William W. Johnstone (7 page)

Cheyenne walked up, hearing the last of the conversation. “He come up here by way of Texas,” the old mountain man told them “But I doubt he was Texas born. I ’member when he got here. Like all them hands of his, I think he’s runnin’ from the law somewheres.”

“And you would guess ...?”

Cheyenne shrugged. “Back East. But that’s just a guess. It’d be hard to read his backtrail after all these years.”

“What’s the count on those still alive, Cheyenne?”

“Four dead and three wounded. None of them hurt too bad.”

“Can one of them drive a wagon?” “Oh, yeah.”

“Let’s hitch up a team and get them on their way. We’ll pile the dead in with them.”

“Beats the hell outta diggin’ a hole,” Cheyenne said with a wicked grin.

Walt, Smoke, and Cheyenne took turns standing guard that night, but as it turned out, they could have all slept soundly, for Jud Vale and his so-called fighting men had had quite enough of the Box T for this go-around. “Four dead,” Walt said, holding a cup of coffee in his
hands, warming them against the early morning chill.

“They’ll be more,” Smoke told him. “This battle is just getting started. Now I’m afraid that some of the kids are going to be hurt.”

“I don’t think that even Jud Vale would do that. Not deliberately. One of those kids gets hurt, the whole area would turn agin him, and he knows it. But they might catch a bullet that was meant for one of us.”

“The kids desperately need the money for their families,” Smoke concluded. “I think what I’ll do is ride around the area and speak to the mothers and fathers about it. Lay it on the line. Whatever they say, that’s it.”

Walt spoke around the stem of his pipe, “With most of the herd gone, we could do without the younger ones. Whatever the parents say, Smoke.”

Smoke began seeking out and questioning the parents early the next morning, riding first to Little Chuckie’s house; if that’s what the shack could be called. It wasn’t that his parents were rawhiders, they were just having a tough time getting the farm operation going—with Jud Vale and his men no small part of that struggle.

“It would really be a blow to Chuckie’s pride iffen you was to send him home, Mr. Smoke,” the father said. His wife nodded her head in agreement. “The boy is right proud of being able to bring in some money this summer. We’ll leave it up to him.”

Smoke rode over to the parents of Matthew, the frail little boy with the thick glasses. He got the same message as before. The parents were not unconcerned about their children; it was simply that this was still the raw frontier, and one grew up and pulled his or her weight from the git-go. It was called survival.

Smoke spent that day and most of another day talking
with the parents of the boys. The message he got, albeit worded differently came out to mean the same thing: it was up to the boys whether to stay or leave.

Smoke drifted on over to the railhead, arriving there about the same time as the herd. He watched through hard, chilly eyes, as the passenger car spewed forth a dozen or more booted, spurred, and two-gunned men. Smoke did not need a telegraph wire to tell him that these were the men the kid had told him about before he died in the front yard of the Box T spread.

Jud Vale was going for the brass ring this time, for Smoke recognized many of the newly arrived hired guns.

He watched as Gimpy Bonner limped off the train and made his way back to the horse cars. Gimpy was deadly quick and had no backup on him. He had a horse shot out from under him years back and the horse rolled on his leg, breaking it in several places, leaving him with a permanent limp.

Shorty DePaul, all five feet five inches of him followed Gimpy. Short he may be, but those guns of his, and his ability to use them made him as tall as the next man.

The editor of the Montpelier newspaper had walked over to stand by Smoke’s side and watch the gunfighters leave the train. “Who is that one?” he asked.

“Scott Johnson. From down Arizona way. That stocky fellow with him is called Yates. Right behind them is De Grazia and Jake Hube. They work as a team; they’ll shoot you front or back. Doesn’t make any difference to them.”

“Looks like Jud Vale is pulling out all the stops, doesn’t it?”

“For a fact,” Smoke said, as he watched two gunfighters named Becket and Pike step out of the car.

Jaeger, the German immigrant turned gunfighter, stepped down right behind them. Molino was right behind him.

Smoke ticked the names off to the editor.

Chato Di Peso, the much feared and very dangerous New Mexico bounty hunter stepped down, hitching at his gun belt as he walked.

There were several young punks, with fancy guns and silver adorned gun belts tagging with the better known gunnies. Smoke counted them out as two-bit never-would-be’s with no sand in them.

