The Family Jensen

by William W. Johnstone

  Shots came from behind him as more outlaws joined in the fight. A bullet sizzled past his ear and smacked into the wagon. He dived to the ground and rolled under the vehicle.

  The horses hitched to the wagon were badly spooked by the gunfire and on the verge of bolting. A bullet burned across the rump of one of the leaders, and that was all it took. The horses panicked and stampeded.

  Smoke jammed his right-hand gun back in the holster and grabbed hold of the braces underneath the wagon as it lurched into motion. He held on for dear life as it dragged him along the street. The dirt scraped at his back as he was pulled out of that deadly crossfire.

  After being dragged a few seconds, Smoke let go and the wagon careened on down the street without him. He rolled over and came up on his knees, reaching for his gun again. He’d only had time to reload one.

  The door of the bank crashed open, kicked from inside. A huge figure loomed there, filling the doorway. Smoke saw the long hair, the beard, and knew he was looking at Oliver Stonebreaker. The outlaw knew him, too. He bellowed, “Jensen!” as he opened fire with two guns.

  Stonebreaker had squeezed off one shot from each gun, when flame and noise erupted behind him and the explosion threw him forward.

  Smoke took advantage of that opportunity to lunge to his feet. A couple men charged toward him from up the street, and opened fire as he whirled toward them.

  Out in the open like that, no one was deadlier than Smoke Jensen. His gun blasted twice, and both men went down as his lead tore through them.

  Before Smoke could do anything else, something crashed into him from behind, knocking him off his feet. Arms like tree trunks went around him and closed with crushing force, pinning his arms to his sides and making his ribs creak. Breathing was out of the question. It was like being hugged by a grizzly, and he knew Stonebreaker had tackled him.

  “I’m going to break you apart with my bare hands, Jensen,” the outlaw growled in his ear, confirming that hunch. “You’ve ruined my plans, and no man can do that and live!”

  While Stonebreaker was making that dramatic threat, Smoke hunched his shoulders and lowered his head, then brought it up and back with stunning force. His skull smacked into the middle of Stonebreaker’s face, his nose giving way under the impact. Hot blood spurted from it. Stonebreaker howled from the blinding pain, and for a second loosened his grip on Smoke.

  Smoke’s own strength was almost a match for the massive outlaw’s, and the momentary distraction of a broken nose gave Smoke the chance to break free. He drove his arms to the side, breaking Stonebreaker’s grip. He stumbled forward a step but quickly found his feet and pivoted in time to see one of those huge arms swinging at him.

  He ducked under the blow. He could have put a couple bullets in Stonebreaker’s gut, but wouldn’t kill a man in cold blood, not even an outlaw. Instead, he reversed his grip on the empty left-hand gun and slammed its butt against Stonebreaker’s head. That staggered the big man but didn’t put him down. He bulled forward, ramming a shoulder into Smoke’s chest, driving him backward. His guns were jolted out of his hands.

  He twisted in mid-air, caught himself on his hands, and levered himself out of the way as Stonebreaker leaped after him. If Stonebreaker had landed on him, some of Smoke’s ribs would have broken for sure. He avoided that fate by inches and jerked himself around to drive a kick at Stonebreaker’s face. Stonebreaker got his left shoulder up in time to block the kick. His other hand clamped on Smoke’s ankle like a bear trap.

  Smoke was vaguely aware that a battle was raging in Big Rock. He heard gun thunder and caught glimpses of orange muzzle flashes that lit the night like lightning. Somewhere a shotgun boomed and a man screamed.

  But Smoke had his hands full with the monstrous Stonebreaker, who was trying to twist his leg out of its socket. Rolling across the dusty street to keep that from happening, Smoke got his other leg up, and snapped a kick into Stonebreaker’s chest under that jutting beard. As they grappled, Smoke clubbed his hands together, bent his body upward, and brought them down with savage force against the side of Stonebreaker’s neck.

