This Violent Land

by William W. Johnstone

  “Smoke!” a man’s voice called out to him. “Smoke, over here! It’s me, Cephus!”

  The man who hailed him was another of Marshal Holloway’s deputies, Cephus Prouty.

  “Hello, Doodle!” Smoke called back, using the deputy’s nickname. Turning away from the woman at the newsstand, he walked toward the deputy marshal.

  Janey was just about to buy the paper when she heard the man’s voice. Something about it caught her attention. Just a note, but something that tugged at a distant memory, long buried. She turned toward him, but he was walking away from her.

  She would have liked to get a closer look, but she was afraid to. What if he was someone she had known in her other life, when she was on the line for Chicago Sue? Or even more dangerous, what if it was someone she had met in Kansas City?

  She turned pointedly away. If he was an old client of hers, she didn’t want him to recognize her.

  “What are you doing here?” Smoke asked Doodle.

  “I came to see if you wanted a ride back to the office. Sheriff Donovan sent a telegram to Holloway, telling him what train you would be on.”

  “Well, that’s very nice of you to meet me.”

  Doodle grinned. “Yeah, well, I want to get on your good side. Sheriff Donovan says you’re a hero because of what you done over in Red Cliff.”

  “Sheriff Donovan exaggerates. But it was nice of him to send word as to what train I would be on.” Smoke looked back toward the newsstand where he had seen the woman he thought he had recognized, but she was no longer there.

  “What do you say we get a beer first?” Doodle asked.

  “Sounds like a good idea to me,” Smoke replied.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Why did you bring these papers here to have them notarized?” the notary clerk asked Janey. “You could have had them done in Salt Lake City.”

  “That’s my fault,” she lied. “I talked Mr. Richards into sending the papers here, because I wanted to come to Denver.”

  The clerk chuckled. “Well, I can’t blame you for that. I mean who wouldn’t prefer Denver to Salt Lake City? Unless you are one of ‘The Saints.’ ” He examined the papers, then clucked his tongue. “My oh my. This involves quite a bit of land.”

  “Yes, the PSR is a large operation, one of the largest, if not the largest in all of Idaho. But, as you can see, the transfer has been duly signed by all parties concerned.”

  “Technically, I should witness the signing in order to notarize this.”

  “You mean I’ve made this long trip for nothing?” She pouted, looking at the notary with wide, pleading eyes. “I can’t go back and tell my bosses that I didn’t get these papers notarized. What will I do?”

  The notary sighed. “I really shouldn’t do this, but I can see that everyone has signed the documents.” He chuckled again. “And I certainly would not want to see a pretty young lady like you have to go back empty-handed to your employers. Very well, I’ll notarize them.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Janey flashed her most provocative smile. “You are such a dear man.”

  “I wish you’d tell my wife that,” the notary joked.

  “Oh, honey, most wives really don’t like to see me,” she said in a seductive voice.

  The notary laughed. “I guess I can understand that.”

  After getting the papers signed, she stuck them into her reticule and, flashing another coquettish smile toward the notary, left the office to begin her shopping trip. She had a lot to buy, but contrary to what Josh Richards thought, she was buying very little for herself.

  Unbidden, she thought of the voice she had heard while buying a newspaper at the stand in the depot. Well aware of the saying, Curiosity killed the cat and knowing that she was wanted for murder back in Kansas, she wondered if the voice she’d heard was from Kansas City. What if someone was in Denver looking for her?

  That killing hadn’t actually been murder, of course. Janey had gunned down an abusive customer in the house where she was working. The man, who had already stabbed another girl, had gone after her with the knife.

  The newspaper hadn’t reported the story that way. It had called Janey a murderess. All the local lawmen were friends with the man she had shot, who was a member of the City Council, so a murder charge had been a foregone conclusion. Before she could be arrested, she had fled with the help of another customer who had befriended her, and ever since, the bloody incident had hung over her head.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Janey put those unpleasant memories behind her and managed to smile at what lay before her. She had all of Denver waiting for her, and the money Richards had given her was burning a hole in her pocketbook.

  Her first stop was a ladies’ shoe store. She was on a personal quest to find shoes that were pretty and comfortable, and she believed that with five hundred dollars to spend, she could do just that.

  Pueblo County, Colorado Territory

  At that very moment, not too far away, the driver of a stagecoach saw something in the road ahead which required his immediate attention. “Whoa, whoa!” He hauled back on the reins.

  Up ahead, a log was lying across the road, blocking it enough that the coach couldn’t get around. A man wearing a long duster and a broad-brimmed brown hat stood calmly just in front of the log.

  “What the hell happened here?” the driver asked.

  “Oh, you mean this log?”

  “Yeah. How did it get here?”

  “I put it here.”

  The driver stared. “What? Why in Sam Hill would you do a thing like that?”

  “Because I wanted you to stop, and I didn’t figure you would if all I did was try and wave you down.” Moving fast, the man pulled his pistol and pointed it toward the driver and the shotgun guard. “I believe you’re carrying fifteen hundred dollars, aren’t you?”

