Smoke Jensen, the Beginning

by William W. Johnstone

  The bartender went over to the customer, then leaned over as the customer whispered something in his ear. The bartender looked back toward Smoke, listened a moment longer, then nodded, and hurried back down the bar with the key.

  “Mr. Jensen, you don’t have to worry none about anyone disturbin’ you tonight. I’ll make sure you’re left in peace.”

  “I appreciate that, Sam,” Smoke replied.

  One of the bar girls sidled over to Smoke. Dissipation had not yet taken its toll with her, and she was actually rather attractive. “I heard you say you didn’t want to be disturbed tonight,” she said as flirtatiously as she could. “I don’t blame you. Once you find someone that you want to be with for the rest of the night, the last thing you’d want would be for someone to come bustin’ in on you. My name is Gloria, and don’t you worry, if you come to my room with me, I’ll make certain we aren’t disturbed.”

  Smoke smiled at her. “You know what, Gloria? You could almost tempt me to do just that. But I’m so tired that when I finally do get up there tonight, all I’m going to want to do is sleep.”

  “All right, honey,” Gloria said. “But you don’t know what you are missing.”

  “Oh, I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

  “We’re losing a player here!” somebody called from one of the tables. “We need another man! Anybody want to get into the game?”

  Suddenly Preacher’s words came back to Smoke. “You want to get the measure of any place, you get into a friendly card game in one of the local saloons. Men gets to palaverin’ in a card game ’n if you keep your mouth shut, and just listen, why you’ll learn more in an hour than you could by readin’ a month o’ newspapers.”

  “I’d like to join you, if you don’t mind a stranger playing with you,” Smoke said.

  “You be a stranger do you? Well, tell me, stranger, are you goin’ to be playin’ with American money?” asked one of the others at the table.

  “Yes, but what difference would it make to you whether I’m playing with American money or not? None of you will ever see it. I intend to win all the hands,” Smoke teased.

  “Ha! Come on in here, stranger, and sit at the table,” another player said. “There ain’t nothin’ I like better ’n partin’ an overconfident fool from his money. And anyone that thinks they’re likely to not lose anythin’ at all is just the kind of fool that is goin’ to lose.”

  The others laughed, and Smoke joined them at the table. They noticed that he did not sit in a way that would compromise his ability to get to his gun quickly, if he had to.

  The other players quickly learned that Smoke was the man who had stopped the bank robbery, and since all three of them had money in the bank, they were grateful to him.

  One of the players was Robert Vaughan, owner and editor of the local newspaper. Seeing it as an opportunity to get a story, he began questioning Smoke rather extensively.

  Smoke didn’t mind the interrogation as it actually opened up avenues for conversation which allowed him to get information, as well as give it. “I understand that Angus Shardeen was in Buffington a while ago.”

  “He was here, all right,” Vaughan said.

  “I heard some folks say that it was him, but I don’t know as that’s true,” Rick Adams replied as he picked up his cards.

  “It’s true, all right.” Vaughan looked at the cards he’d been dealt.

  “How do you know?” Smoke asked.

  The conversation continued between Smoke and the newspaper editor as he answered, “I know because I recognized two of them. Their leader had red hair, a red beard, and a scar that runs up the side of his face and looks like it damn near cuts his eye in two. That, my friends, could be no one but Angus Shardeen. I also recognized one of the others. He only has half an ear on the left side of his head. That could only be Billy Bartell.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know where they are holed up, would you?”

  “I don’t have any idea, but if I had to make an educated guess, I would say that they are holed up in the mountains where they can use the rocks and the draws as a fortress. That way they could stand off an army.”

  Smoke looked at his cards. “Has anyone actually ever gone into the mountains to try and find Shardeen and his men?”

  “No, and they aren’t likely to, either. At least, not anyone who has good sense. Why are you asking so many questions about Shardeen, anyway?”

  Smoke chuckled. “I guess you could say I’m one of those people who doesn’t have very good sense.”

