber, a man screamed in agony.

“Cahoon,” Smoke told the men.

Glen replied, “Whatever he gets, he earned.”

That pretty well summed up the feelings of all three men. Jim pulled out his watch and checked the time. Smoke was surprised to learn it was nearly ten o’clock. He stopped and listened for a moment. Something was wrong.

Then it came to him: The gunfire had ceased.

“Yeah,” Jim remarked. “I noticed it too. Eerie, ain’t it?”

The men walked on, stepping onto the porch of the house. Motioning the lawmen away from the front door in case it was booby-trapped, Smoke stepped to one side and eased it open. The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges.

Smoke was the first in, the express gun ready. Jim and Glen came in behind him, their hands full of pistols. But the caution had been unnecessary; the room was void of human life.

The men split up, each taking a room. They found nothing. The big house was empty. But everywhere there were signs of hurried packing. The door to the big safe was open, the safe empty of cash. Jim began going through the ledgers and other papers, handing a pile to Glen while Smoke prowled the house. At the rear of the house he found the rabbit hole, and he had been correct in his thinking. The home had been built in front of a cave opening. He called for Jim and Glen.

“You was right,” Jim acknowledged. “We’ll inspect it in the morning. I’ll post guards here tonight.” He held out the papers taken from the safe. “Interestin’ readin’ in here, Smoke. All kinds of wanted posters and other information on the men who lived here. What we’ve done—it was mostly you and York—is clean out a nest of snakes. We’ve made this part of the country a hell of a lot safer.”

On the way back to the town, Smoke spotted the Ute chief, White Wolf. The men stopped, Jim saying, “We’re goin’ to try them that’s still alive, White Wolf. Do that in the mornin’. We should be out of the town by late tomorrow afternoon. When we pull out, the town and everything in it is yours.”

“I thank you,” the chief said gravely. “My people will not be cold or hungry this winter.” He turned to Smoke and smiled. “My brother, Preacher, would be proud of you. I will see that he hears of this fight, young warrior.”

“Thank you, Chief. Give him my best.”

White Wolf nodded, shook hands with the men, and then was gone.

Cahoon was still screaming.

It was a sullen lot that were rounded up and herded into the compound for safekeeping. A head count showed fifty hardcases had elected to surrender or were taken by force, usually the latter.

But, as Smoke had feared, many of the worst ones had slipped out. Shorty, Red, and Jake were gone. Bill Wilson’s body had been found, but Studs Woodenhouse, Tie Medley, Paul Rycroft, and Slim Bothwell were gone. Hart and Ayers were dead, riddled with bullets. But Natick, Nappy, LaHogue, and Brute Pitman had managed to escape. Tustin could not be found among the dead, so all had to assume the so-called minister had made it out alive. Sheriff Danvers had been taken prisoner, and Sheriff Larsen had told him he was going to personally tie the noose for him. Dagget, Glen Moore, Lapeer and, of course, Rex Davidson were gone.

Smoke knew he would have them to deal with—sooner or later, and probably sooner.

Smoke bathed in the creek behind the campsite, and he and York caught a few hours sleep before the judge and his jury showed up. They were to be in Dead River at dawn.

As had been predicted, there were several newspaper men with the judge, as well as several photographers. The bodies of the outlaws still lay in the street at dawn, when the judge, jury, reporters, and photographers showed up. Two of the half-dozen reporters were from New York City and Boston, on a tour of the wild West, and they were appalled at the sight that greeted them.

Old Red Davis, obviously enjoying putting the needle to the Easterners, showed them around the town, pointing out any sight they might have missed.

“See that fellow over yonder?” he pointed. The reporters and a photographer looked. “The man with a gold badge on his chest? That’s the most famous gunfighter in all the West. He’s kilt two/three hundred men. Not countin’ Injuns. That’s Smoke Jensen, boys!”

The Easterners gaped, one finally saying, “But why is the man wearing a badge? He’s an outlaw!”

“He ain’t no such thing,” Red corrected. “He’s just fast with a gun, that’s all. The fastest man alive. Been all sorts of books writ about Smoke. Want to meet him?”

Foolish question.

Luckily for Smoke, Jim Wilde intercepted the group and took them aside. “You boys from back east walk light around the men in this town. This ain’t Boston or New York. And while Smoke is a right nice fellow, with a fine ranch up north of here, he can be a mite touchy at times.” Then the marshal brought the men up to date on what Smoke had done in Dead River.

The photographer set up his awkward equipment and began taking pictures of Smoke and the Arizona Ranger, York. Both men endured it, Smoke saying to York, “You got any warrants on any of them that cut and run?”

“Shore do. What you got in mind?”

The camera popped and puffed smoke into the air.

“I think Sally told me she was going to give birth about October. I plan on bein’ there when she does. That gives us a few months to prowl. Tell your bosses back in Arizona not to worry about the expenses; it’s on me.”

The camera snapped and clicked, and smoke went into the air as the chemical dust was ignited.

And Marshal Jim Wilde, unintentionally, gave the newspaper reporters the fuel that would, in time, ignite the biggest gunfight, western-style, in Keene, New Hampshire history.

“Smoke’s wife is back in New Hampshire. He’ll be going back there when she gives birth to their child. Now come on, I’ll introduce you gentlemen to Smoke Jensen.”

Judge Hezekiah Jones had set up his bench, so to speak, outside the saloon, with the jury seated to his left, on the boardwalk. Already, a gallows had been knocked together and ropes noosed and knotted. They could hang three at a time.

The trial of the first three took two and a half minutes. A minute and a half later, they were swinging.

“Absolutely the most barbaric proceedings I have ever witnessed,” the Boston man sniffed, scribbling in his journal.

“Frontier justice certainly does leave a great deal to be desired,” the New York City man agreed.

“I think I’m going to be ill,” the photographer said, a tad green around the mouth.

“Hang ’em!” Judge Jones hit the table with his gavel, and three more were led off to meet their maker.

Sheriff Danvers stood before the bench, his hands tied behind his back. “I have a statement to make, Your Honor,” he said.

Hezekiah glared at him. “Oh, all right. Make your goddamn statement and then plead guilty, you heathen!”

“I ain’t guilty!” Danvers shouted.

The judge turned to face the men of the jury. “How do you find?”

“Guilty!” Red called.

“Hang the son of a bitch!” Hezekiah ordered.

And so it went.

The hurdy-gurdy ladies and shopkeepers were hauled off in wagons. Smoke didn’t ask where they were being taken because he really didn’t care. The bodies of the outlaws were tossed into a huge pit and dirt and gravel shoveled over them. “I’d like to keep my federal commission, Jim,” Smoke said. “I got a hunch this mess isn’t over.”

“Keep it as long as you like. You’re makin’ thirty a month and expenses.” He grinned and shook Smoke’s hand, then shook the hand of the ranger. “I’ll ride any trail with you boys any time.”

He wheeled his horse and was gone.

The wind sighed lonely over the deserted town as Smoke and York sat their horses on the hill overlooking the town. White Wolf and his people were moving into the town. The judge had ordered whatever money was left in the town to remain there. Let the Indians have it for their help in bringing justice to the godforsaken place, he had said.

Smoke waved at White Wolf and the chief returned the gesture. Smoke and York turned their horses and put their backs to Dead River.

“What is this?” York asked. “July, August…what? I done flat lost all track of the months.”

“I think it’s September. I think Sally told me the first month she felt she was with child was March. So if she’s going to have the baby the last part of October…”

York counted on his fingers, then stopped and looked at Smoke. “Do you want March as one?”

“Damned if I know!”

“We’ll say you do.” He once more began counting. “Yep. But that’d be eight months. So this might be August.”

Smoke looked at him. “York…what in the hell are you talking about?”

York confessed that what he knew about the process of babies growing before the birth was rather limited.

“I think I better wire Sally and ask her,” Smoke suggested.

“I think that’d be the wise thing to do.”

Jim Wilde had told Smoke he would send a wire to Sally, telling her the operation was over and Smoke was all right. And he would do the same for York, advising the Arizona Ranger headquarters that York was in pursuit of those who had escaped.

Smoke and York cut across the Sangre de Cristo range, in search of the cave Davidson and his men had used to escape.

Sally got the wire one day before the Boston and New York newspapers ran the front-page story of the incident, calling it: JUSTICE AT DEAD RIVER. The pictures would follow in later editions.

John read the stories, now carried in nearly all papers in the East, and shook his head in disbelief, saying to his daughter, “Almost fifty men were hanged in one morning. Their trials took an average of three minutes per man. For God’s sake, Sally, surely you don’t agree with these kangaroo proceedings?”

“Father,” the daughter said, knowing that the man would never understand, “it’s a hard land. We don’t have time for all the niceties you people take for granted back here.”

“It doesn’t bother you that your husband, Smoke, is credited—if that’s the right choice of words—with killing some thirty or forty men?”

Sally shook her head. “No. I don’t see why it should. You see, Father, you’ve taken a defense attorney’s position already. And you immediately condemned Smoke and the other lawmen and posse members, without ever saying a word about those poor people who were kidnapped, enslaved, and then hung up on hooks to die by slow torture. You haven’t said a word about the people those outlaws abused, robbed, murdered, raped, tortured, and then ran back to Dead River to hide and spend their ill-gotten gain. Even those papers there,” she pointed, “admit that every man who was hanged was a confessed murderer, many of them multiple killers. They got whatever they deserved, Father. No more, and no less.”

