The Family Jensen

by William W. Johnstone

  “Smoke Jensen the gunfighter?” Maureen asked. “I’ve heard of him. They say he’s killed more men than Wild Bill Hickok!”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it,” Matt said. “But the thing you’ve got to remember is that Smoke never killed anybody who didn’t need killing. He’s actually a peaceable sort of hombre as long as nobody pushes him. He doesn’t go looking for trouble.”

  “When I heard your last name is Jensen, I never thought you might be related to Smoke Jensen.”

  Matt explained there was no blood relation between him and Smoke, or between him and Preacher, for that matter. Though they didn’t share blood, the bonds between them were just as strong as if they did, maybe even stronger. That was how Matt knew he could always count on Smoke and Preacher for help if he needed it.

  “What about that fellow Preacher?” Maureen asked. “What’s he like?

  Matt grinned. “He’s one of a kind, that’s for sure. I don’t know how old he is, exactly, but he’s got to be at least eighty. He’s as spry as a man half his age, and as feisty as a bag full of polecats. Smells about as bad sometimes, too, although he’ll deny it up one way and down the other. He taught Smoke how to get along out here on the frontier, and Smoke taught me.”

  “So Preacher is like your grandfather, and Smoke is like your father.”

  “Well, Smoke’s only about eight years older than me, so he’s not really old enough to be my pa. More like an older brother, maybe. He’s packed a lot of living into those years, though. He and his wife have a ranch in Colorado called Sugarloaf, and he keeps making noises about how he wants to settle down and just be a rancher, but trouble seems to have a way of finding him.”

  Maureen laughed. “I’d wager you have more than a passing familiarity with trouble yourself, Matt Jensen.”

  “You could say that,” Matt agreed with a grin.

  After a couple hours of riding, Matt spotted what he was looking for. The telegraph wire dangled loosely from one of the poles, the end trailing on the ground. He could see the next pole, and more broken wire hung from it. He had seen wires downed like that before. Someone had tossed a rope over the wire, dallied the rope around his saddlehorn, and used his horse to pull until the wire snapped, cutting off Halltown from speedy communication with the rest of the world.

  If the saboteur had broken the wire in only one place a connection still existed at the last pole before the break. Matt had a telegraph key in his saddlebags, and knew how to shinny up a pole, tie into the wire, and tap out his own messages. But before he did that he wanted to find out more about the situation in those parts.

  “I think we’ve gone far enough this way,” he said as he reined in.

  Maureen brought her mare to a halt and gave him a puzzled look. “I thought you wanted to see the railroad.”

  “Women aren’t the only ones who can change their minds.” He smiled at her, then asked, “Are you in a hurry to get back to town?”

  “Actually, no. In fact, I brought some lunch with me. I thought we might stop and eat somewhere.”

  “That sounds like a fine idea to me. Let’s head northwest for a while.”

  Maureen was still confused. “Back toward town?”

  Matt shook his head. “Nope. I thought we’d circle around the settlement. I’ve got a hankering to take a look at Big Bear Wash.”

  Chapter 8

  As they rode, Maureen kept casting thoughtful glances toward Matt, as if she were trying to figure something out. Finally she said, “I know what you’re doing.”

  “Looks to me like I’m riding with a pretty girl,” Matt replied with a grin.

  “No, I’m serious,” Maureen insisted. “You wanted to find the place where the telegraph lines are down. Now you’re going to look at Big Bear Wash, where Cyrus Longacre is trying to force the Paiutes off the land they were given by the treaty they signed. What I can’t figure out is why you’re doing it.” She paused, then asked bluntly, “Are you a United States marshal, Matt?”

  He let out a laugh. “Me, a federal lawman? Not hardly.”

  “Then some other sort of government agent, maybe?”

  Matt shook his head. “I give you my word, Maureen, I’m not any kind of a lawman. I didn’t come to Halltown to investigate anything. I was just passing through on my way to the mountains so I could get in some hunting and fishing.”

