The Family Jensen # 1

by William W. Johnstone

  “Yeah,” Smoke said, thinking of Jason Garrard. “Until we get back to Buffalo Flat, anyway.”

  As they were riding toward the settlement later, having left the bodies of Thorn and his men for the buzzards and the wolves, Calhoun brought his horse alongside Smoke’s and nodded toward Crazy Bear, who was riding well ahead of the others.

  “I saw you talkin’ to that big ol’ Injun earlier,” the marshal said. “Did you ask him how he managed to find us and show up like he did?”

  “He followed Sandy,” Smoke said.

  “The kid?”

  “Yeah. One of the men from the Crow village was in town yesterday morning when all the ruckus happened.”

  “Is that right?” Calhoun shrugged. “They come into town ever’ now and then to pick up shells for their rifles at Hammond’s store. Folks don’t like havin’ ’em around much—they’re naturally a mite scared of redskins, after all—but the Crows and the whites get along pretty good most of the time. Some of ’em even scout for the army.”

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know,” Smoke said. “Anyway, this fella heard that Sandy had been hurt and hustled back up to the Crow village to tell Crazy Bear, who headed for town to see about his son. On the way there he spotted Sandy trailing us and decided to tag along after him. He figured that Sandy was going after Thorn to try to rescue Robin, so he came along to lend a hand if he needed to. And of course, he wound up saving our bacon, or helping to, anyway.”

  Calhoun shook his head and looked back over his shoulder at Sandy and Robin, who were riding side by side about twenty yards behind them. “Mr. Garrard’s gonna be damn glad to get his daughter back safe and sound, but he ain’t gonna like the gal bein’ sweet on that boy.”

  “He may have to get used to it,” Smoke said. “Some things a man can’t do much about.” But he agreed with Calhoun, that there might be trouble when they got back to Buffalo Flat. If there was, he would deal with it when the time came.

  It was late afternoon when they rode into the settlement. The first man to see Robin was with them let out a cheer and took off at a run toward the stage line office, obviously intending to convey the good news to Garrard. Other citizens fell in alongside the riders and called questions to them, which were ignored. Smoke led the way to Garrard’s office, and by the time they got there, quite a crowd had gathered around them.

  Jason Garrard was waiting in the doorway, a huge smile on his face. As Robin reined in, he rushed forward to help her dismount. Then he pulled her into his arms and hugged her tightly.

  “Are you all right?” he asked in a voice choked with emotion.

  “I’m fine,” she told him, “thanks to Sandy and his father.”

  Garrard’s face darkened. “The Indians?”

  “And Mr. West and Marshal Calhoun, too, of course,” Robin went on. “They all risked their lives to save me.”

  “That ain’t all we saved, Mr. Garrard,” Calhoun said. “Mitch Thorn was playin’ us all for fools. He was gonna marry your daughter, murder you, and take over the whole town.”

  Garrard stared at the marshal in obvious disbelief. “How in the world do you know that?”

  “Thorn admitted the whole thing when he thought he was about to kill us,” Calhoun said.

  Robin nodded. “The marshal’s right,” she told her father. “He said the same things to me when he was gloating about his plans. Of course, they were all ruined as soon as he lost his head and kidnapped me.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Garrard said as he rubbed his heavy jaw. “I knew Thorn was a pretty shady character, but I never figured he’d try to double-cross me.”

  Robin stepped over to Sandy’s side and linked her arm with his. “It’s true. So you see, you owe Sandy and Crazy Bear quite a lot. Not just my life, but maybe even your own.”

  Garrard’s mouth twisted. “Get away from that—”

  Crazy Bear straightened to his full height and squared his massive shoulders.

  Wisely, Garrard stopped before he finished his sentence.

  Smoke spoke up, saying, “Listen to me, Garrard. This is none of my business, but I reckon you’d be better off if you’d open your eyes and accept what’s goin’ on here.”

  “I don’t have to accept anything I don’t want to,” Garrard snapped.

  “Is that so? How do you figure to change it? You can’t bully or buy off love.”

