The Jensen Brand

by William W. Johnstone

  She angled the buckskin toward the store and dismounted in front of it. Elkhorn looked like it had more saloons than anything else, but the two stores appeared to be doing quite a bit of business. A couple women came out while Denny was tying her horse. They glanced at her and then scurried away with their purchases like she was a mad dog.

  That bothered her for a second before she remembered that was the impression she wanted to create. Well, maybe not of a mad dog, exactly . . . but she wanted people to think she was an hombre it wouldn’t be a good idea to cross.

  As she approached the mercantile’s front door, it opened again and a man hurried out. He wasn’t watching where he was going closely enough, and his shoulder jolted heavily against hers. Denny took a stumbling step to one side before she caught herself.

  The man who had run into her was a townsman. He backed away, clutching a paper-wrapped bundle to his chest as he stared at her in fear.

  Remembering the sort of hombre she was supposed to be, Denny rasped, “What the hell! Are you clumsy, mister, or just stupid?”

  She rested her right hand on the butt of the Colt.

  “I . . . I’m sorry,” the man said hastily. “I wasn’t paying attention. I never meant to bump into you that way. It’s all my fault—”

  “Damn right it is,” Denny told him.

  “Please, I . . . I apologize. You’re not . . . you’re not hurt, are you?”

  Denny let out a contemptuous grunt. “Hurt?” she repeated. “From runnin’ into some pasty-faced hombre like you? Not hardly, mister.”

  “Then is it . . . is it all right if I go . . . ?”

  Denny jerked her head and said, “Git.”

  The man turned around so fast he almost slipped and fell. He caught his balance, then scrambled to get going and hurried away along the boardwalk.

  A voice came from the store’s doorway. “I appreciate that. It would’ve been my responsibility to scrub up the blood if it was on the walk in front of my store, and it’s almost impossible to get it out of the boards.”

  Denny looked over and saw a short, wiry man with white hair and spectacles standing there. He wore a gray canvas apron and was clearly the storekeeper.

  “Anyway, I’d hate to see Calvin Hughes gunned down,” the man went on. “He may not be a very good barber, but he’s the only one we’ve got.”

  “You really think I’d kill a man for bumpin’ into me?” Denny asked.

  The man shrugged. “Some fellas around here probably would. Not that I plan on naming any names, mind you.”

  “That’s wise, more ’n likely. Why was that hombre in such a hurry? Why does everybody around here act like that? Folks have to be off the street by a certain time?”

  “There’s no curfew, not in a legal sense. Of course, there’s not really anything in Elkhorn you can say is in a legal sense. That’s a notion we’ve learned how to do without. Law, I mean.”

  “Just the way I like it,” Denny said.

  The storekeeper studied her. “Kind of young to be such a hardcase, aren’t you?”

  Denny glared at him. “Maybe you ought to be as worried as your barber friend was.”

  “I don’t know. If you shoot me, I won’t have to clean up the blood, now will I?”

  Denny couldn’t help but laugh a little. “You’ve got some bark on you, old man.”

  “I’ve been in these parts longer than just about anybody who’s still alive. Came here as a civilian scout for the army, back in the Indian-fighting days, stayed to help tame the place. You modern-day owlhoots can’t come up with anything worse than what I’ve already seen.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Virgil Trammell.” The old man pointed with a thumb at the sign above his head. “Proprietor.”

  “I’m Denny West.”

  “You don’t call yourself the Palo Duro Kid or something ridiculous like that?”

  “You’re a prickly sort of hombre, aren’t you? No, just plain old Denny West. I’m looking for a place to get some good grub and then a drink.”

  Trammell aimed a finger down the street. “Lu Shan’s café isn’t bad. He’s a Chinaman, but he cooks food that you can actually tell what it is. His steaks are a little tough, but if you’ve got good teeth they’re tasty. Need any washing done, his brother Lu Sung owns the laundry. They’re old-timers around here, too, came to the States to help build the Central Pacific, then drifted up here when that job was over. As far as the drink goes, the Silver Slipper is as good as any in town and better than some. A fella comes out of there every now and then with the blind staggers, but I don’t recall anybody ever actually dying from the whiskey they got there.”

