Smoke Jensen, the Beginning

by William W. Johnstone

  “What’s your name?”

  An evil smile spread across the bounty hunter’s face. “The name would be Blackwell. Sledge Blackwell.”

  Smoke gave a short nod in acknowledgment. “Well, Mr. Blackwell, I would suggest that you not try to collect this particular reward.”

  “Don’t try?” Blackwell replied.

  The saloon had grown deathly still as the patrons sat quietly, nervously, and yet titillated by the life and death drama that had suddenly begun to unfold in front of them.

  He turned to address the others. “You’d like for me not to try and collect the reward. Is that what you’re saying? I suppose you would rather I just walk away, wouldn’t you?”

  Smoke put the beer down with a tired sigh and turned to face his tormentor. “It would be better for both of us if you would. But you’re not going to do that, are you?”

  “I can’t. Why, this is how I make my livin’, boy. I’m sure you’ve heard of Sledge Blackwell.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of you.” In truth, Smoke had never heard of Blackwell.

  “Yeah? What have you heard?” Blackwell asked, the smile on his face broadening.

  “I’ve heard that you are a used-up old man who shoots people in the back because you don’t have the guts to face them down.”

  Smoke’s response had just the effect he wanted it to have. The smile on Blackwell’s face turned to an angry snarl. “Draw, Jensen!” he shouted, going for his own gun even before he issued the challenge.

  Blackwell was fast and had proved his mettle in many gunfights, but midway through his draw, he realized that he had made a big mistake. The arrogant confidence in his eyes was replaced by fear, then acceptance of the fact that he was about to be killed.

  The two pistols discharged almost simultaneously, but Smoke had been able to bring his gun to bear and his bullet plunged into Blackwell’s chest, while the bounty hunter didn’t even get his gun high enough to avoid punching a hole in the floor.

  Looking down at himself, Blackwell put his hand over his wound, then pulled it away and examined the blood that had pooled in his palm. When he looked back at Smoke, an almost whimsical smile appeared on his face. “Damn, you’re fast. I ain’t never seen anyone that . . .” His sentence ended with a cough, then he fell back against the bar, making an attempt to grab onto the bar to keep himself erect. His arm moved across the top of the bar, sweeping away both drinks. His shot glass and Smoke’s beer mug wound up on the floor. The slouch hat fell from his head into the half-filled spittoon. The eye-burning, acrid smoke of two discharges hung in a gray-blue cloud just below the ceiling.

  Smoke turned back to the bar. “Looks like I’m going to need another beer.”

  “Yes, sir, another beer, and this one is on the house,” the bartender said, holding a new mug under the spigot of the beer barrel.

  Behind Smoke, the silence was broken as everyone discussed what they had just seen. He was only halfway through his beer when the town marshal and two of his deputies arrived.

  “What happened here?” the marshal asked.

  The question wasn’t directed to anyone in particular, so everyone started answering at once, availing themselves of the first opportunity to tell a story they would be telling for the rest of their lives.

  “Hold it, hold it!” The marshal put up his hands. “Don’t everyone talk at once.” He looked over toward the bartender. “Ed, did you see what happened?”

  “It’s this way, Marshal Moore. Blackwell tried to brace this man.”

  The marshal looked at Smoke. “Blackwell braced you?” the marshal asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Blackwell’s a bounty hunter. If he braced you, he must’ve thought you’ve got a wanted flyer out on you. Do you, mister?”

  Smoke started to reach for his shirt pocket.

  “What are you doing?” Marshal Moore demanded anxiously.

  “Take it easy, Marshal,” Smoke replied. “You asked if I had paper out on me, and I’m about to show it to you.”

  “You mean to say that you are a wanted man, and you not only admit it, but you are going to prove it?”

  Smoke smiled. “Yeah, you might say something like that.” He pulled a folded up piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to the marshal.

  The marshal unfolded the paper, read it, then looked up at Smoke. “You’re Smoke Jensen?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Moore folded the paper and handed it back. “Did Blackwell realize this wasn’t a real reward poster?”