  “I’ll be damned! Are you planning to go after him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve heard about you, Smoke Jensen. They say you are quite skilled in the way you employ your pistol, in terms of speed with which you can extract your weapon and the deadly accuracy of your shooting. I also know that the reward being offered for Shardeen has reached a rather substantial amount. But no reward is worth getting yourself killed.”

  “The reward has nothing to do with it. I have a personal reason for going after Mr. Angus Shardeen.”

  For the remainder of the game, Smoke explained his personal reasons for going after Shardeen, telling how he had witnessed his mother being murdered, and his sister violated.

  “And after I take care of Shardeen I intend to deal with Mr. Billy Bartell. By the way, I raise the bet by five dollars,” he added, pushing five more dollars into the pot.

  “All I can do is wish you luck,” Vaughan said. “And call your bet,” he added with a triumphant smile.

  When Smoke got up from the table somewhat later, he was down by twenty dollars. “Damn. Maybe I shouldn’t have played with American money,” he teased, and the others laughed.

  After a supper of biscuits, bacon, and beans, which he ate at the saloon, he went up the backstairs to the room the bartender had rented him. Smoke poured water into the bowl, took off his shirt, washed, then turned the covers down and crawled into bed.

  He was awakened in the middle of the night by a small clicking sound. Instantly, his hand went to the pistol hanging from the headboard. He slipped out of bed and walked barefoot across the carpet, then stood with his back to the wall just beside the door.

  The click he had heard was the latch being unlocked. He watched the doorknob turn. Holding his pistol in his right hand, arm crooked at the elbow, and pistol pointing up, he eased back on the hammer, cocking it so slowly it made practically no sound as the sear engaged the cylinder.

  The door opened, moving silently on the hinges. A little wedge of light spilled into the room from the hallway, the wedge growing wider as the door opened farther until finally it stretched from the open door all the way to the bed. Every muscle in Smoke’s body tensed as he waited for the confrontation.

  “Hello?” a woman’s voice called quietly. “Is anyone in here?”

  Who was this woman, and what was she doing here? With a sigh, Smoke’s tension was relieved, and he eased the hammer back down as he lowered his pistol. “I’m here,” he said from the darkness behind her.

  “Oh!” the woman gasped, startled by the sound from an unexpected direction. She put her hand to her chest. “Don’t do that! You could scare a body to death that way.”

  “You should be frightened.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Smoke Jensen. Who are you?”

  “Smoke Jensen? You’re the one who stopped the bank robbers, aren’t you?”

  “You didn’t answer my question. Who are you, and what do you mean coming into my room in the middle of the night? I could’ve shot you.”

  “My name is Ida Jean, and this is my room.”

  “Ida Jean, is it? Well, Ida Jean, if this really is your room, why did you ask if anyone was in here?”

  “Sometimes one of the other girls uses it to entertain one of their gentlemen friends. I didn’t want to come bargin’ in on something.”

  Smoke shook his head. “I’m all alone in here.”

  “You rented the room for the night, d
id you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know, you don’t have to be all alone.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Too bad,” Ida Jean said. “All right. I’ll go somewhere else.”

  “No,” Smoke offered. “If this really is your room, I’ll leave.”

  “Honey, there’s no need for you to do that. I have somewhere else I can go. You don’t. Good night . . . and sleep tight.”

  “Thanks,” Smoke said.

  Ida Jean left the room and Smoke closed and locked the door. He propped a chair under the doorknob. If the woman who just came in had a key, how many more keys were out there? he wondered.

  As Smoke lay in the darkness, he thought about the woman and her offer. He had not yet been with a woman . . . in that way . . . and he sometimes wondered about it. He remembered his conversation with his pa.

  “I ain’t never been with a woman before. Leastwise, I ain’t never been with a woman in . . . that . . . way. The way she wanted to be. And I sorta figure that if you’re goin’ to do somethin’ like that with a woman, then maybe it ought to mean somethin’. ”

  Smoke hadn’t changed his mind.

  CHAPTER 19

  Smoke left the saloon the next morning and headed toward Dumplins for breakfast. He had just crossed the street when he heard a voice call out to him.

