The Jensen Brand

by William W. Johnstone

  The men sipped their coffee and conversed pleasantly for a while. Smoke kept an eye on the time. It wouldn’t do to be late to the train station. He would probably hear the locomotive’s whistle when it rolled in, but it wouldn’t hurt to be on the safe side.

  When he knew he ought to be getting back down there, he drained the rest of the coffee from his cup and stood. “Time to go.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Longmont said, getting to his feet as well.

  “And so will I,” Monte added. “Anyway, it’s my job. I have to keep an eye on departures and arrivals, you know.”

  Longmont got his flat-crowned black hat from a hook on the wall, then joined Smoke and Monte in strolling toward the train station. As they approached, Smoke spotted Sally going into the big, red-brick building ahead of them. She was eager to see her kids again, and Smoke couldn’t blame her. So was he.

  The three men entered the lobby and crossed it to the doors leading onto the long, covered platform next to the rails. As they emerged onto the platform, Smoke saw Brice Rogers standing at the far end, leaning against one of the pillars that held up the roof.

  Nothing suspicious about that, Smoke thought. Maybe Rogers was meeting somebody. No reason to think otherwise.

  And yet something about the young man made Smoke’s instincts kick into gear. Although Rogers’s stance seemed completely casual, he appeared ready to move instantly if need be. His right thumb was tucked behind his belt, meaning that hand was very close to the walnut grips of the revolver holstered on his hip.

  Smoke had seen enough savvy gun-handlers to recognize one when he saw him. Again, he knew that didn’t have to mean a thing.

  He also knew that he was going to be watching Rogers from the corner of his eye.

  Sally went over to Smoke and his companions with a big smile on her beautiful face. She said hello to the sheriff and the saloonkeeper, then told Smoke, “I asked at the ticket window. The train is supposed to be on time. So it shouldn’t be much longer—”

  The shrill blast of a whistle in the distance interrupted her hopeful statement.

  Smoke grinned. “Here they come now.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Denny hadn’t run into any more trouble since the encounter with the derby-wearing lech the day before. She had seen him once since then, at the opposite end of a passenger car she and Louis were entering on their way to the club car. The man had taken one look at her, turned around, and hastily went the other way.

  Almost home, Denny could feel her excitement growing. Soon she would be on the Sugarloaf again. She was grateful to her grandparents for everything they had done to help Louis, and she had enjoyed living on the Reynolds estate in England and touring the continent.

  Even though she had been born back east in Boston, the Sugarloaf was in her blood. Her heart leaped and the blood raced in her veins as she looked out the window beside her at the snowcapped mountains. That wild, magnificent land was where she was meant to be, and she hoped never to leave it again, at least not for very long at a time.

  Something bumped her shoulder. She looked over to see that Louis had dozed off and was leaning his head against her. How in the world could he sleep at a time like this, Denny asked herself?

  But that was Louis for you. He was a lot stronger than he had been as a child, but he was still tired a lot of the time. He would probably never be able to lead the sort of adventurous outdoor life she craved . . . but who could tell about such things? The doctors at the clinic, during Louis’s last visit, had in fact advised him to return home, saying that they had done all they could for him. Their hope was that being out in the fresh air and nature would strengthen him even more.

  Denny hoped that, too. She would do anything she could to help her twin.

  She nudged him with an elbow. “Wake up, sleepyhead. We’ll be home in another few minutes.”

  Louis stirred, lifted his head, and murmured, “What?” He looked around, blinked a few times, and said, “Oh. We’re almost there, aren’t we?”

  “We certainly are. You don’t want to sleep through it.”

  “Not much chance of that.” He regarded his sister thoughtfully. “Before the day’s over, you’re going to be wearing jeans and riding a horse, aren’t you? Back in the saddle, toting a rifle around, searching for excitement.”

  Denny laughed. “I have to admit that sounds pretty good to me. But I don’t have to—”

  “Oh, no. Don’t let me stop you,” Louis said, holding up a hand to forestall her protest. “You should get out and run wild. You’ve been waiting patiently long enough for a chance to do that.”