  The man’s grip loosened, and Smoke pulled his leg free, ignoring the pain. He rolled over, pushed himself to his feet, and swung a right and a left as Stonebreaker surged after him. Both blows landed solidly and rocked the outlaw’s head back and forth, but he didn’t go down. Roaring like a maddened bull, he crashed into Smoke again and forced him back against a hitch rail. Agony filled Smoke as he was bent backwards almost double.

  He brought his knee up into Stonebreaker’s groin. Stonebreaker grunted but continued to heave against Smoke, obviously trying to snap his spine over the hitch rail. Smoke cupped his hands and slammed them against Stonebreaker’s ears, hoping it would do some good even with that wild thatch of hair around the man’s head.

  The pressure eased. Stonebreaker shook his shaggy head, seeming a little disoriented. Smoke got a hand under the outlaw’s chin and shoved up as hard as he could, forcing Stonebreaker to take a step back, giving Smoke room to slip out of the trap.

  Stonebreaker was bigger, but Smoke was faster. He hammered two punches into the outlaw’s face before Stonebreaker could get his hands up, landing both blows on his already crushed and bleeding nose. Stonebreaker roared again and shook his head, slinging gore everywhere. He flailed punches at Smoke, but none of them connected.

  Smoke could feel the tide of the battle turning. He backed up, forcing Stonebreaker to come lumbering after him. A quick dart to the side sent the outlaw stumbling past him. Smoke clubbed his hands again and swung them at the back of Stonebreaker’s neck. The powerful blow toppled Stonebreaker and sent him crashing face-first to the street.

  Smoke landed on top of him, driving both knees into Stonebreaker’s back. He grabbed Stonebreaker’s head, tangled his fingers in the man’s hair, and jerked his head up. Smoke slammed Stonebreaker’s face into the ground with stunning force, again and again, and yet again. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a grimace. Threaten Sally, would he? Hot rage coursed through Smoke. He sent Stonebreaker’s face crashing into the dirt twice more.

  “Smoke!”

  The urgent voice cut through the red haze in Smoke’s brain. He didn’t know how many times it had already called his name. Chest heaving, he straightened and turned his head to look around. Louis Longmont stood there, as slim and elegant and deadly as ever, smoke curling from the barrel of the revolver he held.

  “He’s either dead or out cold, Smoke,” the gambler said. “You might as well stop.”

  Smoke looked around dazedly. The shooting had stopped. He saw bodies sprawled here and there. Men he recognized as citizens of Big Rock moved among them, holding rifles, pistols, and shotguns.

  “The rest of the gang . . .” Smoke said.

  “Either dead or begging for mercy,” Longmont said with a sardonic smile. “I don’t know how many of them you accounted for, but with you out here fighting that behemoth of a man in the middle of the street, the rest of the town wasn’t going to stand by and do nothing.”

  “How many of them did you get?”

  Longmont raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Who keeps count at a time like this? The important thing is, the fight’s over.” The gambler holstered his gun and extended a hand to Smoke. “Let me help you up.”

  Smoke clasped his friend’s hand and let Longmont help him to his feet. As they looked down at Stonebreaker, the rasp of air through the ruined nose told them that the boss outlaw was still alive.

  “You reckon I can get some volunteers to drag him down to the jail?” Smoke asked.

  “I don’t think that’ll be a problem at all,” Longmont said.

  Once Stonebreaker and three other surviving members of the gang were locked up, Smoke rode back out to Sugarloaf. Longmont had agreed to help the remaining deputy keep an eye on the prisoners. The other deputy’s body had been found in the alley beside the bank, and there was no doubt in Smoke’s mind that Stonebreaker had snapped the man’s neck.
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  Two more outlaws were down at Dr. Simpson’s place, shot full of holes. If they lived through the night, it would be a surprise. The other six were already dead. Big Rock’s undertaker was going to be mighty busy for a while.

  When Sally heard the ’Paloose’s hoofbeats, she stepped onto the porch with a rifle in her hands. She let out a happy cry and set the gun aside as she recognized Smoke. She rushed into his arms as soon as his boots hit the ground and held him tight. He did likewise.

  “You’re all right?” she whispered.

  “I’m all right. I might be a little stiff and sore tomorrow . . .”

  Sally lifted her head. “Then you’d better come inside and convince me you’re still fine now.”

