Jesse had give him an extra cylinder for the pistol, too. Neighborly, that’s what it was.
On the way West, an old mountain man fell in with the pair on the plains. Said his name was Preacher. Not thirty minutes after the introductions, a band of Indians looking for scalps hit the trio, and it was there that Young Jensen got the name hung on him that would stay with him forever. Although only a boy, Young Jensen fought a man’s fight and killed his share of those who were trying to kill them.
A thin finger of smoke lifted from the barrel of the Navy .36 Young Jensen held in his hand. The old mountain man smiled and said, “Can’t call you no boy now. You be a man. I think I’ll call you Smoke.”
1
Smoke Jensen stepped out of the café on the main street of Big Rock, Colorado. He leaned against an awning post and rolled a cigarette, lighting it just as Sheriff Monte Carson strolled up.
“Need to talk with you, Smoke,” the sheriff said. “You like a beer?”
“No,” the ruggedly handsome man with the cold eyes said with a smile. “But I’ll watch you drink one.”
The sheriff and the most feared gunhandler in all the West walked to the saloon, pushed open the batwings, and stepped inside. Monte ordered a beer and Smoke ordered coffee.
“I hear you’re selling your stock, Smoke.”
“Most of it. I’m going to raise horses, Monte. Oh, I’ll keep a small herd. But nothing like we’ve had out on the Sugarloaf.”
“You using the rails?”
“I wish, Monte. No. This will be a hard drive. All the way up to Montana. Into a big valley. Town’s called Blackstown. Fellow up there name of T. J. Duggan wants the whole damn herd.”
“The whole herd? Why?”
Smoke shrugged heavy muscular shoulders. “Beats me. He’s an Eastern fellow. Said he was in a hurry to get into ranching. He’s paying me good money, Monte. I couldn’t turn down the offer.”
“How about your hands once the drive is over?”
Smoke chuckled. “A few want to drift; you know cowboys. But I couldn’t run most of them off with a shotgun. I’m going to be running a lot of horses, Monte. You know how I love the appaloosas. I’ll be needing hands.”
“When will you pull out?”
“Oh, about ten days, I think. Why? You want to come along and do some honest work for a change?”
“Hell, man! I’d love to. But no. We have trials set for all of next month. Smoke, you know you’re going up into Clint Black’s country.”
“Clint Black doesn’t bother me. I don’t even know the man. All I know is he’s a rancher who thinks he owns the whole damn Montana Territory.”
“He’s got some rough ol’ boys ridin’ for him, Smoke.”
“I’ve run up against some rough ol’ boys a time or two in my life, Monte.” Smoke spoke the words softly. But there was lead and fire and gunsmoke behind them.
Clint Black better rein in his hands and his mouth when he meets up with Smoke Jensen, the sheriff thought. If you aggravate him too much, Smoke will come after you lookin’ like a demon out of Hell.
Both men watched as three young riders came walking their horses slowly up the street. Both men noted that the riders sat on Texas saddles—without the wide skirt, the saddle horn was thicker and stronger for roping, and the stirrups were of the heavy-duty type. The brands were unfamiliar. All three cowboys wore their holsters tied down. One of the trio wore two guns.
“You know them,” Smoke asked.
“Never saw them before this day. What do you think?”
“Wild and woolly and full of fleas, probably. Might even be on the prod, looking for trouble. They’re young. Oldest one’s not out of his early twenties, I’d say.”
“This place does have a back door,” Monte said with a wide smile. But there was a hopeful note in his voice. If the three young punchers wanted trouble, Smoke Jensen was the last man in the world they should brace. He didn’t want trouble in Big Rock, and if it started, Smoke would not have initiated it. But there would be three dead rowdies on the barroom floor when the silence prevailed.
Smoke chuckled. “Then use it.”
Sheriff Monte Carson laughed softly. “I was rather hoping you would.”
Boots sounded heavily on the boardwalks and spurs jingled.
“Too late now.”
The riders took off their hats and beat the trail dust from their clothing before stepping into the saloon. The one leading the pack slammed open the batwings, and that irritated Monte. He looked at Smoke. There was no change in his expression.
The trio ordered whiskey with a beer chaser. Their voices were too loud and too demanding.
“Huntin’ trouble,” Monte said softly.
“They came to the right place,” Smoke replied in a soft voice.
“Hey!” one of the riders yelled. “What you two whisperin’ about over yonder? You talkin’ about us, maybe?”
Monte was sitting in a way that only presented one side of his torso to the bar. He shoved back his chair and stood up. His badge was now visible. He walked to the three young would-be gunhands and faced them.
“The name is Carson. Sheriff Monte Carson.”
The trio stiffened. Monte Carson had been one of the West’s premier gunfighters until he married and settled down in Big Rock. Everybody had heard of Monte Carson.
“If you boys are lookin’ for a drink, some food, and a place to spend the night, you found it, right here in Big Rock. If you boys are lookin’ for trouble, you found that. Right here and right now!”
One of Monte’s deputies had seen the rowdies ride in. The back door of the saloon creaked. One of the young Texas toughs cut his eyes. The deputy stood behind them, a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun in his hands. He cocked both hammers. The slight sound was enormous in the now-quiet room.
“I’ll take this punk here,” Monte said, his temper rising. “Jimmy, you blow the guts out of two-gun over there by the bar…”
“And I’ll take Tall Boy,” Smoke said, pushing back his chair and standing up. It seemed like he never would get through standing up. Smoke Jensen was several inches over six feet, with the weight to go with it. Huge hands and wrists. Thickly muscled with massive shoulders and a barrel chest, he was lean at the hips, and his jeans bunched with powerful leg muscles. His hair was ash blond, worn short; his eyes were brown and cold. Smoke wore two guns, .44s, the left-hand gun worn high and butt forward, the right-hand gun low and tied down. He was snake-quick with either pistol. He carried a long-bladed Bowie knife behind his left-hand six-shooter. He could and did shave with it. Or fight with it, didn’t make any difference to Smoke. “The name is Jensen. Smoke Jensen.”
A sigh came from Tall Boy. Slowly he let his hands drift to the bar, where he placed them palms down. “Fightin’ Monte Carson would be bad enough,” he said. “A deputy with a Greener makes it worser. Add Smoke Jensen and a body’d be a damn pure idiot.”
“Drink your drinks, get something to eat, and behave,” Monte told them, his anger fading. He turned his back to them and started to the table and his unfinished beer.
“No, Jack!” Tall Boy yelled. “Don’t do it.”
Jack was grabbing for his gun. The sawed-off roared. The heavy charges nearly cut the Texas boy in two, flinging him against the wall and leaving a bloody smear as he slid down to stop butt-first on the floor. He died with his eyes wide open, staring into a terribly bleak eternity.
“I’m out of this!” the third rider screamed. “Jesus Christ, I’m clear out.”
Folks came running, for gunfights were not a common thing in Big Rock, not with Monte Carson, Smoke Jensen, Pearlie, Johnny North, and half a dozen other heavy-duty gunslicks, who had turned into respectable citizens, only a breath away.
Dr. Colton Spalding stepped into the saloon. He needed only one look at the puncher. “Get the undertaker,” he told the barkeep.