This Violent Land

by William W. Johnstone

  “What are you doin’ this far away?”

  “This far away from what?” Smoke asked.

  “Everything. Hell, it’s so far away we don’t hardly get nobody to come around, not even outlaws.”

  “There’s one up here, I reckon. I’ve been tracking that damn Smoke Jensen for a while now, and near as I can figure, he’s most likely around here somewhere.”

  “That’s funny. We been trackin’ ’im, too. I would ask if you want some company, but you look like you ride alone.”

  “That’s right.”

  Smoke looked at the dead gunman’s body. His eyes were still open but had turned opaque. His mouth was open, as well.

  Smoke made a motion toward him. “None of you feel like you need to avenge your friend here, do you? ’Cause you seem like a nice bunch of fellas, and I’d hate to kill any more of you.”

  “He warn’t our friend. He was just someone we met up with out on the trail a week or so ago.”

  “Good. I reckon I’ll be goin’ now.” Smoke turned and left the saloon.

  The men watched as he rode away, ramrod straight in the saddle.

  “That young feller is faster than greased lightning,” one of them said.

  “I think Potter needs to know about this man,” another said. “I think I’ll take me a ride later on. But I want to let that West feller get good and gone.”

  Later that same afternoon, a stranger rode up to the trading post and walked inside. He cradled a Henry repeating rifle in the crook of his left arm. “I seen they was a fresh grave out back,” he said to the barkeep. “Friend of yours?”

  “No friend o’ mine . . . or anybody else, near as I can figure.”

  “A man ought to have some kind of a marker though, don’t you think?”

  “I’ll get around to it one of these days. Maybe. Luke was what they called him.”

  “Better than nothing,” Preacher replied, grateful that it wasn’t Smoke’s grave. He didn’t really expect it to be, but validation was always good. “I don’t reckon he died of natural causes?”

  “Not likely. You want to talk all day or buy a drink of whiskey?”

  The old man tossed some change on the wide rough board bar. “Will that buy me a jug?”

  “I reckon it will.” The bartender put a jug of rotgut on the counter. “No, sir, this fella Luke fancied hisself a gunhand, but I guess he run up against somebody a lot faster than he was. A feller by the name of Buck West. Funny that I never heard of him, bein’ that fast. But I expect people will be a knowin’ him afore too long. Says he’s a bounty hunter. I know this. He’s one bad hombre to mess with.”

  “Fast, is he?”

  “He was so fast you couldn’t even see him draw. Ol’ Luke didn’t much more than touch the butt of his pistol when lead hit him in the center of his chest. He was dead before he hit the ground.”

  The old man smiled. He knew only one man that fast.

  “Say, ain’t I seen you before?” the bartender asked. “You’re a mountain man, ain’t you? Ain’t so many of you ol’ boys left.”

  “Not me, partner. I’m retired from the East. I came out here to pass my golden years amid the peace and quiet of these here beautiful mountains.”

  The bartender laughed. “And you’re just as full of bull now as you was forty years ago, you old goat!”

  The old man laughed. “Well, you just keep that information inside that head of yours and off your tongue. You do that and I won’t tell nobody I know where old Jay Kelly retired to. You still got money on your head?”

  “Yeah, but don’t nobody aroun’ here know that. I heard you got kilt. Heard you was shot all to hell and back, and crossed over the Great Divide.”

  “Part of it’s true,” Preacher said. “I did get shot up pretty bad and figured I was about to die, but a couple friends of mine managed to pull me through.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m glad to see you’re still around, Preacher.”

  The old man nodded, picked up his jug of whiskey, and rode off.

  * * *

  Smoke followed the Big Lost River north, pushing hard to put as many miles as possible between himself and the trading post. He had a hunch that the cardplayers would be heading for Bury. They were bounty hunters, had even offered to let him join up with them in their quest for the thirty thousand dollars being offered for Smoke Jensen. He wondered how they would react if they knew just how close they had been to the very man they were looking for.

