William W. Johnstone (2 page)

He emptied his rifle into a tree where the horses were picketed and several of them panicked, reared up, and broke loose, taking off into the timber.

Chuckling, Smoke ran back to Dagger, swung into the saddle, and skirted the camp, heading for the Box T range on the Bear.

He had sure ruined breakfast for those ol’ boys.

As he rode, he saw smoke from several more fires, but decided not to press his luck.

Twice he heard the sounds of horses and men and both times he slipped back into the timber and waited it out as the men rode past him. And they came close enough for him to see that Jud Vale really meant business. He recognized Don Draper, the Utah gunslick, and Davy Street, the outlaw from down New Mexico way. As the second bunch rode by him, Smoke picked out Cisco Webster, the Texas gunny; Barstow, a no-good from Colorado; Glen Regan, a punk kid who fancied himself a gunfighter; and Highpockets, a long lean drink of water who was as dangerous as a grizzly and as quick as a striking rattler.

What the hell was going on in this part of southeastern Idaho?

Smoke rode on as the day started to warm some.

He began to see cattle wearing the Box T brand, really no sure sign that he was on Box T land, for cattle wandered miles to grass, but Smoke figured he was getting close.

Then he found out why the cattle were so scattered— miles of cut fences. Somebody, probably Jud Vale and his men, had really caused some damage.

He topped a ridge and could see, far in the distance, a house and barn, and off to the south, a winding road leading to the house. He cut toward the road, riding slowly and cautiously, for if those in the house were under siege, he would probably be considered hostile.

He stopped several times as he drew nearer, taking off his hat and waving it in the air.

Nothing from the house.

He came to a closed gate and stopped, dismounting. He wasn’t about to open that gate unless invited to do so. But no invite came.

The snow was just about gone from the ground, but the wind was still whistling around him.

“Hello, the house!” Smoke yelled.

He was just about to call again when the response came. “What do you want?”

A female voice. And not an old voice.

“Some food and coffee would be nice,” Smoke called.

“Have this instead,” the voice said, sending him a bullet that had Smoke diving for the ground.

Several more slugs cut the air above his head. Smoke noticed that none of the slugs came close to Dagger. The big horse trotted away a few yards and looked back at Smoke, his expression saying, “What have you got us into now?”

“I’m friendly!” Smoke called, crawling to his knees. "I mean you no harm!”

“You ride for the Bar V?” This time it was a man’s voice.

“Hell, no! They’ve been chasing me all over the country for the last week.”

“Why?”

“Because they think I’m somebody named Perkins!”

A full minute ticked by. “All right, mister.” This time it was the female voice. “Get into the saddle and come on in. But you put a hand on a gun and you’re dead. And close the gate behind you.”

It suddenly came to Smoke. Perkins! Clint Perkins. The outlaw that some called the Robin Hood of the West. He was always helping farmers, nesters, and the down-and-outers. He would rustle cattle from big land barons, butcher the carcass and distribute the meat to the needy. He’d been known to give the money to the poor, after holding up rich folks.

But what connection did Clint Perkins have with the Box T?

Well, he might find out ... providing he didn’t get shot first.

He swung into the saddle, leaned down and opened the gate, and rode on in, carefully closing the gate behind him. He walked Dagger toward the house. Smoke stopped at the hitchrail and sat his saddle. Damned if he was going to get down until invited.

“What’s your name?” the voice came from inside the house, speaking from behind the open but curtained window.

“Mamma,” a child’s voice said excitedly. "I seen him on the cover of a book. That’s Smoke Jensen!”

After a lot of apologies and much embarrassment on the part of those in the house, Smoke was invited to sit down and eat. A small boy took Dagger to the barn. Children could handle the big mean-eyed stallion, but Dagger would kill a grown man who tried to mess with him.

Smoke tried to put some family resemblance between the young woman and the old couple. He could not see any. And he didn’t ask; none of his business.

Smoke put away a respectable bit of food and started working on his third cup of coffee.

“I like to see a man eat well,” Alice Burden said. “Our boy used to eat like that.”

Walt gave his wife a warning look that closed her mouth.

Smoke picked up on the glance but said nothing.

“Just passin’ through?” Walt asked, lighting his pipe.

“Something like that,” Smoke sugared his coffee. “Til I had a run-in with a loudmouth name of Jud Vale. I busted him in the mouth and put him on a barroom floor.”

