“A little bit. Most of it’s fool’s gold. The big vein cuts north at Nolan’s place, then heads straight into the mountains. Take a lot of machinery to get it out, and there ain’t no way to get the equipment up there.”
“People aren’t going to think about that, Steve. All they’ll be thinking of is gold. And they’ll stomp on anyone who gets in their way.”
“I stocked up on ammo. Count on me, Matt.”
“I knew I could.”
Smoke rode on, slowly winding downward. On his way down to No-Name Town, he stopped and talked with Peyton and Nolan. Both of them ran small herds and farmed for extra money while their herds matured.
“Yeah,” Peyton said. “I heard about the gold. Goddamnit, that’s all we need.”
Nolan said, “Franklin has made his boast that if he can run you out, the rest of us will be easy.”
Smoke’s smile was not pleasant, and both the men came close to backing up. “I don’t run,” Smoke said.
“First time I ever seen you armed with a short gun,” Peyton said. “You look…well, don’t take this the wrong way, Matt…natural with them.”
“Matt,” Nolan said. “I’ve known you for three years and some months. I’ve never seen you upset. But today, you’ve got a burr under your blanket.”
“This vein of gold is narrow and shallow, boys,” Smoke said, even though both men were older than he. “Best thing could happen is if it was just left alone. But that’s not going to happen.” He told them about boom towns. “There’s going to be a war,” he added, “and those of us who only wanted to live in peace are going to be caught up in the middle of it. And there is something else. If we don’t band together, the only man who’ll come out on top will be Tilden Franklin.”
“He sure wants to tan your hide and tack it to his barn door, Matt,” Peyton said.
“I was raised by an old Mountain Man, boys. He used to say I was born with the bark on. I reckon he was right. The last twelve–fifteen years of my life, I’ve only had three peaceful years, and those were spent right in this area. And if I want to continue my peaceful way of life, it looks like I’m gonna have to fight for them. And fight I will, boys. Don’t make no bets against me doing that.”
Nolan looked uncomfortable. “I know it ain’t none of my business, Matt, and you can tell me to go to hell if you want to. But I gotta ask. Who are you?”
“My Christian name is Jensen. An old Mountain Man named Preacher hung a nickname on me years back. Smoke.”
Smoke wheeled his horse and trotted off without looking back.
Peyton grabbed his hat and flung it on the ground. “Holy Christ!” he yelled. “Smoke Jensen!”
Both men ran for their horses, to get home, tell their families that the most famous gun in the entire West had been their neighbor all this time. And more importantly, that Smoke Jensen was on their side.
3
When Smoke reached the main road, running east to west before being forced to cut due south at a place called Feather Falls, he ran into a rolling, riding, walking stream of humanity. Sitting astride his horse, whom he had named Horse, Smoke cursed softly. The line must have been five hundred strong. And he knew, in two weeks, there would probably be ten times that number converging on No-Name.
“Wonderful,” he muttered. Horse cocked his ears and looked back at Smoke. “Yeah, Horse. I don’t like it either.”
With a gentle touch of his spurs, Smoke and Horse moved out, riding at an easy trot for town.
Before he reached the crest of the hill overlooking the town, the sounds of hammering reached his ears. Reining up on the crest, Smoke sat and watched the men below, racing about, driving stakes all over the place, marking out building locations. Lines of wagons were in a row, the wagons loaded with lumber. Canvas tents were already in place, and the whiskey peddlers were dipping their homemade concoction out of barrels. Smoke knew there would be everything in that whiskey from horse-droppings to snakeheads.
He rode slowly down the hill and tied up at the railing in front of the general store. He stood on the boardwalk for a moment, looking at the organized madness taking place all around him.
Smoke recognized several men from out of the shouting, shoving, cursing crush.
There was Utah Slim, the gunhand from down Escalante way. The gambler Louis Longmont was busy setting up his big tent. Over there, by the big saloon tent, was Big Mamma O’Neil. Smoke knew her girls would not be far away. Big Mamma had a stable of whores and sold bad booze and ran crooked games. Smoke had seen other faces that he recognized but could not immediately put names to. They would come to him.
He turned and walked into the large general store. The owner, Beeker, was behind the counter, grinning like a cream-fed cat. No doubt he was doing a lot of business and no doubt he had jacked up his prices.
Beeker’s smile changed to a frown when he noticed the low-slung Colts on Smoke. “Something, Matt?”
“Ten boxes of .44s, Beeker. That’ll do for a start. I’ll just look around a bit.”
“I don’t know if I can spare that many, Matt,” Beeker said, his voice whiny.
“You can spare them.” Smoke walked around the store, picking up several other items, including several pairs of britches that looked like they’d fit Sally. In all likelihood, she was going to have to do some hard riding before all this was said and done, and while it wasn’t ladylike to wear men’s britches and ride astride, it was something she was going to have to do.
He moved swiftly past the glass-enclosed showcase filled with women’s underthings and completed his swing back to the main counter, laying his purchases on the counter. “That’ll do it, Beeker.”
The store owner added it up and Smoke paid the bill.
“Mighty fancy guns you wearin’, Matt. Never seen you wear a short gun before. Something the matter?”
“You might say that.”
“Don’t let none of Tilden’s boys see you with them things on. They might take ’em off you ’less you know how to use them.”
Beeker did not like Smoke, and the feeling was shared. Beeker kowtowed to Tilden; Smoke did not. Beeker thought Tilden was a mighty fine man; Smoke thought Tilden to be a very obnoxious SOB.
Smoke lifted his eyes and stared at Beeker. Beeker took a step backward, those emotionless, cold brown eyes chilling him, touching the coward’s heart that beat in his chest.
Smoke picked up his purchases and walked out into the spring sunlight. He stowed the gear in his saddlebags and walked across the street to the better of the two saloons. In a week there would be fifty saloons, all working twenty-four hours a day.
As he walked across the wide dirt street, his spurs jingling and his heels kicking up little dust pockets, Smoke was conscious of eyes on him. Unfriendly eyes. He stepped up onto the boardwalk and pushed through the swinging doors. Stepping to one side, giving his eyes time to adjust to the murky interior of the saloon, Smoke sized up the crowd.
The place was filled with ranchers and punchers. Some of those present were friends and friendly with Smoke. Others were sworn to the side of Tilden Franklin. Smoke walked to the end of the bar.
Smoke was dressed in black pants, red and white checkered shirt, and a low crowned hat. Behind his left-hand Colt, he carried a long-bladed Bowie knife. He laid a coin on the bar and ordered a beer.
The place had grown very quiet.
Normally not a drinking man, Smoke did occasionally enjoy a drink of whiskey or a beer. On this day, he simply wanted to check out the mood of the people.
He nodded at a couple of ranchers. They returned the silent greeting. Smoke sipped his beer.
Across the room, seated around a poker table, were half a dozen of Tilden’s men. They had ceased their game and now sat staring at Smoke. None of those present had ever seen the young man go armed before—other than carrying a rifle in his saddle boot.