The Jensen Brand

by William W. Johnstone

  He turned his attention to Arno and Haystack, who had climbed to their feet. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You pay Brown for the damages, and I won’t throw you in jail.”

  “They ought to be fined for disturbing the peace!” Brown protested.

  Monte ignored that. “I won’t throw you in jail on the condition . . . that the two of you don’t come into town together anymore. One at a time, got it?” He knew that given their generally placid nature, they wouldn’t likely start fights with anybody except each other.

  “But we are brothers,” Arno said.

  “We do things together,” Haystack said.

  “You work together,” Monte said. “From now on you come into town alone. Or you can be locked up together. Your choice.”

  Arno looked at his brother. “I do not like being locked up.”

  “Neither do I,” Haystack said. “Should we do what the sheriff says?”

  “Yah, I think maybe we should.”

  Both of them looked at Monte and nodded solemnly.

  Arno said, “Thank you, Sheriff. You bane a good man.”

  Monte grunted. “I just don’t want to have to feed you. The two of you could bankrupt the town if I kept you behind bars for very long.” He leaned his head toward the bar. “Go settle up with Brown. And Claude, you charge those boys a fair price for what they busted up.”

  Brown scowled, but he didn’t argue.

  Monte nodded to Rogers, said, “Thanks again,” and started toward the door with Harrigan following him.

  Outside on the boardwalk, the deputy started making excuses for not acting quicker to stop the fight. “I really didn’t have much of a chance to, Sheriff. That fella who came in, he had his gun out mighty slick and fast. I hardly even saw him draw before he squeezed off that shot.”

  “Is that so?” Monte said. “That’s interesting.”

  So Brice Rogers was fast on the draw. Some lawmen were and some weren’t. Those who weren’t generally relied on shotguns or lots of deputies.

  “You think he’s a gunfighter like Smoke?” Harrigan said.

  “No,” Monte said. “There aren’t any gunfighters like Smoke Jensen.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Standing in the parlor, Smoke held up the pieces of frilly fabric, one in each hand. He felt a little ridiculous, but Sally had asked for his help and he couldn’t turn down such a request from his wife. It would be all right with him, though, if she would make up her mind pretty soon which one she wanted to use for the new curtains in Denise Nicole’s room. As long as Cal or Pearlie didn’t come in and find him standing there . . .

  Sally cocked her head a little to the side as she mulled over the decision. After a moment, she said, “All right, I think I like the one on the right the best. Or—no, wait a minute. I’m not sure. Now the one on the left looks better to me.”

  “You know it’s not going to make much difference to her, don’t you? She never was one to care much about curtains and things like that.”

  “She’s a young lady, and she’s going to want something nice in her room.”

  Smoke didn’t argue with her, but he knew that Denise Nicole was a tomboy. He hadn’t tried to encourage her in that direction during her visits to the Sugarloaf, but it had become apparent at a pretty early age that she was more interested in riding and roping than she was in frilly, fancy things. Smoke wouldn’t have minded if she hadn’t been that way—his kids were Jensens, and Jensens made up their own minds about things, by God—but he had always enjoyed seeing his daughter take to the outdoor life.

  At the same time, she had been a beautiful girl and he knew she had grown into a beautiful young woman. She would be breathtaking in a ballroom, clad in silk and lace and with her mass of blond curls done up in an elaborate hairstyle.

  “It’s kind of late to be making new curtains, too,” Smoke pointed out. “The kids will be here tomorrow morning if the train’s on time.”

  “I know that. I may not have them ready for a few days . . . but I can get started on them, anyway.” Sally nodded decisively. “The one on the left. That’s what I’m going to use.”

  Before Smoke could put the two pieces of fabric down, the front door opened and Cal stepped into the foyer. He looked through the arched entrance into the parlor and saw Smoke and Sally standing there. “I can come back later if you want.” The Sugarloaf foreman’s face was solemn, but Smoke thought he saw a glint of amusement in the younger man’s eyes.

  “No, that’s fine. We’re done here,” Sally said. “Aren’t we, Smoke?”

