Rexwell took a slurping drink of his coffee. “You fellas plannin’ on sleepin’ the rest of your life away?” he asked. He laughed. “I guess maybe so, seein’ as you pro’bly don’t have that long left to live.”
“Who the hell are you?” the deputy asked, from behind him.
“I’m a friend of the condemned men,” Rexwell said. “I’ve come to tell them good-bye.”
“I didn’t even hear you come in,” the deputy said, gruffly. “You aren’t supposed to be in here—not at this hour of the night.”
“Deputy?” Amos called.
“Now, what the hell do you want?” the deputy asked, turning back toward the jail cell. He was surprised to see that both prisoners were grinning broadly.
“You should be nicer to our friend,” Amos said, easily. “Like he said, he just came here to tell us good-bye, is all.”
“Nobody is allowed in here in the middle of the ni—” That was as far as the deputy got before he felt a hand come around to clasp over his mouth. His first move was to try and pull the hand away, and when that didn’t work, he reached for his pistol. That was when he felt something sharp at his throat. Rexwell’s hand flashed quickly across his neck. There was a stinging sensation, then a wetness at his collar. Rexwell let go of him and stepped back. The deputy put his hand up to his neck, then pulled it away and looked at blood on his fingers. It wasn’t until then that he fully realized what had just happened to him. He fell to the floor and tried to call out, but was unable to do so because his windpipe had been cut and he could make no sound at all save the silent scream that was in his head.
As he was losing consciousness he saw the big, bald-headed man opening the cell door to let the prisoners out.
“We appreciate this, Rexwell, but I’m surprised to see you. I never know’d we was such friends,” Amon said.
“You’re going to pay me for this,” Rexwell said.
“Ha! How the hell are we supposed to pay you?”
“I’m on a recruiting mission,” Rexwell said. “You should be honored. I have to round up eight men, and you were the first two.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Denver
“You will be my supernumerary,” Hannibal had told Boots Cardigan when he hired him.
“My what?”
“My supernumerary,” Hannibal repeated it. “I am holding the operational strength of the Ghost Riders to thirty. But you will be in excess of that number, because you won’t be making field operations with us. You will be providing me with the intelligence we need.”
“You’re a hell of a lot smarter than I am,” Cardigan said. “How do you expect me to provide you with intelligence?”
“It isn’t that kind of intelligence,” Hannibal said. “Perhaps I should have said information. I want you to stay in Denver. Keep your eyes and ears open for anything that you think might be of some use to me. I will pay you for all the useful intelligence—that is, information—that you provide.”
“How much?”
“What difference does it make, how much?” Hannibal asked. “You will be making money, and you won’t be at risk.”
“Yeah,” Cardigan said. “Yeah, that’s right, ain’t it? I mean, if all I’m doin’ is providin’ you with information, I ain’t likely to get shot in one of your jobs, ’n I ain’t likely to get in trouble with the law, neither, am I?”
“Exactly.”
“All right, I’ll do it. But on one condition.”
“What condition is that?”
“I want one of them red bands.”
Hannibal shook his head. “There’s no need for you to have a red band. You aren’t operational, therefore there is little need for identification.”
“I know, but I just want one.”
Hannibal was about to say no again, but he changed his mind, and he smiled instead. The very fact that Cardigan actually wanted a red band meant that there was pride in having one. His intention to generate an esprit de corps was working.
“All right, I’ll provide you with a red band,” he said. “But you must never wear it. If you were ever seen wearing it in public, it could get you into a lot of trouble. They might even try you for murder by association, and you could wind up on the gallows.”
“I won’t wear it,” Cardigan said. “I’ll just keep it in my pocket.”
“All right. You can have one.”
The Rangers, Hannibal had told him, were the only law enforcement department in the entire state who could possibly represent a threat to them.
“So far they haven’t made a concerted effort to come after us,” Hannibal said. “But if the governor decides to set them on us, I would like to know in advance.”
Governor’s office
“Mr. Jensen, Governor Adams will see you now,” the governor’s personal secretary said.
“Thank you, Mr. Thomas.”
Governor Alva Adams stood as Smoke entered his office, and smiling, extended his hand as he came around the ornately carved desk to greet him.
“Smoke Jensen,” he said. “To what do I owe the honor of being visited by one of Colorado’s most esteemed citizens?”
Smoke chuckled. “No wonder you got elected governor, Alva, with a line like that.”
“Sit down, sit down,” Governor Adams said, taking him over to a seating area to the side of his office. Smoke knew that this part of his office was reserved only for close friends or for important visitors when the governor wanted something. Otherwise, the desk separated the governor from his staff and petitioners.
“Coffee? Tea? A glass of wine, perhaps?” the governor offered.
“A glass of wine would be good, I think,” Smoke said, seeing a corked bottle of red wine, half full.
“Wonderful, I was looking for an excuse to have a bit myself,” the governor said. He pulled the cork, poured two glasses, then handed one of the glasses to Smoke.
“Here’s to you,” he said, holding up the glass. Both took a sip before the governor spoke again. “Tell me, Smoke, what brings you to Denver?”
“Ghost Riders,” Smoke said. “I know you know about them.”