  “I can kill that young buck,” Garrard said, so angry not even Crazy Bear’s murderous glare made him hold back his words.

  “And if you did, Robin would still love him. She’d just hate you, to boot.”

  Garrard maintained his stubborn stance for a long, tense moment. Then, slowly, he drew in a deep breath. His shoulders slumped a little in acceptance.

  “I don’t like it,” he said to Robin, “and I’m going to do everything in my power to talk you out of it, but I suppose West is right. I can’t force you to feel differently than you do.”

  “That’s right,” she said quietly. “I’ll always love Sandy.”

  “You’re picking a mighty tough row to hoe, girl.”

  Her chin came up in defiance. “It’s my decision to make.”

  And it was their problem to work out, Smoke thought as he tightened his grip on Seven’s reins and led the Appaloosa toward the livery stable. Robin and Sandy were safe, and that was all he cared about in Buffalo Flat. He had his own tough row to hoe still ahead of him.

  Calhoun came up alongside him. “Where are you headed, West?”

  “The livery stable, right now. I’m going to see to it that this horse of mine gets a good rubdown, plenty of hay and water, and a night’s rest. I’ll be riding out in the morning.”

  “You sure about that?”

  Smoke glanced over at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I was thinkin’…I could use a deputy here, the way the town’s growin’ and all.”

  Smoke managed not to laugh. “You want me to work for a crook like you?”

  “Maybe I ain’t quite as big a crook as you think I am,” Calhoun said, bristling. “Maybe I see some things a mite differently now.”

  “I hope you do, Marshal, but it’s none of my business, one way or the other. I’m leaving first thing in the morning.”

  “You sound like a man in a hurry to get somewhere.”

  “Maybe I am,” Smoke said.

  He had lingered long enough. The spirits of his wife and son and the old man who had been almost like a father to him called out their need for vengeance. Smoke had been sidetracked for a couple days in Buffalo Flat, but it was time he settled the score for Nicole, Arthur, and Preacher.

  Come sunup, he was heading for Idaho.

  Lord help his enemies when he got there.

  Interlude

  “Yeah, you settled the score for me, all right,” Preacher said, “even though it turned out I weren’t quite dead after all!”

  “That was before I realized you’re too blasted ornery to die,” Smoke replied with a grin. He peered through the loophole. Lew Torrance and the rest of Bannerman’s hired guns hadn’t ventured out of the trees again since their last ill-fated attempt. Obviously, they had decided to be patient and wait for nightfall, which wasn’t far off.

  Already the light outside had begun to fade. Soon, it would be dark, and the gunmen would be able to approach the cabin without being seen.

  “What happened to that corrupt Marshal Calhoun?” Matt asked. “I was in Buffalo Flat less than a year ago, and the town had a different marshal.”

  “Calhoun was killed a few years later in a shootout with some bank robbers,” Smoke explained. “Garrard started a bank of his own in Buffalo Flat so he wouldn’t have to send his money to Casper or Cheyenne. Calhoun had turned into a fairly honest lawman by then, and did his duty. He managed to stop the robbers when they hit the bank, but he was fatally wounded in the process.”

  Preacher snorted. “If you ask me, he was just tryin’ to protect that skunk Garrard’s
money. Calhoun was suckin’ up to Garrard right to the end.”

  “Obviously, Garrard never took over the whole town,” Matt commented. “When I was there, I saw his name on the livery stable and the stage line, but that’s all, as far as I can remember.”

  “And the bank,” Smoke reminded him. “But yeah, after nearly losin’ his daughter, I reckon he decided some things are more important than money and power. He’s still a mighty successful businessman in Buffalo Flat, but there are bigger men in this part of the territory. Reece Bannerman, for one.”

  Preacher said, “Bannerman bided his time and increased his spread and his other holdin’s until he was the biggest hombre in these parts. It ain’t enough for him, or he wouldn’t be after the land the Crows have been claimin’ for so long.”

  “The problem is, the Crows never claimed it legally,” Smoke said.

