This Violent Land (20 page)

Janey smiled. “That's good to know.”

What Janey didn't say out loud was that if everything fell apart in Bury, and she had a feeling that might happen sooner, rather than later, she could always come back.

 

“B
oys, I have found the answer to our problem,” Richards told the other two members of his alliance as they sat in chairs, smoking cigars and drinking whiskey.

“What is it?” Stratton asked.

“In order to stop someone who is good and fast with a gun, we need to find someone who is better and faster.”

“And you've found someone who is better than Smoke Jensen?” Potter's tone indicated his skepticism.

Richards smiled. “Yeah.”

“Who?” Stratton wanted to know.

“Clell Dawson.”

“Clell Dawson?” Stratton repeated. He and Potter looked at each other, then Stratton went on. “Yes, if there's anyone who could beat Jensen, it would be Dawson. But from what I've heard, he's pretty particular about how he hires out his gun.”

“That's the beauty of it. We won't be hiring him. He'll be taking care of business for us without even knowing that's what he's doing.”

“Josh, I don't know what you have in mind, but I sure hope it works,” Potter said.

“Oh, it will work all right. Believe me, it will work. And we won't be bothered by the likes of Smoke Jensen, ever again.”

Richards put his cigar in his mouth, clamped his teeth down on it, and smiled.

 

 

 

For the first two weeks after Smoke returned, nothing of any significance happened. Then he was called into Marshal Holloway's office for a new assignment.

“I've got a request here from the sheriff up in Summit County. There have been a series of incidents up there over the last eighteen months, and the sheriff says he needs help. By any chance, do you know Sheriff Jesse Hector?”

“No. Why do you ask? Should I know him?”

“I can't say as you should. But he knows you. At least, he asked for you by name.”

Smoke smiled. “Well, if someone asks for me by name, I can't very well turn them down now, can I? Summit County, you say?”

“Yes, in Breckenridge. Miss Wilson will show you on the map where it is.”

Smoke went back into the outer office and found Miss Wilson waiting for him with a map spread out on her desk. As Smoke stood beside her, she used a slender finger to indicate a spot on the map.

“That looks like a good long ride,” Smoke said as she pointed out the location to him.

“No need for you to ride.” She briskly rolled up the map and put it back in a case. “There is train service to Breckenridge. I'll arrange for your rail fare.”

“I don't mind riding. I've got a good horse and a soft saddle.”

“A soft saddle? Why, I've never heard of such a thing.”

Smoke laughed.

“You shouldn't make fun of a helpless lady like that,” Miss Wilson teased.

“A lady you are, Miss Wilson. But helpless you are not.”

* * *

The building stood alone on a country road. It had started out as a general store, but because it was the only establishment of trade in that part of the county, its business grew.

As business improved, the building began to expand. One section was added to accommodate a blacksmith shop, the saloon occupied another extension, while a second-story addition provided a hotel. The finished project reflected its hodgepodge origins, the construction spreading out in erratic styles of architecture, mismatched types of wood, and varying shades of paint.

Smoke stood for a moment just inside the door, studying the layout. To his left was a bar. In front of him were four tables; to the right, a potbellied stove, sitting in a box of sand. The stove was cold, but the stale, acrid smell of last winter's smoke still hung in the air.

One man was behind the bar; a customer was in front. Several men sat at a table. A woman was at the back of the room, standing by an upright harpsichord. Her heavily painted face advertised her trade, and she smiled provocatively at Smoke, trying to interest him in the pleasures she had to offer.

Smoke stepped up to the bar.

“You're new in Pin Hook, ain't you?” the bartender asked, wiping the bar in front of him with a soiled rag.

“Pin Hook?”

“This here town is called Pin Hook,” the bartender said. “Or it will be when a few more buildin's get built. As you can see, we got us a start.”

Smoke chuckled. “Looks like a pretty good start, too. Tell me, do you serve food here?”

“We sure do. Mabel's cooked up a stew today that's not half bad, if I do say so myself. But bein' as Mabel is my wife, I prob'ly ought not to brag so.”

“Well, I'll have a bowl and see for myself,” Smoke said with a smile.

A short while later, Smoke was enjoying his stew, which actually was quite good, as he listened to the conversation being carried on by the four men at a nearby table.

“They say he rode into town with the reins of his horse clenched betwixt his teeth, and blazin' pistols in each hand, and he kilt thirty-five men without gettin' a scratch on 'im.”

“Fifty, I heard, but you're wrong 'bout him not gettin' a scratch on 'im. He kilt the last one, just as that feller kilt him.”

“I don't believe Smoke Jensen is dead. No, sir, not for a minute of it,” the third said. “And I don't believe he kilt all that many people like you said he done, neither. Maybe ten or twelve. We prob'ly ain't never gonna know. I mean the way stories like that get told and then they get told again, and somethin' gets added with ever' tellin'.”

“Legends, they call them,” one said.

“What's that?” asked another.

“Legends. Like Robin Hood is a legend. He never actually existed.”

“Look here. Are you atryin' to tell us that there ain't no Smoke Jensen?”

“No, I'm not trying to tell you that. I am merely pointing out that once so many different stories get told about the same thing, then they move into the field of legends. Maybe a better way of explaining it is to compare them to tall tales.”

“Yeah, well, I heard he kilt fifty of 'em, and that ain't no tall tale.”

Smoke smiled at the overheard conversation, then, finishing his meal, he stepped up to the bar to pay for it. “You tell your wife that her stew was quite tasty.”