“Oh, yes, the newspapers are full of their heinous deeds. I believe I heard, also, that they started in Wyoming. It was our misfortune that when they left Wyoming, they chose Colorado.”
“Do you have any plan for dealing with them?”
“I have considered sending the Rangers after them, but I think it would be a waste of manpower to commit the entire battalion just to run down one, outlaw gang. I would like to think that some sheriff somewhere will deal with them, but I don’t have a lot of hope for that. What is your interest in them?”
“I was at Brown Spur to witness the hanging of two of the Ghost Riders.”
“But the hanging didn’t take place,” Governor Adams said. “Yes, I know about that incident. The sheriff, the hangman, a parson, I believe, and a few others were killed. The two condemned men got away.”
“Yes. And in the shooting my friend, Cal Wood, was shot three times and nearly killed.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. How is he doing?”
“He’s not out of the woods yet. I have taken that personally, Alva, and I’m going to go after them.”
“Smoke, your . . . exploits . . . are legion and well-known. But really, you need to think this through. I’m told there may be as many as two dozen men in this gang. Maybe even more, nobody knows for sure exactly how many.”
“Yes, there are at least twenty-four,” Smoke said.
“And you want to go after them?”
“I’m sure you know what happened at Laurette.”
“Yes, the sheriff and his deputy were both killed there. I think there were what . . . twenty-three men and women killed?”
“Yes. That’s another reason I want to go after them.”
“Alone?”
“I won’t be entirely alone. I’ll have Pearlie with me.”
“Who is Pearlie?”
“Pearlie is one of my me
n. He is extremely loyal, trustworthy, and he has been by my side in more adventures than I can count.”
“And that’s his name? Pearlie?”
“That’s the name he goes by and has gone by ever since I’ve known him.”
“He’s pretty good? This man, Pearlie?”
“He’s very good,” Smoke said.
“Still, two of you against twenty-four.”
“You sound like my friend Monte Carson.”
“Ah, yes, he’s your sheriff, I believe.”
“He is.”
“You should listen to him, Smoke.”
“Governor, you know how these things turn out. It is highly unlikely that we would ever encounter all of them at one time. In fact, it would be foolish of me to do so. I will engage them tactically.”
“Tactically.” Governor Adams laughed as he repeated the word. “Well, I would certainly hope so. All right, Smoke, I know you didn’t come to see me just to tell me what you planned to do. What do you want from me?”
“I want a commission in the Colorado Rangers for me and for Pearlie. But I don’t want to actually be a part of the Rangers, I want the authority to be able to operate independently from the Rangers. And I want you to specifically assign us the mission of going after the man who calls himself Hannibal and putting an end to him and the Ghost Riders by whatever method it takes.”
“What do you mean, when you say by whatever method?”
“I don’t plan to bring any of them in for trial, Governor. I intend to kill them.”
“And you want my authorization to just kill them outright?”
“What’s the difference between me killing them, and a hangman killing them?” Smoke asked.
“A trial, for one thing. A judge and a jury.”
“I will be the judge and the jury,” Smoke said.
“You are serious about this, aren’t you?” Governor Adams asked. “You really do want the authority to kill them, and you really do want to go after them alone.”
“I’m very serious, and I won’t be alone. I told you, Pearlie will be with me.”
“All right,” the governor said. “I suppose that, when you look at it, authorizing you to kill them on sight is really no different from a wanted, dead or alive, poster. I’ll write out two commissions for you,” the governor said. Drinking the rest of his wine, he walked over to his desk, then sat down and picked up a pen and a piece of stationary with his letterhead.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll just put both of your names on this same commission,” he said.
“That’ll be fine,” Smoke replied.
The governor made a carbon-paper sandwich of two more copies.
“You have to have copies of everything now,” he complained. “We are no longer the independent country we once were. Bureaucracy rules now.”
The governor began to read aloud, as he wrote. “Know ye all that I, Alva Adams, Governor of the State of Colorado do, by these presence, confirm and command that,” he looked up. “I know you only as Smoke.”
“My first name is Kirby.”
“Kirby Jensen and,” again he looked up, “Pearlie?”
“Pearlie,” Smoke said.
“Pearlie,” Governor Adams continued, “are hereby commissioned as officers in the Colorado Rangers, with the authorization to operate in complete independence of the Rangers so that they may pursue the outlaw known as Hannibal, and all such outlaws as are affiliated with him, in the group known as the Ghost Riders. And, in performance of this duty, Kirby Jensen is further authorized to take the life of Hannibal, and/or any of his men, if he deems such action to be necessary.
“And to this document, I hereto affix my signature, signed, Alva Adams, Governor of the State of Colorado.”
Governor Adams blew the ink dry, applied his seal, then handed the original document to Smoke.
“Here it is, Smoke, and I pray to God that I didn’t just sign your death warrant.”
Smoke smiled. “It is a death warrant, Governor. But it won’t be mine.”
“You’re right. I’ve just issued you a license to kill. I hope history is kind to me.”
After Smoke left the governor’s office, the governor’s secretary gave the two carbon copies of the order to Marvin Thigpen.