The father sighed and looked at his daughter. “The West has changed you, Sally. I don’t know you anymore.”

“Yes, I’ve changed, Father,” she admitted. “For the better.” She smiled. “It’s going to be interesting when you and Smoke meet.”

“Yes,” John agreed. “Quite.”

It took Smoke and York three days after crossing the high range to find the cave opening and the little valley beneath it.

“Slick,” York said. “If they hadn’t a knocked down the bushes growin’ in front of the mouth of that cave, we’d have had the devil’s own hard time findin’ it.”

The men entered the cave opening, which was barely large enough to accommodate a standing man. And they knew from the smell that greeted them what they would find.

They looked down at the bloated and maggot-covered bodies on the cave floor.

“You know them?” Smoke asked.

“I seen ’em in town. But I never knowed their names. And I don’t feel like goin’ through their pockets to find out who they was, do you?”

Smoke shook his head. Both men stepped back outside, grateful to once more be out in the cool, fresh air. They breathed deeply, clearing their nostrils of the foul odor of death.

“Let’s see if we can pick up a trail,” Smoke suggested.

Old Preacher had schooled Smoke well. The man could track a snake across a flat rock. Smoke circled a couple of times, then called for York to join him.

“North.” He pointed. “I didn’t think they’d risk getting out into the sand dunes. They’ll probably follow the timber line until they get close to the San Luis, then they’ll ride the river, trying to hide their tracks. I’ll make a bet they’ll cut through Poncha Pass, then head east to the railroad town. They might stop at the hot springs first. You game?”

“Let’s do it.”

They picked up and lost the tracks a dozen times, but it soon became apparent that Smoke had pegged their direction accurately. At a village called Poncha Springs, past the San Luis Valley, Smoke and York stopped and re-supplied and bathed in the hot waters.

Yes, about a dozen hard-looking men had been through. Oh, five or six days back. They left here ridin’ toward Salida. They weren’t real friendly folks, neither. Looked like hardcases.

Smoke and York pulled out the next morning.

At Salida, they learned that Davidson and his men had stopped, bought supplies and ammunition, and left the same day they’d come.

But one man didn’t ride out with the others.

“He still in town?” Smoke asked.

“Shore is. Made his camp up by the Arkansas. ’Bout three miles out of town. But he’s over to the saloon now.”

Salida was new and raw, a railroad town built by the Denver and Rio Grande railroad. Salida was the division point of the main line and the narrow-gauge lines over what is called Marshall Pass.

“What’s this ol’ boy look like?” York asked.

The man described him.

“Nappy,” Smoke said. “You got papers on him?”

“’Deed I do,” York said, slipping the hammer thong off his .44.

“I’ll back you up. Let’s go.”

“You look familiar, partner,” the citizen said to Smoke. “What might be your name?”

“Smoke Jensen.”

As soon as the lawmen had left, the man hauled his ashes up and down the muddy streets, telling everyone he could find that Smoke was in town.

“I know Nappy is wanted for rape and murder,” Smoke said. “What else did he do?”

“Killed my older brother down between the Mogollon Plateau and the Little Colorado. Jimmy was a lawman, workin’ out of Tucson. Nappy had killed an old couple just outside of town and Jimmy had tracked him north.” York talked as they walked. “Nappy ambushed him. Gut-shot my brother and left him to die. But Jimmy wasn’t about to die ’fore he told who done him in. He crawled for miles until some punchers found him and he could tell them what happened, then he died. I was fifteen at the time. I joined the Rangers when I was eighteen. That was six years ago.”

“I figured you for some younger than that.”

“It’s all the clean livin’ I done,” York said with a straight face.

Then they stepped into the saloon.

And Nappy wasn’t alone.

The short, barrel-chested, and extremely ugly outlaw stood at the far end of the bar, his hands at his sides. Across the room were two more hardcases, also standing, each wearing two guns tied down low. To Smoke’s extreme right, almost in the shadows, was another man, also standing.

“Napoleon Whitman?” York spoke to the stocky outlaw.

“That’s me, punk.”

“I’m an Arizona Ranger. It is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest for the murder of Tucson deputy sheriff Jimmy York.”

“Do tell? Well, Ranger, this is Colorado. You ain’t jack-shit up here.”

“I have also been appointed a deputy U.S. Marshal, Nappy. Now how is it gonna be?”

“Well,” Nappy drawled, as the men at the tables drifted back, out of the line of fire. And since Nappy had men posted all around the room, that meant getting clear outside, which is what most did. “I think I’m gonna finish my drink, Ranger. That’s what I think I’m gonna do. And since both you squirts is about to die, why don’t y’all order yourselves a shot?”

Then he arrogantly turned his left side to the man and faced the bar. But both Smoke and York knew he was watching them in the mirror.

“He’s all yours,” Smoke murmured, just loud enough for York to hear. “Don’t worry about the others.”

York nodded. “I don’t drink with scum,” he told the ugly outlaw.

Nappy had lifted the shot glass to his mouth with his left hand. With that slur, he set the glass down on the bar and turned, facing the younger man. “What’d you say to me, punk?” The outlaw was not accustomed to be talked to in such a manner. After all, he was a famous and feared gunfighter, and punk kids respected him. They sure didn’t talk smart to him.

“I said you’re scum, Nappy. You’re what’s found at the bottom of an outhouse pit.”

All were conscious of many faces peering inside the dark barroom; many men pressed up against the glass from the boardwalk.

“You can’t talk to me lak ’at!” Nappy almost screamed the words, and he could not understand the strange sensation that suddenly filled him.

It was fear.

Fear! The word clutched at Nappy’s innards. Fear! Afraid of this snot-nosed pup with a tin star? He tried to shrug it off but found he could not.

“I just did, Nappy,” York said. He smiled at the man; he could practically smell the fear-stink of the outlaw.

Nappy stepped away from the bar to stand wide-legged, facing York. “Then fill your hand, you son of a bitch!”

16

Smoke had been standing, half turned away from York, about three feet between them, his arms folded across his lower chest. When Nappy grabbed for iron, Smoke went into a low crouch and cross-drew, cocking and firing with one blindingly fast motion. First he shot the man in the shadows with his right-hand .44, then took out the closest of the two men to Nappy’s immediate left.

Nappy had beaten York to the draw, but as so often happens, his first slug tore up the floor in front of York’s boots. York had not missed a shot, but the stocky outlaw was soaking up the lead as fast as York could pump it into him and was still standing on his feet, tossing lead in return. He was holding onto the bar with his left hand and firing at York.

Smoke rolled across the floor and came up on his knees, both .44s hammering lead into the one man he faced who was still standing. The .44 slugs drew the life from the man and Smoke turned on one knee, splinters from the rough wood floor digging into his knee with the move. The man in the shadows was leaning against a wall, blood all over his shirt front, trying to level his .45. Smoke shot him in the face, and the man slid down the wall to rest on his butt, dead.

As the roaring left his ears and Smoke could once more see, Nappy was still standing, even though York had emptied his .44 into the man’s chest and belly.

But Smoke could see he was not going to be standing much longer. The man’s eyes were glazing over, and blood was pouring out of his mouth. His guns were laying on the floor beside his scuffed and dirty boots.

Nappy cut his eyes to Smoke. “That you, Jensen?” he managed to say.

“It’s me, Nappy.” Smoke stood up and walked toward the dying outlaw.

“Come closer, Jensen. I cain’t see you. Dark in here, ain’t it?”

Death’s hand was slowly closing in on Nappy.

“What do you want, Nappy?”

“They’ll get you, Jensen. They’re gonna have their way with your uppity wife in front of your eyes, then they’re gonna kill you slow. You ain’t gonna find them, Jensen. They’re dug in deep. But they’ll find you. And that’s a promise, Jensen. That’s…”

His knees buckled and his eyes rolled back into his head until only the whites were showing. Nappy crashed to the barroom floor and died.

Both lawmen punched out empties and reloaded. York said, “I’ll send a wire to the Tucson office and tell them to recall the dodgers on Nappy. You hit anywhere?”

“’Bout a dozen splinters in my knee is all.”

“I’ll be back, and then we’ll have us a drink.”

“Sounds good. I’ll have one while I’m waiting. Hurry up, I hate to drink alone.”

Smoke lost the trail. It wasn’t the first time it had happened in his life, but it irked him even more this time. Smoke and York had trailed the outlaws to just outside of Crested Butte, and there they seemed to just drop off the face of the earth.

The lawmen backtracked and circled, but it was no use; the trail was lost.

After five more days of fruitless and frustrating looking, they decided to give it up.

They were camped near the banks of Roaring Fork, cooking some fish they’d caught for supper, both their mouths salivating at the good smells, when Drifter’s head and ears came up.

“We got company,” Smoke said softly.

“So I noticed. Injuns, you reckon?”

“I don’t think so. Drifter acts different when it’s Indians.”

“Hallo, the fire!” a voice called.

“If you’re friendly,” Smoke returned the shout, “come on in. We caught plenty of fish and the coffee’s hot.”

“Music to my ears, boys.” A man stepped into camp, leading his horses, a saddle mount and a packhorse. “Name’s McGraw, but I’m called Chaw.”

“That’s Buddy York and I’m Smoke Jensen.”

Chaw McGraw damn near swallered his chaw when he heard the name Smoke Jensen. He coughed and spat a couple of times, and then dug in his kit for a battered tin cup. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down, looking at Smoke.

“Damned if it ain’t you! I figured you for some older. But there you sit, bigger ’en life. I just read about you in a paper a travelin’ drummer gimme. Lemme git it for you; it ain’t but a week old. Outta Denver.”

