Sally felt just a twinge of worry that she quickly pushed aside. She had known what Smoke was when she met and later married him. She had long ago accepted that wherever he went, there would be men who would call him out. The West was slowly changing, but it would be years before gunfighting was finally banned.
When Melvin left town, Smoke was leaning up against an awning support watching him go. Smoke raised a hand in farewell. Melvin looked at him, then cut his eyes away, refusing to acknowledge the friendly gesture.
Smoke walked back to the office. Sally had just finished cleaning and straightening it up. “What do you think of Red’s son, Smoke?”
Smoke poured a cup of coffee and sat down at his desk. He sipped and said, “He’s crazy and he’s cruel. I’ll have to kill him someday.”
Little by little, in small groups, Red’s hands began drifting back into town for a drink or a meal or to buy this or that. So far, Red had not tried to buy any supplies from Marbly. The rancher was going to be in for a rude shock when he did.
Red’s hands caused no trouble when in town. They had all noticed that every man in town was packing iron: the bartender, the editor of the Bugle, the store clerks ... everybody. And they promptly took that news back to Red.
Red digested that bit of information with a sigh. “Then that’s it, John,” he told his foreman. “We’ve got to make a move and do it quick, before the town really gets together and runs our butts out of the country. And they’ll do it eventually. Believe me.”
“Before the dance, Red?”
Red shook his head. “No. After it. Maybe a week after it. Max has got some long-distance shooters comin’ in from Europe. They was invited to come in here for a hunt long before Smoke Jensen showed up. They should be here this week. Early next week at the latest. We’ll get things firmed up with Max after the party.”
“Take Jensen out first?”
“I don’t know. I think it’d be better to start working on the townspeople. I just don’t know. Whatever Max decides to do, we got to back him up. That’s the deal we made and I always keep my word.” He looked around him and sniffed, a look of distaste crossing his face. “What in the name of God is that horrible smell?”
“The cook is tryin’ to teach Tessie how to cook. Tessie is fixin’ supper, so I’m told.”
“Oh, my Lord. I’ll eat with you boys tonight. What the Sam Hill is she cookin’, skunk?”
“Fried chicken.”
“She must have left the feathers on.”
Henri Dubois and Paul Mittermaier were blissfully unaware of what was taking place in Barlow and Hell’s Creek. They had seen the sights of St. Louis and were now ready to board the train west.
What they did not know was that they were under surveillance by agents of the U.S. Federal Marshal’s office. They knew of the situation building in Barlow and Hell’s Creek, and they also knew that with just a little help, Smoke Jensen would handle it and they would not have to get directly involved. The marshals sent a wire to the nearest town to Barlow, and the message was forwarded to Smoke Jensen by stage.
Smoke opened the envelope and read: Mercenaries left St. Louis this a.m. No charges against Dubois or Mittermaier. They are unaware of what is taking place in your area. Watch your back and handle situation as you see fit.
It was unsigned, but Smoke had a pretty good idea what federal office had sent it.
He showed the message to Jim and Sal. Neither man could understand why Smoke was smiling. Jim asked him.
“They have to come right through here, boys.” He walked to a wall map and put his finger on a town south of them. “This is rail’s end. From here to Barlow is either by horseback or stage, and I’m betting they take the stage.”
“And you got what in mind?” Sal asked.
“Any trouble that happens out in the county, you boys handle it. Starting day after tomorrow, I’ve got to meet the stage.”
“I wonder what he’s got in mind?” Jim asked Sal after Smoke left the office.
“Be fun to watch, whatever it is.”
“You reckon the Frenchman and the German will see the humor in it?” Jim asked with a grin.
“Somehow I doubt it. I really do.”
“The saloons are runnin’ out of whiskey,” Max was informed. “And the boys is gettin’ right testy.”
Max took a long pull on his stogie. “Yeah, and I had me five boxes of cigars on that shipment Jensen seized, too. So what else is new? I can’t find any freight haulers to handle our orders. The only option we have is some outfit out of Canada, and by the time all the red tape is over with, it’ll be six months before we get any supplies.”