  “Then why didn’t you leave yesterday morning? You could have, you know. There’s nothing keeping you here.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  Maureen blushed under the fine layer of trail dust that covered her face. “If you’re staying because of me—”

  “That’s not exactly it,” Matt broke in, “and I swear, I mean no offense by that. Getting to spend more time with you is a mighty good reason for me to hang around this part of the country.”

  “But it’s not the real reason, is it?”

  Matt reined in, his expression growing solemn as he did so. Maureen brought her mount to a halt as well.

  “No, not really,” Matt admitted. He thought Maureen deserved to hear the whole story. “Have you ever heard of something called the Indian Ring?”

  Maureen frowned in thought for a moment before saying, “Just vaguely. I recall seeing something about it in one of Uncle Colin’s newspapers, I think. He has them sent out here from Boston, where we used to live. The news is weeks or months old before we get the papers, of course.” She paused. “The Indian Ring was a group of crooked politicians in Washington, or something like that, wasn’t it?”

  “Crooked politicians, crooked bureaucrats, crooked businessmen,” Matt explained. “They joined forces to rake off hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of graft from the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Most of what they did was actually petty crime, but at such a big scope they wound up stealing a lot of money and causing a lot of misery among the tribes.”

  “But they’re gone now, isn’t that right?”

  Matt shrugged. “Their chicanery was exposed, that’s true. Some of them went to jail, but most of the ringleaders found ways to get around that. A lot of bribes changed hands when that scandal broke. Since then, they’ve been lying low for a few years, but a while back Smoke, Preacher, and I found out a new Indian Ring is back at work again. We helped put a stop to a land grab they tried to pull off.”

  “Wait a minute!” Maureen said as understanding dawned on her face. “Are you saying that Cyrus Longacre is part of this new Indian Ring?”

  “I don’t know,” Matt replied honestly, “but I suspect that might be the case. I started wondering about it when I found out Longacre is trying to push the Paiutes off their land so he can build a bridge over Big Bear Wash. He needs that bridge so he can expand his rail line all the way to the big ranches—between Halltown and the mountains.”

  Maureen nodded. “I know. Chief Walking Hawk probably would have sold him a right-of-way so he could build the bridge, but Longacre woudn’t have that. He just wanted the Paiutes to clear out. That’s when Roscoe Goldsmith got involved. He and Uncle Colin are friends.”

  “He’s the lawyer who stood up for the Paiutes?”

  “That’s right. He sent a wire to Carson City about it . . . and it was only a few hours later that the telegraph went out,” Maureen went on in a voice that said she was really beginning to understand what Matt was getting at. “Longacre was afraid Roscoe might do something like that, so he sent his men to pull down those wires!”

  “Yeah, I reckon that’s what happened. He just wasn’t quick enough about it. He probably didn’t have any of his gunmen in town at the time, so he had to send word out to the construction camp to bring down the wires. That took a while. I’m just guessing about that, but I’d bet a hat that’s what happened.”

  “And I think you’d win that bet,” Maureen agreed. “But how do you know Longacre’s part of the Indian Ring, instead of just some greedy, arrogant scoundrel?”

  Matt chuckled. “Oh, he’s those things, too. But I’ve been told he has friends in high
places, and that smacks of Washington to me. Anyway, whether Longacre is actually part of the Ring or not, he needs to be taken down a peg. Don’t get me wrong, it’s important to bring in the railroad, but he can’t get away with running over innocent people in the process.”

  “How can you stop him? You’re just one man.”

  “One honest man can make a difference,” Matt said. “Three can make an even bigger difference.”

  “You’re talking about Smoke and Preacher?”

  Matt nodded. “I figure they’ll want to know what’s going on here. After that last little dustup, we agreed that we’d let each other know if we ran into the Indian Ring again. As soon as I’ve talked to Chief Walking Hawk, I plan to get in touch with them.”

  “How? The telegraph doesn’t work.”

  “It doesn’t work in town. Those poles we were looking at earlier are a different story.”

  “You can get a message out?”

  “I think so. If not”—Matt shrugged—“we’ll just have to see how much damage one man can do to Longacre’s plans, I guess.”