  “How in blazes did you know that?”

  The man smiled. “Thank you for confirming my belief. It is my intention to take that money from you.”

  Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the guard started moving his hand toward the shotgun, which was leaning up against the front right corner of the footrest.

  The man in the road fired his pistol. The sudden blast made both men on the seat jump as the bullet hit the shotgun, knocking it over. It fell flat into the bottom of the footrest.

  “You don’t want to do that,” warned the man on the road. “In fact, why don’t you just go ahead and put your arms up? I know it’ll be a little uncomfortable for you to hold them up that way until my partners and I conclude our business here, and I apologize for that, but it just might save your life.”

  “What partners would that be?” the driver asked. “You’re the only one I see.”

  The gunman nodded. “Yes, we planned it that way.” He hollered, “Boys, keep an eye on them. If anyone tries to be a hero . . . shoot him.”

  “Where are they?” the shotgun guard asked, looking around nervously.

  “You ask too many questions. How many passengers are you carrying?”

  “Two men and two women.”

  “Ladies and gents in the coach, for your own safety, I’m going to ask that you come on out now. Stand to the side of the road where I can keep an eye on you.”

  Two men exited the stage first, one of them quite elderly. The two women followed. One was also quite elderly.

  “I’m sorry to inconvenience you,”said the surprisingly well-spoken robber. “But if you will just have a little patience with me, this will all be over in just a moment.”

  The older woman immediately put her hand across a brooch she was wearing.

  The stagecoach robber chuckled. “You don’t have to be worried, ma’am. I’m not going to be taking anything from any of you nice folks.” He looked back up at the driver and the guard. “Now if you would, please, just go ahead and throw that money shipment down.”

  The driver picked up a canvas pouch.

  “Wait a minute,” the road agent snapped. “Is that the mail pouch?”

/>   “Yes, it is.”

  “I don’t want any of the mail. We wouldn’t want all the grandmas and grandpas not to be able to write to, or hear from, their grandchildren now, would we? Just open it up and take the money out.”

  “The pouch is locked, and I don’t have a key,” the driver protested.

  Quick as a wink, the man on the ground took a knife from his belt and threw it toward the driver and the shotgun guard. The blade flashed in the sunlight, then stuck in the back of the seat, exactly between them.

  “Yow!” the shotgun guard shouted in shock.

  “Good Lord, mister,” the driver added shakily.

  “Cut it open, then toss the money down,” the man ordered. “I’m sure that the money is all in nice, neatly bound stacks.”

  The driver did as he was told, then tossed three bound stacks of currency down to the ground.

  “Ah, yes, see what I mean? And now if you would, please return my knife. Carefully.”

  Again the driver complied, leaning down from the seat to hand the knife to the robber.

  “All right. You and the guard can climb down from there and move the log off the road. It only took two of us to drag it out here, so I’m sure you won’t have any trouble with it.”

  The robber stood by watching until the log was moved and the driver and guard had climbed back up onto the box.

  “Ladies, gents, if you would, please, get back into the coach now, and do have a pleasant trip.”

  “You are such a nice, polite young man,” the older of the two women said. “Why are you robbing stagecoaches? You know your mother wouldn’t approve of such a thing.”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t suppose she would.”

  “Can we go now?” the driver asked after the passengers had reboarded.

  “Yes, by all means. Bye now.”

  “Good-bye, young man,” the elderly woman called back, waving through the window of the coach.

  The highwayman watched until the coach was some distance away, then he walked around to the other side of a line of rocks where his horse had been tethered for the entire time. He swung into the saddle and rode away.

  Denver

  Janey had so many packages that she had to hire a buckboard to take her to the depot to catch the train back to Bury, Idaho. She made arrangements for all the packages to be shipped, then she settled down in the lobby to wait for the train.

  As she sat there she saw at least half a dozen families who were also waiting, husbands and their wives, and the children. They were all a part of “the other life”—how she referred to those people who lived normal, respectable lives—working fathers and mothers who stayed at home keeping house for husband and children.

  Most of the time, Janey was perfectly content with her life. She had more money than she would ever spend. She had a private carriage that had been built for her in Paris and a uniformed black driver. She even had bodyguards who often accompanied her whenever she went into town.

  She was certain the bodyguards were not as much for her personal protection as they were to intimidate anyone who might want to get closer to her. Especially any man who might want to speak with her.

  Sometimes she would slip away, not in the ostentatious carriage with the resplendently dressed driver, but in a simple surrey. She had done it a few nights ago in order to play cards with her friends at the Pink House.

  But for all the money and elegance, there were times when she watched the interplay between mothers and their children, that she felt as if something might be missing in her life. She thought of her own family, her father Emmett and her brothers Luke and Kirby. Were they still alive? And if they were still alive, where were they?

  What was she being so melancholy about? She had a family—Flora, Emma, and all the other girls at the Pink House. Like her, the other girls had no family, or the family had turned their backs on the girls when they had entered the profession.

  People who were drawn together by such mutual experiences were closer than normal families anyway. There was no such thing as sibling rivalry.