  Preacher snorted. “What the hell’s a piece o’ paper mean to an Injun? I’ll tell you what it means…not a damn thing. That’s Crow land because they been livin’ on it and huntin’ on it for years, and there’s nothin’ some pasty-faced clerk in Washington or Cheyenne can do to change it!”

  “I hate to say it, but that’s where you’re wrong, Preacher,” Matt said. “The way the government works—”

  “Don’t talk to me about no damn gov’ment! There’s the gov’ment way o’ doin’ things, and then there’s the right way, and most o’ the time, the two ain’t the same!”

  “Settle down,” Smoke said. “Matt and I stopped in Denver on the way up here. The governor there is a friend of Matt’s, and I have some good lawyers there on retainer.”

  “Last time I checked, Denver was in Colorado, not Wyomin’ Territory,” Preacher drawled. “Don’t see what good it’s gonna do to talk to the governor down there.”

  “Politicians usually have some influence over each other,” Matt said. “The governor of Colorado agreed to write a letter to the territorial governor in Cheyenne urging him to investigate the situation up here and Bannerman’s claim to the land. Smoke’s lawyers are coming up here to carry out their own investigation.”

  “Lawyers,” Preacher repeated scornfully. “Fancy word for crooks, if you ask me.”

  Smoke smiled. “Sometimes it comes in handy to have the crooks on your side. We’ll have to wait and see about that. In the meantime, it’s up to us to protect Crazy Bear and his people from Bannerman’s hired gunslingers.”

  “We ain’t protectin’ anybody, penned up in this ol’ cabin,” Preacher said. “It ain’t gonna be long until those bastards out there got all the advantage on their side.”

  “Maybe not,” Smoke said. “There’s one thing I reckon they haven’t considered.”

  “What’s that?” Matt asked.

  “Once it gets dark, we may not be able to see them, but they can’t see us, either.”

  “What good is that going to do us? They’ve got a solid ring around us. We can’t slip out through them while they’re closing in on us.”

  “Speak for yourself, youngster,” Preacher said. “Remember, the Injuns used to call me Ghost-Killer. I could sneak right into a village and out again without anybody knowin’ I was there until it was too late.”

  “No offense, but I’m not sure you’re that spry now, Preacher.”

  “Not that spry!” Preacher took offense—even though Matt had told him not to. “Why, you young pup, I’ll have you know—”

  “We’re not sneaking out,” Smoke broke in. “I’m starting to get another idea, but it’ll have to wait until dark. We might as well settle down until then. I don’t think they’re gonna charge us again.”

  “No, neither do I,” Preacher agreed. He looked over at Matt. “You said you was in Buffalo Flat a while back? What were you doin’ in these parts?”

  “Just drifting, as usual,” Matt replied with a shrug. “Seeing what’s on the other side of the hill.”

  Preacher sighed. “I know the feelin’. Been doin’ the same thing for nigh on to sixty years.”

  “I’m starting to wonder,” Matt went on, “if this area is jinxed or something. The two of you rode right into trouble when you came through here, and so did I…”

  BOOK THREE

  Chapter 21

  The sudden crackle of gunfire somewhere nearby made Matt Jensen haul back on the reins and bring his big sorrel mount to a halt. “Hear that, Spirit?” he asked the horse. “Sounds like there’s a ruckus going on.”

  Spirit turned his head to look back at Matt as if he were saying Oh? Really? Running into trouble was something the two of them did all too often.

  Matt’s Stetson was cuffed back on his shock of blond hair. Humor sparkled in his pale blue eyes at the moment, but under the right circumstances, those eyes took on a blue-gray tint that made them look like chips of ice. They were about as cold as ice, too, when Matt was angry.

  He sat there for a moment, listening to the popping of gunfire. It seemed out of place in such idyllic surroundings. The heavily timbered slopes of the Big Horn Mountains loomed around him, forming a majestic backdrop for the lush valley through which he was riding. Off to his left, a creek ran clear, cold, and swift bubbling over its rocky bed as it traced a course between banks dotted with cottonwood and aspen. Several such creeks watered that valley, which explained the lush grass in the meadows that provided ample graze for the cows Matt had seen.