  Smoke found himself a hidden vantage point where he could watch the trail and settled in for the evening. He built a hand-sized fire and fixed bacon and beans and coffee. Using tinder dry wood, the fire was virtually smokeless. He kept his coffee warmed over the coals.

  Just at dusk, he heard the sounds of approaching riders. Three of them passed his hiding place at a slow pace, heading north toward the trading post at McKay. He watched, listening to the sounds of the steel-shod hooves fading into the settling dusk. Then, using his saddle for a pillow, he settled down for the night.

  He wanted to take his time getting to Bury for two reasons. For one, he wanted the story of the shoot-out at the trading post to reach the right ears, namely those of Potter, Stratton, and Richards. Men like that could always use another gun, and he intended to be that gun. Two, he still had that nagging sensation of being followed. And it annoyed him. He knew—felt—someone was back there. He just didn’t know who.

  Bayhorse, Idaho Territory

  It was the first community Smoke came to after leaving the trading post—just one short business street with more saloons than anything else. Tents and shacks and a few permanent-looking homes huddled to the north. Most of the shacks were so flimsily constructed it looked as if they would blow away in a stiff breeze.

  He stabled his horse and taking his Henry repeating rifle, a change of clothing, and his saddlebags, walked toward the town’s only hotel. After checking in, he went to a bathhouse, where a young Chinese man kept the water hot with additional buckets of water. After soaking off the dirt, he dressed in dark trousers, white shirt, and vest, and leaving his boots to be shined, stepped into the attached barbershop for a haircut.

  “Cut it short,” he told the barber. “And trim my beard.”

  “Passing through?” the barber asked.

  “Could be, or I might stay. Mostly, I’m just drifting.”

  Being an observant man, and one raised on the frontier, the barber noticed Smoke’s tied-down gun. He knew a fast gun when he saw one. And he knew the man sitting in his chair was a fast gun. He also knew the man was no tinhorn trying to make a name for himself. The butt of his pistol had no marks carved in the wood to signify kills, the way foolish young wannabe gunmen did.

  There was something else about the young man. Confidence. And a cold air about him. Not unfriendly, just cold.

  The barber started a friendly conversation. “If you’re up here lookin’ for silver, there’s a big strike north and east of here. Close to the Lemhi River.”

  “Not for me,” Smoke told him. “Too much work involved in that.”

  “Ha. You handy with them pistols?”

  “Some folks say that.”

  “You head north from here, follow the Salmon River to where it cuts to the Lemhi Range, then head east. You’ll come up on the town of Bury.”

  Smoke mumbled, “Why would I want to go to Bury?”

  “Maybe you don’t. Then again, you might find work up there. From what I hear, three men up there seem partial to hirin’ folks that’s good with a gun. You might find Bury real interestin’.”

  “I might at that. By the way, how’s the law in this town?” Smoke set the stage with that question.

  “Tough when they have to be, but as long as it’s a fair fight, they won’t bother you.”

  “I never shot no one in the back,” Smoke said, purposely making the response rather harsh.

  “Wouldn’t think you had. You don’t have that look about you, that’s for sure.” The barber’s voice was
very bland.

  “Where’s the best place to eat?”

  “Marie’s, just up the street. Beef and beans and apple pie. Good-sized portions, too, and she don’t charge an arm and a leg for ’em.”

  They weren’t just good-sized portions; they were huge, and the food, though simple, was well prepared. The apple pie was delicious. Smoke pushed the empty plate away and leaned back in his chair, chosen because it was against the wall. He lingered over a third cup of coffee and watched the activity through the window.

  He was waiting for the law to make an appearance, and he didn’t have to wait long. The town marshal entered the café, and his deputy, carrying a sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun, was right behind him.

  Smoke felt a momentary start. He recognized the marshal. He had run across him back in Colorado, when working a case for Marshal Holloway. He had seen him only once, and that for a short period of time, but he remembered him. Smoke had been one of three deputy U.S. marshals working the case, though, and it was possible the marshal wouldn’t recognize him.

  The man sat across the same table as Smoke. “Coffee, Marie.”