“I’d sure like to have seen that,” Walt said with a sigh. “That man has sure caused us some problems.” “Why?”

The old man shrugged his shoulders. “He wants our land. Jud Vale wants everything he sees. Including her.” He cut his eyes to Doreen, a slim but very shapely woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties.

Got to be more to it than that, Smoke thought. “What has Clint Perkins got to do with all this?”

Walt looked at his coffee cup. His wife busied herself at the sink, washing dishes. Doreen met Smoke’s eyes. “He’s my husband. Sort of.”

Odd reply, Smoke thought. “Father of the boy?”

“Yes.”

“Clint is from this area, right?”

“Not too far from here,” she replied. “It’s a long story, but I’ll make it short. When Clint was just a boy he saw his father and mother killed by greedy cattlemen who wanted their land and didn’t like farmers. The boy took to the high country and raised himself. He hates rich people to the point of being a fanatic about it. But he has a few good points. More than a few. I married him, but it just didn’t work. He refuses to stop his outlawing. I just couldn’t live like that.”

“So you took the boy and left?”

“Yes.”

Smoke didn’t believe her. She was lying through her teeth, but damned if he knew why.

“This is a big spread, Mr. Burden. Where are your hands?”

“Don’t have none no more. Jud’s men run them off; killed a couple. They’re buried on that crest to the east.”

Smoke had seen the graveyard. More than two crosses there. “And Jud’s men cut your fence?”

“Yep.”

“Tell me about this Clint Perkins?”

“What is there to say?” Walt said. “Nobody ’ceptin’ Doreen has seen his face in fifteen years.”

“You two look alike,” Doreen said. “I can see where someone might think you were him.”

What to do? Smoke thought. All three of these people were lying to him. But why? What were they hiding? Walt and Alice Burden were too old for Clint Perkins to be their son. So that was out. So where was the connection? There had to be one.

“How’d you get here?” he asked Doreen.

“Runnin’ from Jud Vale,” she answered simply. “Walt and Alice took me and Micky in and let us stay.”

Why? Had they known Doreen that well? Had they been neighbors? What? Too many unanswered questions. It made Smoke uneasy. Very uneasy.

“You have any idea how many head of cattle you have?” Smoke asked the old man.

“Not no more. Jud and his gunhands been runnin’ ’em off for a year or more. The one herd they can’t get to without a lot of fuss is west of here, next to the Bear River.”

“How are you getting your food?”

The question seemed to make all three of them nervous. Walt finally said, “Friends slip food to us.”

Smoke nodded, not satisfied with the reply but sensing he wasn’t going to get much more out of the trio. Micky was outside, playing. Smoke figured the boy to be about eight years old.

“There is no point in my trying to restring the wire,” Smoke said. “Without hands to ride fence, Jud’s people would just cut it again come night.”

“True.”

“Do you have the money to pay hands, providing I could find some who’d work for you?”

“Oh, sure. I got money up in Montpelier. That’s a Mormon town. Jud ain’t gonna mess with them folks.”

Smoke knew that for an iron-clad fact. Mormons tended
to stick together, and folks who thought they wouldn’t fight because they were so religious soon learned how wrong they were—providing they lived through it.

Wall was saying, “... You ain’t gonna find no one to work for me, anyways, Mr. Smoke. Jud’s got the folks around here buffaloed.”

“You let me think on that for a few hours. You just might be wrong.” He smiled. “However, the hands I get might not be the type you’re used to seeing.”

Smoke stowed his gear in the bunkhouse and fired up the old potbelly stove in the center of the room. Dagger was warm and content and chomping away on corn in a hay-filled stall in the big barn.

Smoke had noticed that at one time—not too long ago—the Box T had been a money-making spread. So why the sudden downfall? Was it just because Jud Vale wanted the land? Smoke didn’t believe that for a minute. There was more to it than that; a lot more.

Smoke hated bullies. If it were just a simple matter of Jud Vale’s greed, the problem could be easily solved—with a gun. Smoke wanted the whole story, though, before it came to that, if it came to that. And he sincerely hoped it would not. He, however, had a hunch that it would. Usually all loud-mouthed, pushy, bullying types could be handled without being killed, for bullies are cowards at heart. Give them a good beating and you’ve got their attention. But Smoke felt that Jud wouldn’t go down that easily. If Jensen stayed around, he would have to drag iron against Jud Vale.