  “I don’t figure Mother will let me run wild.”

  “Father might, though. He’d understand if you did, anyway. After all, he took off for the West and started fighting Indians and bad men when he was still just a boy.”

  “A boy who grew up quick.” Denny knew the basics of her father’s adventurous life. Smoke had always answered her questions honestly because he wanted her to know the truth, not what came from the fevered imaginations of whiskey-addled dime novelists, as he put it. Even so, she was sure he had tried to shield her from some of the more sordid details. That would be a father’s natural instinct.

  Louis patted his sister’s hand and said dryly, “Don’t worry, Denny. I’m sure you’ll have your own adventures.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that. Nobody’s going to dare mess with Smoke Jensen’s daughter.”

  * * *

  So that was the notorious Smoke Jensen, Brice Rogers thought as he looked along the platform at the small group of people clustered at the other end. He had seen photographs of Jensen in newspapers. At first glance the man didn’t look like one of the deadliest gunfighters the West had ever known. He was more likely to be taken for a successful, middle-aged rancher.

  Rogers supposed that was what Jensen actually was since he owned the vast, lucrative Sugarloaf Ranch. After Marshal Horton had given him his current assignment, Rogers had gone to the Denver Public Library and done some reading up in the newspapers on the area and its prominent citizens before he rode up there.

  He took a closer look at Smoke Jensen. It revealed the pantherlike tread with which he moved and the obvious strength packed into that impressive broad-shouldered frame. Also, he wore a holstered Colt on his hip, something not many men did anymore. It was a new, modern century, and normal men didn’t pack iron, even where the law still allowed it.

  The very attractive woman with Jensen had to be his wife Sally. She appeared to be charming and elegant. Rogers knew that she had been a teacher at one time.

  Sheriff Carson was there, too, and a dark-haired, well-dressed man Rogers didn’t recognize. If he had to guess why they were all there, he’d say they were meeting someone.

  He hoped the Jensens planned on staying in town for a while. That would give him a chance to ride out to the Sugarloaf and have a look around without having to worry about running into Jensen and needing to explain himself. He didn’t want to reveal his true identity to anyone except Sheriff Carson, and he sure didn’t want to have to swap lead with a notorious gunfighter!

  The locomotive’s whistle blasted again. Rogers could see the smoke billowing up from the stack as it rose above the trees just outside town and hear the rumble of the engine as it drew nearer. A moment later the train came into view and its brakes began to squeal as they clamped down on the drivers.

  The big Baldwin locomotive rolled past and slowed to a perfect stop with the passenger cars lined up next to the platform. Jensen and the others moved toward one of the cars. Maybe they had spotted whoever they were waiting for through the car’s windows.

  Rogers straightened from his casual stance. He had no real reason for being there other than a lawman’s natural curiosity about who was getting off the train. As he had told Sheriff Carson, he might be around those parts for a while, and he wanted to get a good grip on what went on in Big Rock and the surrounding area. As he waited for passengers to get off t
he train, he remembered his conversation with the chief marshal in the federal building in Denver.

  * * *

  “Monte Carson is getting old. Of course, when his term’s up, the people can elect a new sheriff if Carson decides not to run again, or replace him if he does. Or maybe they’ll keep him in the job. There’s never any telling what voters will do. But either way, that’s a prosperous, growing area up there, and it needs law and order!”

  “That’s why you’re sending me, Marshal,” Brice said with quiet confidence. Despite his relative youth, he had been a lawman for a few years and had been successful in the job. He didn’t doubt that he could handle whatever task Horton assigned him.

  The white-mustachioed old chief marshal started fiddling with his pipe. “Your first order of business is to get to the bottom of the rustling that’s been going on around Big Rock. Find out who’s responsible and then bust up the gang. Once you’ve done that, you can send me a wire, and I’ll tell you whether you should come back or stay where you are.”

  Brice shifted the hat he had perched on his knee. “You make it sound like this might be a permanent assignment, Marshal.”