  “Comin’ right up, Marshal,” the heavyset woman said. “What about you, sir? Your coffee need fresh-enin’?”

  “I’m good, thanks,” Smoke said, lifting his cup.

  “You just passin’ through?” the marshal asked.

  “Yeah, though I might stay around a couple days, just to get some rest from the trail.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “There aren’t any dodgers out on me.”

  “That’s not what I asked. What’s your name?”

  “Buck West.”

  “You look like you know how to use that hogleg. Ever killed anyone?”

  “Nobody that wasn’t tryin’ to kill me.” Smoke placed the marshal’s name. It was Dooley. From what he remembered, Dooley was a fair man.

  Dooley pointed toward the north. “Up at that end of town, you’ll find the better houses, the ones that’s been painted, and kept up. Do you know anyone who lives there? Any friends or relatives?”

  “Nope. Don’t know a soul in this entire town.”

  “Then I’ll thank you to stay away from ’em. Decent folks livin’ there, and I got a feelin’ you’re the kind of man that draws trouble.”

  Smoke started to reply, but Dooley held up his hand. “I ain’t sayin’ you’ll be the one to start it. But I don’t reckon you would run from it, neither.”

  “Not likely.”

  The marshal finished his cup of coffee, then set the cup down and stared at Smoke for a long moment. “Son, I got the feelin’ me and you have met somewhere. The name Buck West don’t ring a bell, but your face is awful familiar.”

  Smoke chuckled. “That’s ’cause I’ve got what folks call a warm, friendly face.”

  The marshal nodded. “Sure you do,” he said sarcastically.

  CHAPTER 33

  PSR Ranch, office

  “You say this fella’s name is Buck West?” Richards asked.

  “That’s what Cornett told me,” Potter said. “He’s blinding fast with a gun, too.”

  “As fast as Smoke Jensen, do you suppose?”

  “Well, he drew on Luke Simmons, and they say Luke started his draw first, but this man West shot him before he could even get his hand wrapped around his pistol.”

  “Damn. Simmons was fast. That’s why we hired him. Luke swore he was faster than Smoke Jensen.”

  Potter smiled. “Yeah, maybe he was. And that means this man, Buck West, is probably faster too.”

  “I wonder how we can get in touch with West.”

  “There’s no need to. It’s more than likely he’ll get in touch with us. After he kills Smoke Jensen for us.”

  “Yeah.” Richards nodded. “Yeah, that’s right, isn’t it? Potter, our problem may soon be over.”

  “I’ve already got my campaign pitch that I’ll make to the people of Idaho. I helped rid the West of the murderer and outlaw, Smoke Jensen.”

  “You don’t need to campaign to the people. Just to President Grant.”

  Potter grinned. “I don’t even need to do that. As long as I can buy off his brother-in-law.”

  Bayhorse

  Smoke finished his supper and headed down to the saloon to have a beer.

  He was standing there, slowly nursing his beer, when a man standing at the other end of the bar turned toward him and spoke. “Hey, saddle bum, are you plannin’ on drinkin’ that beer or are you just gonna stand there and look at it with your face hanging out?”

  Smoke ignored him.

  “Boy, don’t you hear me talkin’ to you?” the cowboy asked, his voice even more belligerent.

  Smoke turned. “I’m sorry. Were you talking? I thought I just heard you fart, and I’m too much of a gentleman to have commented on it.”

  The cowboy took a step backward, a puzzled look on his face.

  Smoke knew the type. The cowboy was big and muscular, and probably used to getting his way. Smoke was sure he had been a bully all his life.

  The cowboy’s frown deepened. “What did you say, mister?”

  “Don’t you speak English?”

  The barkeep leaned forward and whispered urgently, “That’s Harry Carson, stranger.”

  “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Smoke asked, not bothering to keep his voice to a whisper.

  “And his buddy is Wade Phillips,” the barkeep offered.

  The deputy who had been with Marshal Dooley earlier that day slipped away from the bar and out of the line of possible gunfire, taking his beer with him.

