“Wow!” George exclaimed, his eyes big and round like saucers.
His grandmother wore a worried frown as if concerned that the grisly story might warp George’s mind, while Catherine just looked out the window with an expression of haughty disgust on her lovely face. Ballard wore a tolerant and interested smile as he listened.
“When the ruckus was all over,” Preacher went on, “me and Emmett both knowed Kirby wasn’t a kid anymore. He’d done gone through what you call a baptism of fire, and he was a man. Injuns, they give a boy a new name when he becomes a man, and I spent a whole heap o’ time with Injuns in my life, so I figured Kirby oughta have a new name, too. I called him Smoke, on account o’ his hair is about the same color as smoke from a campfire. That’s what I told him then, but I was a-thinkin’, too, about how fast he smoked down that Pawnee buck. ‘Smoke’ll suit you just fine,’ I told him. ‘So Smoke it’ll be.’ ” Preacher leaned back against the bench seat. “Has been ever since.”
George looked from Preacher over to Smoke. “I hope I get to see you shoot an Indian sometime, Mr. Jensen.”
“George!” his grandmother exclaimed. “What a terrible thing to say!”
“If it’s all right with you, George,” Smoke said, “I’d just as soon not shoot anybody.”
But in all likelihood, it wouldn’t be up to George, or to him, either, Smoke thought. It would all depend on what they ran into between Ajo and Tucson.
But . . . if anybody needed shooting—red, white, or any other color—Smoke would do his best to take care of that chore.
* * *
The first way station was at a place called Mule Creek, the second at Saddle Blanket Wash. Both were squat adobe cabins with pole corrals and sheds for the horses. The men who worked at them had hard, lonely existences, Smoke knew, but some hombres welcomed that. He had ridden some solitary trails himself, in his time.
The travelers had their midday meal at Saddle Blanket Wash. It wasn’t much, just beans, cornbread, and coffee, as much as anybody wanted for fifty cents. Stagecoach fare didn’t include meals; the money the station keepers collected for feeding passengers supplemented their meager wages.
The next stop would be at Flat Rock Crossing, Scratchy told Smoke and the others before they set out again. The place partly got its name from a geographical feature—a large, flat slab of rock that looked like someone had dropped it down on the arid landscape for no apparent reason. The crossing part of the name came from the fact that an old mule train route angled across the stage road there. Mules had carried ore from the mines across the border in Mexico up to Phoenix along that trail, although it wasn’t used anymore.
The landscape had a stark beauty to it. Low, rugged mountains and flat-topped buttes and mesas bordered broad, level valleys dotted with organ-pipe cactus, saguaro, and assorted other thorny vegetation. Small, gnarled trees and clumps of hardy grass sucked enough moisture from the sandy soil to survive in places. For the most part, it was a land of dirt and rock of varying shades of brown and gray. A vast, largely empty country perfect for folks who couldn’t stand being crowded.
Like the Apaches, Smoke thought as he squinted against the dust and scanned the horizon from the coach window. Once it had been almost exclusively their domain. You couldn’t really blame them for being unhappy when outsiders had come in and tried to push them out.
On the other hand, the Apaches had done the same thing. They weren’t the first inhabitants of that part of the country. They had come from Texas, pushed out there by the Comanche. They had slaughtered and driven off the peaceful tribes they had found in what was now Arizona Territory.
It was a seemingly eternal cycle of conquest and defeat. Smoke had heard it said that barbarism was the natural state of mankind, that in the end no civilization could stand forever against the forces of anarchy. That was a bleak way of looking at things, but he supposed there was some truth to it.
A lot of folks would consider him a barbarian, he mused. Preacher, along with all the other old mountain men, certainly fit the mold, too.
The heat built as the coach rocked on through the afternoon. Even though it was less than a week until Christmas and most of the country was locked in the grip of winter, the weather was still mild and dry and downright hot at times, especially for those who were accustomed to cooler climates.