  “Mr. Jensen, look out!” The warning was shouted by Wes, the boy from the stable.

  Almost on top of the warning, Smoke felt a blow to the side of his head. He saw stars, but even as he was being hit, he was reacting to the warning so that, while it didn’t prevent the attack, it did prevent him from being knocked down.

  When his attacker swung at him a second time, Smoke was able to avoid him. With his fists up, he danced quickly out to the middle of the street, avoiding any more surprises from the shadows. It wasn’t until then that he saw his attacker, a large man with heavy brows and a bulbous nose.

  Smoke called out, “What are you doing? Why are you attacking me?”

  “Mister,” the man replied with a low growl, “you kilt my brother a few weeks ago.”

  Almost instantly, a crowd had gathered around Smoke and the man who had come at him from the shadows. It was still fairly early in the morning. He hadn’t seen anyone on the street when he first came out of the saloon. Where had all these people come from? he wondered before calling out, “Who is your brother?”

  “Damn. Have you kilt so many men that you can’t even keep track? It was Sledge Blackwell.”

  “I’m sorry about your brother. I didn’t have any choice. He drew against me.”

  “Yeah, well, bein’ sorry don’t do much for bringin’ ’im back, does it?” Blackwell caught up with Smoke in the middle of the street.

  “Ever’body knows that Sledge Blackwell wasn’t worth a bucket of spit. Why’s Bull fightin’ for ’im?” someone asked.

  “Because Bull ain’t got good sense.”

  Blackwell threw a long wild swing at Smoke, but it was easy for Smoke to slip away from it, then counterpunch with a quick, slashing left to Blackwell’s face. It was a well-delivered blow, one that would have dropped most men, but Blackwell barely showed the effects. He laughed a low evil laugh. “That the best you got?”

  “Somebody ought to stop this,” said a man on the boardwalk. “Bull is almost twice as big as Jensen. He’s goin’ to beat ’im to death.”

  “Yeah? Well, Smoke ain’t no little man, and what he’s got is all muscle. I’m goin’ with him.”

  With an angry roar, Blackwell rushed Smoke again, and Smoke stepped aside, avoiding the rush. The big man slammed into a hitching rail, smashing through it as if it were kindling. He turned and faced Smoke again.

  A hush fell over the crowd as they watched the two men, observing the fight with a great deal of interest, wanting to see if this young man could handle Blackwell.

  Smoke and Blackwell circled around for a moment, holding their fists doubled in front of them, each trying to test the mettle of the other. Blackwell swung, a club-like swing which Smoke leaned away from. Smoke counterpunched and again he scored well, but again, Blackwell laughed it off.

  Smoke hit Blackwell almost at will, and though the big man continued to shrug off the punches, the repeated blows were beginning to take effect. Blackwell’s eyes began to puff up, and his lip had a nasty cut.

  Smoke saw an opening and was set perfectly to deliver the blow. He sent a long, whistling right into Blackwell’s nose and when he felt the nose go under his hand, he knew that he had broken it.

  Blackwell’s nose bled, the blood ran down across his teeth and chin. The big man continued to throw great swinging blows toward Smoke, but he was getting clumsier and more uncoordinated with each swing.

  Growing exhausted from his ineffective efforts, Blackwell quit swinging and started with bull-like charges, all of which Smoke was able to easily avoid. As Blackwell rushed by with his head down, Smoke stepped to one side and sent a powerful right jab to Blackwell’s neck, connecting with his Adam’s apple. Grabbing his neck, Blackwell went down, gasping for breath.

  Smoke stepped up to him and drew his fist back for the final blow, but he stopped when he saw the abject fear in Blackwell’s eyes. “You are a lucky man. You came at me with your fists. If you had come after me with a gun, you’d be dead.”

  As Smoke walked away, he saw Wes standing close by. It was his warning that had enabled Smoke to duck, thus ameliorating Blackwell’s first blow. “Thanks, Wes.”

  “I never thought you could whup him. He’s a lot bigger ’n you are.”

  “Big doesn’t always count,” Smoke said.