“File these, would you please, Mr. Thigpen? Put one in the Governor’s personal file and one in the Colorado Rangers’ file.”
“Yes, sir,” Thigpen said.
Thigpen filed one of the onionskins in the governor’s file, but he kept one back, putting it in his pocket.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sugarloaf Ranch
“How come the only thing you’re giving me to eat is soup?” Cal asked Julia. “Only it’s not even soup. It’s . . . I don’t know what it is. Flavored water, I guess, only there’s not that much flavor to it.”
“It’s a clear broth,” Julia said. “And it’s the only thing you should be eating now. If you eat any solid food before your stomach heals, it could be dangerous.”
“But I’m starvin’ to death,” Cal said. “I mean, here you say you’re tryin’ to save my life, but what’s goin’ to happen is, you ’n Miz Sally are goin’ to come in here one day and find me lyin’ here in bed, skinny as a rope, dead from starvation.”
Julia laughed. “I think not,” she said.
“Anyhow, I know that Miz Sally is cookin’ some real food, ’cause I can smell it. How come you aren’t lettin’ me eat any of it?”
“Cal, even if it wasn’t dangerous for you, you would get a stomachache so bad that it wouldn’t be worth it.”
“All right, if you say so,” Cal said.
Julia reached down to take Cal’s hand in hers.
“I’m just trying to do what is best for you,” she said.
Cal smiled. “You’ve been holdin’ my hand a lot since you’ve been here, haven’t you?”
“I’m sorry,” Julia said, dropping his hand.
“No, no, I want you to hold it,” he said. “It makes me feel better when you hold my hand.”
Julia returned the smile. “Does it?”
“Yes, it does. You know, I’ve been having these . . . I don’t know what you call them, dreams, thoughts, memories.... I don’t know what’s real and what’s not real. The other day I saw my ma, plain as if she was right here in front of me, only it wasn’t now, it was when I wasn’t but a kid. But in all that, I could feel your hand holdin’ mine. And it’s like . . . well, I don’t know how to explain it, really. But, it’s kind of like, as long as I can feel your hand holdin’ on to mine, I know that I’m connected to someone real. And even when the dreams . . . or whatever they are . . . get too bad, they don’t scare me all that much, on account of ’cause I’m connected. And since you’re the one I’m holdin’ on to, that means I’m connected to you.”
“Cal, that’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long, long time.”
“I’m glad you came home with us.”
“I’m glad too,” Julia said.
Cal yawned. “I’ve sure been sleepin’ a lot here lately, haven’t I?”
“That’s all right. You heal faster when you’re sleeping.”
“I do? Why?”
“Because when you are asleep, your body doesn’t have to do anything but heal.”
“You sure are smart,” Cal said, though he barely got the words out as he drifted off.
Julia sat beside the bed looking at Cal as he slept. In the time she had spent here at Sugarloaf Ranch she had watched the interaction between Sally, Smoke, Pearlie, and some of the other ranch hands. There was a camaraderie among them that she had never seen before . . . not even among the girls at Bagby’s, and she considered them her friends.
And, in the time she had been here, she had observed Cal very closely. He was good enough looking, but there was more to him than just good looks. He was, she was now convinced, a very decent man. Totally unlike the man she had married.
“Oh, Cal,” she said quietly. “Why couldn’t I ha
ve met you first?”
Julia knew that Cal was a cowboy, but she also recognized that he occupied a special place here. She found herself fantasizing that she was here to share that place with him.
She stayed with him until she knew he was asleep, and seeing that it wasn’t a troubled sleep, she left the room. Going into the kitchen, she saw that Sally was preparing lunch.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked.
“Oh, honey, you’re helping more than you can possibly know by looking after Cal the way you are.”
“He’s asleep now.” Julia poured herself a cup of coffee. “How long do you think Mr. Jensen will be gone?”
Sally smiled a wistful smile. “With Smoke, I never know.”
“He is sort of a . . . I don’t know how to say this . . . but he is a famous man, isn’t he?”
“I suppose he is.”
“Do you ever wish that he wasn’t?”
“That’s a very good question. Because he is famous, I sometimes feel that I’m having to share him with the whole world, and a part of me resents that. But I love all that Smoke is, and I wouldn’t change anything about him. So, the answer to your question is no.”
“I think it is wonderful how much you two care about each other.”
Sally had the feeling that Julia wanted to say more, but she didn’t elaborate.
“Thank you,” was all Sally said.
Ten Strike
Hannibal was reading an article in the Brimstone News that had caught his attention.
SILVER PRODUCTION CONTINUES IN DOUBLE DINKLE MINE
Since the discovery of a new vein of silver six months ago, the Double Dinkle Mine has caught the attention of investors from far and wide. With more than fifty men employed in working the mine, the monthly payroll has greatly increased the amount of money in circulation within our fair city. It is believed that the mine is now bringing as much revenue as all the neighboring ranchers and city businesses combined.
Brimstone is truly a city on the rise and may well become one of Colorado’s greatest cities.
“Well, now,” he said aloud as he tapped his finger on the story. “Brimstone might be worth a little more investigation.”
Bloodshed of the Mountain Man Page 10
