Smoke Jensen had just ridden into town when several gunshots erupted from down at the far end of the street. Looking in the direction of the shooting, he saw two men, wearing long white dusters, backing out of a building. A sign, protruding over the boardwalk from the front of the building, identified it as the Bank of Frisco. Both men were holding their right arms stretched out in front of them, and Smoke could see the muzzle flashes and smoke as the two were shooting back into the bank.
“Bank robbery!” someone called. “They’re holdin’ up the bank!”
The announcement wasn’t really needed. Everyone on the street, from the grocer who was arranging potatoes for display in a bin in the front of his store to a man who was whitewashing a fence, to a woman who was walking down the boardwalk with a little boy, knew that the bank was being robbed.
Most of the townspeople had cleared out of the way, but looking across the street, Smoke saw that the little boy, whether reacting from curiosity or fright, had broken away from the woman’s grip to run out into the street.
“Johnny!” the woman shouted, her voice rising in terror. “Johnny, come back here!”
Slapping his legs against the side of his horse, Smoke galloped toward the little boy. Leaning over, he scooped the boy up, then galloped toward the woman and set the boy down on the boardwalk beside her.
“Ma’am, you and the boy get inside, quick!” he shouted.
With an appreciative nod, the woman wrapped both her arms around the little boy and ran to get inside the nearest shop, even as a bullet from one of the robbers’ guns smashed through the window beside her, sending out a tiny shower of splintered glass.
Smoke’s immediate goal had been to get the boy and his mother to safety, but in so doing he had put himself right in the middle of the action. He heard a snapping sound right by his ear. He didn’t have to wonder what it was, because he had heard that sound many times over the last two decades of his life. Smoke was being shot at, and one bullet had come within inches of his head.
Turning toward the bank robbers, Smoke saw all three of them bearing down on him, their dusters flying in the wind behind them. All three were firing specifically at him, and he could hear the bullets buzzing angrily by his head. The smart thing for him to do would be to gallop up one of the alleys and out of danger. He knew that they wouldn’t chase him because the only thing on their minds at the moment was escape and the only reason they were shooting at him was to frighten him into getting off the street and out of the way.
But their reckless endangerment of the young boy, in addition to their shooting at Smoke, made him just angry enough not to do the smart thing. Instead, he sat his saddle for what to onlookers appeared to be an agonizingly long moment. Then, as calmly as someone retrieving an umbrella, Smoke pulled his Winchester from the saddle holster just in front of his right leg. Methodically, Smoke jacked a shell into the chamber, raised his rifle to his shoulder—almost leisurely, some thought—and aimed at the bank robber who was riding in the middle.
“Damn! Look at that crazy son of a bitch! Why don’t he move?” someone yelled as he pointed toward Smoke.
“He’s goin’ to get hisself kilt, is what he is goin’ to do,” another suggested.
Smoke fired. A flash of flame and smoke issued from the front of his rifle, and the recoil of the rifle rocked him back slightly. His shot was deadly accurate for, in the center of the robber’s chest, a puff of dust and a mist of blood flew up from the impact of the bullet. The robber fell from his saddle, but even before he hit the ground, Smoke had already snapped the lever down and back up and fired a second time. A second robber fell as well, but this one didn’t fall as cleanly as the first, because his foot got hung up in the stirrup and he was dragged through the dirt for several feet before his foot came loose. From Smoke’s position on the side of the road, he watched as the two horses, now riderless and terrified by the shooting, galloped by.
Smoke’s action had not only alerted, but inspired some of the other townspeople, because the third robber was brought down by a fusillade of bullets, not one of which had been fired by Smoke. The third robber had been carrying the cloth bag, and it fell with him. As it did so, several of the bound bundles of bills spilled out into the street.
Almost before the echoes of the gunshots had died down, people began coming out into the streets, many of them armed. Cautiously, they approached the three men who were sprawled out in the street.
“This one’s dead!” someone shouted.
“Yeah, this one, too!”