  “Yes, sir, I seen that. And I’m goin’ to ’member it, too.”

  “How is Seven doing?”

  Wes smiled. “He’s a great horse, ’n he won’t let anybody aroun’ him unless I say it’s all right.”

  “That’s because he knows his friends.” Smoke flipped a quarter to the boy. “Tell you what. Why don’t you give him an extra rubdown today?”

  “Yes, sir!” Wes replied enthusiastically.

  Smoke stepped into Dumplins a few minutes later.

  He was greeted warmly by Kathy. “I hope you like biscuits and gravy, because that’s what I’ve made for breakfast this morning.”

  “My favorite,” Smoke replied with a smile.

  After breakfast, Smoke tried to pay for it, but Kathy refused his money.

  Smoke shook his head. “No ma’am. You fed me last night. I don’t intend you to lose money on me.”

  “I’m not losing money. Your breakfast has already been paid for.”

  “What? Who would do that?”

  “Mr. Vaughan picked up your bill,” Kathy said, pointing to the newspaper publisher.

  Smoke walked over to him. “Mr. Vaughan, I want to thank you for buying my breakfast, but there was no need for you to do that.”

  “It was my pleasure, Smoke.” Vaughan chuckled. “Anyway, it isn’t costing me anything. I paid for it with money that I won from you yesterday, so you might say that you are paying for it yourself.”

  “Well, then I don’t feel so bad.”

  “By the way, do make it a point to read the Delta Metro today.”

  “Delta Metro?”

  “That’s my newspaper. The title comes from the delta formed by the confluence of Horse and Coffee creeks,” Vaughan explained. “Not quite the Mississippi River Delta, I admit. But then, metro isn’t any more appropriate than delta, so you might call it poetic license.”

  Later that same day, while sitting at a table in the back of the Salt Lick, Smoke saw his name in print for the very first time.

  SMOKE JENSEN, WESTERN HERO

  Yesterday our fair town of Buffington rang with the sound of gunfire as three outlaws attempted to hold up the bank. They were stopped and economic disaster was prevented by the heroic and timely intervention of Smoke Jensen.

  Like Leonidas at Thermopylae, Smoke stood his ground, defending a young child as he dispatched
two of the would-be robbers and forced the third into an ignominious surrender.

  It is said that Smoke Jensen is seeking that most perfidious of outlaws, Angus Shardeen, with the intention of bringing him to justice. But Shardeen is a coward who surrounds himself with cowards, believing that there is bravery in numbers. This reporter has taken the measure of Smoke Jensen, and believes that he will find, and bring to justice, Angus Shardeen and his minions. Some may wish to compare Smoke Jensen with Don Quixote, dueling windmills. But I say that if it weren’t for the Don Quixotes of the world, we would be overrun with windmills.

  Smoke chose the corner, which not only put his back to the wall, but limited the access to him from either side. One of the bar girls approached him, and he recognized her as the one who had come into his room last night. “Hello, Ida Jean. You aren’t planning on coming into my room again tonight, are you?”

  “No. You made it pretty clear last night that you aren’t really interested in that sort of thing.”

  “Just because I didn’t want to share my bed with you, doesn’t mean I won’t have a drink with a pretty girl.” He gave her some money and she walked back over to the bar to buy the drinks.

  As he watched her, Smoke noticed a man standing at the far end of the bar staring at him. The man had only half an ear on the left side of his face, and he was glaring at Smoke. An old memory flashed back.

  “Spread ’er legs out, boys, I’m goin’ to have me a little of this,” one of the men was saying. He was a big ugly man with only half of one of his ears.

  “Get away from her!” his ma said. She attacked the man.

  “What the hell, Bartell, can’t you handle a young girl and an old woman?” Shardeen asked with a demonic laugh.

  The man at the bar was Billy Bartell, one of the men he had seen at the farm that day, and one of the men, it was said, who was still riding with Shardeen. Bartell had no way of recognizing Smoke, but must have had Smoke pointed out to him, because suddenly and without warning, Bartell reached for his pistol.