The Family Jensen

by William W. Johnstone

  The young woman’s expression softened a little. “I see. Do you need supplies?”

  “Well, maybe. Mostly, though, we’d sort of like to know what’s going on here in town today. Is it a holiday we don’t know about?”

  The redhead sniffed, and Smoke saw tears shining in her eyes. “No, it’s not a holiday.” Her voice caught a little as she went on, “They’re . . . they’re getting ready to hang an innocent man.” She glanced at the banjo clock on the wall. “Any minute now, in fact.”

  Smoke stiffened. He didn’t have time to be discreet anymore. “This innocent man they’re fixing to hang, his name wouldn’t be Matt Jensen, would it?”

  The young woman’s beautiful green eyes opened wide in amazement. “How did you—” She looked from Smoke to Preacher, who had stopped to look at a glass-fronted display case full of penny candy, then back again. “Oh, my God. You’re Smoke and Preacher!”

  Smoke reached across the counter and grasped her arm. “You know Matt? He’s the one they’re going to hang?”

  The redhead jerked her head in a nod. “Yes, at noon! They said he killed a woman, but he didn’t do it, I know he didn’t do it! It’s all part of Cyrus Longacre’s plan—”

  Smoke had heard enough. They could find out all the details from Matt, once they got him out of that mess.

  And they didn’t have much time to do it. The hands on the wall clock stood at two minutes until twelve.

  Smoke whirled away from the counter. “Preacher, come on! They’re about to hang Matt!”

  “Tarnation!” the old mountain man exploded. “I was afraid it was gonna be somethin’ like that when we saw that dang gallows!”

  They ran onto the porch and saw crowds of people swarming toward the gallows. Based on what the young woman had said, Matt had some friends in Halltown, but they seemed to be outnumbered. Smoke’s gaze darted here and there, picking out men who appeared to be hardcases—probably more of Longacre’s hired guns. A tingling sense of excitement and fear had settled over the town, like the electric crackle in the air before a terrible thunderstorm was about to break.

  Shouts went up as a knot of men forced their way through the crowd toward the gallows. The group bristled with rifles, shotguns, and pistols.

  In their midst, striding along with his back held straight and defiant, was a tall, fair-haired figure.

  Matt!

  “Grab the horses,” Smoke told Preacher. “No time for anything fancy!”

  “Damn right!” Preacher said. “Cut loose your wolf, boy, and let it howl!”

  Time was up, Matt thought. Hope was gone. Smoke and Preacher weren’t going to get there. Even if they rode in right then, it was too late. Longacre had at least two dozen men scattered along the street, not to mention Sheriff Walt Sanger and the corrupt lawman’s deputies. Nobody could stop the hanging.

  Nobody except Matt himself.

  He looked through the crowd and saw Longacre and Judd Talley waiting at the foot of the steps leading up to the gallows. Longacre had his thumbs hooked in his vest and wore a solemn expression, as if he were there to see justice done. Talley, his face swollen and bruised from the punches Matt had landed earlier, didn’t bother with any pretense. His usual arrogant smirk stretched across his face, telling all the world he was going to enjoy what he was about to witness.

  Matt drew in a deep breath as he and the guards surrounding him approached the gallows. He would go out fighting, make them shoot him, so at least he wouldn’t have to endure the indignity of kicking out his life at the end of a rope. His biggest regret was that he wouldn’t get to see Smoke and Preacher again.

  A sound uncannily like the howl of a wolf cut through the hubbub of the street. Matt’s eyes widened in surprise as people began to yell. His head jerked around and so did everyone else’s. He saw two familiar figures on horseback galloping toward him as the crowd scrambled to get out of the way of the pounding hooves.

  “Stop them!” Longacre yelled. “Kill Jensen!”

  They hadn’t bothered to tie his hands, planning to do that once he was on the gallows, Sanger had explained. That was a bad mistake. Matt’s right hand shot out, grabbed the twin barrels of the sheriff’s shotgun, and wrenched them upward as his left fist crashed into Sanger’s face. Tearing the shotgun out of the stunned sheriff’s grasp, Matt whirled to drive the butt of the weapon into the belly of a deputy. He shouldered another man aside and whipped the shotgun around so it pointed at Longacre and Talley. The remaining deputies leaped out of the way.