The paper told the story of the big shoot-out and the hangings and the final destruction of the outlaw town of Dead River. It told all about Smoke and York and then, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Smoke read about Sally being back in Keene, New Hampshire, awaiting the birth of their first child.

“What’s wrong, partner?” York asked, looking at the strange expression on Smoke’s face.

Not wanting to take any chances on what he said being repeated by Chaw, Smoke minutely shook his head and handed the paper to York. “Nothing.”

York read the long article and lifted his eyes to Smoke. The men exchanged knowing glances across the fire and the broiling fish.

“Help yourself, Chaw,” Smoke offered. “We have plenty.”

“I wanna wash my hands ’fore I partake,” Chaw said. “Be right back. Damn, boys, but that do smell good!”

Chaw out of earshot, Smoke said, “You ever been east of the Big Muddy, York?”

“Never had no desire to go.” Then he added, “Until now, that is.”

“Davidson is crazy, but like a fox. We destroyed his little kingdom, brought his evil down on his head. And now he hates you as much as he does me. And I would just imagine this story is all over the West.” He tapped the newspaper. “It would be like King Rex to gather up as many hardcases as he could buy—and he’s got the money to buy a trainload of them—and head east. What do you think?”

“I think you’ve pegged it. Remember what Nappy said back in the bar, just before he died?”

“Yes. But I’m betting he wants the child to be born before he does anything. It would be like him. What do you think?”

“That you’re right, all the way down the line. Dagget was one of the men who shot your wife, right?”

“Yes.”

“But she wasn’t showin’ with child then, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Rex can count. He’ll time it so’s the baby will be born, I’m thinkin’.”

“I think you’re right. And I’m thinking none of them would want to get back east too soon. Dagget is wanted back there, remember? You with me, York?”

“All the way, Smoke.”

“We’ll pull out in the morning. Here comes Chaw. We’d better fix some more fish. He looks like he could eat a skunk, and probably has.”

They said their good-byes to Chaw and headed east, taking their time, heading for Leadville, once called Magic City and Cloud City, for it lies just below timberline, almost two miles above sea level. Some have described the climate as ten months winter and two months damn late in the fall. Smoke and York followed old Indian trails, trails that took Smoke back in time, when he and Preacher roamed wild and free across the land, with Preacher teaching first the boy and then the man called Smoke. It brought back memories to Smoke, memories that unashamedly wet his eyes. If York noticed—and Smoke was sure he did—the ranger said nothing about it.

Located in the valley of the Arkansas, Leadville was once the state’s second largest city. It was first a roaring gold town, then a fabulous silver boom town, and then once more a gold-rush town. When Smoke and York rode into Leadville late one afternoon, the town was still roaring.

Smoke and York had experienced no trouble on their way into the boom town, unlike so many other not-so-lucky travelers. Roving gangs of thugs and outlaws had erected toll booths on several of the most important roads leading into the town, and those who refused to pay were robbed at gunpoint; many were killed. Robberies, rapes, assaults, and wild shoot-outs were almost an hourly occurrence within the town’s limits.

When Smoke and York rode into the busy city, Leadville’s population was hovering between fifty thousand and sixty thousand—no one ever really knew for sure. It was the wildest place in the state, for a time. The town’s only hospital was guarded by a hundred men, day and night, to keep it from being torn down by thugs. Churches were forced to hire armed guards to work around the clock. The handful of police officers were virtually powerless to keep any semblance of order, so that fell to various vigilante groups. It was a town where you took your life in your hands just by getting out of bed in the morning.

“I ain’t too thrilled about no hotel, Smoke,” York commented on the way in.

“There wouldn’t be a room anyway. We’ll stable the horses, pick up some supplies, and hit the saloons. We might be able to hear something. Let’s take off these badges.”

The only “hotel” in town that might have had empty beds was the Mammoth Palace, a huge shed with double bunks that could easily sleep five hundred. A guest paid a dollar for an eight-hour sleeping turn.

And in the midst of it all, churches were flourishing. If not spiritually, then financially. One member suggested that he buy a chandelier for the church. Another member asked, “Why? None of us knows how to play it!”

Smoke and York turned their horses onto State Street, where several famous New York chefs operated fancy eating places. Oxtail soup cost five cents a bowl at Smoothey’s, and it was famous from the Coast to the Rockies.

Smoke waved at a ragged newsboy and bought a local newspaper, The Chronicle. They rode on and found a stable that had stalls to spare.

“We’ll sleep with our horses,” Smoke told the livery man.

“That’ll be a dollar extra, boys. Apiece.”

York started to protest, then noted the look on Smoke’s face and held his peace.

“Give them a bait of corn and all the hay they can handle,” Smoke told the man. “And do it now. If you go into Drifter’s stall after I’m gone, he’ll kill you.”

“Son of a bitch tries to stomp on me,” the livery blustered, “I’ll take a rifle to him.”

“Then I’ll kill you,” Smoke said softly, but with steel in his voice.

The man looked into those cold, hard eyes. He swallowed hard. “I was jokin’, mister.”

“I wasn’t.”

The liveryman gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Yes, sir. I’ll take the best of care of your horses. Whatever you say mister…ah?…”

Smoke smiled and thought, To hell with trying to disguise who we are. “Smoke Jensen.”

The liveryman backed up against a stall. “Yes, sir, Mr. Jensen, I mean, whatever you say, sir.”

Smoke patted the man on the shoulder. “We’ll get along fine, I’m sure.”

“Yes, sir. You can bet I’ll do my damndest!”

Smoke and York stepped out into the hustle and confusion of the boom town. Both knew that within the hour, every resident of the town would know that Smoke Jensen had arrived.

They stepped into a general store, checked the prices of goods, and decided they’d resupply further on.

“Legal stealin’,” York said, looking at the price of a pair of jeans. He put the jeans back on the table.

They walked back outside.

“We can cover more ground if we split up,” the Arizona Ranger suggested. “I’ll take the other side of the street. What say we meet back at the stable in a couple of hours?”

“Sounds good to me. Watch your back, York.”

“I hear you.” York checked the busy street, found his chance, and darted across. As it was, he almost got run over by a freighter. The freighter cursed him, and rumbled and rattled on.

Smoke walked on. There was something about the tall man with the two guns, in cross-draw style, that made most men hurry to step out of his way. If someone had told Smoke that he looked menacing, he would not have believed it. He could never see the savage look that was locked into his eyes.

Smoke turned a corner and found himself on Harrison Avenue, a busy business thoroughfare. He strolled the avenue, left it, and turned several corners, cutting down to hit State and Main.

Then he saw Natick, stepping out of a brothel. Smoke stopped and half turned, blending in better with the crowd. He backed against a building and began reading the paper he’d bought, still keeping a good eye on Natick. He hoped the outlaw might lead him to Davidson and Dagget.

But Natick stepped out into the street and walked toward a saloon. Smoke turned away and walked in the opposite direction, not wanting to stare too long at the man, knowing how that can attract someone’s attention.

Smoke lounged around a bit, buying a cup of coffee and a sandwich at prices that would make a Scotsman squall in outrage. The coffee was weak and the sandwich uneatable. Smoke gave both to a ragged man who seemed down on his luck, and then he waited.

Soon he saw York walking up the street and turning into the saloon. Smoke hurriedly crossed the street and stepped into the crowded saloon, elbowing and shouldering his way through the crowd. Several turned to protest, looked into the unforgiving eyes of the tall stranger with the two six-guns, and closed their months much faster than they opened them.

York was facing Natick and two other hard-looking men that Smoke did not know and did not remember seeing in Dead River.

And the crowd was rapidly moving back and away, out of the line of fire.

It was almost a repeat performance of Nappy and his crew. Except that this time a photographer was there and had his equipment set up, and he was ready to start popping whenever the action began.

The town marshal, a notorious bully and killer, was leaning up against the bar watching it all, a faint smile on his face. He was not going to interfere on behalf of either side.

“Mort!” Smoke called.

The marshal turned and faced Smoke, and his face went a shade paler.

“Jensen,” he whispered.

“Either choose a side or get out,” Smoke warned him, clear menace in his voice.

It was a warning and a challenge that rankled the town marshal, but not one he wanted to pick up. Quick with his guns and his fists, boasting that he had killed seven men, Mort’s reputation was merely a dark smudge on the ground when compared to Smoke’s giant shadow.

The marshal nodded and walked outside, turning and going swiftly up the street.

“All right, boys,” York said. “You all know Smoke Jensen. Make your play.”

The three outlaws drew together. One did not even clear leather before Smoke’s guns belched fire and smoke, the slug striking the outlaw in the center of the chest. The second outlaw that Smoke faced managed to get the muzzle free of leather before twin death-blows of lead hammered at his belly and chest.

York’s guns had roared and bucked and slammed Natick against a rear wall of the saloon, down but not quite dead.

Smoke walked to him. “Natick?”

“What do you want, Jensen?” the outlaw gasped.

“I know why you broke with Davidson and the others.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Because you may be a lot of bad things, but you’re no baby killer.”

Natick nodded his bloody head. “Yeah. I couldn’t go along with that. I’m glad it was you boys who done me in. Pull my boots off for me, Jensen?”

Smoke tugged off the man’s boots. One big toe was sticking through a hole in his sock.