  “Carson, back off. Drink your drink and leave me be,” Smoke said.

  Not wanting to be left out of the fun, Phillips stuck his ugly nose into it. “You’ve got a smart mouth, you know that, buddy?”

  Smoke turned to face the two men, forcing a grin. “It would appear to me that, somehow, we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Why don’t the two of you let me buy you a beer, and we just drop this now?”

  “Oh yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? But there ain’t no way we’re gonna drop this,” Carson said confidently. “You done smart mouthed me, and I don’t intend to let that go.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Like I told you, I’m willing to drop this. I’m not looking for trouble, but if I’m pushed into it, so be it.”

  “Oh, yeah. You’re wearin’ that fancy gun rig, but I bet you ain’t got the sand to duke it out.”

  Smoke’s smile was faint. He knew that both men realized neither of them could beat him if it came to gunplay, so they would push him into a fight. And if he didn’t fight them in their own game, he would be branded a coward.

  Smoke took off his gun belt. Spotting the deputy, he handed the belt and the holstered gun to him. “Look after this, would you?”

  “Be glad to, West. But watch these two boys. They fight dirty.”

  Smoke finished his beer. “Yeah, well so do I.”

  With a wide, confident smile spread across his face, Carson had watched and listened to the exchange between Smoke and the deputy. “All right, so—”

  Smoke smashed the empty beer mug into Carson’s face. The heavy mug shattered, breaking the man’s nose on impact. He jabbed the broken edges into the man’s cheek, sending the bully screaming and bleeding to the sawdust-covered floor.

  Phillips came toward Smoke, shouting, “You son of a—”

  Smoke hit him with a short, brutal punch, preventing him from finishing his profanity. Powerful in his own right, Smoke didn’t like to fight with his fists, but sometimes it was the only option.

  Phillips dropped to his knees and Smoke brought his knee up. The crunch of broken bones was loud and Phillips went down and out.

  The fight was over in a handful of seconds. Carson lay squalling and bleeding on the floor beside the unconscious Phillips. Smoke turned around. Marshal Dooley was standing by his deputy.

  “Any law against a fair fight, Marshal?” Smoke asked as he ret
rieved his gunbelt. “It was two against one.”

  “And they were outnumbered at those odds,” Dooley said with a smile. “No, West, there is no law against it, but there is something about you that I can’t quite put my finger on.”

  “Pueblo,” Smoke said.

  “What?”

  “Marshal, can we go somewhere to have a little private conversation?”

  “All right. I don’t know what this is all about, but I have to confess that I’m damn curious. Let’s go to my office.”

  They left the saloon together and walked the few steps to the marshal’s office.

  “Coffee?” Marshal Dooley asked a few minutes later.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Smoke replied.

  Dooley stepped over to the stove and, using a pad, removed the blue steel coffee pot. He poured two cups and handed one of them to Smoke. “Now, what is this about Pueblo?”

  “Two years ago a man named Keefer led a bunch of his men into town and announced they were taking over. You were one man against eight, so you asked Marshal Holloway to send you some help. He sent Cephus Prouty, Lee Tanner, and—”

  “Smoke Jensen!” Dooley said, pointing at Buck. “You’re Smoke Jensen.”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn! I thought I recognized you. And now you’re a wanted man. What happened? Where did you go wrong?”

  “The only people who want me are some men up in Bury. Evidently they have enough money, power, and influence to get the sheriff there to put paper out on me. As it turns out, I’m looking for them, too. I have something here I want you to see.”

  Smoke pulled out the note that Marshal Holloway had written and showed it to Dooley.

  The lawman read it, then looked up and said, “So, you’re working undercover?”

  “Yes. If you need to validate that, you can contact Marshal Holloway.”

  “There’s no need for that. You didn’t have to tell me who you were.” Dooley handed the note back. “I’ll keep your secret.”

  “I appreciate that, Marshal.”

  “But I have to warn you, the two men you ran into in the saloon? They aren’t going to let this pass. Look out for them, Jensen.”