  CHAPTER 8

  Hermitage, Colorado Territory

  Clell Dawson stood at the bar of the Yellow Dog Saloon, staring down into his mug of beer. The bar, the saloon, and the town were all parts of his life, even though he had never been there before. Rough towns and rougher saloons had become part of his heritage, and he couldn’t deny it without denying his own existence.

  Clell had noticed the young man when he first came into the bar, a slick-looking dandy, all dressed out in black and silver. Black trousers, black shirt, a silver belt buckle, his black holster decorated with silver conchos, a silver bolo tie, and a silver band around his black hat.

  Clell knew who he was. He didn’t actually know the man’s name, but he knew who he was. For the last three or four years, he had encountered men like him all through the West.

  Clell sometimes hired out his guns, but he wasn’t without scruples and sold his talent only to people who had need for a paladin to right wrongs for them. However, on those occasions when he found himself in need of money, he wasn’t totally averse to out and out breaking the law by holding up a stagecoach, or a bank, or even a train.

  As a result of such activities, there was paper out on him, and from time to time a bounty hunter would recognize him and try to collect. But it wasn’t only bounty hunters he had to be aware of. There were others who also hired out their guns . . . with somewhat less scruples than even his rather loose adherence to principles. If they could add to their ré-sumé the accomplishment of having beaten Clell Dawson to the draw, it would not only get rid of some of the competition, it would also increase their asking price.

  Clell was sure that the dandy in black and silver was just such a man.

  “Hey, you,” the dandy called out.

  Clell made no response, continuing to stare into his glass of beer.

  “Mister, when I’m talkin’ to you, you damn well better quit broodin’ into your beer and pay attention to me.” The young man’s voice was harsh, causing the other customers in the saloon to interrupt their own activities and conversations and follow what was developing before them. They knew the young man in black. His real name was Steve Blake, but he called himself The Concho Kid. He had proven his skill with a pistol many times. At least three times right in the Yellow Dog Saloon.

  Clell looked over toward him. “Well now, by all means, I do want to be well-advised. So I suppose I had better be looking at you.”

  “When’s the last time you had a bath?” The Concho Kid asked.

  In fact, Clell had taken a bath quite recently, so the only thing he had on him was some trail dust, which he intended to get off yet that night. He’d wanted a beer to get some of the trail dust out of his mouth first.

  “I can’t rightly say,” Clell replied, purposely baiting the young man. “I don’t know. Last year, I guess.”

  “Last year? You haven’t had a bath since last year?”

  “Maybe the year before. Why do you ask?”

  “You’re stinkin’ up the place. You need a bath.”

  “Well now, I admit that you’re a fine-looking young man. I mean, what with wearing that black outfit with all those silver geegaws and all. But if you’re looking for some man to get naked and take a bath with, I have to tell you that I’m just not your type. I’m afraid you’re gonna have to look somewhere else, because I’m not interested.”

  At the unexpected reply from the man who was being challenged by The Concho Kid, the others in the saloon laughed. At an angry glare from the gunfighter, they choked their laughs off.

  Concho turned his attention back to Clell. “Mister, that smart mouth of yours may have just bit off more than you want to chew. Do you know who you’re talkin’ to?”

  “Yes, of course I know who I’m talking to,” Clell said.

  A proud smile spread across Concho’s face.

  “I’ve run into people like you from Laramie to Laredo—young punks who thin
k they can draw fast and shoot straight and who want to run up a reputation by adding another notch to the handle of their gun. How many notches do you have now?”

  “Twelve,” The Concho Kid replied with a sneer.

  “Twelve. My oh my, that’s just awfully impressive. Maybe they’ll put that on your tombstone. Here lies . . . what is your name?”

  “They call me The Concho Kid.”

  “You mean you don’t have a regular name like everyone else in the world?”

  “I’m The Concho Kid, damnit! That’s all you need to know. Are you tryin’ to tell me that you’ve never heard of me?”

  “Can’t say as I have,” Clell replied with a wry smile. He had heard of The Kid, but he had no intention of giving the young punk the satisfaction of knowing that. “But if that’s the name you want on your tombstone, I imagine you can be obliged.”

  Clell held his hand out, as if gesturing toward a tombstone. “Here lies The Concho Kid. He had twelve notches on his gun when he was killed. It’s rather ironic, don’t you think, that you’d get killed on your thirteenth try?”

  A collective gasp of surprise erupted from the others in the saloon. Did the stranger in the dirty clothes really not know who he was talking to?

  The arrogant smile left Concho’s face. “What? What did you say?”

  “You heard what I said, sonny. Of course, if you want to shut up now, and mind your own business, you might live long enough to get another notch someday. But I can guarantee you, boy, you aren’t going to be putting another notch on that gun today. Not here, anyway.”

  “Mister, I was just goin’ to fun with you a little bit,” The Concho Kid said. “But now, I think I’m going to kill you. What’s your name, anyway? I wouldn’t want to kill somebody without even knowing their name.”

  Clell’s smile broadened, and that smile unnerved Concho, who was used to seeing fear in the faces of the men he faced.