He felt pretty sure he was going to stick around. Nothing like a good mystery to pique one’s interest.

Over supper, Smoke asked, “Lots of small farmers in this area, huh? ”

“Oh, yeah,” the old rancher said. “Most of them just
barely hanging on. That’s another thing that got me in trouble. I never minded farmers like a lot of ranchers seem to. Never had any trouble with them. I used to helpa lot of them time to time. A little money, food, clothing, what have you. Used to hire some of the kids during the summer to work on the spread.”

“Does Montpelier have a newspaper?”

“Sure.”

Smoke nodded. “I’m going to be gone for several days.” He noted the alarm that quickly sprang into the eyes of those around the table. “But I’ll be back,” he assured them. “And that’s a promise.”

“Jud Vale is a no-good,” the farmer said bluntly. “Andl’ll say it to his face.”

“Chester ...” his wife warned.

“No, Mother,” the man in the patched overalls shook his head. “Time for backing down is over. Mr. Burden is a good man who’s hit on some hard times. We can’t just turn our backsides to him and forget all the times he’s helped us. ’Sides, we need hard cash desperate.”

“Ralph is only twelve years old,” she reminded him.

“And been doin’ a man’s work since he was nine. You seen how excited he is about Mr. Smoke’s offer. And you heard Mr. Smoke say he ain’t gonna put the plan into action unless the newspaper agrees to print the story and send it out to other papers.”

“Well ...” She shook her head. “I just don’t know, Chester.”

“Aw, Mom!” the boy finally spoke. “I can handle a gun good as the next feller!”

“No guns!” Smoke said it quickly and firmly. “If it comes to gunplay, I’ll handle that. Any boy who shows up with a gun doesn’t work.”

“Yes, sir!” Ralph said. “You’re the boss, Mr. Smoke,
for sure.”

“You pass the word around to your friends and neighbors. And keep it inside the circle. We want this to be a total surprise to Jud Vale when we spring it.”

The farmer grinned and stuck out his hand. Smoke shook it. “You got it, Mr. Smoke.”

The editor of the newspaper chuckled and rocked back in his swivel chair. "I like it, Mr. Jensen. I really like it. Jud Vale doesn’t throw that big a loop around this town, but he’s made life pretty miserable for those in his area. I’ve been curious about just why he hates Walt Burden so. Of course I’ll print the story, and I’ll send it out to newspapers all over the state. We want to be sure those young boys are safe. And there is nothing like the power of the press to insure that. Hire your ... cowboys, Mr. Jensen, and put them to work. I’ll ride down and do a follow-up on the story in a few weeks, to keep interest alive."

“Damnedest bunch of cowboys I ever seen in all my born days,” Walt said, looking at the new hands.

“Looks like we better get to cooking, Doreen,” Alice said. “Some of those boys look like they haven’t had a decent meal in weeks.”

The youngest was ten and the oldest was fourteen. Of the boys, that is. In Montpelier, Smoke had rounded up three slightly older punchers. Dolittle, Harrison, and Cheyenne were in their sixties ... they claimed. Smoke suspected they might be a tad older than that. He didn’t know much about Dolittle and Harrison, except that they could sit a saddle and knew cows, but Cheyenne was quite another story. Smoke remembered Preacher spinning yams about a mountain man he knew by the name of Cheyenne O’Malley from back in the ’40s. Cheyenne was
one of those born with the bark on, he didn’t have to grow into it; mean from the git-go.

Cheyenne was about seventy, Smoke reckoned, and looked so skinny he might have to drink a glass of beer to keep his britches up. But he still wore his Colt low and tied down and Smoke knew the old mountain man could and would use it.

“All right, Cheyenne,” Smoke told him. “You’re the range boss on this job.” Cheyenne nodded. “You boys know what that means. Cheyenne tells you to make like a frog, you just jump as high as you can. You don’t have to ask if it was high enough. If it wasn’t, he’ll let you know. Dolittle and Harrison will be carrying orders from Cheyenne to you boys, and you boys will be spotted all around this spread.

“Now then, the first thing we’re gonna do is round up some horses and top them off; settle them down for you.” Smoke glanced at the animals the boys had used to get over to the Box T. Mules and plow horses. “Then you boys can turn your own animals out to pasture and let them rest.” He looked at Walt. “All right, Boss, what’s the first order of the day?”