“Ain’t that pitiful?” Natick observed. “I’ve stole thousands and thousands of dollars and cain’t even afford to buy a pair of socks.” He cut his eyes to Smoke. “Rex and Dagget’s got some bad ones with them, Jensen. Lapeer, Moore, The Hog, Tustin, Shorty, Red, and Jake. Studs Woodenhouse, Tie Medley, Paul Rycroft, Slim Bothwell, and Brute Pitman. I don’t know where they’re hidin’, Jensen, and that’s the truth. But Davidson plans on rapin’ your woman and then killin’ your kid.”

Natick was whispering low, so only Smoke and York could hear his dying words. The photographer was taking pictures as fast as he could jerk plates and load his dust.

Smoke bent his head to hear Natick’s words, but the outlaw would speak no more. He was dead.

Smoke dug in his own pocket and handed some money to a man standing close by. “You’ll see that he gets a proper burial?”

“I shore will, Mr. Jensen. And it was a plumb honor to see you in action.”

The photographer fired again.

The batwings snapped open and a dirty man charged into the bar, holding twin leather bags. “She’s pure, boys. Assayed out high as a cat’s back. The drinks is on me! Git them damn stiffs outta the way!”

17

John and his sons and daughters and their families looked at the pictures John had sent in from New York, looked at them in horror.

Bodies were sprawling in the street, on the boardwalks, hanging half in and half out of broken windows. One was facedown in a horse trough, another was sprawled in stiffened death beside the watering trough.

And John’s son-in-law, Smoke Jensen, handsome devil that he was, was standing on the boardwalk, calmly rolling a cigarette.

“That’s my Smoke!” Sally said, pointing.

Smoke was wearing his guns cross-draw, and he had another one tucked behind his gunbelt. In another picture, the long-bladed Bowie knife he carried behind one gun could be clearly seen. In still another picture, Smoke was sitting on the edge of the boardwalk, eating an apple. In the left side of the picture, bodies could be seen hanging from the gallows.

John’s stomach felt queasy. He laid the pictures aside and stifled a burp when Sally grabbed them up and began glancing at them.

“There’s a bandage on Smoke’s head,” she noted. “But I can’t see that he was shot anywhere else.”

“Who is that handsome man standing beside him?” Walter’s sister-in-law asked. “He’s so…rugged-looking!”

“Lord, Martha!” her sister exclaimed. “He’s savage-looking!”

“He’s some sort of law enforcement officer,” Walter explained, examining the picture. But his badge is somewhat different from…ah…Smoke’s. Excuse my hesitation, Sister, but I never heard of a man being called Smoke.”

“Get used to it, Walt,” Sally said, a testy note to her statement. After being in the West, with its mostly honest and open and non-pompous people, the East was beginning to grate on her more and more.

Her father picked up on her testiness. “Sally, dearest, it’ll soon be 1882. No one carries a gun around here except the law officers, and many times they don’t even carry a gun, only a club. There hasn’t been an Indian attack in this area in anyone’s memory! We are a quiet community, with plans underway to have a college here; a branch of the state university. We are a community of laws, darling. We don’t have gunfights in the streets. Keene was settled almost a hundred and fifty years ago….”

“Yes, Father,” Sally said impatiently. “I know. 1736, as a matter of fact. It’s a nice, quiet, stable, pleasant little community. But I’ve grown away from it. Father, Mother, all of you…have you ever stood on the Great Divide? Have you ever ridden up in the High Lonesome, where you knew you could look for a hundred miles and there would be no other human being? Have any of you ever watched eagles soar and play in the skies, and knew yours were the only eyes on them? No, no you haven’t. None of you. You don’t even have a loaded gun in this house. None of you women would know what to do if you were attacked. You haven’t any idea how to fire a gun. All you ladies know how to do is sit around looking pretty and attend your goddamn teas!”

John wore a pained expression on his face. Abigail started fanning herself furiously. Sally’s brothers wore frowns on their faces. Her sisters and sisters-in-law looked shocked.

Martha laughed out loud. “I have my teacher’s certificate, Sally. Do you suppose there might be a position for me out where you live?”

“Martha!” her older sister hissed. “You can’t be serious. There are…savages out there!”

“Oh…piddly-poo!” Martha said. She would have liked to have the nerve to say something stronger, like Sally, but didn’t want to be marked as a scarlet woman in this circle.

“We’re looking for a schoolteacher right this moment, Martha,” Sally told her. “And I think you’d be perfect. When Smoke gets here, we’ll ask him. If he says you’re the choice, then you can start packing.”

Martha began clapping her hands in excitement.

“Smoke is a one-man committee on the hiring of teachers?” Jordan sniffed disdainfully.

“Would you want to buck him on anything, Brother?”

Jordan stroked his beard and remained silent. Unusually so for a lawyer.

Smoke and York left Leadville the next morning, riding out just at dawn. They rode north, past Fremont Pass, then cut east toward Breckenridge. No sign of Davidson or Dagget or any of the others with them. They rode on, with Bald Mountain to the south of them, following old trails. They kept Mount Evans to their north and gradually began the winding down toward the town of Denver.

“We gonna spend some time in Denver City?” York asked.

“Few days. Maybe a week. We both need to get groomed and curried and bathed, and our clothes are kind of shabby-looking.”

“My jeans is so thin my drawers is showin’,” York agreed. “If we goin’ east, I reckon we’re gonna have to get all duded up like dandies, huh?”

“No way,” Smoke’s reply was grim. “I’m tired of pretending to be something I’m not. We’ll just dress like what we are. Westerners.”

York sighed. “That’s a relief. I just cain’t see myself in one of them goofy caps like you wore back in Dead River.”

Smoke laughed at just the thought. “And while we’re here, I’ve got to send some wires. Find out how Sally is doing and find out what’s happened up on the Sugarloaf.”

“Pretty place you got, Smoke?”

“Beautiful. And there’s room for more. Lots of room. You ever think about getting out of law work, York?”

“More and more lately. I’d like to have me a little place. Nothin’ fancy; nothin’ so big me and a couple more people couldn’t handle it. I just might drift up that way once this is all over.”

“You got a girl?”

“Naw. I ain’t had the time. Captain’s been sendin’ me all over the territory ever since I started with the Rangers. I reckon it’s time for me to start thinking about settlin’ down.”

“You might meet you an eastern gal, York.” Smoke was grinning.

“Huh! What would I do with her? Them eastern gals is a different breed of cat. I read about them. All them teas and the like. I got to have me a woman that’ll work right alongside me. You know what ranchin’ is like. Hard damn work.”

“It is that. But my Sally was born back east. Educated all over the world. She’s been to Paris!”

“Texas?”

“France.”

“No kiddin’! I went to Dallas once. Biggest damn place I ever seen. Too damn many people to suit me. I felt all hemmed in.”

“It isn’t like that up in the High Lonesome. I think you’d like it up there, York. We need good stable people like you. Give it some thought. I’ll help you get started; me and Sally.”

“Right neighborly of y’all. Little tradin’ post up ahead. Let’s stop. I’m out of the makin’s.”

While York was buying tobacco, Smoke sat outside, reading a fairly recent edition of a Denver paper. The city was growing by leaps and bounds. The population was now figured at more than sixty thousand.

“Imagine that,” Smoke muttered. “Just too damn many folks for me.”

He read on. A new theatre had been built, the Tabor Grand Opera House. He read on, suddenly smiling. He checked the date of the paper. It was only four days old.

“You grinnin’ like a cat lickin’ cream, Smoke,” York said, stepping out and rolling a cigarette. “What got your funny bone all quiverin’?”

“And old friend of mine is in town, York. And I just bet you he’d like to ride east with us.”

“Yeah? Lawman?”

“Businessman, scholar, gambler, gunfighter.”

“Yeah?” Who might that be?”

“Louis Longmont.”

“By the Lord Harry!” Louis exclaimed, standing up from his table in the swanky restaurant and waving at Smoke. “Waiter! Two more places here, s’il vous plait.”

“What the hell did he say?” York whispered.

“Don’t ask me,” Smoke returned the whisper.

The men all shook hands, Smoke introducing York to Louis. Smoke had not seen Louis since the big shoot-out at Fontana more than a year ago. The man had not changed. Handsome and very sure of himself. The gray just touching his hair at the temples.

Smoke also noted the carefully tailored suit, cut to accommodate a shoulder holster.

Same ol’ Louis.

After the men had ordered dinner—Louis had to do it, the menu being in French—drinks were brought around and Longmont toasted them both.

“I’ve been reading about the exploits of you men,” Louis remarked after sipping his Scotch. York noticed that all their liquor glasses had funny-looking square bits of ice in them, which did make the drink a bit easier on the tongue.

“We’ve been busy,” Smoke agreed.

“Still pursuing the thugs?”

“You know we are, Louis. You would not have allowed your name to appear in the paper if you hadn’t wanted us to find you in Denver.”

York sat silent, a bit uncomfortable with the sparkling white tablecloth and all the heavy silverware—he couldn’t figure out what he was supposed to do; after all, he couldn’t eat but with one fork and one knife, no how. And he had never seen so many duded-up men and gussied-up women in all his life. Even with new clothes on, it made a common fella feel shabby.

“Let’s just say,” Louis said, “I’m a bit bored with it all.”

“You’ve been traveling about?”

“Just returned from Paris a month ago. I’d like to get back out in the country. Eat some beans and beef and see the stars above me when I close my eyes.”

“Want to throw in with us, Louis?”

Louis lifted his glass. “I thought you were never going to ask.”

