Smoke Jensen, the Beginning

by William W. Johnstone

  “Then Janey it shall be,” Richards said.

  “Where are you going, Mr. Richards?”

  “Please, if I am to call you Janey, you must call me Josh.”

  “Very well, Josh. Where are you going?” She put her hand across her mouth. “Oh, please, you must forgive me. I have no business in inquiring about such a personal matter.”

  “No forgiveness in necessary. I don’t mind at all telling you where I’m going. I am an owner of the PSR, which is an obscenely large ranch just outside the town of Bury, Idaho.”

  “Oh! What a coincidence! I, too, am going to Bury,” Janey said, making the decision at that very instant. “I am sure that your wife is looking forward quite anxiously to your return.”

  “I suppose she would be if I had a wife. I’m not married, Janey.”

  “Well now, that is very nice to know.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Smoke heard the high, keening sound of a steam-powered saw and knew that he was close to a town. If he had followed directions, the town was Buffington. At least, he hoped it was Buffington. A couple weeks ago a man had told him that Angus Shardeen had been seen in the town.

  As he rode closer, he smelled meat cooking and bread baking. His stomach churned as those aromas reminded him of just how hungry he was.

  Finally, he saw a church steeple through the trees, a tall spire, topped by a brass-plated cross that glistened in the high noon sun. He reached a road running parallel to the railroad tracks and moved onto it, following it the rest of the way into the settlement.

  The town impressed him with its bustling activity. In addition to the working sawmill, he saw several other examples of commerce—freight wagons lumbering down the street, carpenters erecting a new building, a store clerk in a white apron sweeping the boardwalk in front of his place of employment. Well-maintained boardwalks ran the length of the town on either side of the street. At the end of each block, planks were laid across the road to allow pedestrians to cross to the other side without having to walk in the dirt or mud.

  Smoke stopped his horse and waited patiently at one of the intersections while he watched a woman cross on the plank, daintily holding her skirt up above her ankles to keep the hem from getting soiled. She nodded her appreciation to him as she stepped up onto the boardwalk on the opposite side of the street.

  Smoke clucked at Seven, and the Appaloosa stepped across the plank, then headed toward the livery, a little farther down. Smoke dismounted in front of it.

  An old man got up from the barrel he had been sitting on and walked, with a limp, over to Smoke. “Boardin’ your horse, mister?”

  ‘Yes.”

  “How long will you be stayin’?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Smoke said.

  “It’ll cost you fifteen cents a night.”

  “Does that include feeding him?”

  “Hay, only. Oats’ll cost you five cents extra.”

  Smoke gave the man a silver dollar. “I’ll be back before this is worked off.”

  “Wes,” the old man called, and a boy of about fourteen appeared from inside the barn.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Take this man’s horse.”

  “Wait a minute,” Smoke said.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “I need to let Seven know that you’ve got my permission to be around him. I’d better introduce you.”

  “Mister, I been handlin’ horses since I was ten years old,” Wes said. “You don’t need to introduce me to your horse.”

  Smoke smiled and stepped away. “All right, come get him.”

  The boy started toward the horse, and Seven lowered his head and bared his teeth.

  Startled, the boy jumped back. “Uh, maybe you had better introduce us.”

  “Yeah, it might work out better that way,” Smoke said with a smile. He put one hand on the side of the horse’s face and the other hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Seven, it’s all right. This boy’s name is Wes, and he’s going to take good care of you while I’m gone.”

  Seven nodded his head, and Smoke reached out to take the boy’s hand. He was about to put it on Seven’s face, but Wes pulled back.

  “It’s all right,” Smoke said. “Seven’s going to treat you fine. Here, give him a couple pats.”

  Hesitantly, Wes allowed his hand to be put on Seven’s face. Only when Seven moved his head against the hand, did the boy smile.

  “There, now you and my horse are friends. Wes, I’d suggest that before anyone else handles him, you tell Seven it’ll be all right.”

