“Dead for more years than I can remember.”
“I don’t recall seeing you before. You been here long?”
“No, sir. I come in a couple weeks ago. I been stayin’ down south of here, workin’ in a stable. But the man who owned it married him a grass widow and her kids took over my job. I drifted. Ol’ grump that owns this place gimme a job. I sleep here.”
Smoke grinned at the “ol’ grump” bit. He handed the boy a double eagle. “Come light, you get yourself some clothes and shoes.”
Billy looked at the twenty-dollar gold piece. “Wow!” he said.
Smoke led the boy to Drifter’s stall and opened the gate, stepping inside. He motioned the boy in after him. “Pet him, Billy.”
Billy cautiously petted the midnight-black stallion. Drifter stopped eating for a moment and swung his big head, looking at him through those yellow, killer-cold, wolf-like eyes. Then he resumed munching at the corn.
“He likes you,” Smoke told the boy. “You’ll be all right with him. Anyone comes in here and tries to hurt you, just get in the stall with Drifter. You won’t be harmed.”
The boy nodded and stepped back out with Smoke. “You be careful, Mister Smoke,” he warned. “I don’t say much to people, but I listen real good. I hear things.”
They walked to the wide doors at the front of the stable. “What do you hear, Billy?”
Several gunshots split the torch- and lantern-lit night air of Fontana. A woman’s shrill and artificial-sounding laughter drifted to man and boy. A dozen pianos, all playing different tunes, created a confusing, discordant cacophony in the soft air of summer in the high-up country.
“Some guy name of Monte Carson is gonna be elected the sheriff. Ain’t no one runnin’ agin him”
“I’ve heard of him. He’s a good hand with a gun.”
“Better than you?” There was doubt in Billy’s voice at that.
“No,” Smoke said.
“The boss of this area, that Mister Tilden Franklin, is supposed to have a bunch of gunhands comin’ to be deputies.”
“Who are they?”
“I ain’t heard.”
“What have you heard about me?”
“I heard two punchers talkin’ yesterday afternoon, over by a tent saloon. Circle TF punchers. But I think they’re more than just cowboys. They wore their guns low and tied down.”
Very observant boy, Smoke thought.
“If they can angle you in for a backshoot, they’d do it. Talk is, though, this Mister Franklin is gonna let the law handle you. Legal-like, you know?”
“Yeah.” Smoke patted the boy’s shoulder. “You take good care of Drifter, Billy. And keep your ears clean and open. I’ll check you later.”
“Yes, sir, Mister Smoke.”
Smoke stepped out of the stable and turned to his left. His right hand slipped the thong off the Colt’s hammer. Smoke was dressed in black whipcord trousers, black shirt, and dark hat. His spurs jingled as he walked, his boots kicking up little pockets of dust as he headed for the short boardwalk that ran in front of Beeker’s General Store, a saloon, and the gunsmith’s shop. Smoke’s eyes were in constant motion, noting and retaining everything he spotted. Night seemed to color into day as he approached the boom-town area.
A drunk lurched out from between two tents, almost colliding with Smoke.
“Watch where you’re goin,’ boy,” the miner mush-mouthed at him.
Smoke ignored him and walked on.
“A good time comes reasonable,” a heavily rouged and slightly overweight woman said, offering her charms to Smoke.
“I’m sure,” Smoke told her. “But I’m married.”
“Ain’t you the lucky one?” she said, and stepped back into the shadows of her darkened tent.
He grinned and walked on.
Smoke walked past Beeker’s store and glanced in. The man had hired more help and was doing a land office business, a fixed smile on his greedy, weasel face. His hatchet-faced wife was in constant motion, moving around the brightly lighted store, her sharp eyes darting left and right, looking for thieving hands.
Other than her own, Smoke mentally noted.
He walked on, coming to the swinging doors of the saloon. Wild laughter and hammering piano music greeted his ears. It was not an altogether offensive sound. The miners, as a whole, were not bad people. They were here to dig and chip and blast and hammer the rock, looking for gold. In their free time, most would drink and gamble and whore the night away.
Smoke almost stepped inside the saloon, changing his mind just at the very last moment. He stepped back away from the doors and walked on.
He crossed the street and stepped into Louis Longmont’s place. The faro and monte and draw and stud poker tables were filled; dice clicked and wheels spun, while those with money in their hands stared and waited for Lady Luck to smile on them.
Most of the time she did not.
Smoke walked to the bar, shoved his way through, and ordered a beer.
He took his beer and crossed the room, dodging drunks as they staggered past. He leaned against a bracing and watched the action.
“Smoke.” The voice came from his left.
Smoke turned and looked into the face of Louis Longmont. “Louis,” he acknowledged. “Another year, another boom town, hey?”
“They never change. I don’t know why I stay with it. I certainly don’t need the money.”
Smoke knew that was no exaggeration on the gambler’s part. The gambler owned a large ranch up in Wyoming Territory. He owed several businesses in San Francisco, and he owned a hefty chunk of a railroad. It was a mystery to many why Louis stayed with the hard life he had chosen.
“Then get out of it, Louis,” Smoke suggested.
“But of course,” Louis responded with a smile. His eyes drifted to Smoke’s twin Colts. “Just as you got out of gunfighting.”
Smoke smiled. “I put them away for several years, Louis. Had gold not been found, or had I chosen a different part of the country to settle, I probably would never have picked them up again.”
“Lying to others is bad enough, my young friend, But lying to one’s self is unconscionable. Can you look at me and tell me you never, during those stale years, missed the dry-mouthed moment before the draw? The challenge of facing and besting those miscreants who would kill you or others who seek a better and more peaceful way? The so-called loneliness of the hoot-owl trail? I think not, Mister Jensen. I think not.”
There was nothing for Smoke to say, for Louis was right. He had missed those death-close moments. And Sally knew it too. Smoke had often caught her watching him, silently looking at him as he would stand and gaze toward the mountains, or as his eyes would follow the high flight of an eagle.
“Your silence tells all, my friend,” Louis said. “I know only too well.”
“Yeah,” Smoke said, looking down into his beer mug. “I guess I’d better finish my beer and ride. I don’t want to be the cause of any trouble in your place, Louis.”
“Trouble, my friend, is soniething I have never shied away from. You’re safer here than in any other place in this woebegotten town. If I can help it, you will not be backshot in my place.”
And again, Smoke knew the gambler was telling the truth. Smoke and Louis had crossed trails a dozen times over the years. The man had taken a liking to the boy when Smoke was riding with the Mountain Man Preacher. In the quieter moments of his profession, Louis had shown Smoke the tricks of his gambler’s trade. Louis had realized that Smoke possessed a keen intelligence, and Louis liked those people who tried to better themselves, as Smoke had always done.
They had become friends.
Hard hoofbeats sounded on the dirt street outside the gambling tent. Smoke looked at Louis.
“About a dozen riders,” Smoke said.
“Probably the ‘deputies’ Tilden Franklin called in from down Durango way. They’ll be hardcases, Smoke.”
“Is this election legal?”
“Of course not. But it will be months before the state can send anyone in to verify it or void it. By then, Franklin will have gotten his way. Initial reports show the gold, what there is of it, assays high. But the lode is a narrow one. I suspect you already knew that.”