William W. Johnstone (4 page)

Smoke shrugged and walked into the store area of the building. He was thinking that he’d better buy a couple boxes of .44’s. Way things were going he’d probably need them.

The news of the gunfight had reached the ranch before Smoke returned. Walt and Cheyenne met him in the barn.

“Did you run into some trouble, boy?” the old rancher asked.

“Couple of two-bit gunhands who thought they were better than they really were.” Smoke stripped the saddle off Dagger, hung up the reins, rubbed him down, and began forking hay into his stall.

Cheyenne and Walt were silent for a time. Walt broke it. “Swenson came by here, all flusterated. Said you cut them boys down faster than the blink of an eye.”

“Like I said, they weren’t as good as they thought they were.”

Cheyenne grunted and spat a brown stream onto the barn floor. “I knowed Burt Rolly’s dad. He wasn’t no good neither. Utes kilt him years ago. Died bad. They never sung no songs about him. What was that other hombre’s name?”

“Sam Teller.”

The old mountain man and gunfighter shook his head. "Must not have been much to him. I never heared of him.”

Cheyenne limped off. He still carried a Sioux arrowhead in his hip. Slowed him down when the weather changed.

“Doreen finally got around to telling me that you two had a little run-in, Smoke.”

“Not much of one. I would just like to know why everyone is lying to me.”

The rancher was silent for a time. "You want to explain that remark, Smoke? ’Cause if you don’t, old man or not, I’m goin’ in the house for my six-gun and call you out!”

Smoke chuckled. “Yeah ... you probably would, too, Walt. But I’m going to let my statement stand. None of you have leveled with me. I’ve seen the quick looks passed between you whenever I touch on certain subjects. What’s going on, Walt?”

“Doreen is a good girl, Smoke.”

“I never said she wasn’t.”

“She isn’t married to Clint Perkins.”

“I didn’t think she was. The boy is a wood’s colt, huh?”

“How’d you guess?”

“Just that, a guess. Is the boy’s father Clint Perkins?”

“Yes. They went together for a time—on the sly. Then he got her all puffed up and ran out on her. He kept tellin’ Doreen how they was gonna move to California and he was gonna change and ... lies and lies, that’s all they was. He’d climb a telegraph pole for a lie and leave the truth layin’ on the ground.”

“So Doreen figured that a make-believe outlaw husband was better than no husband at all?”

“That’s about it. Clint is a no-good, Smoke. He started out doin’ good, I’ll give him that much; he really did do good. Then he turned bad. The young man is not right in the head.”

“All that about him seeing his parents killed and running off into the timber ...?”

“Lies. You got to understand something, Smoke. I was the first white man to settle in this part of Idaho. Back in ’38. The first one. I built me a cabin and got settled in and then went back for Alice. When we got here, the Injuns had burned the cabin down. We built again and fought off Injuns until they got to where they’d leave us alone. I prospered. Found some color and panned it. Found some more color and mined that out. I got money, Smoke. Plenty of it. I got money in a half-dozen banks. Hell, I don’t need this ranch or the cattle. I kept on to it for my boy.”

The old man paused to light his pipe and Smoke waited.

“But he married into trash. Pure trash. That woman— damn her black heart wherever she is—wasn’t nothin’ but a whore. That’s all she was. Anyways, they had a son. Clint. His name ain’t Perkins, it’s Burden. But she run off with him and changed it.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute! This is getting confusing. Back up. Where is your son?”

“Dead. Ten years back. He turned into a drunk after that woman run off and left him. Staggered around here drunk and crazy in the head and heart for years. He never hurt nobody. He was just a fool thereat the end. Jud Vale killed him. Shot him for sport one night over at the tradin’ post where you was this day. Made it last a long time. Shot his legs out from under him, then busted his hands and arms with .44’s. It was a awful thing for one human to do to another. Jud and that no-good foreman of his, Jason, just left my boy there in the mud to bleed to death. He ain’t never hired nothing but trash over there at the Bar V. Most of them runnin’ from the law somewheres.”

“Where does Clint fit into all this?”

The old man laughed bitterly. “That’s funny, son. Really funny. You see, I hired some fancy detectives to hunt that witch-woman down and bring my grandson back to me. They found her and brung him back. Bad seed, Smoke. He’s just bad. But the more I got to lookin’ at him, the more I began to suspect he wasn’t none of my blood. The day he run off for the last time, he told me. My boy Clint didn’t father him. Jud Vale did.”

