The Family Jensen # 1

by William W. Johnstone

  “Well, then, what can I do?”

  Garrard looked Smoke up and down for a moment, then shrugged and said, “There are three of you and only one of him. Why don’t you just give him a good beating and let it go at that?”

  Before Thorn could respond to that suggestion, Smoke said, “Reckon I’d have something to say about whether or not any beatings are handed out.”

  “Really?” Garrard smiled, and Smoke knew he didn’t like that man. Not one little bit. “What are you going to do about it?” Garrard went on. “If you go for your gun, my men will kill you. Even if you should happen to survive, you’d be dangling from a hangrope by morning. We’ve got a good tree for it, right at the edge of town. The marshal and the judge would see to that.”

  “So you’ve got the law on your side, is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m saying that sometimes, through no fault of his own, a man winds up on the wrong side of trouble. When that happens, friend, the smartest thing for him to do is minimize the damage. At least that way you can live through it.” Garrard took a cigar from his vest pocket. “Tell you what I’ll do. To make it up to you, there won’t be any charge for your hotel room tonight or for stabling your horse. You can ride out of here in the morning without owing any money.”

  “What if I don’t want to leave in the morning?”

  “Then I think you’d find that my hospitality—and my patience—have limits.” Garrard put the cigar in his mouth and clamped his big white teeth down on it.

  Suddenly, Smoke laughed. The absurdity of the situation made him do it. He said, “So what you want is for me to stand still for a beatin’ to appease these hardcases of yours, and in return for it you’ll give me a free room in the hotel and a stall for my horse?”

  “That’s the deal,” Garrard said around the cigar. “Take it or leave it.”

  “I don’t even get to fight back? What sort of a ruckus is that?”

  “Let him fight, boss,” Thorn said. “It won’t do him any good.”

  Garrard shrugged again. “You heard the man,” he said to Smoke.

  “One condition,” Smoke said. He felt like a lobo wolf was running around inside him, trying to get out, but he kept it under control as best he could. He nodded at Dowler who had returned through the side door. “Dowler holds everybody’s guns.”

  “Fine with me,” Garrard said. He jerked a hand at Thorn and the others in a curt gesture. “Give Dowler your guns.”

  Thorn frowned. “What if it’s a trick? What if this hombre slaps leather as soon as we’re unarmed?”

  Smoke’s hand went to the buckle of his gunbelt. “I’ll hand over my weapons at the same time.”

  “Sounds fair,” Garrard said.

  Dowler looked nervous as a cat in a roomful of rocking chairs, as the old saying went, while he collected the gunbelts and holstered revolvers from Smoke, Thorn, Ballew, and Harley. Smoke had a two-shot derringer tucked in the high top of his left boot, a double-edged dagger in his right. He suspected that Thorn and the others had hide-out weapons, too. He wouldn’t use the derringer or the dagger unless he was forced to.

  He was actually looking forward to settling this with fists. There was something particularly soul-satisfying about knocking the sneer off the face of an arrogant bastard like Mitch Thorn.

  Smoke backed into the center of the aisle to give himself some room to move as the three men advanced slowly toward him, spreading out so that they could come at him from different angles. “All right,” Jason Garrard said, clearly looking forward to what he thought he was about to see. “Have at it.”

  Chapter 14

  “Let me have first crack at him, Mitch,” the stocky hardcase in the tall white hat said.

  “All right, Gus,” Thorn said. That meant the man in the black chaps and vest who wore an ugly grin on his face was Earl Ballew. Thorn went on, “Just leave a little so Earl and I can have some fun, too.”

  Harley reached up, took his hat off, and tossed it aside as if he wanted to make sure it didn’t get hurt during the fight. Then he lowered his head and charged like a bull, straight at Smoke.

  Smoke didn’t fall for it. Such an open, straight-ahead attack had to be a feint. He took a step to the side as if trying to get out of Harley’s way, then stopped short as the big man suddenly veered in the same direction.

  Harley had already shifted his weight and was going too fast to stop. His momentum carried him past Smoke, who pivoted smoothly and brought his clubbed hands down on the back of Harley’s neck with stunning force. The blow knocked Harley off his feet. He went face-first into the ground, landing hard.