  Maureen looked at him intently. “Not just one man. You can get help in town. Nobody likes Longacre and his henchmen, especially that Judd Talley.” A little shiver went through her as she spoke the big man’s name. “What a vicious brute he is.”

  “I don’t want to get any innocent folks hurt.”

  “You’d risk your own life to help us, but deny us the chance to stand up for ourselves?”

  “Let’s just see what Chief Walking Hawk has to say before we make any decisions.”

  They rode on, swinging to the north to circle around Halltown and then heading west again. A couple miles later, they came to Big Bear Wash.

  Matt had no idea how the place had gotten its name. Probably something as simple as somebody seeing a big bear wandering along beside the wash or even in it one day. That was usually all it took. The wash itself wasn’t anything spectacular. It was about thirty feet deep, maybe sixty wide, with sheer walls and a flat, sandy bottom. Building a trestle to span it wouldn’t require any great feats of engineering.

  Matt and Maureen sat their horses on the wash’s southeastern bank. He asked, “How do the ranchers on the other side get their herds across now?”

  “There are places where the banks have caved in and created paths down into the wash,” Maureen explained. “It’s an obstacle when you’re driving cattle, no doubt about that, but not an unsurmountable one. I’ve heard plenty of cowboys in the store talking about it. They have to be careful of flash floods, but otherwise it doesn’t seem to be too difficult.”

  “The Paiutes don’t bother them?”

  “There are half a dozen ranches between here and the mountains. The men who own them have made arrangements with Chief Walking Hawk. His people are allowed to cut out some of the cattle for beef, and other than that they don’t bother the herds. From what I’ve heard, it wasn’t like that ten or fifteen years ago, when the ranchers first started to establish themselves in these parts. Back then, there were a lot of fights with the Indians. It’s been peaceful for quite a while, though, or at least it was until Cyrus Longacre showed up. He’s going to start another Indian war if he keeps trying to push them off their land.”

  Matt’s eyes narrowed as he thought about what Maureen had just said. The old liveryman back in Halltown had made a similar comment about an Indian war breaking out.

  Matt realized that might be exactly what Longacre was trying to accomplish. If he could prod the Paiutes into resuming hostilities, Longacre would have a perfect excuse to appeal to the government for help. Then his political cronies in Washington could make some fiery speeches about how the savages were threatening the country’s westward expansion, and public sentiment would force the War Department to send in the army to wipe out the Paiutes, leaving Longacre free and clear to do whatever he wanted.

  Matt was no starry-eyed idealist. He knew in the continuing conflict between the whites and the Indians, there were good and bad hombres on both sides. He had helped the army fight Indians who lived for nothing more than to torture, mutilate, and kill innocent settlers who were trying to make a new life for themselves in the west. He had watched as promises and treaties were broken, also on both sides. He had heard soldiers bitterly refer to those red warriors as Mister Lo, because of the bleeding-heart newspaper writers back east who proclaimed, “Lo, the poor Indian!” They scribbled their stories about how the noble tribes who wanted only peace were being mistreated, without having even the faintest notion of how bloodthirstily those same tribes had wiped out their enemies in the past.

  And behind it all, taking advantage of the situation, spinning webs of greed and deceit like fat spiders, were the politicians, the financiers, the robber barons. Men like Cyrus Longacre, who would stop at nothing to get what they wanted and who would gleefully crush anyone who got in their way.

  “Matt . . .”

  Maureen’s voice broke into his reverie. She sounded worried—a grim cast had settled over his face. He looked at her and smiled.

  “It’s all right—” he started to tell her.

  “I’m not so sure of that,” she broke in. “Look.”

  He saw the way her eyes were slanting behind them, and he hipped around in the saddle. A number of riders had appeared and arranged themselves in a loose half circle pinning Matt and Maureen against the wash. The newcomers had brought their ponies to a halt and sat there watchfully, some of them holding rifles while others gripped long lances that tapered to sharp, deadly points.

  They were Paiutes, and they didn’t look the least bit friendly.