  Denny nodded. “I’m obliged to you. If I need any supplies before I leave town, I’ll be sure to come here.”

  “I don’t turn away anybody’s trade, even gunmen. How long do you plan to be in Elkhorn?”

  “Depends on how long it takes me to find some good-paying work. I can use it.”

  “Tapped out, are you?”

  “Don’t start prying,” she snapped.

  “What sort of work are you looking for? If that’s not prying.”

  “I told you. Good-paying. Other than that, I don’t care what it is.”

  “Well, you’ll probably stumble onto something,” Trammell said. “This is a town with a lot of things going on. None of it’s pretty, but some of it is lucrative.”

  Denny nodded and went back to her horse. The sun was down, and shadows had begun to gather. Night would fall quickly.

  She said, “I guess you’ll be closing up now, since all the honest citizens are hiding in their houses.”

  “I generally stay open a while. Like I said, I don’t turn away anybody’s trade.”

  Denny led the buckskin and the paint along the street, leaving the crusty old storekeeper standing in the doorway with the light behind him. If he had been on the frontier for a long time, he had to know of Smoke Jensen, Preacher, and the other members of the Jensen clan. He might have even crossed trails with some of them. He would have been surprised to find out that he was talking to the daughter of Smoke Jensen, she thought.

  She came to the café and saw that a lamp was still burning inside. Maybe Lu Shan had the same idea as Trammell and was willing to do business with the outlaws who drifted through Elkhorn. She tied up the horses and went inside.

  A stocky, middle-aged Chinese man was stacking the chairs on the tables so he could sweep out. “Just closing up,” he told her in a voice devoid of any accent, then added quickly, “No offense, mister.”

  “You people in this town are the edgiest bunch I’ve ever seen,” Denny said. “Always afraid somebody’s going to take offense.”

  “We just don’t want any trouble.” The man hesitated, then went on. “I’ve got a little stew left in the pot. I guess you can have it if you want.”

  “I’d appreciate that. I’ve been on the trail for a while and I’m gettin’ a mite sick of my own cooking, such as it is.”

  That was actually true. One of the things Denny really missed about the Sugarloaf were the fine meals her mother and Inez prepared.

  “You mind turning around the CLOSED sign for me?”

  “Nope.” Denny turned the sign in the window, then said, “You’re Lu Shan?”

  The man looked a little surprised. “That’s right. You’re new in town. How did you know my name?”

  “The old-timer over at the store mentioned it. He said you cooked up a pretty good meal.”

  “Ah, Virgil. He and I are friends.”

  Lu went into the kitchen and came back out with a bowl and spoon. He filled a cup with coffee from the pot on the stove and set that on the counter with the stew. Denny sat down and dug in. The stew was flavorful, although the chunks of beef in it were on the tough side. Evidently that was how Lu Shan liked to cook meat.

  “You just rode in this afternoon, didn’t you?” he asked as he leaned on the counter.

  “That’s right.”

&nbs
p; “On your way anyplace in particular?”

  “Nope. Wherever I can find work and make some money.”

  “What sort of work?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I ain’t never been particular, except about the money.”

  “You seem like a decent young man. Maybe you should try somewhere other than Elkhorn—”

  Denny drew the Colt and set it on the counter next to the bowl with a slight thump. She didn’t want to seem like a decent young man. “I ain’t payin’ extra for talk, Chinaman.”

  Lu straightened, moved back a step, and raised both hands, palms out. “Sorry,” he muttered. The same sort of nervousness Denny had seen in the barber’s eyes was evident on Lu’s face. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’ve heard there’s a fellow in town looking for men who are good with their guns.”

  “Sounds interesting. Where can I find him?”

  “He’s usually in the Silver Slipper, of an evening. Or so I’ve heard.”

  “Maybe I’ll take a paseo over there when I finish this.”

  “Take your time. And, uh, there’s no charge. Like I said, it was the last of the stew left in the pot.”