Smoke and York loafed around Denver for a few days, while Louis wrapped up his business and Smoke sent and received several wires. Sally was fine; the baby was due in two months—approximately.

“What does she mean by that?” York asked, reading over Smoke’s shoulder.

“It means, young man,” Louis said, “that babies do not always cooperate with a timetable. The child might be born within several weeks of that date, before it or after it.”

Louis was dressed in boots, dark pants, gray shirt, and black leather vest. He wore two guns, both tied down and both well-used and well-taken care of, the wooden butts worn smooth with use.

York knew that Louis Longmont, self-made millionaire and world-famous gambler, was a deadly gunslinger. And a damn good man to have walkin’ with you when trouble stuck its head up, especially when that trouble had a six-gun in each hand.

“Do tell,” York muttered.

“What’s the plan, Smoke?” Louis asked.

“You about ready to pull out?”

“Is tomorrow morning agreeable with you?”

“Fine. The sooner the better. I thought we’d take our time, ride across Kansas; maybe as far as St. Louis if time permits. We can catch a train anywhere along the way. And by riding, we just might pick up some information about Davidson and his crew.”

“Sounds good. Damn a man who would even entertain the thought of harming a child!”

“We pull out at dawn.”

Sally had not shown her family all the wires she’d received from Smoke. She did not wish to alarm any of them, and above all, she did not wish to alert the local police as to her husband’s suspicions about Davidson and his gang traveling east after her and the baby. Her father would have things done the legal way—ponderous and, unknowing to him, very dangerous for all concerned. John had absolutely no idea of what kind of man this Rex Davidson was.

But Sally did. And Smoke could handle it, his way. And she was glad Louis and York were with him.

York just might be the ticket for Martha out of the East and into the still wild and wide-open West. He was a good-looking young man.

The servant answered the door and Martha entered the sitting room. Sally waved her to a chair with imported antimacassars on the arms and back. The day was warm, and both women fanned themselves to cool a bit.

“I was serious about going west, Sally.”

“I thought as much. And now,” she guessed accurately, “you want to know all about it.”

“That’s right.”

Where to start? Sally thought. And how to really explain about the vastness and the emptiness and the magnificence of it all?

Before she could start, the door opened again, and this time the room was filled with small children: Sally’s nieces and nephews and a few of their friends.

“Aunt Sally,” a redheaded, freckle-faced boy said. “Will you tell us about Uncle Smoke?”

“I certainly will.” She winked at Martha. “I’ll tell you all about the High Lonesome and the strong men who live there.”

They pulled out at first light. Three men who wore their guns as a part of their being. Three men who had faced death and beaten it so many times none of them could remember all the battles.

Louis had chosen a big buckskin-colored horse with a mean look to his eyes. The horse looked just about as mean as Smoke knew Drifter really was.

Before leaving Denver, Smoke had wired Jim Wilde and asked for both York and Louis to be formally deputized as U.S. Marshals. The request had been honored within the day.

So they were three men who now wore official badges on their chests. One, a millionaire adventurer. One, a successful rancher. One, a young man who was only weeks away from meeting the love of his life.

They rode east, veering slightly south, these three hard-eyed and heavily armed men. They would continue a southerly line until reaching a trading post on the banks of the Big Sandy; a few more years and the trading post would become the town of Limon.

At the trading post, they would cut due east and hold to that all the way across Kansas. They would stay south of Hell Creek, but on their ride across Colorado, they would ford Sand Creek, an offshoot of the Republican River. They would ride across Spring Creek, Landsman, East Spring, and cross yet another Sand Creek before entering into Kansas.

Kansas was still woolly but nothing like it had been a few years back when the great cattle herds were being driven up from Texas, and outlaws and gunfighters were just about anywhere one wished to look.

But the three men rode with caution. The decade had rolled into the eighties, but there were still bands of Indians who left the reservation from time to time; still bands of outlaws that killed and robbed. And they were riding into an area of the country where men still killed other men over the bitterness of that recent unpleasantness called by some the Civil War and by others the War Between the States.

The days were warm and pleasant or hot and unpleasant as the men rode steadily eastward across the plains. But the plains were now being dotted and marred and scarred with wire. Wire put up by farmers to keep ranchers’ cattle out. Wire put up by ranchers to keep nesters out of water holes, creeks, and rivers. Ranchers who wished to breed better cattle put up wire to keep inferior breeds from mixing in and to keep prize bulls at home.

But none of the men really liked wire, even though all could see the reasons—most of the time—behind the erecting of barbed wire fences.

They did not seek out others as they rode toward the east and faraway New Hampshire. Every third or fourth day, late in the afternoon, if a town was handy, they would check into a hotel and seek out a shave and a bath. If not, they would bathe in a handy stream and go unshaven until a town dotted the vast prairie.

“Ever been to this New Hamp-shire, Louis?” York asked the gambler.

“Never have, my friend. But it is an old and very settled state. One of the original thirteen to ratify the Constitution. The first settlement—I can’t recall the name—was back in 1623. But I can assure you both, if we ride in like this, armed to the teeth and looking like buccaneers on horseback, we are,” he smiled, “going to raise some eyebrows.”

“How’s that?” York asked. “We don’t look no different than anybody else?”

Louis laughed pleasantly and knowingly. “Ah, but my young friend, we are much different from the folks you are about to meet in a few weeks. Their streets are well-lighted with gas lamps. A few might have telephones—marvelous devices. The towns you will see will be old and settled towns. No one carries a gun of any type; many villages and towns have long banned their public display except for officers of the law. And thank you, Smoke, for commissioning us; this way we can carry firearms openly.

“No, York, the world you are only days away from viewing is one that you have never seen before. Smoke, my suggestion would be that we ride the trains well into Massachusetts and then head north on horseback from our jumping-off place. I would suggest Springfield. And get ready for some very strange looks, gentlemen.”

“I’m beginnin’ not to like these folks and I ain’t even met none of ’em yet,” York groused. “Don’t tote no gun! What do they do if somebody tries to mess with ’em?”

“They are civilized people,” Louis said, with more than a touch of sarcasm in his statement. “They let the law take care of it.”

“Do tell,” York said. “In other words, they ain’t got the sand to fight their own fights?”

“That is one way of putting it, York,” the gambler said with a smile. “My, but this is going to be a stimulating and informative journey.”

Louis cantered on ahead.

“Smoke?” York asked.

“Huh?”

“What’s a telephone?”

18

“They’re in Salina,” Sally read from the wire. “Smoke, York and Louis Longmont.”

“The millionaire?” John sat straighter in his chair. “Mr. Longmont is coming east by horseback!”

Sally put eyes on her father. She loved him dearly, but sometimes he could be a pompous ass. “Father, Louis is an adventurer. He is also one of the most famous gunfighters in all the West. He’s killed a dozen men on the Continent, in duels. With sword and pistol. He’s killed—oh, I don’t know, twenty or thirty or maybe fifty men out west, with guns. He’s such a gentleman, so refined. I’ll be glad to see him again.”

John wiped his face with a handkerchief. In one breath, his daughter spoke of Louis killing fifty men. In the next breath, she spoke of him being so refined.

Not normally a profane man, John thought: What kind of goddamned people are going to be staying in my house!

Louis lay on his blankets and watched Smoke unroll a warbag from the pack animal. He laughed aloud when he saw what his friend was unpacking: a buckskin jacket, one that had been bleached a gray-white and trimmed ornately by a squaw.

“You have a touch of the theatrical in you, my friend,” Louis observed.

“I got to thinking we might as well give the folks a show. I had it stored in Denver.”

“Going to be interesting,” Louis smiled, pouring another cup of coffee and turning the venison steaks.

York returned from his bath in the creek, his trousers on but shirtless. For the first time, Smoke and Louis noticed the old bullet scars that pocked the young man’s hide.

“You’ve picked up a few here and there,” Louis noted.

“Yeah.” York slipped into his shirt. “Me and another ranger, name of McCoy, got all tangled up with some bad ones down in the Dos Cabezas mountains; I hadn’t been with the Rangers long when it happened. McCoy got hit so bad he had to retire from the business. Started him up a little general store up near Prescott. But we buried them ol’ boys where they fell. I was laid up for near’bouts a month. ’Nother time I was trackin’ a bank robber up near Carson Mesa. He ambushed me; got lead in me. But I managed to stay in the saddle and rode on up into Utah after him. I nailed him up near Vermillion Cliffs. Picked up a few other scratches here and there.”

And Louis knew then what Smoke had already learned: York was a man to ride the river with. There was no backup in the Arizona Ranger.

York looked up from the cooking steaks. “Where you plannin’ on us pickin’ up the steam cars, Smoke?”

“I’ll wire Sally from Kansas City and see how she’s doing. If she’s doin’ all right and doesn’t feel like the baby’s due any day, we’ll ride on to St. Louis and catch the train there.”

The three waited in Kansas City for two days. Sally felt fine and the baby was not due for a month. She urged him to take his time.

Smoke, York, and Louis rode out of Kansas City the next morning, riding into Missouri. It would be days later, when the trio rode into St. Louis and Smoke wired Keene, that he would learn Sally had been taken to the hospital the day after his wire from Kansas City. Sally and babies were doing fine.

“Babies!” Smoke shouted, almost scaring the telegraph operator out of his seat.

“Babies?” Louis exclaimed.

“More ’un one?” York asked.

“Boys,” the stationmaster urged, “don’t shoot no holes in the ceiling. We just got ’er fixed last month.”