“I think,” the editor said, “that I shall inform the governor of this gathering of trash.”

“Go ahead. But it won’t do any good.”

“Why?” the man asked indignantly.

“There isn’t a man over there who is wanted for anything that I know of. And there is no law against hiring tough men to work for you.”

“There is going to be a bloodbath around the Bear, Mr. Jensen.”

“Yes. And the only way I know to avoid it is for Walt and Alice Burden to turn tail and run; just give up their holdings to a madman and leave the country. Would you want to see them do that, Mr. Argood?”

“No,” the editor replied quickly. ”I would not. Is there a joker in this deck, Smoke?”

Smoke smiled. “Yes. And his name is Clint Perkins. He’s an unknown. Have you ever seen him?”

“No. Few people have over the years. Or at least, if they have, they aren’t talking. But I can tell you that many still look upon him as some sort of Robin Hood.”

“But you don’t."

Argood snorted in disgust. “He’s no better than a common outlaw. And personally, from what I know about him, I think he’s insane.”

“Is he headquartered in this area?”

“No one knows. He’s a mystery man. And a master of disguises.” He looked at the most famous gunfighter in the West. "You think he’ll show up here?”

“I think so. This is just too good for him to miss.” He didn’t know how much the editor knew, so he chose his words carefully. “I think there is a lot of hate in the man; all bottled up and ready to explode. When it does, it’s going to get very interesting.”

“That, young man,” Argood said drily, “is one way of pulling it.”

Smoke took the bank draft from the cattle buyer and tucked it safely away in a money belt around his waist. He had a letter from Walt giving him the authority to endorse the draft and deposit it in the bank over in Malad City, a wild, rip-roaring town with a history of murder, lynchings, and stage holdups. But the Overland Stage Company —whose run stopped at Malad City—had a good record of foiling holdups, so Walt’s money would be reasonably safe after being deposited.

Smoke told Dolittle and Harrison to keep the boys close until he got back.

He crossed the Bear and headed for the wide-open town of Malad City. The town was named by French trappers, who, after becoming sick from gorging on beaver meat, named the town Malade, thinking the area unhealthy.

Smoke had a hunch that with the news of Jud Vale’s hiring of gun hands now so widespread, Malad City would be crawling with guns for hire stopping for liquid refreshments—and a fling with the hurdy-gurdy girls—as they made their way to the Bar V. And he also wondered if the ante on his head had been upped past the five thousand dollar mark.

It wouldn’t surprise him a bit.

As he rode. Smoke tried to put some more reason behind what Jud Vale was doing. Or was what Walt had told him the sum total of it all? Smoke concluded that Walt was probably right in his assessment of the situation. If Vale could get his hands on the Box T, he would then have the largest spread in the state, and would certainly be a powerful man, a man to reckon with.

On this trip, Smoke stayed with the main road leading to Malad City, and a sorry road it was.

He met several groups of men, riding in twos and threes, all looking like hardcases, and all heading east. They either did not recognize him, or did not want to brace him with such short backup.

Since he had been late getting away from the railhead, Smoke made camp just to the south of Oxford Peak, the snow-capped mountain thrusting up more than a mile and a half into the air. He was boiling his coffee and frying his bacon when he heard the faint sounds of hooves approaching his camp from out of the fast falling dusk, the rider coming from the north.

“Hello, the fire! I’m friendly.”

“Then come on in and light and sit. Coffee’s almost fit to drink."

Smoke saw the young man’s hair sticking out from under his hat before he saw anything else. Flame red. He’d bet the young rider was called Rusty. The man’s outfit was old, but well-cared for, and Smoke liked the way the young rider saw to his horse’s needs before he took care of his own. He carefully rubbed the animal down with handfuls of grass and saw that it was watered and picketed on good graze. Smoke also noticed that the redhead’s gun was tied down—which might not mean anything, or everything.

As he approached the fire, tin cup and plate in his left hand, his grin was genuine and his handshake firm and quick.

“Sure am glad to see a friendly face. Most of the hombres
I been seein’ the past couple of days all looked like they could eat a porcupine and not feel the quills!”

Smoke filled his coffee cup without comment.