  “You mean he’ll listen to me?”

  “Sure he will. Like I said, you and Seven are friends now.”

  The smile broadened, spreading across Wes’s face. “Yes, sir, I’ll be sure ’n introduce the others to ’im!” he said proudly. “Come on, Seven. Like he said, me ’n you’s friends now.”

  Smoke turned to the livery man. “The name of this town is Buffington, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.” The man extended his hand. “I’m Tony Heckemeyer.”

  “Smoke Jensen.” He examined Heckemeyer’s face for any sign of recognition, but he gave none. “This seems like a nice, industrious town.”

  “Yes, sir. We like it.”

  Suddenly, several gunshots interrupted their conversation. Looking toward the opposite end of the street, Smoke saw two men backing out of a building.

  “That’s the bank! They’re robbin’ the bank!” Heckemeyer said.

  A third man suddenly appeared from the alley that ran between the bank and the building next to it. He was mounted and leading two horses. Leaning down, he threw the reins to the two others. Once they mounted, all three began shooting up the town in order to keep people off the street.

  Their efforts were effective, in that most people were scurrying to get out of the way. But Smoke saw a little girl not more than five or six years old standing at the edge of the street, obviously in the line of fire from the shooters. She was too frightened and too confused to move.

  Dropping his saddlebags, Smoke ran out into the street toward her, scooped her up in his arms, and was about to carry her to safety, but it was too late. The three bank robbers were galloping down the street toward them.

  He put the girl down, then stepped out between her and the gunmen. “Stay behind me and don’t move!” he shouted at her.

  Smoke’s initial intention had been no more than to get the little girl to safety, but in so doing he had put himself in the path of the robbers’ escape route.

  Pulling his pistol, Smoke aimed at the closest rider and fired. Even as that robber was tumbling from his saddle, Smoke knocked a second rider from his horse. The two riderless horses galloped by.

  The third robber, suddenly realizing that he was alone, reined in his own horse, tossed his gun down and threw both arms into the air. “No, no!” he shouted. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot! I quit, I quit!”

  With the surrender, nearly a dozen armed men of the town came running out into the street with their guns aimed at the one remaining robber.

  “Get down from there, mister,” one of the men shouted in an authoritative voice. His authority, Smoke saw, came from the badge he was wearing on his vest.

  A woman came running into the street and picked up the little girl. “Oh, Frances, sweetheart! Are you all right!”

  “Did any of the bullets hit her?” Smoke asked anxiously.

  “No, no, I don’t think so,” the woman said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Just seeing that she wasn’t hurt is thanks enough for me,” Smoke said.

  “Take him to jail,” the man with the badge said, referring to the robber who had given up. Two others responded to the order, prodding their prisoner along at gunpoint.

  The man with the badge came back to speak to Smoke. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Sheriff Gwaltney. Mister, I want to thank you for what you done. You not only saved the little girl there, you probably saved several others by stoppin’
those men before they could shoot up the whole town. Also, because of what you done we got the bank’s money back. The whole town owes you for that.”

  “That was a real brave thing, you standin’ out in the middle of the street like that,” Heckemeyer said, coming over to join them.

  “I didn’t have much choice,” Smoke said. “I sort of got caught out there.”

  “You coulda just stayed out of the way.”

  Smoke looked at the little girl, who was examining him closely with blue eyes that were open wide in wonder. He shook his head. “No, I couldn’t.”

  Even as Smoke and the sheriff were speaking, a man wearing a long black coat came driving up in a wagon. He stopped the wagon between the two men Smoke had shot.

  “Doolin, don’t you go puttin’ them fellas in any of your fancy coffins, thinkin’ maybe that the county’s goin’ to pay for it,” Sheriff Gwaltney said. “ ’Cause I’m tellin’ you right now, we ain’t agoin’ to do it.”

  “I won’t use nothin’ but a couple plain pine boxes,” Doolin replied.