  “Yeah.” He handed the fabric to her and thought he caught a glimpse of laughter in her eyes, too. At least she hadn’t been using him for a dress dummy or anything that undignified, he thought. He wasn’t sure he would ever go that far, even for Sally. “What is it, Cal?”

  “Me and some of the boys rode out to the pasture where we had that dustup last night and looked for the tracks of that rustler who got away. We found them, all right, along with some blood.”

  “You said you thought he was hit.”

  “Yep, and it appears he was. We were able to follow the trail for a few miles before we lost it. Sorry, Smoke. I was hoping we’d find the fella. Either that or his carcass.”

  “How much blood was there?”

  “Enough to make me think he was ventilated pretty good.”

  Smoke nodded. “You did what you could, Cal. Chances are, even if the hombre survives his wound, he won’t be in a hurry to come back to the Sugarloaf.”

  “We’ll have more of the same to give him if he does,” Cal declared vehemently. His forehead creased in a frown. “What worries me is not knowin’ if there are any more of those wide-loopers out there somewhere. This varmint could make it back to them and tell them what happened . . . and cause even more trouble in the long run.”

  “If there are more of them, and they planned on hitting us again, it won’t make any difference,” Smoke said. “I suppose there could be some personal reason for them to come after us even harder, but I don’t know any way to predict that when we don’t know who’s behind it.”

  “I reckon we’ll find out in time,” Cal said, looking gloomy.

  “You can probably count on that,” Smoke said.

  * * *

  There was only one way into the narrow, twisting box canyon, and it was guarded around the clock. Two men with rifles were always stationed at the entrance, hidden in a clump of boulders that provided good cover for them if they had to shoot at any would-be invaders. As if the sound of shots wouldn’t be enough of an indication that something was wrong, signal fires had been laid at each bend in the canyon, and a man was posted at each of those as well. In the event of an attack, each man would light his fire until the warning reached the gang’s headquarters at the far end of the canyon, a little over a mile from the entrance.

  At that end, the canyon widened into a roughly circular basin half a mile across. Most of the canyon was just stone and dirt, but some scrubby trees and quite a bit of hardy grass grew in the basin, enough to support the small numbers of cattle that grazed there from time to time. A spring-fed pond provided water for men and cattle alike.

  As the crow flies, the place was about ten miles north of the Sugarloaf’s northern boundary, but a man would have to ride more than twice that far on twisting trails to reach it. Those trails serpentined their way through an area of badlands butted up against the mountains.

  Sound traveled pretty well in the thin air of the high country, but the landscape was so rugged it created a lot of echoes, which made it difficult to tell for sure where a sound was coming from.

  The guards posted at the canyon’s entrance heard the slow, steady hoofbeats of a horse plodding along, but they couldn’t be certain it was coming toward them.

  They weren’t sure until the horse came into sight between a couple boulders on a shallow ridge about a hundred yards away. The man in the saddle leaned forward, and as the horse started down the slope, the rider lost his bala
nce and fell. The guards saw dust puff up from the trail where he landed. The horse shied away a few steps but didn’t bolt.

  “What the hell?” Turk Sanford said.

  From behind a rock on the other side of the canyon entrance, Muddy Malone squinted toward the ridge. “Fella must be hurt. I thought for a second he might be sleepin’, but he didn’t jump up when he landed.”

  “No, he’s still there,” Turk agreed. “Say, that paint pony looks a little like Blue’s.”

  “You think?” Muddy said. “Lemme get my spyglass. I know the pattern on Blue’s horse pretty well.” When he had settled down in the rocks for his shift, he had placed his canteen, the telescope—taken from the body of a cavalry lieutenant he had shot in the back a couple years earlier—and a pouch of chaw in a little niche where they would be handy. He picked up the telescope, extended it to its full length, and peered through the glass for a moment. Then he exclaimed, “Son of a bitch! That’s Blue’s pony, all right, and it sure looks like Blue layin’ there on the ground. Nick’s gonna be loco mad!”