“Yes, sir, I'll do that. And who shall I tell her was the gentleman who expressed his appreciation?”

“Jensen. Smoke Jensen.” Turning toward the four men at the table who only a few moments earlier had been talking about him, he threw them a little wave.

All four looked back, their mouths open in wordless shock.

 

 

 

It was just after dark several days later when Smoke approached the town. From the small houses on the outskirts, dim lights flickered through shuttered windows. The kitchens of the houses emitted enticing smells of suppers being cooked.

A dog barked, a ribbony yap that was silenced by a kick or a thrown rock. A baby cried, and a housewife raised her voice in one of the houses, loudly enough to share her anger with anyone who might be within earshot.

The middle of town was a contrast of dark and light. Commercial buildings such as stores and offices were closed and dark, but the saloons were brightly lit, splashing pools of light out into the dirt street. As Smoke rode down the road, he passed in and out of those pools of light so that to anyone watching, he would be seen, then unseen, then seen again. The footfalls of his horse made a hollow clumping sound, echoing back from the false-fronted buildings as he passed them.

By the time he reached the center of town, the night was alive with a cacophony of sound—music from a tinny piano, a strumming guitar, and an off-key vocalist. He gave a passing thought to stopping in one of the saloons, but he was tired from the long ride, so he reined up in front of the hotel and went inside.

“You are Deputy Jensen?” the desk clerk asked as Smoke signed the register.

“Yes.”

“Sheriff Hector left this message for you, sir.”

“Thanks.” Smoke unfolded the paper. The message was printed in capital letters.

 

DEPUTY, PLEASE MEET ME FOR
BREAKFAST TOMORROW MORNING AT
SUZIE'S CAFÉ.

 

“Can you board my horse?” Smoke asked, looking up from the note.

The clerk nodded. “Yes, sir, I can do that for you.”

“Thanks. And do you have bathing facilities in this hotel?”

“Yes, sir, we do. They're located at the end of the hallway.”

Forty-five minutes later, with Seven comfortably boarded and the trail dust washed away, Smoke, refreshed by his bath, went to bed.

From the saloon next door, he could hear through the open window the deep guffaws of men interspersed with the occasional high-pitched laughter of women. Hollow hoofbeats echoed from a horse that was being ridden up the street, and he heard the mournful wail of a coyote just outside of town.

Gradually the sounds subsided and one by one the lights across the town were extinguished until at last it lay as a cluster of dark buildings, visible only because of the silver wash of the three-quarter moon.

In the hotel room, Smoke gasped and sat up, reaching for his gun in the gun belt he had coiled and placed on a chair beside the bed where it would be handy. As he closed his hand around the Colt, he stared at the figure standing beside the bed.

“Pa?” he whispered, surprised to see his father.

But how could that be true? His pa was dead.

A different voice said, “Bye, son. Bye. Write to your ma and me.”

“Giddyup!” The shout to the team was augmented by the loud pop of a whip, then the creak and rumble of a stagecoach pulling away.

“Bye!” others called.

The sounds associated with the departing stagecoach were floating up from the street as Smoke woke up with a jolt and opened his eyes. A bright splash of sunlight spilled through the open window, showing a wall covered with paper so faded that the original pattern and color was indistinguishable. A soft breeze filled the muslin curtains and lifted them out over the wide, unpainted plank floor.

“A dream,” Smoke said. The calls of good-bye had been incorporated into his dream. It had seemed so real, he was sure he had been talking to his pa.

As a general rule, Smoke awakened with first light, but the long hard ride of the day before had left him tired, and he had slept harder than usual.

He stepped into Suzie's Café a short while later and was met by Sheriff Hector and two other men.

“Deputy Jensen?” the sheriff asked.

“That's right,” Smoke said with a nod.

“I'm Sheriff Hector, this is Dan Adams, the prosecuting attorney, and this is His Honor, Judge Drew Martin. I've invited them to have breakfast with us because this concerns the entire community. Gentlemen, this is Smoke Jensen. He's a deputy for Marshal Holloway down in Denver.”

“I've heard about you, young man,” Judge Martin said as they were seated. “You have been making quite a name for yourself. Especially that business on the Uncompahgre.”

“How many men did you kill? Twenty? Thirty?” the prosecutor asked. “You must be some kind of one-man army to go after so many men all by yourself.”

“Actually, I had no idea there were so many,” Smoke replied. “I only wanted to bring two men in to face murder charges. The rest of it just sort of happened.”

“Still, it was quite a prodigious effort on your part,” Judge Martin said. “And, as it turned out, many of them were wanted men, so you not only avenged the despicable murder of your wife, you also served the cause of justice. That has made you famous throughout the West.”

“It was never my intention to be famous, Your Honor. I just wanted justice for Nicole and my boy.”

Sheriff Hector nodded. “Understandable. Indeed, that is exactly why we have asked you here.”

Before he could continue, they were approached by a woman carrying a small tablet and a pencil. “What can I get for you gentlemen this morning?”

“Suzie, give the deputy anything he wants for breakfast,” Sheriff Hector said, pointing to Smoke. “The county will be paying for it.” He looked to the judge and the prosecutor. When they nodded, he added, “We'll just have our usual.”

Suzie was a heavyset woman, and she stuck out her bottom lip, then blew a stream of air up toward a displaced strand of blond hair. “What will it be, Deputy?”

“Do you have any pancakes?”

“Yes, sir, I have pancakes.”

“I'll take half a dozen pancakes, a couple fried eggs, about eight pieces of bacon, a couple biscuits, and a side of gravy. And maybe some fried potatoes.”