  “Why waste a box? Put both of ’em in the same box,” another said, and those gathered laughed rather nervously at the macabre joke.

  At that moment, Smoke couldn’t help but think of the feeding trough he had used as the coffin to bury his mother.

  Sheriff Gwaltney looked back at Smoke. “What’s your name, mister?”

  “Jensen. Smoke Jensen.”

  “Smoke Jensen?” Gwaltney replied as a look of recognition passed across his face. He stroked his chin. “Seems to me like I’ve heard that name before. Do you have any paper out on you?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “What?”

  As he had done with Marshal Moore, Smoke took out the WANTED poster that Angus Shardeen had circulated.

  “Damn. That’s purdee advertisin’ for someone to murder you,” Gwaltney said. “It takes someone evil and arrogant to do somethin’ like that. Don’t he know that somethin’ like this will get the law after him?”

  Smoke laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “The law is already after him. What would one more thing matter?”

  Sheriff Gwaltney laughed. “I guess you’re right. And, to tell you the truth, it wouldn’t make no never mind to me whether the law had paper out on you or not. After stoppin’ the bank robbery the way you done, you have certainly made some friends in this town. I don’t know what brought you here, but I’m sure glad you showed up when you did.”

  “Mister Jensen, have you had your lunch yet?” asked the mother of the little girl.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “My name’s Kathy York. I would love to fix lunch for you.”

  “Well, I—uh . . .” Smoke stuttered his response.

  Kathy chuckled. “It’s not what you are thinking, Mr. Jensen.” She pointed to a building directly across from them. “That’s my café there, Dumplins. You come on over and have lunch, on me.”

  “Thanks,” Smoke said.

  While Smoke was having his lunch, several of the townspeople stopped by his table to thank him for what he had done in saving little Frances York, and in stopping the bank robbery.

  “Most ever’one in town’s got money in that bank. Why, if them men had gotten away with it, there’s several of us would’ve fallen on hard times, and that’s for sure,” one of the men said.

  The accolades were growing so profuse that Smoke was beginning to feel self-conscious about it.

  After lunch, Frances came over to Smoke’s table, very carefully carrying a small plate. “This is Mama’s blackberry cobbler.”

  Smoke smiled. “Well, thank you.” He turned serious. “But I don’t know. Is it any good?”

  Frances nodded. “Oh, yes. It’s very good.”

  “You know what? When I have something that is very good, like blackberry cobbler, I like to have someone else eat with me. Do you think your mama would let you have a plate of cobbler so you could eat with me?”

  “Mama! He wants me to have some, too!” Frances called out happily, and a moment later she was sitting across the table from him as they ate the cobbler together.

  Smoke got a sudden image of his sister when she was a little girl. Blackberry cobbler had been her favorite dessert, and he wondered if she still liked it. He wondered, too, where she was, and if he would ever see her again.

  She had run away because she obviously wanted to be on her own. If that was really what she wanted, he had no intention of disturbing her.

  Smoke walked back down to the sheriff’s office.

  “Mr. Jensen, what can I do for you?” the sheriff said, greeting him effusively.

  “You asked me earlier what brought me here,” Smoke said. “It didn’t seem the right time or place to tell you then, but I’m looking for a man.” Smoke turned his vest out, so the sheriff could see that he was a Deputy U.S. Marshal.

  “A Deputy U.S. Marshal, are you? Well, now I can see how you were able to handle those two men so easily. Who are you looking for?”

  “Angus Shardeen.”

  “Angus Shardeen? You mean the one that’s put out the reward to have you killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, with the two of you lookin’ for each other, you’re bound to meet up with him, don’t you think?”

  “No, there’s a difference. He’s not actually looking for me. All he’s done is put out Wanted posters promising to reward anyone who can kill me. I’m actually looking for him.”

  “Do you have a posse with you? Or are you looking for him alone?”

  “I have no one with me.”