Someone came moving up the street to check the man who was lying no more than ten yards away from Smoke.
“Deader’n a doornail, this here one is!” the person shouted back.
A few of the townspeople started picking up the bundles of bills that had fallen into the street, and putting them back into the bag.
Slipping his rifle back into its sheath, Smoke dismounted and stood by, talking soothingly to his horse as someone started toward him. The one who was approaching was wearing a sheriff’s star pinned to his vest.
“Mister, I reckon the town owes you a debt of thanks,” the sheriff said. “Not many people would have taken hand in this, especially bein’ if they were a stranger in town.”
Smoke smiled. “Believe me, Sheriff, I had no intention of taking part,” he said. “I just rode into town and all of a sudden sort of found myself right in the middle of a bank robbery.”
“You may not have had any intention of participatin’, but I expect Mrs. Foley is mighty glad you’re here.”
“Mrs. Foley?”
The sheriff pointed, and looking in the direction of the point, Smoke saw the woman and the little boy who had, but a few moments earlier, been in the line of fire. With the shooting stopped, they had both come back out of the shop in which they had taken shelter.
“Are you and the young boy all right, ma’am?” Smoke called over to them.
“Yes, sir, thanks to you,” the woman replied. “God bless you for saving my child.”
“He’s a brave little boy,” Smoke said. He could have also said a very foolish little boy for running into the street at such a time, but he didn’t.
“The name is Bryant. Gary Bryant. I’m the sheriff here,” the man with the badge said, extending his hand.
“I’m Smoke Jensen,” Smoke replied, taking the sheriff’s hand. Smoke saw the reaction in the sheriff’s face, and knew that the sheriff had heard of him.
“Well, Mr. Jensen, you have quite a reputation,” the sheriff said, “I don’t know what brings you to Frisco, but I have to say that the town couldn’t be any luckier than to have someone with your reputation here at this exact time.”
“I hope you mean reputation in a positive way,” Smoke said. Although it had been many years earlier and all the dodgers had been pulled, there was a time when there were hundreds, if not thousands, of wanted posters out for Smoke.
Those posters, some of which still turned up from time to time, had often put Smoke in difficult situations. With the law, he could generally talk his way out simply by having them send a wire to check up on him.
It was a different story with the bounty hunters, though. Most “regulators” didn’t care whether the reward posters were valid or not, and many had no plans to take him in alive. It was their modus operandi to bring their subjects back in belly-down across their horses. Smoke had found it necessary to shoot himself out of those situations on more than one occasion.
Sheriff Bryant laughed. “I know any dodgers on you have long since been pulled,” he said, almost as if reading Smoke’s mind. “Sheriff Carson, back in Big Rock, is a friend of mine. And unless he was lying to me, not only are you not a wanted man, you are one of his full-time deputies as well as a part-time justice of the peace.”
“Unpaid deputy, unpaid justice of the peace,” Smoke said quickly. “And both positions are more or less honorary, you might say, though, to be truthful, I am fully empowered to perform, and have performed, the d
uties of both offices.”
“Well, anytime you would like to be an honorary, and fully empowered, deputy for Frisco, you just let me know,” Sheriff Bryant said. “And I mean that in all sincerity.”
“I appreciate that,” Smoke responded.
“What brings you to our town, Mr. Jensen?”
“I’m here on business, Sheriff,” Smoke answered. “I’m looking for a man named Byron Davencourt. Do you have any idea where I can find him?”
“Ah, so your business is with the cattle buyer from Chicago, is it?” Sheriff Bryant asked.
“Yes. I want to arrange to sell him some cattle, so I thought I would look him up before I had my dinner.”
“I’ll tell you what you do, Mr. Jensen. Why don’t you just mosey on down to Mama Lou’s Café for dinner? It’s right down the street here, a real nice place. Order anything you want and tell Mama Lou that I said the town is going to pay for it. And while you are having your dinner, I’ll look up Mr. Davencourt and bring him to you.” The sheriff chuckled. “I said the city will pay for your meal, and we will. But truth to tell, seein’ as most of the money you saved today was his—that is, belonging to the company he’s with, why, I reckon Mr. Davencourt will be so glad to see you that he would be more than willin’ to pay for the meal his own self.”