They arranged bookings for their horses and themselves, and chugged out of St. Louis the next morning. It was the first time Smoke or York had ever seen a sleeping car, and both were amazed at the luxury of the dining cars and at the quality of the food that was served.

When the finger bowl was brought around, Louis had to leave his seat to keep from laughing when York rolled up his sleeves and washed his elbows in it.

“Ain’t you got no soap to go with this thing?” York asked the colored man.

The Negro rolled his eyes and looked heavenward, maintaining his composure despite the situation.

The train stopped in Ohio and the three got off to change trains. It was an overnighter, so they could exercise their horses, get their ground-legs back, and take a genuine bath in a proper tub. All were getting just a little bit gamey. The three big men, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, with their boots and spurs and western hats, twin six-shooters tied down low, drew many an anxious look from a lot of men and more than curious looks from a lot of ladies.

“Shore are a lot of fine-lookin’ gals around these parts,” York observed. “But kinda pale, don’t y’all think?”

Smoke and York stood on the shores of Lake Erie and marveled at the sight of it.

“Never seen so damn much water in all my life!” York said, undisguised awe in his voice. “And would you just look at them big boats!”

“Ships,” Louis corrected. He pointed to one flying an odd-looking flag. “That one just came down the St. Lawrence. That’s a German flag.”

“How’d it git here?” York asked.

“Across the Atlantic Ocean.”

“Lord have mercy!”

When they stomped and jingled back into the fancy hotel, a platoon of cops were waiting for them.

A captain of the police approached them, caution in his eyes and his step. “Lads, I can see that you’re U.S. Marshals, but are ye after someone in our city?”

The cop was Irish through and through. “No,” Smoke said. “But neither have we bothered anyone here.” He looked at the mass of cops and smiled. “Kinda reminds me of that time I took on ’bout twenty-five guns at that silver camp.”

“You fought twenty-five desperados all by yourself?” the captain asked.

“Yep.”

“How did it turn out?”

“I killed them all.”

“You…killed them all!”

“Yep.”

Several news reporters and one photographer had gathered around, for real cowboys and western gunslingers were rare in Cleveland.

“Might I ask your name, sir?” the captain inquired.

“Smoke Jensen.”

Pandemonium set in.

Smoke, Louis, and York were given the keys to the city. All three answered an almost endless barrage of questions and endured dozens of cameras popping and clicking at them. A hasty parade was called, and the men rode up and down the city’s streets in an open carriage.

“Goddamnedest thing I ever heard of,” York muttered. “What the hell have we done to deserve something this grand?”

“You’re an Arizona Ranger, York,” Louis leaned over and told him. “And a gunfighter, just like Smoke and myself.”

“If you say so,” York told him. “Seems like a whole bunch to do about nothin’ if you ask me.”

“Shakespeare felt the same way,” the gambler told him, smiling.

“No kiddin’? Seems to me I heard of him. Ain’t he from down around El Paso?”

They chugged east the next morning, Smoke and York glad to be out of the hustle and bustle of it all. Louis waved good-bye to a dark-haired young woman who smiled and blushed as the train moved out of the station.

Louis settled back in his seat. “Ah, boys, the freshness and vitality of youth never ceases to amaze me.”

Smoke grinned. “I noticed you left the party very early last night, Louis. She certainly is lovely.”

But Louis would only smile in reply to questions.

They rolled on through the day and night, across Pennsylvania and into New York. In New York’s massive and confusing station, they were met by a large contingent of New York’s finest and personally escorted to the train heading to Springfield, with numerous stops along the way.

“It ain’t that we don’t respect fellow officers, boys,” the commander of the police unit said. “It’s just that your reputations precede you.” He looked at Smoke. “Especially yours, son.”

“Yes,” a fresh-fashed cop said. “Were it up to me, I would insist you remove those guns.”

Smoke stopped, halting the parade. He turned to face the helmeted cop. “And if refused?…”

The young cop was not in the least intimidated. “Then I would surely have to use force, laddy.”

Louis and York joined Smoke in a knowing smile. Smoke said, “You have a pencil in your pocket, officer. I can see it. Would you jerk it out as quickly as you can?”

The older and more wiser of the cops—and that was just about all of them—backed up, with many of them holding their hands out from their sides, smiles on their faces. A half-dozen reporters had gathered around and were scribbling furiously. Photographers were taking pictures.

“So we’re going to play games, eh, gunfighter?” the young cop asked.

“No. I’m going to show you how easy it is for a loud-mouth to get killed where I come from.”

The young officer flushed, and placed his thumb and forefinger on the end of the pencil, and jerked it out.

Smoke swept back his beaded buckskin jacket, exposing his guns. He slipped the hammer-thong of his right hand .44. “Want to try it again?”

The young officer got exactly half of the pencil out of his pocket before he was looking down the muzzle of Smoke’s .44.

“Do you get my point, officer?”

“Ah…’deed, I do, sir! As one fellow officer to another, might I say, sir, that you are awfully quick with that weapon.”

Smoke holstered. It was unlike him to play games with weapons, but he felt he might have saved the young man’s life with an object lesson. He held out his hand, and the cop smiled and shook it.

The rest of the walk to their car was an easy one, with chatter among men who found they all had something in common after all.

It was growing late when they finally detrained in Springfield. They stabled their horses and found a small hotel for the night.

The weeks on the road had honed away any city fat that might have built up on Louis and had burned his already dark complexion to that of a gypsy. They were big men, all over six feet, with a natural heavy musculature; they were the kind of men that bring out the hostility in a certain type of man, usually the bully.

And with the knowledge that Sally and the babies—twins, Smoke had discovered when he wired during a train refueling stop—were now in danger, none of the men were in any mood for taking any lip from some loudmouth.

They elected to have their supper in the hotel’s dining room to further avoid any trouble. As had been their custom, they wore their guns, and to hell with local laws. None of them knew when they might run into Davidson or Dagget or their ilk.

Louis had bought York a couple of suits in St. Louis, and Smoke had brought a suit with him. Longmont was never without a proper change of clothes; if he didn’t have one handy, he would buy one.

When the men entered the dining room, conversation ceased and all eyes were on them as they walked to their table, led by a very nervous waiter. With their spurs jingling and their guns tied down low, all three managed to look as out of place as a saddle on a tiger.

The three of them ignored several comments from some so-called “gentlemen”—comments that might have led to a fight anywhere west of the Mississippi—and were seated without incident.

Louis frowned at the rather skimpy selections on the menu, sighed, and decided to order a steak. The others did the same.

“Sorry we don’t have no buffalo here for you range-riders,” a man blurted from the table next to them. His friend laughed, and the women with them, hennaed and painted up and half drunk, also thought fat boy’s comments to be hysterically amusing.

Louis ignored the man, as did Smoke and York. “A drink before ordering, gentlemen?” a waiter magically appeared.

“I’m sure they’ll want rye, George,” the fat boy blurted. “That’s what I read that all cowboys drink. Before they take their semi-yearly bath, that is.”

His table erupted with laughter.

“I could move you to another table, gentlemen,” the waiter suggested. “That”—he cut his eyes to the man seated with fat boy and the woman—“is Bull Everton.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to us?” Smoke asked.

“He’s quite the bully,” the waiter whispered, leaning close. “He’s never been whipped.”

“That he’s admitted,” Louis commented dryly. “If he can’t fight any better than he can choose women, he must have never fought a man.”

Smoke and York both laughed at that.

“We’ll have Scotch,” Louis ordered.

“Yes, sir,” The waiter was glad to get away from the scene of what he presumed would soon be disaster for the western men.

“You take them damn guns off,” the voice rumbled to the men, “and I’ll show you what a real man can do.”

Smoke lifted his eyes to the source of the voice. Bull Everton. He surveyed the man. Even sitting, Smoke could see that the man was massive, with heavy shoulders and huge wrists and hands. But that old wildness sprang up within Smoke. Smoke had never liked a bully. He smiled at the scowling hulk.

“I’ll take them off anytime you’re ready, donkey-face,” he threw down the challenge and insult.

Bull stood up and he was big. “How about right now, cowboy? Outside.”

“Suits me, tub-butt.” Smoke stood up and unbuckled and utied, handing his guns to a waiter.

The waiter looked as though he’d just been handed a pair of rattlesnakes.

“Where is this brief contest to take place?” Louis asked Bull.

“Brief, is right,” Bull laughed. “Out back of the hotel will do.”

“After you,” Smoke told him.

When the back door closed and Bull turned around, Smoke hit him flush in the mouth with a hard right and followed that with a vicious left to the wind. Before Bull could gather his senses, Smoke had hit him two more times, once to the nose and another hook to the body.

With blood dripping from his lips and nose, Bull hollered and charged. Smoke tripped him and hit him once on the way down, then kicked him in the stomach while he was down.

Smoke was only dimly aware of the small crowd that had gathered, several of the spectators dressed in the blue uniform of police officers. He did not hear one of the cops say to Louis, “I’ve been waiting to see Everton get his due for a long time, boys. Don’t worry. There will be no interference from us.”

Smoke backed up and allowed Bull to crawl to his feet. There was a light of fury and panic in the man’s eyes.

Bull lifted his hands in the classic boxer’s stance: left fist held almost straight out, right fist close to his jaw.

Smoke whirled and kicked the bully on his knee. Bull screamed in pain and Smoke hit him a combination of blows, to the belly, the face, the kidneys. Smoke trip-hammered his fists, brutalizing the bigger man, knocking him down, hauling him back up, and knocking him down again.