Alex Bell shifted in the chair. “Max, the boys ain’t gonna stand still for this very much longer. They all got cash money to spend and nothin’ to buy. The women is raisin’ holy hell ’cause the boys is unhappy. Somethin’ has got to pop, and damn soon.”
Max Huggins’s little empire was crumbling at the edges and he didn’t know what to do about it. For the umpteenth time since Jensen entered the picture, the thought that he should pull out entered his brain. And for the same number of times, the thought galled him; but with each revival of the thought, the intensity of the sourness was somewhat lessened as common sense fought to prevail.
“I’ll talk to the boys,” he finally said to Alex. “Damnit!” he cursed, pounding a fist on the desk and scattering papers. “He’s just one man. Just one man! He’s not a god, not invincible. There has to be a way.”
“There is,” Alex said. “Me and Val and the others been talkin’.”
Max waited, staring hard at the outlaw gang leader.
“Wipe the town out. Kill every man, woman, and child. It can be done, and you know it.”
“Damnit, Alex,” Max said, struggling to maintain his patience with the gang leader. “This is 1883, man. The country is connected by telegraph wires and railroads. Ten years ago, I would have said yes to your proposal. But not now. I think the press would pick it up, and the public would be up in arms and all over us. We’d have federal marshals and troops in here before you could blink.”
“Fires happen all the time, Max,” Alex pointed out. “We pick a night with a good strong wind and that town would go up like a tinderbox. You think about that.”
“The people would still remain, Alex.”
“Maybe not. Maybe not enough of them to do any good. Lots of folks die in town fires. And charred skin don’t show no bullet holes. By the time the newspapers got ’hold of it, them folks would be rottin’ in the ground and nobody could do nothin’ about it.”
Max jabbed out his cigar in an ashtray. With a slow expelling of breath, he said, “We may have to do that, Alex. It’s a good plan, I’m thinking, but very risky.” He stared hard at the outlaw. “Have you ever killed a child, Alex?”
“Yeah. I gut-shot a kid durin’a bank stickup; sqalled like a hog at butcherin’ time. I shot him in the head to shut him up. I shot half a dozen or more ridin’ with Bloody Bill Anderson. All the boys has. It ain’t no big deal.”
Max nodded his head in agreement. He had killed several children—accidentally and deliberately—during his bloody life. And as Alex had stated: It was no big deal. He had no nightmares about it. They got in the way, they were disposed of. It was all a matter of one’s personal survival.
The plan that Alex was proposing would have to be very carefully worked out. There could be no room for error or miscalculation. And the men involved would have to be chosen carefully, for if word ever leaked out, nationwide condemnation would be certain to follow—quickly. It was a good plan, but very chancy. Very chancy.
“What do you think, Max?”
“It would take a lot of planning, Alex. And the men would have to be chosen carefully. The ones who don’t ride on the raid must never know what took place. Now, then, is that possible?”
The outlaw and murderer thought about that. Slowly, he shook his head affirmatively. “Yeah. Forty men could pull it off. Any more than that w
ould be too many. Most of the men here would keep their mouths shut about it. Out of whole bunch, maybe ten might blab later on.”
“Dispose of them now, Alex,” Max gave the killing orders. “Once that is done, we start planning on destroying the town.”
Alex rose with a grin on his face. “My pleasure, boss.”
11
Something nagged at Smoke as he walked through the town. He walked up and down the streets, on the boardwalks wherever they were, on the dusty paths where they had not yet been built.
Something was wrong, and Smoke could not pull it out of his brain. Then it came to him. The town lacked adequate water barrels for bucket brigades in case of fire.
Swiftly, he walked back to his office and sent Jim out to round up Tom Johnson, Judge Garrison, and several others in the town.
“What’s the drill in case of fire?” he asked bluntly, as was his way.
“Why ...” Tom looked puzzled. “There isn’t any.”