  Earl Ballew hadn’t waited. He was right behind Harley. Smoke bent to his right at the waist and brought his left leg up in a kick that buried his foot in Ballew’s midsection. Ballew grunted in pain as he doubled over and stumbled to one side. He clutched his belly with both arms and looked like he was about to pass out, throw up, or both.

  Harley and Ballew were out of the fight for a few minutes, but dealing with them left Smoke open to Thorn’s attack. He threw a bony fist at Smoke’s face that Smoke couldn’t avoid completely. It landed just above his left ear with enough force to knock him off balance.

  He would have recovered in time to deal with Thorn, but at that moment Harley rolled over, blood from his smashed nose coating the lower half of his face, and drove a boot heel into the back of Smoke’s right knee. The unexpected kick caused Smoke’s leg to fold up underneath him, dumping him over backward.

  Harley was waiting for him. He wrapped his arms around Smoke’s neck and yelled, “I got him, Mitch! Kick him! Bust him up good!”

  Thorn moved in, swinging his right leg in a vicious kick aimed at Smoke’s ribs. Before the kick could land, Smoke heaved himself into a roll that took Harley with him. The toe of Thorn’s boot dug cruelly into the small of Harley’s back instead. Harley howled in pain.

  Smoke cut him off mid-yell by smacking his elbow into Harley’s mouth. Harley’s arms fell away from Smoke’s neck. Freed from the man’s grip, Smoke rolled again, keeping Harley between him and Thorn.

  But Thorn hurdled over Harley and tackled Smoke as he came to his feet. The gunman’s arms went around Smoke’s waist and bore him backward until Smoke crashed into one of the thick pillars that held up the barn’s roof. Pain shot through him, and the impact drove the air out of his lungs, leaving him gasping for breath.

  Thorn began hammering punches into Smoke’s body, keeping him pinned against the pillar. Although Thorn appeared to be slender, even scrawny, his stringy muscles possessed plenty of strength. His knobby fists dug deep into Smoke’s gut and prevented him from drawing a breath. Smoke was getting a little light-headed from lack of air.

  He grabbed the back of Thorn’s neck, head butted the gunman, and knocked him back a step. Smoke swung a left that landed solidly and sent Thorn stumbling away. Smoke-dragged a deep breath into his lungs.

  The break lasted only a second before Harley came at him, swinging a roundhouse right that would have taken Smoke’s head off if it had connected.

  Smoke ducked under it, and Harley’s fist slammed into the thick wooden beam instead. He screamed as bones broke. Bending low, Smoke shot a right into Harley’s stomach, then brought a left uppercut from the ground. It landed under Harley’s chin and lifted him completely off the ground. By the time Harley came crashing down on his back, he was out cold.

  Ballew landed on Smoke’s back and wrapped a chokehold around his neck. “Get him, Mitch, get him!” he yelled with his mouth next to Smoke’s ear. Smoke smelled the raw whiskey on the man’s breath.

  He spun around and rammed Ballew into the wall of a stall. The horse inside the stall reared up in fright and pawed at the air with its hooves as it let out a shrill whinny. There was quite a racket and most of the horses in the barn were spooked. As Smoke twisted out of Ballew’s grip, he caught a glimpse of Garrard and Dowler watching the battle. Dowler looked excited, like he was caught up in the heat of combat, but Garra
rd appeared worried. He hadn’t expected Smoke to be able to hold his own against the three hardcases.

  Smoke chopped the hard edge of his left hand against the spot where Ballew’s neck joined his left shoulder. Ballew sagged, momentarily paralyzed by the blow. Smoke sent a right jab into his face that rocked his head back. Ballew was barely on his feet. He was on the verge of passing out when Smoke sent him over the edge with another punch that drove him to the ground. Ballew lay there, breathing harshly, unable to move.

  “You son of a bitch!” Thorn yelled. Smoke looked around in time to see the gunman yank a revolver from a holster in the armload of weapons that Hoyt Dowler held. As Thorn whirled toward him and the gun came around, Smoke’s right hand dipped to his boot and came up with the dagger. He sent it flying toward Thorn with a swift, underhand throw.

