“Oh.” Sally felt relieved, even though she hated to hear that Monte Carson was hurt. “Is he going to be all right?”
“Yeah, but Doc Simpson says he’s gonna be laid up for a good long while.”
“Sheriff Carson got Smoke to promise he’d sorta look after the town,” Cal said.
“For how long?” Sally was used to Smoke being away from Sugarloaf for weeks or sometimes months at a time, but she didn’t have to like it.
“Doc claims it’ll be six weeks before the sheriff can even start gettin’ up and around again,” Pearlie said. “Could be several months before he’s plumb back up to snuff.”
Sally sighed, then perked up slightly. Big Rock wasn’t far away. If Smoke couldn’t come back to the ranch, maybe she would go and stay in town with him, or at least visit frequently. No matter how competent Pearlie and Cal and the other hands were, someone would still need to keep an eye on what was happening at Sugarloaf.
“But you don’t have to worry,” Cal said. “Smoke won’t have to stay there the whole time. He was gonna send a wire to Denver and ask the governor to send somebody down to take over for Sheriff Carson, you know, until the sheriff’s back on his feet.”
That was even better, Sally thought with a smile. Smoke had done more than one favor for the governor in the past, so she knew the man would act quickly to handle the request. He would probably be home in a few days, or a week at most.
“Uh, how long do you reckon it’ll be before that bear sign’s cooled off enough to eat?” Cal asked.
“It might be ready by the time you and Pearlie finish bringing in the supplies,” Sally said pointedly. “Aren’t you worried you’ll ruin your appetite for supper?”
“Trust me, ma’am,” Pearlie said. “That ain’t never gonna happen!”
They went out, swatting at each other with their hats, and Sally laughed at their antics. She wasn’t worried anymore. Big Rock was a pretty peaceful place these days, so Smoke staying there to help out the sheriff was just a precaution. He probably wouldn’t have to do a thing.
The man standing off a ways from the campfire was big, but there was something more than sheer size that drew the eye to him. He had that magnetic quality that all great leaders have, a certain intangible aspect that made men want to follow him out of a mixture of respect, awe, and even a little fear. He might have been a military general or a statesman or a titan of industry.
Of course, not all men who possessed that quality rose to such heights. Oliver Stonebreaker didn’t lead an army or a political party or a business. He led a motley gang of outlaws. His circumstances in life—a petty thief for a father and a whore for a mother, neither of whom had lived until young Oliver’s eighth birthday—had robbed him of his true destiny.
So Oliver robbed, too. He killed, as well, when anyone got in his way, and raped when the mood struck him. His men knew to steer clear of him when one of his increasingly frequent rages was upon him, but they never gave any thought to leaving him. He was smart, and since he had started running the gang and planning their jobs, they hadn’t even come close to getting caught. They had plenty of loot to divvy up, and whenever it started to run low, why, they just found themselves another bank to rob.
Or rather, Stonebreaker did. He picked out the targets, and like the great general he might have been, he sent men to scout them and get the lay of the land before he acted. If a job looked like it would be too dangerous or not profitable enough, the Stonebreaker gang passed it by and waited for something better. That way they stayed out of prison and more important, stayed alive.
Southern Colorado wasn’t Stonebreaker’s usual stomping grounds. He didn’t know the name of the settlement he’d sent Burke and Crandell to to check out the bank. They weren’t back yet and he worried they might have gotten into trouble. He wasn’t particularly concerned about something bad happening to them, but if they had run afoul of the law, they might sell out the rest of the gang to save their own hides. Unfortunately, he couldn’t really trust a bunch of cold-blooded, bank-robbing murderers.
The sound of hoofbeats approaching in the night made Stonebreaker swing around toward the fire. He was an impressive figure in a black frock coat, with a gray-shot spade beard that stuck out from his massive jaw. He never wore a hat, so the night wind stirred the long, wild thatch of dark hair that hung to his shoulders. The only spots of lightness about him were the pearl-handled revolvers that rode butt-forward in his holsters. He knew the guns were fancy, but he liked them. More important, he was good with them.