  “That’s quite a job for one man. I know Marshal Holloway. I can’t imagine him sending one man out for Shardeen.”

  “He didn’t send me out,” Smoke said. “I volunteered.”

  “If you’re tryin’ to make a name for yourself, Jensen, you don’t need to go so far as to try and tackle Shardeen all by yourself. Hell, you’re already gettin’ known around.”

  “It has nothing to do with making a name for myself,” Smoke said. “Truth is, I’d just as soon not have a name. What’s between Shardeen and me is personal.”

  “Yes, but there’s the problem you see. It might be personal for you, but it won’t be for him. Last I heard, he had at least six or seven men ridin’ with him, and maybe even more than that. Here’s the thing, most of ’em is the same ones that rode with him durin’ the war.”

  “So I’ve heard. I also heard that he had been seen here in Buffington.”

  “That’s true. He and his men passed through town one day a few weeks ago. They stocked up at the general store, then rode on. But like I said, there were quite a few of ’em. They didn’t give us any trouble, so we didn’t give them any trouble.”

  “You wouldn’t have any idea as to where they might be now, would you?”

  The sheriff shook his head. “No, I don’t know. I’m just telling you that if you go after him alone, you may be takin’ on a bigger bite than you can chew.”

  “You may be right, but I’m determined to find him. By the way, I don’t think I saw a hotel when I came into town.”

  “The reason you didn’t see one is because we don’t have one. At least, not ’ny more. The one hotel we had burned down last month, and it ain’t been built back. But if you’re lookin’ for a place to stay, you might check in at the Salt Lick Saloon. You can get a room there if they aren’t all in use.”

  The Salt Lick was the most substantial-looking saloon in a row of saloons. A drunk was passed out on the steps in front of the place and Smoke had to step over him in order to go inside.

  The chimneys of all the lanterns were soot-covered. Dingy light filtered through drifting smoke. The place smelled of sour whiskey, stale beer, and strong tobacco. The long bar on the left with a large mirror behind it was like everything else about the saloon—so dirty Smoke could scarcely see any images in it. What he could see was distorted by imperfections in the glass.

  Eight
or ten tables were nearly all occupied. A half-dozen or so bar girls were flitting about, pushing drinks. A few card games were in progress, but most of the patrons were just drinking and talking.

  Smoke stepped up to the bar. The bartender was pouring the residue from abandoned whiskey glasses back into a bottle. He pulled a soggy cigar butt from one glass, laid the butt aside, then poured the whiskey back into the bottle without qualms.

  One of the other men standing at the bar recognized Smoke. “Hey, you’re the man that stopped the bank robbery, ain’t you?”

  “I was here when it happened,” Smoke replied.

  “Here? Hell, you was a lot more than just here. Sam, give this feller whatever it is he wants to drink. I’ll pay for it.”

  “Thanks,” Smoke said.

  “What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.

  “A beer.”

  Sam drew a mug of beer, then set it before him.

  “I’d also like a room.”

  “With or without.”

  That was confusing. “With or without what?”

  The bartender looked up in surprise. “Are you kidding me, mister? With or without a woman.”

  “Without.”

  “All right. That’ll be six bits.”

  “Six bits? Isn’t that a little expensive?”

  “If we left the room empty so the girls could use it for their customers, we could make three, maybe four times that,” the bartender said. “But since the hotel got burnt down we sometimes take in people who just want a room so, we gotta charge six bits for it. Take it or leave it.”

  It had been a while since Smoke last slept in a bed, so even though he complained about having to pay seventy-five cents for a room, he considered it well worth it. “Here,” he said, slapping the coins on the bar. “Tell your girls and their customers not to come into my room by mistake. If they do, they just might get shot.”

  “Mister, I don’t know who the hell you are, but it ain’t healthy to go around making threats you can’t back up,” the bartender growled. He picked up the silver and took it over to the money box, then reached for a key.

  “Sam,” someone called from the other end of the bar. “Come here.”