Smoke walked outside the barn with Walt and paused to roll a cigarette. “Does Jud Vale know about Clint being his son?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s why he wants Clint dead and Doreen his so bad. He suspects, and rightly so, that I changed my will leaving everything to Doreen. He don’t want no wood’s colt hanging around, messin’ everything up. And with Doreen his woman, willing or not, he could produce a false weddin’ license and claim it all. At worse, he could tie it up in court for years.”

“Jud sounds like a real nice fellow.”

“A regular Prince Charming,” the old man said sourly.

“I’m glad you told me this, Walt.”

“Me and the old woman talked about it last night. We agreed that it wasn’t right for you to come in here and lay your life on the line for us, and us not to level with you. I’d have gotten around to tellin’ you, son.”

“You say you found gold around here?”

“A small pocket of it. I panned it plumb out. There was enough for me to invest in one thing or the other and become a well set up man. That’s another thing, Smoke. Jud Vale knows about me panning the gold. But I never could convince the hard-headed no-good that there ain’t
no more gold. The gold I panned washed in here from God knows where, and the small pocket I mined is gone. Nature is a funny critter, Smoke. She’ll sometimes put precious minerals in a place where they just ain’t supposed to be. And when it’s gone, it’s gone forever. There just ain’t no more.”

“But Jud Vale doesn’t believe that.” It was not a question.

Walt sighed. “No. The man’s a fool when it comes to money. Greediest man I ever saw in all my life. Got hisself a regular palace on his spread. And Doreen believes the man is in love with her; obsessed, is the way she put it. He’s finally found something that he can’t have; he can’t buy it or steal it, and he’s furious about it.”

“He might try to take her by force.”

“That thought has come to me from time to time.”

“You going to tell her that you leveled with me?”

“Yes. Oughta ease the tensions around here.”

“For a fact. Let’s go all the way with it and then we’ll speak no more of it. How were you getting your food in here?”

“Shoshone friends of mine. But rations was gettin’ kinda sparse since Jud found the trail they was usin’ and posted guards on it.”

“Toward the end of this week, once the boys have settled in, we’ll take a ride to the trading post and stock up. I imagine Alice and Doreen would like a little outing.”

“I reckon so. Ain’t none of us been off this spread in months. And them boys you brung eat like starvin’ animals!”

The boys settled right in and soon needed very little supervison. They began stringing wire and doing a good job of it. Smoke took Cheyenne and several of the older boys and went looking for Box T cattle. He felt he knew
where most of the cattle would be, and his hunch paid off.

“We been on Bar V range for a time,” Cheyenne pointed out.

“And seeing more and more of Walt’s cattle. Jamie, you boys start hazing them out and bunching them.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Smoke.”

They hadn’t gone another half-mile before Jud Vale and half a dozen of his hardcases came galloping up, punishing their horses needlessly. That was another way you could judge a man’s character—by the way he treated his horse. Smoke’s dislike for Jud Vale deepened as he looked at the lathered-up gelding he was riding.

“What the hell are you doing on my range, Jensen?” Jud demanded.

“Looking for Box T cattle, Vale. And finding them. You got any objections?”

Cheyenne had shifted positions so the muzzle of his Winchester was aimed right at a Bar V rider’s belly, and the Bar V man didn’t look a bit happy about it.

Smoke had pulled his Winchester out of the boot and had his thumb on the hammer. Jud didn’t seem to be too terribly thrilled about that either, since the muzzle was pointed in his general direction.

“Yeah,” Vale finally replied. “I got objections. I can’t help it if that old coot’s cattle wandered onto my range, eatin up all my grass.”

“Well, then, you should be glad to see us, Vale. We’re going to take them back to home range and then you won’t have to spend your nights worrying about them. Now we can either do that, or I can wire the territorial governor and ask for range detectives to be sent in here. How do you want it, Vale?”

The man puffed up like a ’possum and gave Smoke some dark looks. “Well ... git your damn cattle and git the hell off my land then. I’m tired of lookin’ at your damn ugly face, Jensen.”

“Unless you want us over here every day for a couple of weeks, Vale, why don’t you have your boys assist us? It would move a lot faster.”

Cheyenne’s leathery old face struggled to hide his grin. Smoke was pushing the big blow hard into a corner and the man couldn’t find a way out.

