This Violent Land (24 page)

F
rom the
Bury Bulletin:
the

 

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

“What is it?” Potter asked.

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

“How do you know he's still alive?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Richards frowned. “What?”

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

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

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

 

 

 

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

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

 

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

“Including Buck West,” Smoke said.

“Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

“They who?” Smoke asked.

“The sheriff up in Bury.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The good stuff,” he told the bartender.

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

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

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

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

“That's the way you rode in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The game went on.

“A
ny of you other boys have an argument with me?” Smoke asked as the men at the table resumed playing.

No one responded to his offer.

“This man have a name?”

“Luke,” one of the men said without looking up from the cards in his hand.

Smoke frowned. “Just Luke?”

“That's the only name any of us ever heard.”

“Damn. It'll be hard collectin' a bounty on him if nobody knows his last name.”

Finally, the speaker looked up at Smoke. “What makes you think he's got a price on his head?”

“His kind always do.”

Curious, the cardplayer asked, “What's your name?”

“West. Buck West.”

“You a bounty hunter, West?”

Smoke grinned a crooked grin. “Now just what gave me away,” he asked sarcastically.

“What are you doin' this far away?”

“This far away from what?” Smoke asked.

“Everything. Hell, it's so far away we don't hardly get nobody to come around, not even outlaws.”

“There's one up here, I reckon. I've been tracking that damn Smoke Jensen for a while now, and near as I can figure, he's most likely around here somewhere.”

“That's funny. We been trackin' 'im, too. I would ask if you want some company, but you look like you ride alone.”

“That's right.”

Smoke looked at the dead gunman's body. His eyes were still open but had turned opaque. His mouth was open, as well.

Smoke made a motion toward him. “None of you feel like you need to avenge your friend here, do you? 'Cause you seem like a nice bunch of fellas, and I'd hate to kill any more of you.”

“He warn't our friend. He was just someone we met up with out on the trail a week or so ago.”

“Good. I reckon I'll be goin' now.” Smoke turned and left the saloon.

The men watched as he rode away, ramrod straight in the saddle.

“That young feller is faster than greased lightning,” one of them said.

“I think Potter needs to know about this man,” another said. “I think I'll take me a ride later on. But I want to let that West feller get good and gone.”

Later that same afternoon, a stranger rode up to the trading post and walked inside. He cradled a Henry repeating rifle in the crook of his left arm. “I seen they was a fresh grave out back,” he said to the barkeep. “Friend of yours?”

“No friend o' mine . . . or anybody else, near as I can figure.”

“A man ought to have some kind of a marker though, don't you think?”

“I'll get around to it one of these days. Maybe. Luke was what they called him.”

“Better than nothing,” Preacher replied, grateful that it wasn't Smoke's grave. He didn't really expect it to be, but validation was always good. “I don't reckon he died of natural causes?”

“Not likely. You want to talk all day or buy a drink of whiskey?”

The old man tossed some change on the wide rough board bar. “Will that buy me a jug?”

“I reckon it will.” The bartender put a jug of rotgut on the counter. “No, sir, this fella Luke fancied hisself a gunhand, but I guess he run up against somebody a lot faster than he was. A feller by the name of Buck West. Funny that I never heard of him, bein' that fast. But I expect people will be a knowin' him afore too long. Says he's a bounty hunter. I know this. He's one bad hombre to mess with.”

“Fast, is he?”

“He was so fast you couldn't even see him draw. Ol' Luke didn't much more than touch the butt of his pistol when lead hit him in the center of his chest. He was dead before he hit the ground.”

The old man smiled. He knew only one man that fast.

“Say, ain't I seen you before?” the bartender asked. “You're a mountain man, ain't you? Ain't so many of you ol' boys left.”

“Not me, partner. I'm retired from the East. I came out here to pass my golden years amid the peace and quiet of these here beautiful mountains.”

The bartender laughed. “And you're just as full of bull now as you was forty years ago, you old goat!”

The old man laughed. “Well, you just keep that information inside that head of yours and off your tongue. You do that and I won't tell nobody I know where old Jay Kelly retired to. You still got money on your head?”

“Yeah, but don't nobody aroun' here know that. I heard you got kilt. Heard you was shot all to hell and back, and crossed over the Great Divide.”

“Part of it's true,” Preacher said. “I did get shot up pretty bad and figured I was about to die, but a couple friends of mine managed to pull me through.”

“Yeah, well, I'm glad to see you're still around, Preacher.”

The old man nodded, picked up his jug of whiskey, and rode off.

* * *

Smoke followed the Big Lost River north, pushing hard to put as many miles as possible between himself and the trading post. He had a hunch that the cardplayers would be heading for Bury. They were bounty hunters, had even offered to let him join up with them in their quest for the thirty thousand dollars being offered for Smoke Jensen. He wondered how they would react if they knew just how close they had been to the very man they were looking for.

Smoke found himself a hidden vantage point where he could watch the trail and settled in for the evening. He built a hand-sized fire and fixed bacon and beans and coffee. Using tinder dry wood, the fire was virtually smokeless. He kept his coffee warmed over the coals.