  The blade pierced Thorn’s forearm, going all the way through so that the bloody tip stood out on the other side. Thorn screamed and staggered back a step as his suddenly nerveless fingers opened and the gun thudded to the ground. Smoke saw that it was one of his own .44s.

  He scooped it up and covered Thorn, who stood cradling his bleeding arm and cursing. “Fight’s over,” Smoke announced curtly.

  “You had to use a weapon,” Garrard pointed out. “You didn’t abide by the terms of the agreement.”

  “Thorn grabbed a gun first. If you’re worried about our deal, I’ll pay you for the damn hotel room and the livery charge.”

  Garrard glared at him for a couple seconds, then suddenly laughed. “Forget it,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Your stay in Buffalo Flat is on me, West. In fact, I’ll go you one better. I’ll offer you a job.”

  “A job?” Thorn repeated in disbelief. “Boss, what are you talking about?” He held up his injured arm and winced in pain. “Look what the bastard did to me!”

  “Yeah, I see,” Garrard said. “I also know that you and those other two are supposed to be tough. But they’re out cold, and you’ve got a knife through your gun arm. West is still on his feet.” Garrard shook his head. “I think I’ve been paying the wrong people.”

  Thorn turned to look at Smoke with hate and fury burning in his eyes. He took hold of the dagger and pulled it out of his arm. Blood welled from the wound. For a second, Smoke thought that Thorn was going to throw the dagger at him, but the gun held rock-steady in Smoke’s fist still covered him. Thorn flung the dagger onto the ground.

  “You’ll be wasting your money if you hire him, Garrard,” he said. “Because I’m gonna kill him.”

  “Your arm will have to heal up first,” Garrard said. “Well, how about it, West? You’d do well to hire on with me, because before I’m through, this whole corner of Wyoming Territory is going to belong to me.”

  Smoke felt a moment of nausea. When he looked at Jason Garrard, he saw the same sort of greed and arrogance that drove Richards and Potter and Stratton. They ran everything in Bury, no matter who got hurt, and Garrard aimed to run everything in Buffalo Flat the same way.

  But Smoke was damned if he’d help the son of a bitch do it.

  “Take your job and put it where the sun don’t shine, Garrard,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. As Garrard paled in surprise and anger, Smoke went on, “Take your hotel and your livery stable and everything else you own and cram them in there, too. I don’t like any part of you or any of the rest of it.”

  “You’d best tread carefully there, boy,” Garrard warned.

  “No, you’d best tread careful,” Smoke snapped back. “I’ve had my fill of men like you and your cheap gunhands.” With an effort, he brought his temper under control and said to the hostler, “Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Dowler, but it looks like you’re gonna have to bring my horse back out. I’ll stop by the hotel and get my gear, then find some place else to stay.”

  Dowler sighed. “All right. But I sure was lookin’ forward to havin’ that Appy around for a while.”

  “You’re making a bad mistake, West,” Garrard said.

  “I don’t think so,” Smoke said.

  “I own the only hotel in town. Where are you going to sleep?”

  “I’d sleep on a trash heap before I’d spend a night in your hotel, mister. Figure the smell would be better. Now that I’ve been around you and Thorn, it’ll take a while to get the stink out of my nose.”

  “Oh, you really are a dead man,” Thorn said.

  “Reckon we’ll see about that.”

  “We sure as hell will.”

  Dowler led Seven back up the aisle from the stall where he’d put the Appaloosa earlier. He had buckled Smoke’s gunbelt and hung it from the saddle horn. As he handed over the reins, he said, “I’ll get your two bucks.”

  “I’d tell you to keep ’em for your trouble, but my poke’s a little light right now.”

  Dowler gave him the two coins. Smoke pocketed them, then picked up his dagger and backed toward the double doors. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Harley and Ballew still lay motionless on the ground. They would probably be waking up soon, but for now they were still out cold.

  “Last chance to come to your senses,” Garrard called as Smoke reached the doors. “You got caught up in the excitement and said some things in the heat of the moment. I can understand that. I can even forgive it.”