Bull grabbed Smoke’s knees and brought him down to the dirt of the alley. Pulling one leg free, Smoke savagely kicked the bully in the face. Teeth flew, glistening in the night.

Smoke pulled Bull to his feet and leaned him up against the rear wall, then went to work on the man’s belly and sides. Only after he had felt and heard several ribs break did he let the man fall unconscious to the ground.

“Drag Bull to the paddy wagon, boys,” the cop in charge ordered. “We’ll take him to the hospital. I can tell by looking that his jaw is broken, and I’ll wager half a dozen ribs are broken as well.” He looked at Smoke. “You don’t even look angry, young man.”

“I’m not,” Smoke told him.

“Lord suffer us all!” the officer said. “What would you have done had you been angry?”

“Killed him.”

“I’d not like to get on the wrong side of the road with you, young man. But I would like to know your name.”

“Smoke Jensen.”

The crowd gasped and the cop smiled grimly. “Are you as good with your guns as you are with your dukes, me boy?”

“Better.”

Louis handed Smoke a towel and held his coat while his friend wiped his face and hands. York had stood to one side, his coat brushed back, freeing the butts of his .44s.

And the cops had noticed that, too.

The cop looked at all three of the men. “You boys are here for a reason. I’m not asking why, for you’re officers of the law, and federal officers at that. But I’d not like to see any trouble in this town.”

“There won’t be,” Smoke said, raising up from a rain barrel where he had washed his face and hands. “We’ll be leaving at first light.”

“You wouldn’t mind if I stopped by the stable to see you off, would you now?”

“Not a bit,” Smoke said, smiling.

The waiter stuck his head out the back door. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’ve freshened your drinks. The management has instructed me to tell you that your dinners are on the house this evening.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Smoke told him. “I assure you, we have ample funds.”

The waiter smiled. “Gentlemen, Bull Everton will not be returning to this establishment for quite some time, thanks to you. And,” he grinned hugely, “if it isn’t worth a free meal to get rid of a big pain in the ass, nothing is!”

19

The men were in the saddle and moving out before first light; they would take their breakfast at the first inn they came to once outside of Springfield. It was cold in the darkness before dawn, with more than a hint of fall in the air, and it was going to be a beautiful day for traveling.

The road followed the Connecticut River. The men stayed on the east side of the river, knowing they would have to veer off toward the northeast once inside New Hampshire.

All were taken in by the beauty of the state. Although the leaves were turning as fall approached, the lushness of nature was a beautiful thing to see. As they traveled, the road was bordered by red spruce, red oak, white pine, sugar maple, yellow birch, and white birch.

“It’s shore purty,” York observed, his eyes taking in the stone fences that surrounded the neat fields and farms. “I can’t rightly describe the way I feel about this place. It’s, well—” He paused and shook his head.

“Civilized,” Louis finished it.

“I reckon that’s it, Louis. The only gun I’ve seen all day is the ones we’re totin’. Gives me sort of a funny feelin’.”

“Bear in mind,” Louis sobered them all, “that all that will change with the arrival of Davidson and his thugs.”

By mid-afternoon, the schools out for the day, boys and girls began to appear by the fences and roadways, staring in mute fascination as the cowboys rode slowly by. Smoke and Louis and York all smiled and waved at the young people, and just to give the kids something to talk about and remember, they swept back their jackets, exposing the butts of their guns for the kids’ wide eyes.

And the children loved it.

They could have easily made the distance to Keene by nightfall but decided to break it off at the inn on the New Hampshire/Massachusetts line. The innkeeper was a bit startled as the three jingled into his establishment.

“Innkeeper,” Louis said, “rooms for three, if you please. And we’ll stable our own horses.”

“Yes…sir,” the man said. “Right around back. You’ll see the corn bin.”

“And warn people to stay away from our horses,” Smoke told him. “Anybody gets into Drifter’s stall he’ll kill them.”

“Sir!”

“That’s what he did to the last man who owned him.”

“Yes, sir! I will so advise any locals.”

The man and his wife and the girls who worked in the tavern and dining room were having a hard time keeping their eyes off the twin guns belted around each man’s lean waist.

“We’ll freshen up a bit and then come down for a drink at the bar,” Louis told the man and woman.

Louis, York, and Smoke waited.

The man and woman and hired help contined to stare at the three tall men. No one seemed able to move.

Louis rapped gently on the desk. “The keys, please?”

The man came alive. “Oh! Yes! Here you are, gentlemen.”

Smoke smiled at the lady behind the desk. “We don’t bite, ma’am. I promise you we don’t.”

His smile broke the barriers between old, settled, and established codes and those who came from the freewheeling western part of the nation. She returned his smile and glanced down at the register.

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Jensen! Smoke Jensen?”

And once more, pandemonium reigned.

The trio crossed into New Hampshire at first light, having paid their bill and slipped out quietly before dawn.

York was dressed in jeans, a red and white checkered shirt, and a leather waist-length jacket. Louis dressed in a dark suit, a white shirt with black string tie, highly polished black boots, and a white duster over his clothing to keep away the dust. Smoke was dressed in dark jeans, a black shirt, a red bandana, and his beaded buckskin jacket. All wore western hats. Only York and Smoke’s big bowie knives could be seen; Louis’s duster covered his own knife.

About ten miles inside New Hampshire, they picked up the Ashuelot River and followed that toward Keene. Some fifteen miles later, the outskirts of the town came into view.

The men reined up, dismounted, and knocked the dust from their clothing. Louis, loving every minute of it, removed his linen duster and tied it behind his saddle. A farmer came rattling along in a wagon, stopped, and sat his seat, staring at the heavily armed trio.

“The Reynolds house,” Smoke said, walking to the man. “How do we find it?”

The man sat his wagon seat and stared, openmouthed.

“Sir?” Smoke asked. “Are you all right?”

“It’s really you,” the farmer said, awe in his voice. “I been readin’ ’bout you for years. Knew you by your picture.”

“Thank you. I’m glad to meet you, too. Could you direct us to the Reynolds house?”

“Oh…sure! That’s easy. Cross the bridge and go three blocks. Turn right. Two blocks down they’s a big white two-story house on the corner. You can’t miss it. Wait’ll I tell my wife I seen Smoke Jensen!” He clucked to his team and rattled on.

“What day is this?” York asked. “I’m havin’ the damndest time keepin’ track of things.”

“Saturday,” Louis told them. “Smoke, do we inform the local authorities as to why we are here?”

“I think not. If we did that, they’d want to handle it the legal way. With trials and lawyers and the such. We’d be tied up here for months. So let’s keep it close to the vest and wait until Davidson makes his play. Then we’ll handle it our way.”

“Sounds good to me,” York said. He swung into the saddle.

Smoke and Louis mounted up.

They cantered across the wooden bridge, three big men riding big western horses. They slowed to a walk on the other side of the street. People began coming out of houses to stand and stare at the men as they rode slowly by. Little children stood openmouthed; for all, it was the first time they had ever seen a real western cowboy, much less three real gunslingers like they’d been reading about in the penny dreadfuls and the tabloids.

Louis tipped his hat to a group of ladies, and they simpered and giggled and twirled their parasols and batted their eyes.

A little boy spotted them as they turned the street corner, and he took off like the hounds of hell were nipping at his feet.

“Aunt Sally! Aunt Sally!” he hollered. “They’re here, Aunt Sally!”

He ran up the steps of the huge house and darted inside.

The front porch filled with people, all staring at the three horsemen walking their mounts slowly up the street.

“Your relatives, Smoke,” Louis said. “Looks like quite a gathering.”

“I am not looking forward to this, Louis,” Smoke admitted. “I just want to get this over with, see Davidson and his bunch dead in the streets, and take Sally and the babies and get the hell back to the Sugarloaf.”

“You’ll survive it,” the gambler said. “I assure you, my friend. But I feel it will be somewhat trying for the lot of us.”

And then Sally stepped out onto the porch to join her family. Smoke felt he had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life. She stood by an older man that Smoke guessed was her father.

The entire neighborhood had left their houses and were standing in their front yards, gawking at the gunslingers.

“Smoke Jensen!” a teenager said, the words reaching Smoke. “He’s killed a thousand men with those guns. Bet he took that coat off an Indian after he killed him.”

Smoke grimaced and cut his eyes at Louis. The gambler said, “I feel awed to be in the presence of someone so famous.” Then he smiled. “A thousand men, eh? My how your reputation has grown in such a short time.”

Smoke shook his head and could not help but smile.

John Reynolds said, “That horse he’s riding looks like it came straight out of the pits of hell!”

“That’s Drifter,” Sally told him. “He’s a killer horse. Killed the last man who tried to own him.”

John looked at his daughter. “Are you serious?”

“Oh, yes. But he’s really quite gentle once he gets to know you. I was baking pies one afternoon and he stuck his head into the kitchen and ate a whole pie before I realized it. I picked up a broom and spanked him.”

“You…spanked him,” John managed to say. He muttered under his breath and Sally laughed at his expression.

The riders turned and reined up, dismounting at the hitchrail. Sally stepped off the porch and walked toward the picket fence, a smile on her lips.

Smoke stood by the gate and stared at her, not trusting his voice to speak.

“You’ve lost weight,” Sally said.

“I’ve been missing your cooking.”

He opened the gate.

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Is that all you’ve been missing?” She spoke low, so her words reached only his ears.

Smoke stepped through the open gate, his spurs jingling. He stopped a few feet from her. “Well, let’s see. I reckon I might have missed you just a tad.”