  Talley had jerked his gun out but launched himself at Longacre and drove the railroad man out of the way as Matt pulled the triggers. The shotgun boomed and sent buckshot tearing into the gallows steps, but Longacre and Talley had rolled clear of the charges.

  Chaos erupted in the street. Longacre’s gunnies tried to draw beads on Smoke and Preacher, but they were moving too fast, their guns roaring. Some of the hired guns spun off their feet as lead ripped into them while others jumped for cover.

  Smoke and Preacher closed in on the gallows.

  Matt saw Talley’s revolver swinging toward him and launched the empty shotgun like a missile. It crashed into Talley’s chest and knocked him backward, causing his shot to go high.

  “Matt!” Smoke yelled as he pouched his right-hand gun and reached down.

  The next instant, Matt leaped up, reaching for Smoke’s hand. They clasped wrists, and Matt swung up on the ’Paloose’s back behind the saddle. Smoke sent the big horse racing past the gallows while Preacher brought up the rear, twisting from side to side, firing his Remingtons, and keeping up that nerve-shattering howl.

  The three of them galloped out of Halltown while Cyrus Longacre practically danced in a fit of apoplectic rage, screaming, “Go after them! Go after them!”

  Nobody seemed to be in too much of a hurry to do that until Judd Talley gathered a group of Longacre’s gunhawks out of the confusion in the street and set off in pursuit.

  By that time, the only sign that remained of Smoke, Matt, and Preacher was a dwindling haze of dust in the air.

  Chapter 29

  The ’Paloose was big enough and strong enough to carry double without much trouble, but the added weight cut down on the gallant animal’s speed and stamina. After galloping for a couple miles, Preacher signaled to Smoke they should stop.

  “Matt, change horses,” the old mountain man suggested. “I don’t weigh as much as Smoke does, so it’ll even out better and this ol’ stallion of mine can handle it.”

  “Good idea,” Smoke agreed. As Matt slipped down from the ’Paloose and swung up behind Preacher, Smoke hipped around in the saddle and looked back toward the settlement. He saw a pillar of dust rising between them and Halltown. “Looks like Longacre’s men are coming after us.”

  “What’d you expect?” Preacher asked. “He went to so much trouble to keep you and me from ever gettin’ here, Smoke. He must want Matt dead mighty bad.”

  Matt said, “He wants all three of us dead now, I’ll bet. Thanks for showing up and pulling me out of there. I was about to make a grab for a gun and go down slinging lead. They weren’t going to hang me.”

  “What in blazes is this mess all about, anyway?” Preacher wanted to know.

  Before Matt could answer, Smoke said, “We can talk about that later, if we’re all still alive. Right now we’d better find a place to hole up, otherwise we’re going to be trading bullets with Longacre’s gunnies in a few minutes.”

  “I’ve got an idea where we can go,” Matt said.

  He gave them directions, and they set off again at a gallop.

  Matt sent them toward the village of Chief Walking Hawk. “The Paiutes are at the center of this,” he explained, raising his voice to be heard over the drumming hoofbeats. “Longacre wants their land. He needs to build a trestle over Big Bear Wash, but the treaty gives the Paiutes control over the best place to do so.”

  “Why doesn’t he just buy a right-of-way from them?” Smoke asked. “If he’s rich en
ough to build a spur line, he ought to be able to afford that.”

  “I reckon he could, but he doesn’t think he should have to. He believes he has the right to just take what he wants, and the Indian Ring is backing him up.”

  Preacher grunted. “Of all the dang fool things! All this because the varmint’s too full of hisself to pay for what he wants?”

  “That’s right.” Matt nodded as he rode behind the old mountain man. “Loco, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what happens when a man gets too full of himself,” Smoke said. “It’s not a matter of money anymore. Longacre’s mad because somebody dared to stand up to him, so he’s got to crush them to teach everybody else a lesson.”

  Matt nodded again. “Yeah, and he’s willing to do whatever it takes, too . . . even having his own mistress murdered.”

  Smoke glanced over at him in disbelief. Matt went on to explain about Virginia Barry’s death and how Longacre and Talley had made it look like he was responsible.