Close to a dozen men sitting around the fire got to their feet as they heard the horses. Some of them picked up rifles leaning against the rocks near the fire. Others rested their hands on their holstered guns. The riders were probably their fellow outlaws Burke and Crandell, but men who rode the dark, lonesome trails knew it never paid to take chances.
The hoofbeats came to a halt. A voice called out, “Hello, the camp!”
Stonebreaker strode forward. “Come on in, Burke!” he rumbled. The rest of the men relaxed. They had recognized the newcomer’s voice, too.
Burke and Crandell rode into camp and dismounted. A couple men took their horses to unsaddle them and picket them with the others. Another man handed them cups of coffee. Burke nodded his thanks. Crandell was more sullen, but then, he always was.
Stonebreaker waited until the men had swigged down some of the Arbuckle’s, but couldn’t contain his impatience any longer. “Well?” he demanded. “What did you find out?”
“The bank looks pretty prosperous,” Burke reported. “Impressive building. Brick, two stories.”
“That doesn’t mean there’s any money in the vault,” Stonebreaker snapped.
“There ought to be. There are several big cattle spreads in the area, and it’s getting on toward the end of the month. Be payday for the hands soon. The businesses in the settlement seem to be doing pretty well, too. The saloons alone probably make some big deposits. Throw in all the stores and the other businesses, and there’ll be money in the vault, all right.”
Stonebreaker nodded. “Sounds promising,” he admitted in his deep, rumbling voice. “What about the law situation?”
A grin spread across Burke’s lean, sardonic face. “That’s even better. The local sheriff fell off a ladder and busted his leg while we were in town. He’s going to be laid up for a while. And that’s a good thing, because he’s Monte Carson.”
Stonebreaker’s bushy eyebrows drew down in a frown as he shook his head. “I don’t recognize the name.”
“I never met him, but I’ve heard of him,” Burke explained. “He used to be a hired gun, years ago. Pretty tough hombre. I guess that life got to be too hard for him. He settled down and started packing a star instead. He’s probably lost some of his edge, but I’d just as soon not have to find out. With him laid up, all we have to worry about is a couple green deputies who won’t be any real threat to us.”
Stonebreaker suppressed the impulse to rub his hands together in anticipation. “From the sound of it, we can not only empty the bank but take over the rest of the town as well.”
Burke nodded. “I think you’re right, boss. We can pick the whole settlement clean if we want to. Might even be a good place to hole up for a little while.”
“I’ll decide things like that,” Stonebreaker snapped.
“Sure,” Burke said. “I never figured otherwise.”
Mollified by the man’s quick response, Stonebreaker nodded in satisfaction and started to turn away, asking over his shoulder, “By the way, what’s the name of this place?”
Crandell chuckled. “You’ll like this, boss, because of your name. It’s called Big Rock. Big Rock, Stonebreaker, you get it?”
Stonebreaker froze as his muscles stiffened and his breath caught in his throat. He stood like that for a moment, then slowly swung around. “What did you call it?”
Crandell swallowed hard, aware that he had said something to disturb the boss but unsure of what it might b
e. “Big Rock. But I didn’t mean nothin’ by it—”
“You never heard of Big Rock before?”
Crandell shook his head, and glanced at Burke who said, “No, I don’t think so. Should I have?”
“Something rang a bell when you mentioned Monte Carson, but I wasn’t paying any attention. Tell me, while you were there did you see a man who stands maybe a couple inches over six feet, with shoulders about as broad as an ax handle? He wears two guns, one holstered the regular way on the right, the one on the left butt-forward. He has ash-blond hair, sort of the color of . . . smoke.”
“I don’t recall seeing anybody like that,” Burke said, and Crandell shook his head again. “Who is he? An old enemy of yours?”
“Not really. I saw him in action once, over in Kansas. That’s how I know what he looks like. But he wasn’t gunning for me. He killed four men in less time than it takes to tell it.”
Crandell let out a low whistle of appreciation. “Sounds like quite a gunslick.”
“You could say that.” Stonebreaker’s voice suddenly rose to an angry roar. “He’s Smoke Jensen, you idiot!”