“My folks dubbed me Clarence, but nobody calls me that. Just Rusty.”

“I guessed right at first glance.” Smoke speared some bacon out of the pan and handed a hunk of bread to Rusty.

“Much obliged.” He let his eyes drift over Smoke’s rig, noting the two guns, one butt-forward.

“You ridin’ east like all them others?” Smoke asked.

“West for a day, then I’ll do a turnaround back to the Bear. Any work over yonder?”

“I’m lookin’ for hands.”

“You shore found one. My poke’s as flat as a sit-on pancake.”

“Might be dangerous signin’ on with me.”

Rusty’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of work you got in mind, mister-whatever-your-name-is?”

“Punching cows. Fixing fence. Cleaning out water-holes. Cowboy work. You up to it?”

“Shore! That’s what I been doin’ since I was big enough to sit a saddle. What’s the danger you talkin’ about?”

Smoke sipped his coffee before replying. “Big rancher who is about half nuts is trying to run the old man and woman who own the spread off their land. They hit us the other night. We emptied seven saddles.”

“How many is us?”

“You talking about hands?”

“Yep.”

“Three old men who are about seventy and a handful of kids, average age twelve.”

Rusty looked dead at him. “Are you serious?”

“As a crutch.”

“What’re you payin’?”

“A hundred a month and found.”

“A hundred a month! Shoot, man! You just hired
yourself a hand.”

“Those are fighting wages, Rusty.”

“I kinda figured they was. But I got to tell you, I ain’t never hired out my gun.”

“Can you use it?”

“Oh, yeah. I reckon I’m as good as the next man. I’ve drug iron a time or two.”

“Any family?”

“Ma and Pa died years back. I got some cousins somewhere that I ain’t never seen.”

“Just curious. I want to know who to notify if you catch one.”

“Just plant me where I fall, I reckon. And make sure my horse is taken care of. He’s a good one.”

“I’m heading over to Malad City. Then we’ll head back to the Box T.”

“Sounds good to me. You got a name?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“You are a most exasperatin’ feller! You ’shamed of your handle?”

“No.”

Rusty cussed and then ate his bacon, mopping the grease out of his tin plate with bread. He poured another cup of coffee, rolled a cigarette, and leaned back. “You a gunfighter?”

“Some say I am.”

“You look familiar to me. I seen you somewheres before. On a wanted poster, maybe?”

“No. I’m not wanted. I own a ranch down Colorado way. The Sugarloaf. I’m just helping out an old couple. I don’t like to see folks shoved around.”

“Right nice of you. I kinda get riled up some myself when somebody tries to roll over other folks. You gonna tell me your name?”

Smoke smiled faintly. “I tell you my name, you might not come to work.”

“For a hundred a month and found? You could tell me your name was Satan and I wouldn’t back away.”

“All right,” Smoke replied. “Come to think of it, you just might be riding into a corner of Hell after all.” He left it at that.

Smoke and Rusty reached Malad City at mid-morning, just as the town was catching its breath after a wild and raucous night. Things had been reasonably quiet the previous night, with only one killing.

“Don’t never ask nobody for directions in this place,” Rusty told him. “When they laid out these streets, they just tossed a handful of sticks on the ground for a blueprint... and then followed it.”

They stabled their horses and Smoke pointed out a cafe, telling Rusty he’d meet him there in a few minutes. He took care of Walt’s bank draft and walked the boardwalk to the cafe. He saw several gunslicks he knew by name and a dozen more who had the hardcase brand stamped all over them. And a half-dozen punks who were looking for a reputation, but more than likely would find a grave to hold their swagger long before they found a reputation.

Smoke Jensen had been elusive for over a decade, surfacing outside of his ranch in Colorado only briefly. Many people knew his name but could not put a face to it, unless they had memorized the covers of the many penny dreadfuls, most of which were rarely accurate.

He received many a furtive glance as he walked toward the cafe, for danger clung to him; it was an aura that made many strong and brave men step aside until he had passed.

Smoke was scarcely into his thirties, just now approaching the prime years of his life, but he was already a living legend, and not just west of the Mississippi. Had he elected to cut notches into the handles of his Colts after each kill, he would have gone through half a dozen sets and still not
have any handles left. But only tinhorns did that.