  “Pearlie and Cal . . . ?”

  “In the bunk house. I want to take them to town in the morning so the doctor can take a look at them, but they’re going to be all right.”

  “In that case,” Smoke said with a grin, “I’d be happy to oblige.”

  By the middle of the next day, most of the damage in Big Rock had been cleaned up, although it was going to take some time to repair the bank vault. In the meantime, the bank’s cash on hand was locked up in the huge safe in the Wells Fargo office in the railroad depot.

  Sally had driven the ranch wagon into town with Pearlie on the seat beside her and Cal stretched out in the back. Smoke had already buried the four cowboys murdered in the attack on Sugarloaf. After examining the two wounded men, Dr. Simpson said that he wanted to keep Cal at his home for a few days, but Pearlie would be all right to return to the ranch as long as he took it easy and Sally kept fresh bandages on the crease in his side.

  “Don’t worry,” Sally said. “I’ll take good care of him.”

  “Probably stuff him full of bear sign, and I won’t get any,” Cal grumbled from the bed where the doctor had put him.

  Sally laughed. “I’ll make some and bring it into town for you, how’s that?”

  Cal grinned. “I reckon that’d help me recover from this wound, all right.”

  “Now I figure out how come you get shot all the time,” Pearlie said. “You’re just lookin’ for bear sign and sympathy.”

  “You got shot, too.”

  “Yeah, but I’m still up and around.”

  Sally left them sniping at each other and went to the sheriff’s office, where she found Smoke sitting at the desk going through Monte Carson’s collection of wanted posters.

  “Got to match up all these reward dodgers with the bodies down at the undertaker’s,” he explained as he glanced up at her.

  “Are you planning on claiming the rewards?”

  “You bet I am. That money ought to go to the family of the deputy who got killed.”

  Sally smiled. “Of course. What was I thinking?”

  The sound of a train whistle made Smoke look up again. He pushed the papers aside. “I can do this later. You want to go down to the station and watch the train come in?”

  “That sounds like a fine idea.”

  Arm in arm, they walked to the depot, arriving just as the big Baldwin locomotive rolled past the platform, belching smoke from its diamond stack. Smoke and Sally walked through the station and onto the platform. With only the deputy, Smoke had more responsibility for keeping the peace, and that meant keeping track of who got off the train.

  He stiffened as he saw a tall man carrying a valise swing down from one of the passenger cars. The man wore a black suit and a wide-brimmed black Stetson with a Montana pinch. His hair was prematurely white under the black hat, his face rugged and youthful.

  “What is it, Smoke?” Sally asked.

  “That hombre looks like he might be trouble.” Smoke nodded slightly toward the stranger.

  The man noticed them then and came toward them, but he didn’t seem to be looking for trouble. In fact, a friendly smile broke out on his face. “Smoke Jensen?” he asked as he came up to Smoke and Sally.

  “That’s right.” Smoke moved so that he was between Sally and the stranger.

  “My name’s Boyd,” the man introduced himself. “U.S. Marshal from up Montana way. I happened to be here in Colorado delivering a prisoner when your governor got hold of the chief marshal in Denver and asked for some help. The chief thought maybe I’d like to give you a hand. He said I could consider it a vacation,” Boyd added dryly.

  “I wasn’t expecting anybody for another week or so,” Smoke said.

  “With the telegraph, things don’t take as long as they used to.” Boyd laughed, a hearty sound. “The wonders of modern communication.”

  “You happen to have any proof of who you are?” Smoke asked.

  “Sure.” Boyd took a wallet from inside his coat and showed Smoke his badge and identification papers. Satisfied, Smoke nodded and shook hands with the man.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he told Boyd. “We’ve had some trouble. A gang of outlaws hit the bank last night.”

  Boyd frowned. “Did they get away with much?”

  “They didn’t get away. We’ve got four prisoners locked up in the jail, including the leader of the gang.”

  “And the others?”

  “I reckon the burials will be later today.”

  Boyd nodded knowingly. “I’m not surprised, given the things I’ve heard about you, Smoke. You don’t mind if I call you Smoke, do you?”