“Thanks,” Smoke said. “Give me a minute or two before you bring him to the restaurant, will you? Just long enough to get my horse taken care of.”
“Tell McGee over at the livery that the town will pay for boarding your horse as well,” Sheriff Bryant said as, with a little wave, he started out to find the man Smoke had come to see.
Chapter Seven
Mama Lou’s was typical of many of the cafés Smoke had seen over the years. It was located in a building that was thirty feet by forty feet. There was a counter painted green that ran three quarters of the way down the left side of the room. Out on the wide plank floor sat a dozen or more round tables, while along the back wall were two very long tables that could seat at least ten people each.
Behind the green counter there was a blackboard upon which a sign, written in chalk, advertised the day’s fare.
Special Today
ham, butterbeans, mashed potatoes–25 cents
cherry pie–5 cents
A rather large woman, wearing an apron over her rose-colored dress, was wiping the counter with a damp cloth.
“Just take a seat anywhere, honey,” she said. “Someone will be with you in a moment.”
“Thanks,” Smoke said, picking his way through the tables until, by habit, he took one that would put his back against the wall.
Although a few customers nodded and smiled, no one spoke to him. As he sat down, he saw one of the patrons get up from his table and move over to the counter and say something to the large woman. Both the customer and Mama Lou looked in his direction. Then the woman nodded, put down the towel, and came over to talk to him.
“I’m Mama Lou,” she said, though the introduction was unnecessary. “I want to thank you for what you done for the town a while ago’.”
“No thanks are needed,” Smoke said. “I just suddenly found myself in the middle, and had to do what I did in order to stay alive.”
“No you didn’t have to, mister,” the restaurant patron who had spoken to Mama Lou said. “I seen the whole thing. All you would have had to do is skedaddle up the alley alongside Bloomfield’s apothecary and you would have been out of danger. But instead, you scooped up the little Foley boy, got him and his mama out of the way, then you come back and faced down them robbers just as cool as a cucumber. You was a hero in my book. Hell, you was a hero in the eyes of anyone who seen you.”
“Hear, hear!” one of the other customers shouted out loud, and everyone in the café began applauding.
“I guess I just wasn’t thinking straight,” Smoke said, trying to deflect the accolades, which were beginning to make him uncomfortable.
“Mister, from what I seen, not thinkin’ straight ain’t likely to ever be a problem with you.”
Mama Lou laughed. “Well, whatever the reason was that you stood up to them, the point is you did stand up to them. That means the town owes you thanks, and to express that thanks, I’m pleased to tell you that your dinner is on the house.”
“Well, I appreciate that, Miss Mama Lou,” Smoke said. He didn’t mention that Sheriff Bryant had already offered to pay for it.
“Would you like a cup of coffee while you wait?”
“Yes, thank you, a cup of coffee would be very nice.”
“Do you want any of the fixin’s with it?” Mama Lou asked. “Sugar? Cream?”
“No, I’ll take it black, please.”
“Black it is, cowboy,” Mama Lou replied as she stepped up to the large, blue coffeepot.
Smoke took his seat at a table, then noticed that everyone else in the restaurant was still looking at him. When he looked back at them with a pleasant smile of acknowledgment, he thought the reaction he got was interesting. Some nodded back at him, but a few looked away, as if intimidated by the fact that they had even been noticed by someone like Smoke Jensen.
In a few moments, Mama Lou brought the coffee herself.
“Here is your coffee, Mr. Jensen, and if you want more, just let me know. There is a lot more where that came from,” she said.
“Thank you.”
Mama Lou was just walking back from the table when Smoke saw Sheriff Bryant and a very round, very bald man step in through the front door. Unlike Bryant’s denims and plaid shirt, indeed unlike the clothes of anyone else in the café, the bald man was wearing a three-piece suit, brown in color, with a green bowtie.