  “Oh, it’s real all right, Marshal. It’s just isn’t a reward that was put out by the law.”

  “Evidently, Blackwell didn’t care who put out the reward.”

  “That’s right, Marshal,” the bartender said. “Why, Blackwell stood right here and said as much.”

  “I’ve heard of you, Jensen. But I’m curious as to what brought you to our town?”

  Smoke showed the marshal his Deputy U.S. Marshal badge. “I’m looking for Angus Shardeen.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes. Do you know where he is?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t have the slightest idea.”

  “That’s too bad. I was hoping you might have some idea.”

  “Look Jensen, with all the men Shardeen has around him, I hope you’re just trying to locate him, and don’t have any intention of bringing him in by yourself.”

  “I have no intention of bringing him in,” Smoke said, repeating what he had told Marshal Holloway.

  “That’s being smart,” Marshal Moore said, not understanding the intent of Smoke’s reply.

  Three hundred miles north of Commerce, the town of Fort Benton sat alongside the completely iced-over Missouri River. Elmer Gleason stopped by the Gold Strike Saloon to see Janey. He had taken a job as deputy city marshal and though he did drop by to see her fairly often, he had never become one of her more intimate customers. For one thing, he couldn’t afford her. She was considerably more expensive than any other girl who worked the saloon. But the real reason was more complex than that.

  “It’s just that I sort of look at you as my sister, Abbigail,” Elmer told her as they shared a table, using the name by which he had first known her. “I ain’t never had me no sister, but if I did, I sure wouldn’t be takin’ her to bed.”

  Janey laughed. “No, I wouldn’t think so.”

  “You got ’ny brothers?”

  The smile left Janey’s face, and Elmer held up his hand. “Never mind. Hell, I know better ’n to ask a question like that. Forget that I asked.”

  “No, it’s all right,” Janey said. “I think I will tell you. It might be nice having a friend who knows something about me. Otherwise, being this far from home, with a name that isn’t mine, and with nobody who really knows me, it becomes almost like I don’t exist. Do you know what I mean?”

  Elmer smiled. “I’m not sure that I do. That kind of talk is sort of hard for me to get aholt of.”

  “It means I want somebody to know me, to really know who I am. And I’d like for that somebody to be you. That is, if you don’t mind listenin’ to my story.

  Elmer nodded. “I think I’d be plumb honored if you’d tell me.”

  “To begin with, yes, I do have a brother. I had two brothers, but one of them was killed in the war. And of course, my name isn’t really Fannie Webber, nor is it Abbigail Fontaine. My real name is Jane. Janey, my family always called me. Janey Jensen.”

  Elmer was surprised. “Jensen?”

  “Yes. My father is Emmett, and my brother is—”

  “Kirby,” Elmer said. It wasn’t a question, rather a statement of fact.

  Janey gasped and put her hand to her mouth. “How long have you known?”

  “I didn’t know. Not till right now when you told me. But it turns out that I do know your brother. Me ’n him rode together with the Ghost Riders durin’ the war.”

  “I didn’t know Kirby had gone off to war. It must’ve been after I left.”

  “
He was a good man to ride with, one you could count on when things got a little testy. Me ’n him was great friends. He ’n your pa even saved my life oncet.”

  “My pa? You also know my pa?”

  “I met ’im.”

  Janey reached across the table and put her hand on Elmer’s arm. “Elmer, please, you must swear to me that you will never tell them about me. Don’t tell them where I am. Don’t even tell them that you know me.”

  “They are good people, Abbi . . . uh, Janey. Why not tell them?”

  “Do you have to ask? You’re right. They are good people. But you know me for what I am. Do you really think I could compare the life I have lived with the lives they have lived?”

  “Janey, you being what you are don’t make you a bad person. Fact is, you’re one of the best women I’ve ever knowed.”

  “Please, Elmer, if you care anything at all for me, you’ll never tell them about me.”