  “I figure his cronies back in Washington put some pressure on him to make getting rid of me look legal,” Matt concluded. “That’s the only reason for him to go to so much trouble.”

  “I think you’re probably right,” Smoke said. “The whole thing’s gone too far now, though. Longacre won’t worry about keeping up any pretense. He’ll just have his men kill us on sight.”

  “If they find us,” Preacher said. “How much farther’s this Paiute village you talked about, boy?”

  “There’s Big Bear Wash up ahead. Follow it, and we’ll be at the village in another few minutes.”

  Smoke glanced at their back trail again. Judging by the cloud of dust, their pursuers had closed in a little, but not enough to stop them from reaching the Paiute village. “You know we’ll be bringing down trouble on the heads of those folks.”

  “They’ve already got trouble,” Matt pointed out. “I don’t think Longacre’s men will attack the village. He’s brought in more gunnies to reinforce Talley and the rest of that bunch, but there still aren’t enough of them to take on the whole tribe. At least that’s what I’m hoping.”

  Smoke figured Matt was right. It was really their only chance.

  They turned Horse and the ’Paloose northward along the edge of the wash, crossed over when Matt pointed out a spot where the banks had caved in enough to allow passage, and rode on to the Paiute village.

  As Matt had predicted, a few minutes later they came in sight of the conical wooden lodges clustered among some scrubby trees along the bank of a small creek that flowed into the wash, where the water was swallowed up by the sandy ground. It wasn’t a very appealing place, Smoke thought . . . typical of the land the government was willing to cede to the Indians by treaty. But no matter how good or bad it was, it belonged to the Paiutes, and Cyrus Longacre had no right to come in and take it.

  Judging by the number of lodges, approximately five hundred people lived there, and that meant at least a hundred warriors. The Paiutes were peaceful now, but in the past they had put up quite a struggle at various times against the whites encroaching on their territory. Smoke knew a couple dozen gunmen wouldn’t likely attack the village.

  But it would only be a matter of time before Longacre came up with some other way to strike at his enemies, in particular Smoke, Matt, and Preacher.

  The village dogs set up a commotion as the riders approached. Men gathered at the edge of the village, some holding rifles, others armed with bows and arrows.

  A big man with graying hair and a dignified demeanor stepped out in front of the others. “Is that Walking Hawk?” Smoke asked Matt.

  Matt nodded. “Yeah. He ought to remember me. I came out here and talked to him a couple times.”

  Smoke and Preacher brought their mounts to a halt when they were still about twenty feet from the group of warriors. Tension filled the air, and it didn’t ease when Matt slid down from Horse and walked forward, his hand upraised with the palm out.

  “Chief Walking Hawk,” he greeted the chief. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Walking Hawk nodded gravely. “And you, Matt Jensen. Who are these men?”

  “My family,” Matt replied. “Smoke Jensen . . . and Preacher.”

  The surprise that showed on Walking Hawk’s face gave a lie to the idea that Indians never expressed emotion. Some of the warriors recognized the name, too, judging by the muttering among them.

  “Looks like they’ve heard of you, Preacher,” Smoke said in a low voice to the old mountain man.

  “Yeah, but that ain’t always a good thing,” Preacher said. “I’m on good terms with the Paiutes, though, as far as I recollect.”

  Walking Horse nodded toward Matt’s companions. “Ghost Killer?”

  “That’s right,” Matt told him.

  “I have heard of Smoke Jensen as well. All of you are welcome in our village.”

  “Thank you, Chief. But I have to warn you . . . Longacre’s men are after us. They may pursue us all the way here, or they may turn back when they realize where we’ve gone.”

  Walking Hawk turned to look at his warriors. Several of them brandished their rifles, and a couple let out strident yips.

  “Let them come,” Walking Hawk said as he turned back to Matt. “They will wish they had turned back.”

  Matt couldn’t help but grin. “Thanks, Chief. I was hoping you’d feel that way.”

  “There is more trouble?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Come,” Walking Hawk invited. “We will talk.”

  They ate, too, sitting cross-legged in the village’s largest lodge. Smoke, Matt, and Preacher enjoyed the bowls of stew one of Walking Hawk’s wives brought them. They knew certain things had to be done, a protocol as strict as any in societies considered more civilized. Preacher had always thought civilization was highly overrated. He was more at home in a place like that than almost anywhere else.