  “That valley is a hotbed of trouble!” Horton said as he thumped a fist on the desk. “It has been for a long time. You know how Big Rock got started, don’t you?”

  “Same way as any other settlement, I reckon,” Brice replied with a shrug.

  “Not exactly. There was another town in that area called Fontana. An outlaw town. The fella who ran things came up against Smoke Jensen. Jensen got the honest, respectable folks to move out of Fontana and start themselves a new settlement. That’s the one wound up bein’ called Big Rock.”

  “What happened to Fontana?”

  Finished packing his pipe, Horton scratched a kitchen match to life on the sole of his boot and lit it. When he had the pipe going good, he blew out a cloud of smoke and said, “Smoke Jensen and his friends blasted all those owlhoots to hell and burned down their town. He had already started his Sugarloaf ranch by then, so he kept it going. Trouble’s broken out more times than I can count, and Jensen was right in the middle of it every time.”

  “Sounds to me like he might be an outlaw himself,” Brice commented.

  Horton shook his head vehemently. “No, there have been rumors about him, but men I trust have told me that Jensen’s as honest as the day is long. The man’s just a lodestone when it comes to trouble! He attracts it. There’s plenty of potential for it up there in those parts, too. You’ve got big ranches all around, farming to the east, mining in the mountains to the west, pilgrims passing through all the time . . . I’ve been thinkin’ for a while now it’d be a good idea to have a man up there to sort of keep the lid on things. Could be you, Brice. We’ll see how it goes with this rustlin’ job.”

  “You can count on me, Marshal.”

  “Hell, I know that! Why do you think I called you in here this mornin’?”

  * * *

  Those memories faded from Rogers’s thoughts as he saw a young woman step onto the platform at the rear of one of the passenger cars and start down the steps a porter had set in place. She wore a blue traveling outfit with a matching hat that sported a small feather. Thick blond curls seemed barely contained under the hat. They looked like it wouldn’t take much to send them spilling down around her shoulders.

  That would be an interesting sight to see, he found himself thinking.

  The young woman was slender but shapely, with a golden tan on her face that was set off by a small beauty mark near her mouth. He was no real judge of female beauty but knew he was having a hard time taking his eyes off her.

  Jensen and his wife moved forward to greet her as she reached the bottom of the steps. There were happy smiles all around as they hugged her.

  It was a family reunion, Rogers realized. He could see the resemblance between the young woman and both of the older Jensens.

  Then a young man followed her out of the railroad car and down the steps. He had fair hair, too, and wore a suit and a bowler hat. Pale, narrow-shouldered, and downright skinny, he wasn’t nearly as impressive physically as Jensen, but again, there was enough of a resemblance for Rogers to make the connection. And the man looked enough like the young woman that it was obvious they were twins.

  Jensen youngsters coming home to visit their parents, Rogers decided, wondering if they knew about the rustling.

  The young man was greeted with handshaking and backslapping by the men and a hug from his mother. The entire group moved toward the station lobby, talking animatedly. Back at the baggage car, porters were unloading bags and placing them on a cart. Rogers figured they would roll it around the depot and load the bags on a wagon for the new arrivals. No one else seemed to be getting off the train.

  Instead of going through the station, Rogers ambled along the platform to its end, went down the steps, and started around the brick building that way.

  CHAPTER 9

  Denny liked to think she was grown up and knew how to keep her emotions under control, but when she saw her parents, she suddenly felt like a little girl again. It was wonderful to hug her mother, to have her father pat her gently on the back. She felt her eyes growing damp with tears of happiness and tried to banish them.

  Then Louis came down the steps from the railroad car and said with a grin, “Let me in on that.”

  Sheriff Monte Carson gravely shook hands with Denny and said, “Welcome home, Denise.”

  Louis Longmont wasn’t satisfied with that. He took Denny’s hand, bent over it, and pressed his lips to the back of it. “I always knew you would grow up to be a beautiful woman, Denise,” he said as he straightened. “I see I was right. I couldn’t be prouder of you if you were my own niece.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Longmont.”