Vale blustered and hissed like a spreadin’ adder and shifted around in the saddle. “I ain’t helpin’ you do nothin’, Jensen. I don’t give a damn how often you come over here. You just make sure all the beeves you push across the crick are wearin’ Box T brands, or by God, you’ll answer to me.”

“We can do that now, Vale,” Smoke told him. He booted the Winchester and dropped his right hand to his thigh, close to the butt of that deadly .44.

Jud didn’t like that idea at all. It was seven against two, for a fact. But it was also a fact that this was a no-win situation. Cheyenne was an old he-coon from ’way back. Jud’s men might take him, but the old man was sure to empty two, maybe three saddles before he went down; and even down the old goat was as dangerous as a cornered grizzly. Even dying, if you got too close to the old bastard, he’d sure likely come up with a knife and cut you from brisket to backbone.

Smoke Jensen was quite another matter. Everybody knew he’d been raised by Preacher, and Preacher was a legend. Jensen had killed more than a hundred men—and that wasn’t counting Injuns. Jud Vale knew the first thing to happen should he grab for iron, was that Smoke was going to blow him right out of the saddle.

And there just wasn’t no percentage in dying.

“Round up your damn cattle and get off my range,” Jud finally backed down. He savagely jerked his horse around and galloped off, his men following him.

“I hate a man treats a horse like that,” Cheyenne said. “A horse or a dog. You show me a man who’s unkind to
animals and I’ll show you a man that just ain’t no damn good.”

“I’m going to have to kill that man someday, Cheyenne. I can see it coming.”

“I ’spect, Smoke, they’s a long line of folks ahead of you thinkin’ the same thing.”

Saturday, they went to the trading post on Mud Lake.

Walt drove the wagon, with Alice by his side, and Doreen, all prettied up, and Micky sitting on boxes in the back of the wagon.

Doreen was a looker, no doubt about that, and a flirty thing, too. Smoke did his best to avoid her sliding glances. The heat coming out of her eyes could fry an egg. Although Smoke didn’t think kitchen cooking was what she had on her mind.

Cheyenne, Winchester across his saddle horn, rode on one side of the wagon. Smoke on the other.

As they rode and rattled up to the big store, Cheyenne pointed out the two fresh graves out back of the building.

Doreen and Alice and Micky went into the store part of the building to shop, and Smoke, Walt, and Cheyenne went into the bar to have a beer.

“Not you agin!” the barkeep moaned, as Smoke stepped inside.

“I’m peaceful,” Smoke grinned at him.

“Haw! You won’t be when some of them no-count hardcases from the Bar V show up. Just don’t wreck my damn place,” he warned.

“Why don’t you just shut up and get us a bottle,” Cheyenne told him. “You prattle on like a scared old woman.”

The bartender looked at the skinny old mountain man with the wicked look in his eyes and shut his mouth. He placed a bottle on the bar and several shot glasses. Smoke
pushed the shot glass away and ordered a beer.

Cheyenne downed one quick belt and poured another, taking the shot glass and moving to the far end of the bar where he could watch the door. He had left his Winchester in the saddle boot. If anything happened in the barroom, he would rely on the old Colt with the worn handles hanging low on his right side. Or on the Bowie knife sheathed on his left side. Or on the .44 derringer in his boot. Or anything else he could get his hands on. If it just had to be, the old mountain man would pick up a porcupine to use as a weapon and damn the needles.

Micky had a bottle of sarsaparilla and was sitting on a bench in front of the store. Coming to town was quite an outing for the boy.

Alice and Doreen were oohhing and aahhing over some new dress material in the store.

Two farmers were sitting at a table, nursing mugs of beer, talking quietly. They finished their drinks and left. A fat man, a drummer from the looks of him, was sitting alone at a table next to a window. He kept shifting his eyes to Smoke, stealing fast sly glances.

“Say!” he finally spoke. “Aren’t you Smoke Jensen, the gunfighter?”

Smoke cut his eyes. “I’m Smoke Jensen.”

“Well, I’ll just be hornswoggled! I just read a big article on you in the
Gazette.
The writer said you’ve killed more’un five hundred men.”

“Not quite that many,” Smoke corrected.

“Kilt two right in here a few days back,” the barkeep said with a grin. “This is my place. I’m Bendel.” He pointed. “Kilt ’em right over yonder. They’s buried out back.”