  Denny shrugged. She didn’t figure the gunnie she was supposed to be would argue with that gesture.

  She finished the stew, drank the rest of the coffee, and stood up. “The Silver Slipper’s just across the street. I’m gonna leave my horses tied up in front of your place for now.” She didn’t make a question out of the statement.

  “That’s fine,” Lu said without hesitation. “No one will bother them.”

  “Nobody with any sense, anyway.”

  Denny swaggered out, closing the door behind her with a little extra force. Remembering to be a jackass was harder than she had expected it to be, she reflected.

  She walked diagonally across the street, dodging the numerous piles of horse droppings, and stepped up onto the boardwalk in front of the Silver Slipper. She had just about reached the batwings when they suddenly swung out toward her, forcing her to step back quickly to avoid being hit. She burst out, “Damn it! Doesn’t anybody in this town watch where they’re going?”

  The two men emerging from the saloon stopped short just outside the batwings.

  Maybe her angry exclamation—which had been half genuine, half feigned—was a mistake, she thought. In Elkhorn, these hombres might be the sort who would take offense and demand satisfaction at gunpoint.

  The first man looked rough but not particularly threatening at the moment. The second one stiffened as if he were angry then moved slightly to look past the first man to see who they had almost collided with and to size him up.

  Then he raised his head so his hat brim no longer concealed his face and looked directly at her. Denny couldn’t stop herself from reacting. Her breath hissed between her teeth in surprise.

  She was looking at Deputy U.S. Marshal Brice Rogers, and he was staring right back at her with unmistakable recognition in his eyes.

  CHAPTER 29

  Recognition was like a punch sinking into his gut.

  His brain had never worked faster in his life. If Denny Jensen blurted out his secret, he was a dead man. She would probably doom herself, too, if she spilled the truth.

  With that spinning madly in his head, Rogers lunged past Muddy and grabbed her around the throat—the only thing he could think of to make sure she didn’t say anything.

  Realizing he needed a reason, he yelled, “You bastard! Thought you’d never run into me again, didn’t you?” He shoved Denny up against one of the posts supporting the awning over the boardwalk, put his face right up in hers, and snarled curses at her. Between them, he whispered, “Don’t say anything”—then louder, “You double-crossing polecat! ”—he finished the whispered entreaty—“about who I am!”

  Her eyes were wide with shock. He was choking her harder than he wanted to, but he had to make it look good. Then her gaze began to smolder with anger, and he felt something hard poke against his belly. He didn’t have to hear the sound of a hammer being pulled back to know it was the barrel of a six-gun.

  She wasn’t really going to shoot him, was she?

  Having a gun shoved in his stomach was a believable enough reason to let go of her throat. As his fingers fell away from her flesh, she rasped, “Back off, or I’ll blow your backbone in two!”

  Muddy said, “Williams, have you gone loco? Who the hell is this hombre?”

  Denny grimaced. “Yeah, Williams, tell your friend who I am.” She felt like she had been swept up in a flood, whirled around and around, and washed away. Her brain was stunned, and it was all her taut-stretched nerves could do to hold themselves together as she struggled to navigate through the unexpected torrent of confusion and danger.

  “You’re the good-for-nothing skunk who left me to deal with that posse back in Kansas,” Rogers said with a furious glare of his own as he cooked up a story in his head as fast as he could. “You made off with all the loot we took from that store, too!”

  “You were plannin’ to do the same thing to me!” she challenged right back at him. “Nobody does that to Denny West and gets away with it! I just made my move first, that’s all.”

  He had known she was smart. He quickly realized she was quick-witted, too. She had just let him know the name she was using, and in a way that wouldn’t make anybody suspicious. Obviously, she was trying to pass herself off as a young man. With her hair cropped off crudely and her breasts flattened somehow—he felt his face warming slightly at that thought—she might be able to pull off the masquerade.

  “Listen here,” Muddy said. “If you two got a grudge to settle, I won’t stop you, Lon, but I was countin’ on you ridin’ out with me in the morning, remember? Can you take this kid in a shoot-out?”