The dust that swirled in through the windows, even when the canvas shades were drawn, didn’t help matters. Catherine Bradshaw looked particularly wan and uncomfortable. Mrs. Bates fanned herself. The heat and the motion of the coach had made George drowsy. Sally rested her head on Smoke’s shoulder and dozed.
Smoke was alert, though, and kept watch out one window while Preacher monitored the view on the other side of the coach.
“You two are on the lookout for trouble,” Tom Ballard commented.
“Never hurts to be careful,” Preacher said.
“Do you think the Apaches are really raiding over here, or that it was just a quick strike across the border and they’ve gone back to Mexico?”
“You’re the one who lives down here in this part of the country, Tom,” Smoke said. “You’d probably know better than us.”
“Not necessarily. In the time my family and I have been in Tucson, there really hasn’t been much trouble. I was hoping it would stay that way.”
“I ain’t never had many dealin’s with them ’Paches,” Preacher said, “but I can tell you that just in general, Injuns is the most notional critters God ever put on this green earth. Tryin’ to predict what they’re gonna do is pert-near impossible. You might make a guess, but you’d have just as good a chance o’ bein’ wrong.”
“Well, then, I’ll just hope that they’ve gone back to Mexico and we won’t run into any of them,” Ballard said.
“You can’t go wrong hoping that,” Smoke said.
By midafternoon, a dark hump had appeared in front of the coach on the eastern horizon. Scratchy leaned over on the seat and called to the passengers, “You can see Flat Rock up ahead if you want to have a look, folks. But to be honest, there ain’t that much to see.”
George pulled one of the shades aside and leaned out far enough to peer into the distance. When he let the shade fall back and sat down on the middle bench again, he wore a disgusted expression on his face. “It’s just a big ol’ rock.”
“Well, what did you expect?” his grandmother asked him. “Mr. Stevenson warned you.”
“Yeah, I know. I just thought it would be more interesting than that.”
“You ought to go up to Monument Valley in Utah sometime,” Preacher said. “That’s some plumb picturesque scenery. ’Course, it ain’t a patch on some o’ the places I’ve seen in the Rockies.”
The way station at Flat Rock Crossing was virtually identical to the others along the route . . . with one difference, Smoke noted.
Several saddle horses were tied to the corral’s pole fence.
More pilgrims than just the ones on the stagecoach had stopped at Flat Rock Crossing.
CHAPTER 20
The station keeper emerged from the adobe building with a couple young Mexican hostlers.
“Howdy, Paulson!” Scratchy called to the man as he brought the team to a halt with dust billowing around it.
Paulson, a tall, lean, mostly bald man with a face that resembled a buzzard, waved a hand in front of his face to clear away some of the dust. He stepped closer to the coach and took hold of a piece of brass trim. “Your passengers might want to stay in the coach today, Scratchy,” he said quietly, but not quietly enough to keep Smoke from hearing him.
Scratchy frowned down from the driver’s box. “Stay inside the coach?” he repeated. “What in blazes for? Folks like to get out and stretch their legs and get a breath of fresh air. Besides, ain’t you got some cool water in there like you usually do?”
“Yeah, but I’ve also got customers bent on drinking up all my liquor, seems like. They ain’t caused any real trouble so far, but”—Paulson craned his neck
to look through the coach window nearest to him—“you’ve got ladies in there.”
Catherine proved that by popping her head out through the window beside her. “Mr. Stevenson, what’s wrong? Did I hear this man say something about not going inside the station?”
“Yes’m,” Scratchy replied. “This here is Ike Paulson. He runs the place. Says there are some fellas inside who might look to cause trouble if they was disturbed.”
“Nonsense. This is a Saxon Stage Line way station, isn’t it? Passengers on the stagecoach ought to take precedence over anyone who just rides up.”
While the others were talking, Smoke had been studying the mounts tied to the corral fence. Three horses were together, while the fourth one was tied a little ways off. The fourth rider had come in separately from the other three. That might not mean anything, but it was worth noting.
“Besides,” Catherine went on, “didn’t I hear something about cool water? I’m very thirsty.”