  Smoke shook his head. “Not a chance in hell, Garrard. And if you’re thinkin’ that you’ll send those three after me, you’ll wind up having to replace them anyway, because next time I’ll kill them.”

  “Maybe you’d better not find another place to stay. Maybe you’d better just ride out of Buffalo Flat tonight and keep going.”

  Smoke had considered that very idea, but two things were stopping him. If he left town, Garrard and Thorn would think he was running because he was scared. He couldn’t allow that. For another, there was still Sandor, or Little Bear or whatever the hell his name was, to consider. Smoke had decided he would stay there long enough to see the young man safely on the stage, heading for Casper and points east, and he hated to change course once he’d made up his mind.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” he told Garrard with an icy smile. “I’ll be around for a while yet.”

  With that, he turned and walked away into the darkness that had fallen over the street. He kept the Colt in his hand and listened intently, in case any of them tried to follow him.

  None of them did, not from the livery barn, anyway. But as he passed the stagecoach office, he thought he saw movement on the porch. He kept going, and after a few yards he was sure of it. He heard light footsteps behind him.

  When they closed in, he stopped short and turned, moving fast as he brought the gun up. His thumb was looped over the hammer and his finger was taut on the trigger, but he held off on firing as he heard a startled gasp from the shadowy figure behind him.

  Unless he was mistaken, the voice belonged to a woman.

  Chapter 15

  “Blast it, ma’am,” Smoke said as he carefully lowered the Colt’s hammer. “You almost got your brains blown out. Didn’t anybody ever tell you not to sneak up behind a fella like that?”

  “I-I’m sorry, Mister…West, isn’t it?” She had a good voice, young and strong, and in the faint light that came from nearby buildings, he saw that she stood straight and slender, as graceful as a deer.

  “How do you know me?” Smoke asked.

  “I heard my father and those other men talking to you, there in the barn.”

  “Your father’s Jason Garrard?”

  “That’s right.”

  Smoke immediately felt a little uncomfortable. If the young woman had heard what went on in the barn, then she had heard the things he’d said to her father. He had meant every word he’d told Garrard, but he would have preferred the man’s daughter hadn’t heard them.

  As if sensing his discomfort, the woman went on, “Don’t worry, Mr. West, I’m not upset with you. I can’t stand those awful gunmen who work for my father. I’m glad they didn’t hurt you.” She held out her hand. “M
y name is Robin Garrard.”

  Smoke hesitated. He had never been that easy around women to start with, at least not until he’d met Nicole. Her death had left him devastated, and although months had passed since then, the pain hadn’t dulled. Only the hatred he felt for the men responsible kept it at bay. There was no room in his life for something as gentle as the touch of a woman.

  Yet, he’d been raised to be a gentleman. He didn’t want to hurt Robin Garrard’s feelings. So before that moment of hesitation stretched out long enough to be awkward, he shifted the Colt to his other hand, took her hand, and held it for a second. He couldn’t help but notice her skin was cool and smooth, and her fingers were strong.

  “Buck West, ma’am.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. West.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine, ma’am.”

  She laughed, and with a directness that told him she had spent some time in the West, whether or not she’d been born and raised there, she said, “Not hardly. I took great pleasure in seeing you wallop Mitch Thorn. He’s my father’s right-hand man, and he’s got it in his head that he’ll be even more than that someday by marrying me.”

  “I take it that’s not gonna happen?”

  “Not in a million years,” Robin said. “I know that you’re looking for a place to stay…”

  She wasn’t going to invite him to her home, was she? Smoke knew Garrard wouldn’t stand for that. He didn’t want it, either.

  “If you’d like, there’s a little storage room in the school you can use,” she went on. “It’s not much, but there’s a cot in there and it’s fairly comfortable. The children sometimes use it to lie down if they don’t feel well. I’ve napped on it before, too.”

  “You’re the teacher?” Smoke asked.

  “That’s right. There’s also a shed out back where you can put your mount. Some of the children have to ride in from out of town, and they put their horses there.”

  “I’m obliged for the offer, ma’am, but why are you doing this? To get back at your pa?”