Bryant pointed to Smoke’s table and, with a nod to the sheriff, the round, bald man came toward him as the sheriff walked over to the counter to say something to Mama Lou. Smoke didn’t hear what the sheriff said, but he did hear Mama Lou’s response.
“I already took care of that,” Mama Lou’s voice said, carrying throughout the room.
“No need for you to do that, Mama Lou,” the sheriff replied, raising his voice to the level of Mama Lou’s. “I told you, the town’s goin’ to take care of it.”
“And I told you that I already took care of that,” Mama Lou replied. “You let the town do something else for him. His meal is on the house.”
“Yes, ma’am, whatever you say,” Sheriff Bryant said, acquiescing to Mama Lou’s forceful personality.
“You’d be Smoke Jensen, would you?” the bald man asked as he approached the table.
“I am.”
The bald man extended his hand and smiled.
“I’m Byron Davencourt. I understand from the sheriff that you have some cattle to sell?”
Smoke took his hand.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Davencourt, I surely do have some cattle for sale,” Smoke replied. He pointed to one of the chairs. “Would you join me for dinner?”
“Thank you, I have had my dinner,” Davencourt said. “But I’ll sit with you, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind a bit. Please, have a chair,” Smoke offered.
“Thanks,” Davencourt said, settling his girth into a chair in such a way as to make it obvious that he was glad for the opportunity to sit down. “First, let me thank you for thwarting the bank robbery. The money you saved belonged to my partners and me and I don’t mind telling you, it would have been disastrous if we had lost it.”
Before Smoke could respond, Mama Lou brought his dinner out and put it on the table.
“Oh, here, let me pay for that, it’s the least I can do,” Davencourt said, reaching for his billfold in his inside jacket pocket.
“It’s all been taken care of,” Mama Lou said.
“You don’t say.”
“The sheriff said he wanted to pay for it, but I told him his money was no good here. Mr. Jensen’s dinner is on the house.”
“My, you seem to be a very popular man, Mr. Jensen. And rightly so,” Davencourt said.
Smoke l
aughed. “If I could just bank all these offers to buy my meal, I could eat free for a couple of days.”
Mama Lou laughed as well as she walked away from the table.
“Where are your cattle, Mr. Jensen?” “Are they nearby?”
“They are at my ranch.”
“I see. And how long would it take you to get the beeves from your ranch to the railhead here in Frisco?”
“I can have them here within a week,” Smoke answered. “My ranch, Sugarloaf, is very near Big Rock.”
“Big Rock? Interesting that you would come here, Mr. Jensen. I know that there is a railhead at Big Rock, and there is a cattle-processing company that will buy your cattle there.”
“Yes, there is,” Smoke said. “But I’m gambling on getting a better price from you by bringing the beef here. And, seeing as you’ve just signed a contract to provide the army with beef to give to the Indians, I’m sure you are in the market.”
The cattleman nodded. “You are right about that. To be honest, I may have bitten off more than I can chew with that army contract. But I’ll say this for you. If you understand that, then you are a good businessman, because that means you have done your homework.”
“I don’t want to fly under false colors here. I must confess that it was my wife who did the homework,” Smoke said. “Sally read about it in the paper and suggested I come down here to see you.”
“Did she now?” Davencourt replied. “Well, having a smart wife is almost as good as being smart yourself,” he said. “How many head of cattle do you run on your ranch?”
“On my ranch? I have around thirty thousand on the hoof,” Smoke replied.
“Whew,” Davencourt whistled. He cocked his head and looked at Smoke with a measure of awe and respect. “Mr. Jensen, I must say, that is a very substantial operation. In fact, I don’t believe I have ever dealt with anyone who had such a large herd. How many were you planning on bringing to Frisco? Not the whole herd, I hope?”
“I thought I would bring about fifteen hundred head,” Smoke said. “I’ve only two cowboys to help me with the drive over here, and fifteen hundred head is about the maximum I can handle.”
Violence of the Mountain Man Page 6