“So am I,” George said. “And I need to, uh—”
“That’s around back, sonny,” Paulson told him. “No need to go inside for that.”
“Well, I’m going in,” Catherine said as she reached out through the window to twist the door’s latch without waiting for one of the men to do it. “I want to sit down someplace where it’s cooler and not moving.”
Scratchy started to say, “Ma’am—”
“It’ll be all right, Scratchy,” Mike cut in. “I’ll go in, too, and take this coach gun with me. Besides”—he angled his head toward the coach’s passenger compartment—“that’s Smoke Jensen in there, remember?”
“Smoke Jensen!” Paulson exclaimed. “Why in blazes didn’t you say so?”
Inside the coach, Sally smiled and told her husband, “Your fame precedes you.”
“Dogs my trail is more like it,” Smoke said with a grunt.
Catherine had the door open but hadn’t climbed out yet.
Mike said hurriedly, “Wait a minute, Miss Bradshaw, and I’ll give you a hand.” He swung off the driver’s box and dropped to the ground.
“Careful. You’ll break your neck,” Scratchy told him dryly.
Mike ignored the gibe and stepped up to the open door to help Catherine to the ground. George scrambled out next and trotted off around the building in search of the outhouse Paulson had mentioned.
His grandmother followed, calling after him, “George, be careful! There could be snakes!”
Smoke got out next, followed by Sally, then Preacher and Ballard. Catherine and Mike were headed for the station’s open door. The hostlers had already started unhitching the team. The schedule didn’t call for a lengthy stop at Flat Rock Crossing. Scratchy would want to be back on the way fairly quickly.
As they walked toward the station, his left arm linked with her right, Sally said to Smoke, “Do you think there’s going to be trouble?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Depends on what—or who—we find in there. But whatever happens, we’ll meet it head-on.”
“Just like always.”
“Yep.”
After the bright sunlight outside, it seemed dimmer inside the station than it really was. Smoke’s eyes adjusted quickly, though, and he looked around, instantly taking in everything in the station’s main room.
A couple long tables with bench seats were to the left. Passengers would use them whenever they ate a meal. Farther back were two round tables where men could sit and play poker or drink. A short bar was to the right with a few unlabeled bottles sitting on a shelf on the wall behind it. A water barrel with a dipper tied to it stood at the near end of the bar. In the back corner, beyond the bar, was a big potbellied stove, cold at the moment.
The setup with the horses outside was repeated inside. Three men stood together at the bar, while a fourth man sat by himself at one of the round tables.
One of the men at the bar thumped his empty glass on the planks. “Damn it, Paulson, you need to be back here pourin’ drinks, not out there chewin’ the fat with some damn pilgrims.”
Mike walked Catherine to one of the long tables, where she sat down. Still on his feet, Mike frowned and said, “Watch your language, mister. There are ladies present.”
The man at the bar bristled with sudden anger. “I ain’t never held my tongue on account of no damn woman, and I don’t figure on startin’ now.”
Mike’s face hardened as he took a step toward the bar.
Without seeming to move fast, Smoke put himself between the young shotgun guard and the mouthy hardcase. “Go sit down with Miss Bradshaw,” he said quietly. He had no authority to tell Mike what to do, but that didn’t really seem to matter. The note of command in Smoke’s voice was unmistakable.
Mike responded to it. Although he still looked upset, he didn’t try to push past Smoke. He moved back to the table and sat down across from Catherine.
Scratchy and Paulson came into the station last, Paulson with a worried frown on his face. That frown deepened when he felt the air of tension that gripped the room.
Paulson had warned of trouble, Smoke thought. It hadn’t been long in coming.
But maybe it could be headed off yet. Smoke nodded pleasantly enough to the men at the bar. “Buy you fellas a drink?”
“Now that’s more like it,” the loudmouth said. He had a foxlike face and long, stringy hair the color of wheat. “Paulson, get over here, take this man’s money, and pour some drinks.”
Paulson moved behind the bar, looked like he wanted to say something and was biting his tongue to keep from it, and reached for one of the bottles on the shelf.