A stunned silence hung over the camp after Stonebreaker’s shout. Burke finally broke it by saying, “Smoke Jensen. I’ve heard of him.”
“Of course you have,” Stonebreaker said with a withering glare. “He has a ranch near Big Rock, Colorado. He’s friends with Monte Carson, that old gunfighter-turned-lawman. If Carson’s laid up, there’s a good chance he’s asked Jensen to help keep peace in the town for a while.”
“We can’t know that for sure,” Burke argued. “From what I’ve heard about Jensen, he roams around a lot. He might not even be in these parts right now.”
Stonebreaker got control of his anger and nodded. “He might not be. But we have to find out before we decide what to do.”
Crandell asked, “What’re we gonna do if he is around? Just forget about that bank and turn tail and run?”
Stonebreaker moved with blinding speed for such a big man. His arm shot out, swinging around like a freight train. The back of his hand cracked across Crandell’s face with such force the blow sent the stocky outlaw flying backward. His coffee cup went high in the air and came down with a clatter as it bounced toward the fire. One of the other outlaws caught it before it landed in the flames.
Crandell lay on his back. He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked groggy. With one hand, he took hold of his jaw and worked it back and forth to see if it was broken.
“No, we’re not going to turn tail and run,” Stonebreaker said. “We’re not going to forget about that bank, either. But we have to find out if Smoke Jensen is in Big Rock, and if he is, we’ll have to deal with him before we make our move.”
“How are we going to do that?” Burke asked.
Stonebreaker’s lips curved in a vicious smile under the thick mustache that drooped over them. “Like I said, Jensen’s got a ranch, and on that ranch is his pretty little wife. Threaten something that a man loves, and he’ll usually come a-runnin’ . . . even if he’s charging right into a trap.”
Chapter 17
The back room of the sheriff’s office and jail held a cot where Monte Carson sometimes spent the night when he had a reason to. Smoke stayed there, although he could have gotten a room at the hotel. The cot wasn’t as comfortable as his bed in the ranch house, partially because Sally wasn’t in it, but he had slept in a lot worse places. He had asked Pearlie to ride back into town the next day to bring him clean clothes and other personal things he would need to get through the rest of the week or so.
In the morning, he went to Dr. Simpson’s home to check on Carson. The lawman was sort of doped up. The broken leg was swathed in a white cast and propped up in the bed where he lay.
“He spent a fairly quiet night,” Simpson told Smoke.
“Expect him to start complaining when he wakes up more,” Smoke advised the doctor with a smile. “He’s not going to take kindly to being cooped up.”
Simpson nodded and sighed. “I know. He’s already started talking about getting some crutches so he can walk around. He can’t seem to grasp the idea that he’s not going to put any weight on that leg for several weeks.”
“He can grasp it, he just doesn’t like it.” Smoke clapped a hand on Simpson’s shoulder. “Good luck, Doc. I have a feeling you’re gonna need it.”
Smoke returned to the sheriff’s office and found both of Carson’s deputies waiting for him. Smoke knew both men, although not well. He had spoken to them briefly the evening before, telling them to go ahead with their normal routine and make their rounds as they usually did.
“Mornin’, Smoke,” one of the men said. “Town seems pretty quiet.”
Smoke nodded. “That’s what I thought. I’m hoping it stays that way. I’ll be either here or somewhere around town if you need help, but you fellas are in charge. I figure you know more about how Monte would want things done than I do.”
“Thanks.” The man grinned. “I’ve got to admit, knowin’ we’ve got Smoke Jensen to call on if a bad ruckus breaks out makes me feel a mite better.”
“I plan on moving over to the hotel today,” Smoke continued. “That way whichever one of you normally works nights can get back on your regular schedule.”
They chatted for a few minutes longer, then Smoke left the office and walked down the street to the livery stable where he had left his ’Paloose. The big spotted horse whickered a warm greeting to him.
Smoke chewed the fat with the elderly hostler for a while, then went over to the hotel and made arrangements for a room. As he was leaving the hotel, he spotted Pearlie riding into Big Rock with a warbag tied to his saddle. Smoke lifted a hand in greeting, took the gear Pearlie had brought him, and listened to his foreman’s brief report on the state of things at Sugarloaf.