  “All right. Prob’ly don’t matter, anyhow. I don’t expect to ever see either one of ’em again. One of the reasons I come by today was to tell you good-bye.”

  “Good-bye? What do mean, good-bye? Where are you goin’?”

  “I’ve always had me a hankerin’ to go sailin’ acrossed the ocean so’s I could see me some of the rest of the world.”

  “Will you write me?”

  “I ain’t never been much for writin’,” Elmer said. “Anyhow, I don’t even know how I’d go about sendin’ you a letter from Australia or Siam or China, or some such place. Besides, you more ’n likely won’t be here much longer, anyhow. You damn near got as much of a wanderin’ around itch as I do.”

  Janey smiled. “I do at that. I reckon I’ll leave soon as you’re gone. There’s bound to be some place that’s warmer ’n Fort Benton.”

  “You got that right.”

  “I’m goin’ to miss you, Elmer. If I never see you again, I’ll keep your memory forever in my heart.”

  Elmer nodded and got a strange, almost yearning look in his eyes. “Abbi . . . I mean, Janey, that thought brings me more comfort than I can say.”

  The two hugged good-bye.

  “Sally, dear, I’m so happy you decided to come to New York to visit your old aunt.”

  “Oh, I’d hardly call you old, Aunt Mildred.” Sally Reynolds was sitting on the windowsill of the third floor of one of the Greek Revival row houses on the north side of Washington Square. The apartment belonged to her Aunt Mildred, and Sally had come to New York to spend a couple weeks with her. It was a cold and gray day in late March. The steely sunlight illuminated but did not warm the city. Spring had already begun, but the pedestrians walking on the sidewalk below wore heavy coats and scarves. From this elevation, they were a never-ending flow of black figures, rather like a stream of ants on the march.

  She heard the distant rumble of an el train and the clatter of an omnibus, and wondered about so many people on the move. Who were they? Where were they going? What lay ahead of them?

  What lay ahead for her?

  Sally had already made the decision for her own future and had announced it to her family with great passion and intensity. She had recently graduated from Mary Woodson Normal College and was a qualified teacher. She was going West to teach school and to see some of the country she had only read about.

  Sally’s parents were completely opposed to the idea and had sent her to New York on a visit in the hope that she would, in her father’s words, “come to her senses.”

  “Have you given any thought as to what you want for supper?” Aunt Mildred asked. “There are so many nice restaurants close by.”

  “Could we just have some scrambled eggs and stay home for supper?” Sally asked. “I’ve something I would like to speak with you about.”

  “Of course we can. But instead of scrambled eggs, suppose I make us an omelet? If you don’t mind a little bragging, I will tell you that I make a wonderful omelet.”

  “That would be great,” Sally replied with a smile.

  A short while later, the two sat down at the kitchen table for supper.

  “Oh,” Sally said after her first bite. “It’s not bragging if what you say is true. This really is a wonderful omelet.”

  “Why, thank you, dear. You said you had something you wanted to discuss with me. Would it be your idea about going West to teach school?”

  “Oh!” Sally replied with a gasp. “How did you know that?”

  “I got a letter from my brother telling me about it. He wants me to talk some sense into you.”

  “And are you going to try?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  Mildred smiled and put her hand across the table. “I’m going to tell you to go where your heart tells you to go.”

  “What? Oh, Aunt Mildred, I thought . . . that is, I was afraid . . .”

  “I know what you thought. You thought I was going to try and talk you out of it. May I share a secret with you?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  “There was a time when, more than anything else in the world, I wanted to move to San Francisco, to see what was on the other side of this country.

  “I didn’t go, because my older brother, your father, talked me out of it. I’ve wondered about that decision for my entire life. I know now that I should have gone. I don’t want you to spend the rest of your life wondering. Go, Sally. Follow your heart while you are still young. If you find that you don’t like it, you can always come back home, like the prodigal son, or in this case the prodigal daughter.” Aunt Mildred chuckled.