  Chapter 9

  Matt kept his hands in plain sight as he lifted the reins and turned his horse so he faced the Indians. “Stay behind me,” he told Maureen in a quiet, steady voice.

  “I’m not afraid of them.” Her words were a little shaky despite that declaration. “I’ve seen Chief Walking Hawk in town. He’s an honorable man.”

  “Is he part of this bunch?”

  “Yes, that’s him in the middle.”

  As if the chief had heard them, the rider Maureen indicated moved his horse forward in a slow walk. The buckskin-clad man was big, with a bronzed, hatchet-like face and strands of silver in his thick dark hair. He carried a Winchester in front of him, across his pony’s back. He brought the horse to a stop when he was about twenty feet from Matt and Maureen.

  Matt lifted his left hand with the open palm out in the universal symbol of peace. “Chief,” he said in a clear, calm voice. “My name is Matt Jensen.”

  Maureen edged her mare to the side so the Indians could see her, even though Matt had told her to stay behind him. They knew she was there anyway. It wasn’t like there was any place to hide on the edge of that barren wash.

  “Chief Walking Hawk,” Maureen said. “I’m Maureen Ferguson from Halltown. My uncle is Colin Ferguson, who owns the hotel and the general store.”

  The Paiute chief’s face was still stony and unreadable. He ignored Maureen and looked at Matt as he asked in more than passable English, “Are you another of Cyrus Longacre’s hired killers?”

  “Longacre is my enemy,” Matt replied with a shake of his head. He pointed to Walking Hawk and then to himself. “That makes us friends, I think. And I’m friends with the man known as White Wolf and Ghost Killer.”

  Walking Hawk didn’t control his reaction soon enough to prevent Matt from seeing the flicker of recognition in his eyes. The Paiutes had heard of Preacher. There probably wasn’t a tribe west of the Mississippi that hadn’t been visited by the legendary mountain man at one time or another. He was more than a legend to some. To the Blackfeet, Preacher’s sworn enemies, the old-timer was considered a supernatural being, a demon who could slip into their camps unseen and unheard, cut the throats of their bravest warriors, and disappear like a phantom, a spectral wind of death blowing in the darkness.

  “Ghost Killer is a friend to the Paiutes,” Walking Hawk confirmed. “Why are you here, M
att Jensen?”

  “Why are you and your men armed for war?” Matt asked in return. They weren’t painted for war, but that would be the next step, he suspected.

  “Longacre has sent his men to drive us from our land, or to kill us if they fail in that.” Walking Hawk’s jaw thrust out belligerently. “We will not be driven from our land . . . and they will find that the Paiutes are not so easy to kill.”

  Matt shook his head. “We don’t want Longacre to get away with that, Chief. I’m going to try to stop him.”

  “We will stop him,” Walking Hawk declared. “We will kill any white man who comes on our land, just as they have murdered us!”

  Matt rested both hands on the saddlehorn and leaned forward a little as he frowned. “What do you mean by that? I didn’t know anybody had been killed out here.”

  “Twice, hunting parties from our village have been attacked. Men opened fire on them from ridges. The last time, two of our young men were killed.”

  Matt glanced over at Maureen, who had turned more pale than normal under the scattering of freckles. He swung his attention back to Walking Hawk. “I’m sorry, Chief. I didn’t know that. I don’t think anybody in Halltown did.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard about it,” Maureen added. “I think it’s terrible.”

  “If Longacre wants war, we will give him war,” Walking Hawk went on. “Tell the people in the settlement not to come out here anymore. They risk their lives if they do.” The sharply-hewn face softened slightly. “The two of you can leave. No one will harm you. But do not come back.”

  “Chief, I understand how upset you and your people are, but this is the wrong thing to do,” Matt insisted. “If you start attacking anybody who comes onto your land, you’ll be playing right into Longacre’s hands. What about the white cowboys who ride across here? If you kill any of them, the ranchers will turn against you. If you kill Longacre’s men, he’ll ask the government to send in the army, and the ranchers will back him. All the trust you’ve built up with the settlers will vanish. Then you really will have a war on your hands . . . and you know it’s a war you can’t win.”