The fox-faced man squinted at Smoke. “Don’t I know you?”
“I don’t reckon we’ve ever crossed trails. Not to speak of, anyway.” Smoke had seen men like that many times in the past, though. Too many times. Hard-faced, beard-stubbled men whose clothes carried the dust of long, lonely trails. They would be handy with their guns and have no scruples about using them. There might or not be wanted posters out on them, but either way, they were outside the law.
The fourth man in the room, the one sitting at the table in the back with a bottle and a glass, was cut from a little better cloth but still had a dangerous look about him. He wore a black hat with a flat brim and a slightly rounded crown and a black-and-white cowhide vest over a butternut shirt. His dark, square face might as well have been carved from stone. He didn’t seem to want any part of whatever was shaping up, and as long as he stayed out of it, that was fine with Smoke.
When Paulson had filled the glasses, the stringy-haired spokesman picked his up and said to Smoke, “Here’s to you, mister.” He tossed back the drink. “What do they call you, anyway?”
“My name is Jensen,” Smoke said.
The man set the empty glass on the bar and frowned. “From up Idaho way?”
“Colorado.”
“Oh.” The man relaxed slightly but still wore a suspicious look. “An uncle of mine once had a run-in with a man named Jensen, at a silver mining camp on the Uncompahgre. That was a long time ago.” He cocked his head a little to the side. “You ever been up in those parts?”
“A long time ago,” Smoke said.
The man’s left hand slapped down on the bar. His lips drew back from his teeth in a snarl. “I knew it! Damn you. You’re Smoke Jensen, ain’t you?”
“That’s my name,” Smoke said with a familiar feeling edging into his muscles. Many times over the years, he had run into relatives of men he had killed, and most of the time they wanted to settle that score.
All that wound up doing was getting them killed, too, but that didn’t seem to stop them.
It always went one of two ways—either the hombre bent on vengeance grabbed for his gun as soon as he realized who Smoke was or he wanted to talk first, to bluster a little about what he thought was going to happen.
This one wanted to flap his gums. Still sneering, he said, “You killed my uncle, Jensen. Shot him down like a dog.”
“He must’ve had it coming,�
�� Smoke said. Sometimes, on very rare occasions, one of those vengeance-seekers could be talked out of throwing his life away. Smoke didn’t figure that was going to happen, but he figured it was worth a try. “I never killed anybody who wasn’t trying to kill me first.”
“That’s a damn lie! One of my uncle’s pards saw the whole thing. He come and told us how you gunned him with no warnin’.”
Smoke shook his head. “I’m telling the truth. You’re nursing a grudge for no reason. Smartest thing would be for you to let it go. We won’t be here long. We’ll be leaving soon, and you can go your way while we go ours. There doesn’t have to be any gunplay.”
“The hell there don’t!” The man glanced at his companions. “You boys’ll back my play, won’t you?”
The two men began to spread out a little as one of them said, “We always do, Badger.”
The fella did look a little like a badger, Smoke thought idly . . . although he resembled a fox even more.
“You know, I’m not alone, either.” Smoke leaned his head toward the tables. “There’s a fella over there with a coach gun, and you might have heard of the old-timer. He’s called Preacher, and he’s been to see the elephant more than a few times. I suspect Scratchy can use that hogleg on his hip, too.”
“Durned right I can,” Scratchy rumbled.
“So it seems like you’re outnumbered and outgunned,” Smoke went on. “Best thing to do is let it go.”
For a second, Badger looked like he was considering it . . . but then he shook his head. “Those other fellas aren’t gonna open fire, not with women in the room.” An ugly smile plucked at his mouth. “Thing of it is . . . I don’t care who else gets hurt, Jensen—as long as you die!”
His hand flashed toward his gun.
CHAPTER 21
Badger was right about one thing—with Sally and Catherine in the room, Smoke didn’t want a lot of lead flying around. So there was no time to waste. Faster than the eye could follow, his Colt was out, spitting flame.
An Arizona Christmas Page 14