“There will be by dark. Judge, alert the people. I want water barrels by every store and every house; buckets placed nearby. And I want those barrels to stay full at all times. We have an old pumper down at the livery stable. See that it’s checked out and the hoses inspected for leaks. Benson,” he looked at the blacksmith, “you’re in charge of the fire brigade.”
The blacksmith nodded his head. “You’re thinkin’ Max might try burning us out?”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking. I’ll start rounding up volunteers to clear out the brush and other cover that surrounds the town. I’ll ride out to Joe’s place and see if he’ll lend us some hands to help. Check out and destroy any place where sharpshooters could hide and pick us off. Get on it now, Sal.”
The man quietly left the room.
“Max would do it, too,” Judge Garrison said. “He told me when he first confronted me that if I didn’t do exactly as he said, he’d pick out a child and kill her in front of me. I didn’t like what I was doing, but I figured it was the only way to save some children’s lives.”
“I understand, Judge.” Smoke leaned back in his chair. “If we can get most of this done by the dance night and keep a close eye on Max to check his reaction, we can know pretty well that he had burning us out in mind. Then he’ll have to come up with another plan.”
“He will,” Judge Garrison said. “The man is totally and utterly ruthless.”
“What are you gonna do with them mercenaries when they step off the stage, Smoke?” Jim asked.
“Oh, welcome them to town, Jim,” Smoke said with a smile. “Roll out the red carpet.”
That afternoon, Smoke met the southbound stage and was pleased to see it was full, with several men riding on top. The driver handed the mailbag to Marbly’s wife—who was the town’s postmistress—and seeing there were no passengers departing Barlow, he hollered his team forward.
Those men perched precariously on top gave Smoke some extremely dirty looks as the stagecoach pulled out. Its next stop would be a way station some fifty miles south, where it would change teams, another stop near Salmon Lake for food and a fresh team, and then on into Missoula, some one hundred twenty-five miles from Barlow.
“Stage was full today,” Mrs. Marbly noted, handing Smoke a letter posted from Kalispell, addressed to Sally Jensen, the Grand Hotel, Barlow, Montana Territory. “That means some are giving up on Hell’s Creek.”
“That it does, ma’am,” Smoke said. “Those were all gamblers riding on top. The inside was filled with saloon girls. When the gamblers and the wilted roses start leaving a town, it’s like they say about rats leaving a ship. It’s about to sink.”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say,” Mrs. Marbly said. “I’m not an evil-hearted person, Marshal Jensen. My motto is if you can’t say something good about a person, don’t say anything at all. But that motto has been sorely put to the test by those holligans and trash up at Hell’s Creek. If God were to strike them all dead, I would dance on their graves, Lord forgive me.”
She walked back into the store. A good, decent woman who had been pushed just too far, one time too often. Smoke knew she carried a Smith & Wesson pocket .38 in her purse. And he had no doubts but that she would use it.
He took the letter back to the hotel, gave it to Sally, and waited until she had read it.
“You guessed, of course, that it was from Victoria?”
He nodded his head.
“This was posted yesterday in Kalispell—that’s only thirty miles away from Hell’s Creek—but it’s still fast service. There have been a rash of killings in Hell’s Creek. Outlaws killing outlaws. One of them managed to escape from the town and came to Robert for treatment. He told Robert that Big Max had ordered the killings. He didn’t know why, but that something big was up. Then the man died. Robert—he’s no fool—took the body back into Hell’s Creek and told Big Max he had found the body on the road and thought it should be reported to the authorities. Big Max thanked him for being such a civic-minded person and told Robert he’d take care of it. Max knows that Robert is scared to try to leave because of the threats made against Lisa. What does it mean, Smoke?”
“Probably that Val Singer and Warner Frigo and the other gang leaders are getting rid of those they feel might not be able to keep their mouths shut once this something big goes down. So much for honor among thieves.”
“And this something big is? ...”
“Probably a raid against the town. A raid that includes killing everyone here. Sally, have the hotel pack me a bait of food. I’m going to take a little trip. I should be back by late tomorrow afternoon. I’ll arrange for Jim and Sal to meet the stage in case Dubois and Mittermaier should arrive; but I think it’s still a couple of days early for that.”