  While they were eating, one of Walking Hawk’s warriors came into the lodge and spoke quickly to the chief in their own tongue. Walking Hawk replied, then turned to the visitors as the warrior went out. “I sent my men to watch the trail along the wash. They saw the men from the settlement following your tracks.”

  “Longacre’s gun crew,” Smoke said.

  Walking Hawk nodded. “When those men realized where your trail led, they stopped and talked among themselves for a while, then turned and rode back toward the town. They did not want to risk the wrath of the Paiutes.”

  “Just like I thought would happen,” Matt said. “Thanks again for taking us in, Chief. You probably saved our lives.”

  “For now,” Smoke added. “Longacre won’t stand still for this. He’ll figure out a way to come after us.”

  “Perhaps you should go, while his men are not looking for you,” Walking Hawk suggested. “If you ride away from here and do not come back, you would be safe.”

  Preacher snorted. “And let that varmint Longacre get away with what he’s tryin’ to do and what he almost did to Matt? No offense, Chief, but there ain’t no way in Hades that’s happenin’.”

  Walking Hawk smiled faintly. “Your answer does not surprise me, Ghost Killer. Will you slip into the camp of the enemy and cut all their throats while they sleep?”

  “Well . . . I reckon I could, mind you, but I ain’t sure that’s the best way to go.”

  Smoke said, “In the eyes of the law, we’re fugitives now. Matt will be wanted for murder, and Preacher and me for rescuing him from that hanging. Even if we got away, we’d be wanted men. I’ve lived that sort of life, and I don’t want to go back to it. I’ve got a wife to love and a ranch to run.”

  “Then what do we do?” asked Matt.

  Smoke had been thinking about that. “We need to prove that the charge against you is bogus, Matt. If we can establish Longacre framed you for killing that girl, then I reckon that would clear Preacher and me for helping you, too.”

  “How can we do that? Those people who testified at the trial were telling t
he truth about seeing Virginia arguing with me. The only one who actually lied was . . .” Matt drew in a deep breath. “Wait a minute. That hotel clerk in the Sierra House lied. He said he heard Virginia scream after I went upstairs. That’s not possible, because she was already dead. The clerk lied, and Longacre figured that was the final nail in my coffin. But if we could get hold of him and find a real lawman, then make the clerk tell the truth . . .”

  Smoke nodded. “If he would admit that Longacre forced him to lie at the trial, or paid him off to do so, it would go a long way toward clearing your name, Matt.”

  “That wouldn’t prove you didn’t kill the gal, Matt,” Preacher pointed out.

  “No, but it’s a start,” Matt said. “Maybe the clerk saw Talley go upstairs while Virginia was still alive. I’m convinced he’s the one who really killed her.”

  Smoke nodded. “Like Matt said, it’s a start. We’ll knock Longacre’s house of cards down one card at a time if we have to. But I’ve got a hunch if we pull out one of them, the whole thing’s liable to collapse.”

  “How’re we gonna get our hands on that clerk?” Preacher asked. “It ain’t gonna be so easy. If we show our faces in town, all hell’s bound to break loose.”

  “That’s right, and we don’t have much time, either,” Smoke said. “You know Longacre a lot better than we do, Matt. How long is he going to wait before he makes his next move?”

  “Not long at all,” Matt replied with a shake of his head. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s already up to something else rotten.”

  Cyrus Longacre brought his fist down hard on the table beside him in the sitting room of his suite. “I want them found and killed, all three of them, by God!” He glared at Walt Sanger. “Do you understand me, Sheriff?”

  The lawman looked more miserable and hangdog than ever. “Yeah, sure, Mr. Longacre, but I, uh, I only got a few deputies—”

  “Deputize Judd and his men,” Longacre snapped as he nodded toward Talley, who stood to one side with his massive arms crossed over his slab-muscled chest and a scowl on his handsome face. “In fact, I don’t care if you take your deputies or any of the townsmen with you. My men will be enough . . . although they’ve certainly failed spectacularly at most jobs I’ve given them recently,” he added in a scathing tone.