Table of Contents
DEADLY CHALLENGE
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Title Page
Copyright Page
Epigraph
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
DEADLY CHALLENGE
Smoke Jensen slipped out of the house onto the stone-and-wood porch. He knew the chance of his being seen by the outlaws up on the ridges several hundred yards away was practically nonexistent, but he stayed low from force of habit.
Smoke darted off the porch to a tree in the yard, then over a fence and a footrace to the corral. Just one more stretch of open space before the safety of the bunkhouse, but as he got set for the run, a cold voice spoke behind him.
“I’ll be known as the man who kilt Smoke Jensen. Die, you meddlin’ bastard!”
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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 1989 by William W. Johnstone
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Eleventh Printing: January 2001
20 19 18 17 16 15
Printed in the United States of America
It is only the dead who do not return
.
—Bertrand De Vieuzac
Dedicated to: James Albert Martin
One
“I didn’t think you had any living relatives, except for your sister?”
“I didn’t either. But then I forgot about Pa’s brother. He was supposed to have gotten killed at Chancellorsville, back in ‘63. I guess this letter came from his kids. It would have to be; it’s signed Fae Jensen.”
“I wonder how they knew where to write?” Sally asked. “Big Rock is not exactly the hub of commerce, culture, and industry.”
The man laughed at that. The schoolteacher in his wife kept coming out in the way she could put words together.
It was 1882, in the high-up country of Colorado. The cabin had recently been remodeled: two new rooms added for Louis Arthur and Denise Nicole Jensen. The twins were approaching their first birthday.
And the man called Smoke was torn between going to the aid of a family member he had never seen and staying at home for the birthday party.
“You have to go, Smoke,” Sally spoke the words softly.
“Gibson, in the Montana Territory.” The tall, wide-shouldered and lean-hipped man shook his head. “A long way from home. On what might be a wild goose hunt. Probably is. I don’t even know where Gibson is.”
Sally once more opened the letter and read it aloud. The handwriting was definitely that of a woman, and a woman who had earned high marks in penmanship.
Dear Cousin Kirby,
I read about you in the local paper last year, after that dreadful fight at Dead River. I wanted to write you then, but thought my brother and I could handle the situation ourselves. Time has proven me incorrect. We are in the middle of a war here, and our small ranch lies directly between the warring factions. I did not believe when this range war was started that either Mr. Dooley Hanks or Mr. Cord McCorkle would deliberately harm us, but conditions have worsened to the point where I fear for our lives. Any help you could give us would be greatly appreciated.
Respectfully, your cousin
Fae Jensen
“Have you ever heard of either of those men, Smoke?”
“McCorkle. He came into that country twenty years or more ago. Started the Circle Double C. He’s a hard man, but I never heard of him riding roughshod over a woman.”
“How about this Dooley Hanks?”
Smoke shook his head. “The name sort of rings a bell. But it isn’t ringin’ very loud.”
“When will you be leaving, honey?” cold
He turned his brown eyes on her, eyes that were usually cold and emotionless. Except when he looked at her. “I haven t said I was going.”
“I’ll be fine, Smoke. We’ve got some good hands and some good neighbors. You don’t have to worry about me or the babies.” She held up the letter. “They’re blood kin, honey.”
He slowly nodded his head. “I’ll get things squared away around the Sugarloaf, and probably pull out in about three days.” He smiled. “If you just insist that I go.”
She poked him in the ribs and ran laughing out of the room.
“That’s him,” the little boy said to his friend, visiting from the East. “That’s the one ever’body writes about in them penny dreadfuls. That’s Smoke Jensen.”
Smoke tied his horse to the hitchrail in front of the BigRock Guardian and went inside to speak with Haywood Arden, owner and editor.
“He sure is mean-lookin’,” the boy from back East said. “And he really does wear them guns all whopper-jawed, don’t he?”
The first thing Haywood noticed was Smoke wearing two guns, the left hand .44 worn butt forward for a cross-draw, the right hand .44 low and tied down.