Just at dusk, he heard the sounds of approaching riders. Three of them passed his hiding place at a slow pace, heading north toward the trading post at McKay. He watched, listening to the sounds of the steel-shod hooves fading into the settling dusk. Then, using his saddle for a pillow, he settled down for the night.

He wanted to take his time getting to Bury for two reasons. For one, he wanted the story of the shoot-out at the trading post to reach the right ears, namely those of Potter, Stratton, and Richards. Men like that could always use another gun, and he intended to be that gun. Two, he still had that nagging sensation of being followed. And it annoyed him. He knew—
felt—
someone was back there. He just didn't know who.

 

 

 

It was the first community Smoke came to after leaving the trading post—just one short business street with more saloons than anything else. Tents and shacks and a few permanent-looking homes huddled to the north. Most of the shacks were so flimsily constructed it looked as if they would blow away in a stiff breeze.

He stabled his horse and taking his Henry repeating rifle, a change of clothing, and his saddlebags, walked toward the town's only hotel. After checking in, he went to a bathhouse, where a young Chinese man kept the water hot with additional buckets of water. After soaking off the dirt, he dressed in dark trousers, white shirt, and vest, and leaving his boots to be shined, stepped into the attached barbershop for a haircut.

“Cut it short,” he told the barber. “And trim my beard.”

“Passing through?” the barber asked.

“Could be, or I might stay. Mostly, I'm just drifting.”

Being an observant man, and one raised on the frontier, the barber noticed Smoke's tied-down gun. He knew a fast gun when he saw one. And he knew the man sitting in his chair was a fast gun. He also knew the man was no tinhorn trying to make a name for himself. The butt of his pistol had no marks carved in the wood to signify kills, the way foolish young wannabe gunmen did.

There was something else about the young man. Confidence. And a cold air about him. Not unfriendly, just cold.

The barber started a friendly conversation. “If you're up here lookin' for silver, there's a big strike north and east of here. Close to the Lemhi River.”

“Not for me,” Smoke told him. “Too much work involved in that.”

“Ha. You handy with them pistols?”

“Some folks say that.”

“You head north from here, follow the Salmon River to where it cuts to the Lemhi Range, then head east. You'll come up on the town of Bury.”

Smoke mumbled, “Why would I want to go to Bury?”

“Maybe you don't. Then again, you might find work up there. From what I hear, three men up there seem partial to hirin' folks that's good with a gun. You might find Bury real interestin'.”

“I might at that. By the way, how's the law in this town?” Smoke set the stage with that question.

“Tough when they have to be, but as long as it's a fair fight, they won't bother you.”

“I never shot no one in the back,” Smoke said, purposely making the response rather harsh.

“Wouldn't think you had. You don't have that look about you, that's for sure.” The barber's voice was very bland.

“Where's the best place to eat?”

“Marie's, just up the street. Beef and beans and apple pie. Good-sized portions, too, and she don't charge an arm and a leg for 'em.”

They weren't just good-sized portions; they were huge, and the food, though simple, was well prepared. The apple pie was delicious. Smoke pushed the empty plate away and leaned back in his chair, chosen because it was against the wall. He lingered over a third cup of coffee and watched the activity through the window.

He was waiting for the law to make an appearance, and he didn't have to wait long. The town marshal entered the café, and his deputy, carrying a sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun, was right behind him.

Smoke felt a momentary start. He recognized the marshal. He had run across him back in Colorado, when working a case for Marshal Holloway. He had seen him only once, and that for a short period of time, but he remembered him. Smoke had been one of three deputy U.S. marshals working the case, though, and it was possible the marshal wouldn't recognize him.

The man sat across the same table as Smoke. “Coffee, Marie.”

“Comin' right up, Marshal,” the heavyset woman said. “What about you, sir? Your coffee need fresh-enin'?”

“I'm good, thanks,” Smoke said, lifting his cup.

“You just passin' through?” the marshal asked.

“Yeah, though I might stay around a couple days, just to get some rest from the trail.”

“What's your name?”

“There aren't any dodgers out on me.”

“That's not what I asked. What's your name?”

“Buck West.”

“You look like you know how to use that hogleg. Ever killed anyone?”

“Nobody that wasn't tryin' to kill me.” Smoke placed the marshal's name. It was Dooley. From what he remembered, Dooley was a fair man.

Dooley pointed toward the north. “Up at that end of town, you'll find the better houses, the ones that's been painted, and kept up. Do you know anyone who lives there? Any friends or relatives?”

“Nope. Don't know a soul in this entire town.”

“Then I'll thank you to stay away from 'em. Decent folks livin' there, and I got a feelin' you're the kind of man that draws trouble.”

Smoke started to reply, but Dooley held up his hand. “I ain't sayin' you'll be the one to start it. But I don't reckon you would run from it, neither.”

“Not likely.”

The marshal finished his cup of coffee, then set the cup down and stared at Smoke for a long moment. “Son, I got the feelin' me and you have met somewhere. The name Buck West don't ring a bell, but your face is awful familiar.”

Smoke chuckled. “That's 'cause I've got what folks call a warm, friendly face.”

The marshal nodded. “Sure you do,” he said sarcastically.