  “Not at all. This is my wife, by the way.”

  “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to get around to introducing me.” Sally held out a hand to the newcomer. “Sally Jensen, Marshal.”

  “It’s an honor and a pleasure, Mrs. Jensen,” Boyd told her as he took her hand.

  Before they could say anything else, someone came up behind Smoke and said, “Mr. Jensen?”

  Smoke turned to see the telegrapher standing there. The bespectacled man held out a yellow flimsy. “I just got this message for you and happened to see you standing out here. It came addressed in care of Sheriff Carson, but I figure it’ll be all right just to give it to you.”

  Smoke nodded his thanks as he reached out to take the telegram. He stiffened again as his eyes scanned the words printed on it.

  Sally noticed his reaction. “Smoke, what’s wrong?”

  “This wire is from Matt. He wants me to find Preacher and get to a place in Nevada called Halltown as fast as I can.” Smoke looked up from the message and met Sally’s eyes. “I don’t know if I ought to—”

  “Of course you should go,” she said without hesitation. “Marshal Boyd’s here to keep an eye on things now, and Louis can help out, if need be.”

  “But what about the ranch? With Pearlie and Cal laid up—”

  “I’ll hire some extra hands,” Sally said. “You know Matt wouldn’t ask for help unless it was something serious.”

  Smoke glanced at Boyd, who stood there trying not to look too curious. Smoke knew what the wire meant, all right. Matt wouldn’t have sent out a call for help to him and Preacher unless the trouble had something to do with the Indian Ring. Sally knew all about that, but Smoke didn’t want to say anything in front of Boyd. The man was a federal marshal, after all, and the Ring had a lot of power and influence in Washington. It was hard to know who could be trusted and who couldn’t.

  “You’re right.” Smoke nodded. “I guess I’d better find Preacher and light a shuck for this Halltown, wherever that is.”

  “Do you even know where to start looking for Preacher?”

  Smoke grinned. “As a matter of fact, I happen to have a pretty good idea what that old hell-raiser is up to right now.”

  BOOK THREE

  Chapter 22

  Preacher looked at the beautiful woman stretched out on the divan in a scandalously small amount of clothing. “No offense, Your Countess-ship, ma’am, but I’m old enough to be your grandpappy. Shoot, I reckon these buckskins o’ mine are older’n you are. This ain’t right.” He shook his head. “No, ma’am, it just ain’t right.”

  “Why don’t you let me worry about that,
Preacher?” Countess Helena Markova asked.

  “Because it’s pretty clear to me that you’re plumb outta your mind!” the old mountain man said. “Why, if the count was to come in right now, with you dressed like”—he waved a gnarled hand at her skimpy attire—“like that. I reckon he’d probably shoot us both!”

  “Do you really think Alexi cares what I do?”

  “If he don’t, he’s a gol-dang fool, that’s for sure.”

  The way Helena arched one finely plucked eyebrow told Preacher she agreed with him on one point, anyway. Her husband was a gol-dang fool.

  Count Alexi Markova was just the latest in a long line of fools as far as Preacher was concerned. Russian aristocrats had been coming to the American frontier to shoot wild game for nigh on to fifty years, and Preacher had yet to see the point in it. Why couldn’t they just shoot something in that Siberia place that was part of their own country?

  Preacher cast a worried glance at the door at the end of the railroad car. The count might come through there at any moment. Preacher wasn’t afraid of the man—even at his advanced age, he knew he was a match for most fellas—but if Markova pitched a fit, that would cast a pall over the whole trip and embarrass Preacher’s old friend Hank Wilkerson, who was in charge of guiding the hunting party. Preacher didn’t want that.

  “You don’t really think I’m trying to seduce you, do you, Preacher?” Helena asked from the divan. She was in her late thirties, a very attractive woman with a lot of blond hair pinned up on her head in an elaborate arrangement of curls. She had lived a life of luxury and ease in Russia, and as a result she didn’t look her age. She went on, “I simply wanted to ask you a question. I want to go along on the hunt this afternoon.”

  “You mean that’s why you sent for me?”

  “I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you.”