  Denny sneered and practically spat, “Not on his best day, mister!” Words were coming out of her mouth, formed largely by instinct.

  “Maybe we ought to find out.” The last thing Rogers wanted was a showdown with Denny, but he had to keep acting the way a double-crossed “Lon Williams” would have, at least for a little while longer.

  Muddy rubbed his chin and said, “The two of you used to ride together?”

  “For a while,” Rogers replied. “Before I threw in with Bell and Poole and their bunch.” Might as well feed Denny as much information as he could, he thought.

  “I could’ve warned those two not to trust you,” Denny said. “I’ll bet you ran out on ’em!”

  Muddy chuckled. “Sounds like the kid knows you pretty well, Lon. You actually did leave the gang not long before they ran into that bad fracas.”

  “I didn’t know anything about what was comin’ at the time,” Rogers said in a surly voice. “I never ran out on a pard in my life, unlike some. And I never would.”

  “Listen, maybe the two of you ought to just have a drink instead of tryin’ to kill each other,” Muddy suggested. “One thing you got to remember . . . once water’s flowed under the bridge, it’s gone and it ain’t comin’ back.”

  “From what you’ve told me about what your boss is doing, he doesn’t feel that way.”

  Muddy’s face tightened. “Hush up about that in front of strangers.”

  “But I’m not a stranger,” Denny declared. “I used to ride with this son of a bitch, and now he rides with you.” She turned her head to glower at Rogers again. “You’re mixed up in some sweet deal, Williams. Don’t bother tryin’ to deny it, you weasel. Well, by God, I want in on it!”

  It was like acting in a play, she realized, but the lines weren’t written out for her by some hombre who had the luxury of going back and changing them if he decided he didn’t like them. She had to come up with them on her own, without hardly any time to think about it, and if she said the wrong thing . . . well, that was just too bad.

  Rogers was staring at her and she wondered suddenly if he had said something to her she had failed to notice. Was he waiting for an answer? If this was a play—albeit one where the stakes were life and deat
h—whose line was it, anyway?

  “That’s just like you, West. Always trying to come along later and horn in on somebody else’s deal.” He’d just taken his time about answering.

  She hadn’t missed anything. “The only reason I ever horned in on any of your deals,” she shot back at him, “is because you were never up to carryin’ them out on your own.”

  “All right, that’s enough,” Muddy said, starting to sound irritated. “If you two ain’t gonna go to shootin’, you might as well stop all this snarlin’ and hissin’ at each other like a couple mangy alley cats. Just go your separate ways and forget about it.”

  “Wait just a damn minute,” Denny said. “Who in Hades are you to be tellin’ me what to do, mister?”

  “My name’s Muddy Malone. You got a bone to pick with me, son, you’re liable to regret it.”

  The name didn’t mean anything to her, but she was starting to put together everything she had seen and heard. The only explanation for Brice Rogers’s presence in Elkhorn was for him to be there for the same reason she was.

  He was pretending to be an outlaw and trying to get inside the gang of rustlers and killers so he could bring them to justice and keep them from attacking the Sugarloaf again.

  That was an admirable thing for the young deputy marshal to be doing, but it sure played hell with her plan.

  Malone had to be one of the gang, or at least connected with it. Denny wanted to stay close to him until she figured out exactly what was going on. “Look, Malone, I didn’t ride into town lookin’ for trouble. Maybe I got a mite too proddy there. It’s just that seeing this hombre again”—she jerked a nod toward Rogers—“has got my back up.”

  “I reckon I can understand that—”

  “Hey!” Rogers interrupted, clearly offended—or at least pretending to be.

  “If the two of you used to be partners and it didn’t end well,” Muddy went on, “of course there are some hard feelin’s. But the way I figure, if it ain’t worth gunplay, it ain’t really worth worryin’ about, now is it?”

  “I suppose you’re right about that,” Denny said with grudging acceptance. She and Rogers had pushed the argument far enough, she decided. Their phony identities and past relationship were well established, and all they had to do was stick to that and be careful. “Look, just to show I’m willing to forget about the past, why don’t we have that drink you were talking about a minute ago, Malone?”