And then she was in his arms, loving the strong feel of him. Her tears wet his face as she lifted her lips to his.

York lifted his hat and let out a war whoop.

Walter Reynolds swallowed his snuff.

20

“Should you be out of bed this soon?” Smoke asked his wife.

“Oh, the doctors tried to get me to stay in bed much longer, but since I didn’t have the time to get to the city to have the babies, and they came so easily, I left the bed much earlier than most, I imagine.”

“I keep forgetting how tough you are.” Smoke smiled across the twin cradles at her.

“Have you thought about names, Smoke?”

“Uh…no, I really haven’t. I figured you’d have them named by now.”

“I have thought of a couple.”

“Oh?”

“How about Louis Arthur and Denise Nicole?”

Louis for Louis Longmont. Arthur for Old Preacher. And Nicole for Smoke’s first wife, who was murdered by outlaws, and their baby son, Arthur, who was also killed. Denise was an old family name on the Reynolds side.

“You don’t object to naming the girl after Nicole?”

“No,” Sally said with a smile. “You know I don’t.”

“Louis will be pleased.”

“I thought so.”

Smoke looked at the sleeping babies. “Are they ever going to wake up?”

She laughed softly. “Don’t worry. You’ll know when they wake. Come on. Let’s go back and join the rest of the family.”

Smoke looked around for Louis and York. John caught his eye. “I tried to get them to stay. I insisted, told them we had plenty of room. But Mr. Longmont said he felt it would be best if they stayed at the local hotel. Did we offend them, Son?”

Smoke shook his head as the family gathered around. “No. We’re here on some business as well as to get Sally. It would be best if we split up. I’ll explain.”

John looked relieved. “I was so afraid we had somehow inadvertently offended Mr. Longmont.”

John Reynolds stared at Smoke as his son-in-law laughed out loud. “Hell, John. Louis just wanted to find a good poker game, that’s all!”

It was after lunch, and the family was sitting on the front porch. Smoke had not removed his guns and had no intention of doing so.

And it was not just the young people who stared at him with a sort of morbid fascination.

“Tell me about Dead River,” Sally spoke. She glanced at her nieces and nephews. “You, scoot! There’ll be a lot of times to talk to your Uncle Smoke.”

The kids reluctantly left the porch.

Smoke shaped and rolled and licked and lit. He leaned back in his chair and propped his boots up on the porch railing. “Got kind of antsy there for the last day or two before we opened the dance.”

“You went to a dance?” Betsy asked.

Smoke cut his eyes. “Opening the dance means I started the lead flying, Betsy.”

“Oh!” Her eyes were wide.

“You mean as soon as you told the hooligans to surrender, they opened fire?” Jordan inquired.

Smoke cut his eyes to him. “No,” he drawled. “It means that me and York come in the back way of the saloon, hauled iron, and put about half a dozen of them on the floor before the others knew what was happening.” It wasn’t really accurate, but big deal.

“We don’t operate that way in the East,” Walter said, a note of disdain in his voice.

“I reckon not. But the only thing Dead River was east of was Hell. And anybody who thinks they can put out the fires of Hell with kindness and conversation is a damn fool. And fools don’t last long in the wilderness.”

John verbally stepped in before his son found himself slapped on his butt out in the front yard. “A young lady named Martha will be along presently. She had some foolish notion of traveling back west with you and Sally. She wants to teach school out there.”

“Fine with me.” He looked at Sally. “Has she got the sand and the grit to make it out there?”

“Yes. I believe she does.”

“Tell her to start packing.”

“But don’t you first have to get the permission of the school board?” Jordan asked.

“Ain’t got none,” Smoke slipped back into the loose speech of the western man. “Don’t know what that is, anyways.”

Sally laughed, knowing he was deliberately using bad grammar.

And cutting her eyes to her mother, she knew that Abigal did, too.

But her father appeared lost as a goose.

And so did her brothers.

“Well, sir,” Jordan began to explain. “A school board is a body of officials who—”

“—sit around and cackle like a bunch of layin’ hens and don’t accomplish a damn thing that’s for the good of the kids,” Smoke finished it.

Abigal smiled and minutely nodded her head in agreement.

With a sigh, Jordan shut his mouth.

Smoke looked at him. “Are you a lawyer?”

“Why, yes, I am.”

“Thought so.”

“Do I detect a note of disapproval in your voice, Son?” John asked.

“Might be some in there. I never found much use for lawyers. The ones I knowed, for the most part, just wasn’t real nice people.”

“Would you care to elaborate on that?” Walter stuck out his chin. What there was of it to stick out.

Smoke took a sip of coffee poured from the freshly made pot. Made by Sally and drinkable only by Smoke. Jordan said it was so strong it made his stomach hurt. Walter poured half a pitcher of cream in his, and John took one look at the dark brew and refused altogether.

“I reckon I might,” Smoke replied. But first he rolled another cigarette. “Man chooses a life of crime, he does that deliberate. It’s his choice. Hell with him. You ladies pardon my language. On the other side of the coin, a man breaks into another house and starts stealing things, the homeowner shoots him dead, and they’ll be those in your profession who’ll want to put the property-owner in jail. It don’t make any sense. And now, so I read and hear, you folks are beginning to say that some criminals was drove to it, and the courts ought to take into consideration about how poor they was. Poor!” he laughed. “I was a man grown at thirteen; doing a man’s work and going to school and looking after my sick mother, all at once. My daddy was off fighting in the war—for the gray,” he added proudly. “Not that he believed in slaves, because he didn’t. War wasn’t fought over slaves nohow.

“We didn’t have any money. Tied the soles of our shoes on with rawhide. Ate rabbit stew with wild onions for flavor. Shot them when we had the ammunition; trapped them and chunked rocks at them when we didn’t.

“Or didn’t eat at all,” he added grimly. “But I never stole a thing in my life. Some of our neighbors had more than they needed; but I didn’t envy them for it, and if I caught myself covetin’ what they had, I felt ashamed.

“Y’all got a big fine house here, and I ’spect you all got lots of money. But how many times have you turned a begger-man away from your back door without givin’ him a bite to eat? That don’t happen often out where me and Sally live. If that man is able, we hand him an axe and tell him to chop some wood, then we’ll feed him. If he ain’t able, we’ll feed him and see to his needs. There ain’t no need to talk on it a whole lot more. Y’all know what I’m talkin’ about. But if I find somebody tryin’ to steal from me, I’m gonna shoot him dead.”

Smoke stood up. “I’m gonna take me a ride around your pretty town.” He looked down at John. “We’ll talk after supper.”

He stepped off the porch and around the stables, his spurs jingling.

John smiled, then he laughed. “I like your man Smoke, Sally. I didn’t think I would, but I do. Even though, or perhaps because, he is a man of conviction.”

“And is more than willing, just anytime at all, to back up those convictions, Father.”

“Yes,” John’s words were dryly given. “I just bet he is.”

“That’s the way it shapes up, John Reynolds,” Smoke finished telling his father-in-law.

The men were in the study, the door closed. Sally was the only woman present. Her brothers had not been included in the discussion. It was after dinner, and the men had smoked their cigars and had their brandy.

John looked at York; the young Arizona Ranger met his gaze without flinching. He looked at Louis Longmont; the man was handling a rare book from John’s library, obviously enjoying and appreciating the feel of the fine leather. There was no doubt in John’s mind that the gambler had read it.

He cut his eyes to his son-in-law. “Of course you are going to inform our local police department of this?”

“No.”

“But you must!”

“No, I must not. I don’t want these men tried in some damn eastern court of law and have them serve five to ten years and then walk scot-free. And you know far better than I that is exactly what would happen, John.”

“Then what do you propose to do, Son?”

“I propose to notify your local police when we see them ride into town. Louis has alerted people along the way, people who work both sides of the law. Davidson is not going to ride all the way here from Colorado. Neither is Bothwell or Rycroft or Brute or any of the others. They’ll be coming in on trains, one by one, and pick up horses as close to here as possible. I got a hunch they’re going to try to tree this town.”

“Tree?”

“Hold it hostage. You can’t do that to a western town; folks there would shoot you so full of holes your mother wouldn’t recognize you. But an eastern town is different. You don’t have a loaded gun in this house and damn few others do, either. But I am about to correct that little problem.”

“How?” John asked, seemingly stunned by the news.

“I gave York some money this afternoon. He rode over to Brattleboro and picked up some weapons.”

“You are going to arm the boys and me?”

“No.” Smoked dashed that. “I’m going to arm Sally.”

Her father looked crestfallen.

“John,” Louis asked. “have you ever killed a man?”

“What? Why…no.”

“Any of your sons ever used a gun in anger?”

“Ah…no.”

“That’s why we’re not arming you, John,” Smoke told him. “It isn’t that we don’t believe you’re one hundred percent man. It’s just that you’d be out of your element. You, and ninety percent of the people in this town. Oh, a lot of men in this town fought in the War Between the States and were heroes, I’m sure. But that was war, John. I’d be very surprised if one of them could ambush a man and shoot him in cold blood.”

“Yes,” the lawyer agreed. “So would I.”

“There you have it, Mr. Reynolds,” York said. “You’d be thinkin’ about them bein’ human bein’s and all that. Well, these people ain’t worth a cup of puke.”

“How quaintly put,” John muttered. “And you have other officers coming in to assist you, right?

“What for?” Smoke asked.

“Well, how many outlaws will there be?”

“Oh…probably twenty or so. We’ll handle it.”