  “I’m going to do it,” Sally said, a broad smile spreading across her face.

  “Do you have any idea where you’ll wind up?”

  “I sent some letters out, and the only place that responded was a town called Bury, Idaho.”

  One month later, Elmer Gleason was standing on the waterfront in San Francisco. The ship Pacific Dancer was tied alongside the dock. The canvas was rolled tight against the yardarms and the lines hung loose, whistling in the breeze. The ship was taking on a cargo of buffalo hides, and it rocked gently in the waves that lapped ashore.

  Elmer had just applied for a job as an able-bodied seaman.

  “Have you ever sailed before?” the purser asked.

  “Cain’t say as I have, ’cause I ain’t,” Elmer said.

  “Why should I sign you on, then? More ’n likely you’d wind up doin’ nothin’ more ’n spendin’ all your time pukin’ on the deck. The crew will have enough to do without cleanin’ up your puke.”

  “Look, sonny. Sign me up or don’t sign me up, I really don’t give a damn which one you do. This here ain’t the only ship tied up in the bay. If you don’t take me on, I don’t reckon it’s goin’ to be all that hard to find me one that will.” Elmer turned and started to walk away.

  “Wait,” the purser called out to him. He chuckled. “It might be good to see you get seasick at that. Could be that it’ll take you down a notch or two. Can you sign your name?”

  Elmer wrote his name in bold, legible letters.

  “Report to the First Mate.”

  “Who would that be?”

  The purser pointed to the gangplank. “Go on aboard and stand there without doin’ nothin’ for a moment or two. The man that yells at you will be the first mate.”

  “Where’s this ship bound?”

  “You mean you signed on without even knowin’ where the ship was goin’?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I didn’t really care where it was goin’.”

  “Then why do you care now?”

  “ ’Cause now I’m actual on it,” Elmer replied, starting toward the gangplank.

  “China,” the purser yelled at him. “We’re goin’ to China.”

  Elmer lifted his hand in recognition that he had heard, but he didn’t turn his head around. He had seen his share of Chinamen. Now, he supposed, he was about to see a whole bunch of them.

  The m
an caught Janey’s attention as soon as he got on the train. He was a handsome man, tall, with black hair, dark eyes, a fine nose, and a strong chin. The clothes he was wearing indicated that he must be a wealthy man. He was wearing fawn-colored riding breeches tucked into highly polished calf-high boots, a dark jacket held closed by one brass button, and a vest that matched his trousers, across which was strung a gold watch chain. At his neck he wore a maroon cravat.

  He looked as if he might be every bit as wealthy as Big Ben Conyers, but something else about him Janey found even more intriguing. She knew instinctively that he was a man who had few compunctions and little concern about what others might think of him.

  She got up from her seat and walked to the front of the car to take a drink of water from the water barrel. She gave him a very close look as she passed him by, then studied him over the brim of the dipper. When she walked back to her seat, she managed to lose her balance just as she drew even with him. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed as she fell into his lap. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry.”

  She made an effort to get back on her feet, but she put her hand on the inside of his thigh, then slipped again, causing her hand to slide up his thigh. “Oh! I’m so clumsy. Please forgive me!”

  “Nothing to forgive, my dear,” the man said, smiling at her. “It can sometimes be difficult walking on a moving train.”

  “So I see.”

  “May I suggest that you sit next to me until you have quite recovered.”

  “Thank you, sir. You are such a gentleman. I don’t know how to thank you, mister . . .”

  “Richards. Josh Richards.”

  “I’m Janey Garner.”

  “It’s good to meet you, Miss Garner.”

  “It’s Mrs. Garner.”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon for the mistake.”

  Janey smiled. “I assume Mrs. is still appropriate. Poor Paul was killed in . . . a boating accident.” She’d started to say, “in the war,” but since the war was some five years past, she didn’t want to appear old enough to be a war widow.

  “Actually, and I do hope you don’t think it too forward of me, I would prefer to be called Janey.”