  “We knew there was a chance something had happened to him and the other boys,” Turk said. “When they didn’t come back last night, I had a bad feelin’ about it. So did Nick, I reckon. He just wouldn’t show it.”

  “We’d best go see about this,” Muddy said.

  “And leave our posts?” Turk shook his head. “We’re on guard duty, you infernal idiot. What if this is a trick or a trap? Nick’ll take that bowie of his and peel our hide off in one-inch strips if we desert our post.”

  Muddy pointed. “But that’s his little brother out there!”

  “You don’t know that for sure. Could be a lawman, dressed in Blue’s clothes, ridin’ Blue’s horse, and pretending to be Blue to take us by surprise and get us to leave the canyon wide open. Even worse, it could be Smoke Jensen.”

  “I never heard tell of Jensen doin’ anything that tricky, but I suppose it’s possible.” Muddy gnawed at his lower lip as he continued to frown. “But damn it, there’s blood on the fella’s shirt, Turk, and you saw the way he toppled off that horse. He’s either dead or out cold. He’s not playin’ a trick.”

  “Then you go see about him,” Turk said. “As for me, I’m stayin’ right here.”

  Muddy stayed where he was, grimacing as he tried to figure out his best course of action. He knew how much store Nick Creighton set by his younger brother Blue. If Blue was lying out there in plain sight, hurt or maybe even dying, and Creighton’s men didn’t do anything to help him . . . well, that might be more dangerous than abandoning a guard post. “I’m goin’,” Muddy told Turk.

  “Fine with me. I’m still staying where I was told to stay.”

  Muddy swallowed hard, tightened his grip on his Winchester, and stepped out of the rocks. He started toward the fallen figure, moving slow and wary at first, but as his nerves tightened and started jumping around more, he began to hurry. After a few quicker steps, he broke into a run.

  Nobody shot at him. That was good, anyway.

  His boot soles slapped against the hard ground. That and the pounding of his pulse inside his head and the slight wheezing of his breath were the only things he heard. As he got closer, he was able to make out the light brown hair and young face that looked considerably more innocent than Blue Creighton really was. Muddy skidded to a stop, turned, and shouted to Turk, “It’s him, damn it! It’s Blue!”

  Even from a distance, Muddy could hear Turk’s bitter curses. Now that Muddy hadn’t been ambushed and he knew the wounded man was the gang leader’s brother, Turk couldn’t very well just stay where he was like a bump on a log. He had to help or risk Creighton’s wrath. None of his men wanted to do that.

  Without waiting to see what Turk was going to do, Muddy hurried on to Blue’s side and dropped to a knee. The youngster lay hunched up, mostly on his left side. The right side of his shirt was dark with dried blood. Muddy saw the brighter red of fresh blood, too. Blue’s life was still seeping out.

  “Damn, Blue. What happened?” Muddy asked, even though he had a pretty good idea. Carefully, he pulled the shirt up and saw the angry, black-rimmed hole in Blue’s belly.

  If Blue had been shot the night before when he and the men with him rode down to the Sugarloaf to make off with some more cattle, as seemed likely, he ought to have been dead already. A gut-shot man took a long time to die, but usually not that long. Blue’s eyes were closed and his face was covered with sweat. His breath rasped in his throat. He was alive but no telling how much longer that would be true.

  Turk pounded up, raising some dust with his hurried steps. “What happened? Is he shot?”

  “What do you think?” Turk was a fine one to be calling anybody an idiot, Muddy thought. It was plain as day that Blue had been ventilated.

  “Well . . . well, hell! What can we do for him?”

  “Get him up on his horse, I reckon, and take him on to the basin. Ain’t no point in tryin’ to patch him up, but he’d probably like to see his brother before he crosses the divide. Nick’ll want to see him, too.”

  They set their rifles aside and got hold of Blue. Putting the Winchester down made Muddy even more nervous, but he needed both hands free for the grim task.

  As they struggled to hold Blue’s horse in place and lift the young man into the saddle, Turk said, “Jensen done this.”

  “Of course he did.”

  With much grunting and straining, they got Blue on his horse. Turk held the animal’s reins while Muddy kept the wounded man in the saddle.