  He waved a carefully manicured hand. “You’re old enough to call me Louis now.”

  “Then I might get you confused with my brother. He’s Louis, too, you know.”

  “Of course.” The gambler smiled. “All right, then, Mr. Longmont it is.”

  Sally said, “We’re having a big dinner out at the ranch tonight to welcome the children home. You and your wife should come, Monte, and you, too, Louis. You’re all invited.”

  “We’ll be there,” the sheriff promised, and Longmont nodded his agreement as well.

  Smoke started herding them toward the station lobby. “Let’s go. They’ll have the bags loaded pretty soon, and then we can head for the Sugarloaf. It’ll sure be good to have you kids home.”

  “It’s good to be home,” Louis said.

  “And you’re really here to stay this time?” Sally said as she linked her arm with her son’s.

  “As far as I’m concerned, we’re here to stay,” Louis said. “How about you, Denny?”

  “As much as I appreciate everything Grandmother and Grandfather Reynolds did for us, I’m a Western girl,” Denny declared. “Reckon I always will be.”

  “Denny?” Sally repeated. “Louis called you Denny?”

  “That’s right. Denise Nicole sounds too formal. Pa used to call me Denny when I was a little girl.”

  Smoke grinned. “I sure did.”

  “Anyway, I like it,” Denny said.

  “I suppose I can get used to it.” Sally looked at her son. “Are we supposed to call you Louie now?”

  “I’d really rather you didn’t,” Louis said.

  That brought a hearty laugh from Smoke as he slapped Louis on the back. “Come on, son.”

  * * *

  The Brown Dirt Cowboy was open for business, but there wouldn’t be much of it until later in the day. At the moment, only two customers were inside, and one of them was passed out facedown at one of the tables, snoring blissfully with his cheek in a little puddle of spilled beer.

  The other customer was Haystack Gunderson, who stood at the bar talking to the buxom soiled dove called Cindy.

  “No, damn it. I don’t want to go upstairs, Haystack,” she said in response to his ple
a. “It’s too early! Hell, I’ve only had one cup of coffee. I’m barely awake. I should still be asleep at this unholy hour. I’m only down here because Claude likes to have at least one girl around all the time.”

  “But that’s why you’re here,” Haystack insisted. “To work, yah?”

  “No, I’m here so any fellas who come in lookin’ for a little hair of the dog will have somethin’ pretty to look at.” She gave his broad chest a push as he leaned closer to her on the stool where she sat. “Now you go on and get outta here. Claude said you and your brother weren’t allowed in here for a week after all the hell you raised yesterday, and if he wasn’t asleep you never would’ve made it through the door. Git!”

  “I will not,” Haystack declared stolidly. “Not until I have spent time with the girl I love—”

  The batwings slammed open. Work boots thudded loudly on the floor as the broad, towering figure of Arno Gunderson stomped into the saloon. “Ingborg!” he shouted at his brother. “When I saw you bane gone, I knew where you’d sneaked off to! You bane go behind my back with Cindy, yah?”

  Haystack thumped a big fist against his chest and bellowed, “Cindy is my girl !”

  Arno sneered. “That’s not what she told me the last time I was with her!”

  “Not again!” Cindy wailed.

  Haystack lowered his head, roared in outrage, and charged like a maddened bull. The brothers crashed together with such force the floor practically shook. Haystack had built up enough steam to drive Arno backwards through the batwings. As they grappled, they stumbled across the boardwalk and then fell into the street. They rolled over a couple times and then surged to their feet, dust-covered giants whaling away at each other with hamlike fists.

  Caught up in the heat of battle, the two men paid no attention to their surroundings. Arno sent a straight right to his brother’s jaw that landed with such power Haystack was thrown back against a team of four horses hitched to a wagon parked at the edge of the street.

  The collision spooked the animals. One of the leaders let out a shrill whinny and lunged against its harness. The other horses followed suit. As the wagon jerked forward, its front corner clipped Haystack and spun him off his feet. He barely avoided being run over by the wheels as the team stampeded down the street toward the train station.