  The Circle B brand was burned into the hides of the animals. Matt hadn’t heard of that particular spread before, but he knew the cattle industry had been growing rapidly in Wyoming Territory over the past decade. Texas cattlemen had headed north and established ranches all over the territory during that time. The Circle B cows that Matt saw were fat and sleek, so he assumed the ranch was a successful one.

  Rifles continued to crack, and he heard the popping of six-guns, too. As he pondered whether to get involved in whatever was going on, he realized the decision might not be in his hands. The shots were coming closer.

  A lone rider suddenly burst out of some trees about three hundred yards ahead of him. The man’s horse was galloping at full speed, with the rider leaning over the animal’s neck urging it on. Folks hardly ever rode that fast unless they were running away from something, Matt knew, and sure enough a few seconds later half a dozen more riders emerged from the trees. Powdersmoke puffed from their guns as they continued firing at the man they were chasing.

  Matt glanced to his right. A clump of boulders offered shelter and concealment. He pulled on the reins and heeled Spirit into motion, sending the sorrel into the cluster of big rocks.

  He wanted to know more about the game before he took a hand in it. The most likely explanation for what he’d seen was that some of the ranch hands who rode for the Circle B were chasing a rustler they had caught red-handed at his nefarious work.

  But that wasn’t the only possible explanation. Matt swung down from the saddle and climbed up a giant slab of rock that was tilted against another boulder. He took off his hat and stretched out on the stony slope, giving him a good view of the chase.

  The lone rider being pursued was closer. Matt saw that he wore buckskins and was hatless, which was somewhat unusual on the frontier. The man’s hair was as dark as a raven’s wing.

  The rider swept past, close enough to the rocks so Matt could see with a shock that he had made a mistaken assumption. That midnight-black hair was twisted into a pair of braids that hung far down the rider’s back. The fringed buckskin shirt clung to curves that definitely didn’t belong to a man.

  The rider was a woman.

  The men who were after her continued blasting away at her as they closed in. Matt got a good look at them, as they galloped past the boulders. They had the hard-bitten, beard-stubbled features of gunmen rather than regular ranch hands. Maybe they rode for the Circle B, but if they did, they hadn’t been hired for their skill at working with cattle.

  They were killers, plain and simple.

  The pursuit rushed by so fast Matt didn’t have time to th
ink about what he was doing. He stood up on the steep slope, clapped his hat back on his head, then slid down and pushed off the rock. The leap landed him in the saddle on Spirit’s back. His feet found the stirrups and he sent the sorrel racing out of the rocks.

  The men chasing the woman in buckskins were about a hundred yards ahead of Matt. He called out, “Trail, Spirit!” and the stallion leaped forward, stretching his legs. The ground flashed past beneath him as Matt leaned forward, like the buckskin-clad woman. He tugged his hat down tight to keep the wind from blowing it off his head.

  A Winchester .44-40 rode snugly in a sheath strapped to the saddle. Matt drew the rifle and worked its lever, jacking a round into the chamber. He lifted the weapon to his shoulder, steadied it, and fired.

  The hurricane deck of a racing horse was no place for accuracy. Matt wasn’t trying to hit any of the men. He wanted to come close enough to spook them and make them veer off from their pursuit of the woman.

  But no sooner had the rifle cracked and kicked against his shoulder than one of the riders ahead of him threw up his arms and slumped forward. The man would have toppled out of the saddle if one of his companions hadn’t reached over to grab his arm and steady him. The riders hauled back on their reins and brought their mounts to skidding halts that raised some dust.

  Those who weren’t wounded turned their horses and opened fire on Matt. He saw flame spurt from the muzzles of their rifles. A couple of slugs whined past, close enough for him to hear them. Still shooting, the men charged him.

  On second thought, Matt mused, maybe getting mixed up in the affair had been a mistake after all. “Come on, Spirit!” he told the sorrel as he whirled around. “Let’s get back to those rocks!”

  The boulders were the closest place where he could fort up. They offered good protection from gunfire, except slugs often ricocheted and bounced around. Dangerous or not the boulders were Matt’s best hope, so he headed for them as fast as Spirit could carry him.