  Muddy went on. “Jensen must’ve sprung a trap on the boys or just happened on ’em while they were tryin’ to drive off that stock. Either way, since Blue’s the only one who made it back here, it looks pretty bad for the rest of the fellas.”

  One at a time, they picked up their rifles, then Turk slowly turned the horse toward the canyon mouth. Muddy kept a hand on Blue to prevent him from sliding off again. They started toward the canyon at a careful pace.

  As they went through the entrance, Turk bellowed, “Light the signal fires!”

  The signal would ensure that Creighton would send somebody else out to take over the guard post, and they would be ready in the basin for trouble.

  They wouldn’t be expecting what was coming toward them, though. Anybody who rode the owlhoot trail knew that death could catch up to them at any time, but Blue Creighton had always had such an air of carefree, youthful invincibility that no one in the gang had really believed that he might be killed or even badly hurt. His big brother Nick just wouldn’t allow it.

  But Nick hadn’t been able to stop that slug from burying itself in Blue’s gut, and the young outlaw’s life could probably be measured in minutes.

  Somebody would pay for what had happened to Blue. Muddy felt like he was walking straight into the mouth of a mountain lion’s den. He just hoped Creighton wouldn’t go loco and take out his rage on the men who brought his brother in.

  Muddy licked his lips and turned to Turk. “You reckon we should’ve left him out there after all?”

  “I reckon we were damned no matter what we did.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Nick Creighton was the only member of the gang who had brought a woman to the hideout. If any of the others resented Molly being there, Creighton didn’t know about it—and wouldn’t have cared if he did. He was the boss man of the bunch, and his word was law.

  He had the only permanent dwelling in the basin, an old cabin probably built by some prospector searching for gold. When Creighton had found the box canyon, realized its proximity to the Sugarloaf, and recognized that it was perfect for his plans, he and his second in command, Lupe Herrera, had set to work right away fixing up the place. The roof had been falling in, but they had repaired that, cleaned up the mess and damage done by time, the elements, and wildlife. Then Creighton had sent for his brother and the rest of the men.

  And Molly.

  Creighton sat on a stool in front of the cabin, cleaning his rifle. He was a mediu
m-sized man with a hawklike face and a closely clipped, dark mustache. Just to look at him, he didn’t seem that impressive. A black hat was shoved back on his head. He wore a black vest over a white shirt, and his gun belt was black as well.

  He heard a shout and looked up from what he was doing. Gazing out from under bushy brows, his eyes were cold and reptilian.

  Herrera trotted toward him and called, “Nick, the signal fires are lit!”

  Creighton closed the Winchester’s breech and stood up. He took cartridges from a pocket on his vest and began thumbing them into the rifle’s loading gate. Word was already spreading through the camp. He saw men hurrying among the tents, getting ready for trouble if it was about to come calling.

  Molly appeared in the doorway and asked, “What’s going on?”

  Creighton glanced over at her. She wore a plain cotton dress that hugged her well-shaped body. Her long, straight brown hair was parted in the middle. Her jaw was a little too strong and her nose a little too big for her to be called beautiful, but she had an earthy, sensuous appeal that slapped a man right across the face and made him want her.

  Creighton had taken her away from a lynch mob in a small Wyoming settlement that wanted to hang her because she had killed one of her customers at the local whorehouse. The dead man was a well-liked local and she was just a soiled dove, so even though the bastard had been beating on her and might have hurt her badly or even killed her, his friends had wanted to string her up.

  They had abandoned that idea pretty quickly when Creighton shot a couple of them.

  Molly had been with him ever since, almost two years, the longest Creighton had been with any woman . . . well, ever. He wouldn’t have gone so far as to say he loved her, because he didn’t really love anybody except his little brother Blue, but Molly was a pretty good ol’ gal, to his way of thinking.

  “Signal fires are lit,” he told her. “I don’t know what it’s about. Lupe, go and see.”

  Herrera nodded and ran toward the men bristling with rifles and revolvers who were gathering where the canyon widened into the basin.