“The ranch is just fine. Miz Jensen was a mite surprised when she heard you weren’t comin’ home for a while, but she didn’t seem upset.”
“That’s good.” Smoke nodded. Sally was a little more adaptable than some women, he thought. Unexpected developments seldom threw her for a loop, which was good. Sharing a life with him had never been what anybody would call predictable.
“You missed out on some mighty good bear sign,” Pearlie went on. “Cal says it was some of the best he’s ever eaten, and he sure stuffed his belly full to prove it.”
Smoke grinned and let out a mock groan of disappointment.
“How’re things here in town, Smoke? You need any help?”
“Quiet,” Smoke replied. “Mighty quiet. If things keep up like this, the main thing I’ll have to worry about is getting bored.”
“We wouldn’t want that to happen. Maybe you’ll get lucky and things’ll start to pop.”
“Yeah,” Smoke said, giving a friendly nod to a stranger who rode by in the street. “Lucky.”
That was Smoke Jensen on the boardwalk, talking to some lanky cowboy. No doubt about it, thought Wylie Fisk. Stonebreaker had described the famous gunfighter to a T.
Fisk smiled and returned the nod Jensen gave him, but he didn’t slow his horse. He kept moving, angling toward a saloon on the other side of the street. THE LONGMONT SALOON, a sign over the boardwalk on the front of the building announced.
Fisk was a small, inoffensive-looking man with eyes so pale blue they were almost colorless. His battered Stetson was pushed back on fair hair. The gun on his hip was old but well cared for. Looking at him, nobody would ever guess he had killed eight men, two during shoot-outs that followed some of the gang’s bank robberies, the other six gunned down from behind. Fisk had tortured a couple Mexicans to death, too, but he didn’t count those in his total.
He dismounted and tied his horse at the hitch rail in front of the saloon. It was early enough in the day the place wasn’t doing much business, but a few men stood at the bar drinking. A poker game went on at one of the tables. Fisk considered sitting in on the game—he had a weakness for cards—but Stonebreaker had sent him into Big R
ock for information, not to risk his luck on the pasteboards. He went to the bar and told the bartender to fetch him a beer.
As the man set the mug in front of him, Fisk said, “Looks like a nice little town here.”
The bartender nodded. “Yeah, Big Rock’s a good place to live. You a stranger in these parts?”
Fisk took a swallow of the cool beer and licked his lips appreciatively. “That’s right.”
“Looking for work?”
“I might be,” Fisk allowed. “Any of the spreads around here hirin’ right now?”
“Well, since it’s not round-up time, I don’t really know,” the bartender replied with a shrug. “But you could ask around. Never can tell when somebody might need an extra hand.”
Fisk took another swallow of the beer, then said easily, “I’ve heard about a ranch called Sugarloaf that’s supposed to be in this part of the country.”
The bartender grinned and nodded. “Sure, Sugarloaf is Smoke Jensen’s spread.”
“Smoke Jensen?” Fisk repeated. “The gunfighter?”
“Oh, he’s got quite a rep, sure, but these days Smoke’s more rancher than gunfighter. He comes in here all the time, you know. Him and Mr. Longmont are good friends.” The bartender nodded toward the table where the poker game was going on.
Fisk looked at the players, his gaze lingering on a well-dressed hombre with sleek dark hair and a thin mustache. He looked like a professional gambler, and Fisk recalled hearing talk about a gambler and gunman named Longmont. Louis Longmont, that was it. One more bit of information Stonebreaker would want, Fisk told himself.
“Smoke will probably be in later,” the talkative bartender went on. “He’s staying in town right now because our sheriff, Monte Carson, busted his leg yesterday. Smoke’s filling in for him.”
“Do tell,” Fisk murmured. That was the very thing Stonebreaker had been worried about.
Fisk knew he’d been lucky. He had come to the right place when he rode up to the Longmont Saloon. That big-mouthed drink juggler had told him everything he needed to know. Almost everything, he amended.
The Family Jensen Page 12