“Where are you going, honey?”
“To get the one thing this town needs, Sally.” He grinned. “A doctor.”
Smoke had checked the land office and knew where the Turner spread was located. He spared his horse, resting often, and rode into Big Max Huggins’s country well after dark. He avoided the town by several miles and pulled up at what he hoped was the Turner spread about ten o’clock.
He circled the house to see if they kept a dog and was relieved to find they did not. Smoke picketed Star and slipped up toward the house. He flattened himself against the woodshed when the front door opened and a man stepped out. The man closed the door behind him and stood in the front yard, breathing in the cool night air.
“Dr. Turner?” Smoke called softly.
The man spun around, startled.
“Take it easy, Doctor,” Smoke said. “I’m friendly. I’m going to walk toward you, both my hands in plain sight. OK?”
“Who are you?” the doctor demanded.
“The name is Jensen. Smoke Jensen.” Smoke walked closer.
“Hold it right there!” the doctor warned. “I have a gun.”
“No, you don’t,” Smoke replied, stepping closer. “And even if you did, it’s doubtful you’d know how to use it.”
Smoke stopped a few feet from the man and stared at him.
“If you’re Smoke Jensen, tell me about yourself.”
“My wife’s name is Sally. We live in Colorado on a spread we named the Sugarloaf. My wife went to college back east with your wife, Victoria. Sally calls her Vicky. Vicky lost her parents while she was in school and had to work very hard to get through. You have one child that lived, Lisa. Your wife can’t have any more children. Sally got a letter from Vicky today, telling us about the recent killings in Hell’s Creek and the outlaw who staggered up to this ranch and told you about it. You got this ranch by befriending an old man who was visiting back east. You ...”
“Enough.” The doctor held up a hand, visible in the faint light of a quarter moon. He smiled and stuck out the hand for Smoke to shake it. “Welcome to our home, Mr. Jensen.”
Smoke shook the hand. “We don’t have much time, Doctor. Things are going to blow wide open around here very soon, and you and your family have g
ot to get clear. Let’s go in the house and talk.”
Lisa was in bed, asleep. Vicky was introduced to Smoke. She stepped back and inspected him, good humor in her eyes. Smoke liked her immediately. He would reserve judgment on the doctor.
“Sally always could pick them,” Vicky said. “You are one hell of a man, Smoke Jensen.”
“Vicky,” her husband said in a long-suffering tone.
Smoke laughed. “Relax, Robert. Sally can occasionally let the words fly herself. I can see why these two were friends at school.”
“How about some coffee and something to eat, Smoke?” Vicky asked.
“That would be nice. While I’m eating, you two can pack.”
That stopped them both in their tracks. Robert asked, “Pack? Where are we going?”
“Getting out of here.” Smoke found the cups and poured his own coffee. Very quickly, he explained what was going on. “As far as your ranch goes, if Max burns the buildings down, you’ve still got the land. You don’t have any cattle or any hands. You can always rebuild. You can’t do anything from the grave. So pack. We’re pulling out.”
Smoke drank his coffee and ate a sandwich. Then he went outside and hitched up the teams to a wagon and a buggy. He helped the doctor load his medical equipment onto the wagon, then their luggage and a few possessions from the house. Lisa was awake and wide-eyed as she solemnly stared at the most famous gunfighter in the West.
“I’m surprised Lisa doesn’t have a dog,” Smoke said.
“I did,” the little girl said, sadness in her voice. “Patches was his name. A man killed it a few months ago.”
“A rather unsavory character named Warner Frigo rode up into the yard and shot him,” Robert said. “It was another one of Max Huggins’s little not-too-subtle warnings.”
Smoke knelt down and, with a gentleness in his voice that surprised Robert and Vicky, said to Lisa, “We’ll get you another dog, Lisa. It won’t take the place of Patches, I know that. You’ll always remember him. But you can love your new puppy, too. How about it?”
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