Davidson threw back his head and laughed. “Of course, you do! But after a time, one becomes accustomed to it. You’ll see.”
“I don’t plan on staying that long, sir.” Smoke looked at King Rex, checking for any signs of annoyance. He could see none.
Instead, the man only smiled. “Why would you want to leave here?”
Smoke stopped sketching for a moment, to see if the man was really serious. He was. “To continue on with my journey, sir. To visit and sketch the West.”
“Ah! But you have some of the most beautiful scenery in the world right around you. Plus many of the most famous outlaws and gunfighters in the West. You could spend a lifetime here and not sketch it all, could you not?”
“That is true, but two of the people I want to meet and sketch are not here.”
“Oh? And who might those be?”
“The mountain man, Preacher, and the gunfighter, Smoke Jensen.”
The only sign of emotion from the man was a nervous tic under his right eye. “Then you should wait here, Mr. DeBeers, for I believe Jensen is on his way.”
“Oh, really, sir! Then I certainly shall wait. Oh, I’m so excited.”
“Control yourself, Shirley.”
“Oh, yes, sir. Sorry. Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Getting back to this place…The west, from what I have been able to see, is changing almost daily. Settling. Surely this town is known for what it really is?”
Davidson met his eyes. “So?”
“Do you think this will go on forever and ever? As the town becomes known outside of this immediate area, the citizens will eventually grow weary of it and demand that the Army storm the place.”
“Ummm. Yes, you’re probably right. And I have given that much thought of late. But, young man,”—he smiled and held up a finger, breaking his pose—“this town has been here for twenty years and still going. How do you account for that?”
“Well, when you first came here, I suppose there were no others towns nearby. Now all that has changed. Civilization is all around you and closing in. That, sir, is why I wanted to come west now, before the wild West is finally tamed.”
“Ummm. Well, you are a thinking man, Mr. DeBeers, and I like that. There is so little intellectual stimulation to be found around here.” He abruptly stood up. “I am weary of posing.” He walked around to look at the sketch. “Good. Very good. Excellent, as a matter of fact. I thought it would be. I have arranged for you to take your meals at the Bon Ton Café. I will want at least a hundred of your sketches of me. Some with an outside setting. When that is done, to my satisfaction, then you may leave. Good day, Mr. DeBeers.”
Gathering up his pencils and sketch pads, Smoke left the house, which was situated on a flat that sat slightly above the town, allowing Rex a commanding view. As he walked back to his tent, Smoke pondered his situation. Surely, Rex Davidson was insane; but if he was, would that not make all the others in this place mad as well?
And Smoke did not believe that for a moment.
More than likely, Davidson and Dagget and all the others who voluntarily resided in Dead River were not insane. Perhaps they were just the personification of evil, and the place was a human snake pit.
He chose that explanation. Already, people who had committed the most terrible of crimes were saying they were not responsible for their actions because they had been crazy, at the time, before the time, whatever. And courts, mostly back east in the big cities, were accepting that more and more, allowing guilty people to be set free without punishment. Smoke did not doubt for one minute that there were people who were truly insane and could not help their actions.
But he also felt that those types were in the minority of cases; the rest were shamming. If a person were truly crazy, Smoke did not believe that malady could be turned off and on like a valve. If a person were truly insane, they would perform irrational acts on a steady basis, not just whenever the mood struck them.
He knew for an ironclad fact that many criminals were of a high intelligence, and that many were convincing actors and actresses. Certainly smart enough to fool this new thing he’d heard about called psychiatry. Smoke Jensen was a straight-ahead, right-was-right and wrong-was-wrong man, with damn little gray in between. You didn’t lie, you didn’t cheat, you didn’t steal, and you treated your neighbor like you would want to be treated.
And if you didn’t subscribe to that philosophy, you best get clear of men like Smoke Jensen.
As for the scum and filth and perverts in this town of Dead River, Smoke felt he had the cure for what ailed them.
The pills were made of lead.
And the doctor’s name was Smoke Jensen.
11
For one hour each day, Smoke sketched Rex Davidson; the rest of the time was his to spend as he pleased. He took his meals at the Bon Ton—the man who owned the place was wanted for murder back in Illinois, having killed several people by poisoning them—and spent the rest of his time wandering the town, sketching this and that and picking up quite a bit of money by drawing the outlaws who came and went. He made friends with none of them, having found no one whom he felt possessed any qualities that he wished to share. Although he felt sure there must be one or two in the town who could be saved from a life of crime with just a little bit of help.
Smoke put that out of his mind and, for the most part, kept it out. He wanted nothing on his conscience when the lead started flying.
He was not physically bothered by any outlaw. But the taunts and insults continued from many of the men and from a lot of the women who chose to live in the town. Smoke would smile and tip his cap at them, but if they could have read his thoughts, they would have grabbed the nearest horse and gotten the hell out of Dead River.
Brute saw Smoke several times a day but refused to speak to him. He would only grin nastily and make the most obscene gestures.
Smoke saw the three who had shoved him around in Trinidad—Jake, Shorty, and Red—but they paid him no mind.
What did worry Smoke was that the town seemed to be filling up with outlaws. Many more were coming in, and damn few were leaving.
They were not all famous gunfighters and famous outlaws, of course. As a matter of fact, many were no more than two-bit punks who had gotten caught in the act of whatever crimes they were committing and, in a dark moment of fear and fury, had killed when surprised. But that did not make them any less guilty in Smoke’s mind. And then as criminals are prone to do, they grabbed a horse or an empty boxcar and ran, eventually joining up with a gang.
It was the gang leaders and lone-wolf hired guns who worried Smoke the most. For here in Dead River were the worst of the lot of bad ones in a three state area.
LaHogue, called the Hog behind his back, and his gang of cutthroats lived in Dead River. Natick and his bunch were in town, as was the Studs Woodenhouse gang and Bill Wilson’s bunch of crap. And just that morning, Paul Rycroft and Slim Bothwell and their men had ridden in.
The place was filling up with hardcases.
And to make matters worse, Smoke knew a lot of the men who were coming in. He had never ridden any hoot-owl trails with any of them, but their paths had crossed now and then. The West was a large place but relatively small in population, so people who roamed were apt to meet, now and then.
Cat Ventura and the Hog had both given Smoke some curious glances and not just one look but several, and that made Smoke uneasy. He wanted desperately to check to see if his guns were behind the privy. But he knew it would only bring unnecessary attention to himself, and that was something he could do without. He had stayed alive so far by playing the part of a foolish fop and by maintaining a very high visibility. And with only a few days to go, he did not want to break that routine. He spent the rest of the day sketching various outlaws—picking up about a hundred dollars doing so—and checking out the town of Dead River. But there was not that much more to be learned about the place. Since he was loosely watched every waking moment, Smoke had had very little opportunity to do much exploring.