Ruffians, Smoke thought. He hid his smile. Interesting choice of words to describe the drifters. “I was halfway raised by an old Mountain Man named Preacher. He hung that name on me.”
The drifter called Ford broke wind in death. The shopkeeper’s wife, Peg, thought as though she might faint any second. “Could someone please do something about those poor dead men?” she asked.
Dawn had given way to a bright clear mountain day. A stream of humanity had begun riding and walking toward Fontana. A tough-looking pair of miners riding mules reined up. Their eyes dismissed the Easterners and settled on Smoke. “Trouble?” one asked.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Smoke told him.
“’Pears that way,” the second miner said drily. “Ford Beechan was a good hand with a short gun.” He cut his eyes toward the sprawled body of Ford.
“He wasn’t as good as he thought,” Smoke replied.
“’Pears that’s the truth. We’ll plant ’em for four bits a piece.”
“Deal.”
“And their pockets,” the other miner spoke.
“Have at it,” Smoke told them. “The pilgrims will pay.”
“Now see here!” Ed said starting to protest.
“Shut up, Ed,” Haywood told him. He looked at the miners. “You gentlemen may proceed with the digging.”
“Talks funny,” one miner remarked, getting down and tying his mule. He got a shovel from his pack animal and his partner followed suit.
“You live and work in this area, Mister Smoke?” Mona asked.
One miner dropped his shovel and his partner froze still as stone. The miner who dropped his shovel picked it up and slowly turned to face Smoke. “Smoke Jensen?”
“Yes.”
“Lord God Almighty! Ford shore enuff bit off more than he could chew. Smoke Jensen. My brother was over to Uncompahgre, Smoke. Back when you cleaned it up. He said that shore was a sight to see.”*
Smoke nodded his head and the miners walked off a short distance to begin their digging. “How deep?” one called.
“Respectable,” Smoke told them.
They nodded and began spading the earth.
“Are you a gunfighter, Mister Smoke?” Willow asked. “I’m a rancher and farmer, Ma’am. But I once had the reputation of being a gunhawk, yes.”
“You seem so young,” she observed. “Yet you talk as if it was years ago. How old were you when you became a…gunhawk?”
“Fourteen. Or thereabouts. I disremember at times.” Smoke usually spoke acceptable English, thanks to Sally; but at times he reverted back to Preacher’s dialect.
“He’s kilt more’un a hundred men!” one of the miners called.
The wagon people fell silent at that news. They looked at Smoke with a mixture of horror, fascination, and revulsion in their eyes.
It was nothing new to Smoke. He had experienced that look many times in his young life. He kept his face as expressionless as his cold eyes.
Smoke cut his eyes to Bountiful. “Lady,” he said, exasperation in his voice, his tone hard. “Will you please cover your tits!”
Smoke had seen the remainder of the rancher-farmers in the mountain area and then headed for home. He almost never took the same trail back to his cabin. A habit he had picked up from Preacher. A habit that had saved his life on more than one occasion.
Even though he was less than five miles from his cabin when dark slipped into the mountains, he decided not to chance the ride in. He elected to make camp and head home at first light.
He caught several small fish from a mountain stream and broiled them over a small fire. That and the remainder of Sally’s bread was his supper.
Twice during the night Smoke came fully awake, certain he had heard gunshots. He knew they were far away, but he wondered about it. The last shot he heard before he drifted back to sleep came from the south, far away from Sally and the cabin.
He was up and moving out before full dawn broke. Relief filled him when he caught a glimpse of the cabin, Sally in the front yard. Smoke broke into a grin when he saw how she was dressed…in men’s britches. His eyes mirrored approval when he noted Seven and Drifter in the corral. As he rode closer, he saw the pistol belted around her waist, and the express gun leaning against the door frame, on the outside of the cabin.
Man and wife embraced, each loving the touch and feel of the other. With their mouths barely apart, she saw the darkness in his eyes and asked, “Trouble?”
“Some. A hell of a lot more coming, though. I’ll tell you about it. You?”
“Didn’t see a soul.”
They kissed their love and she pushed him away, mischief in her hazel eyes. “I missed you.”
“Oh? How much?”
“By the time you see to Horse and get in the house, I’ll be ready to show you how much.”
Fastest unsaddling and rub-down in the history of the West.
Passions cooled and sated, she lay with her head on Smoke’s muscular shoulder. She listened as he told her all that had happened since he had ridden from the ranch. He left nothing out.
“Sec anyone that you knew in town? Any newcomers, I mean?”
“Some. Utah Slim. I’m sure it was him.”
“I’ve heard you talk of him. He’s good?”
“One of the best.”
“Better than you?”
“No,” Smoke said softly.
“Anyone else?”
“Monte Carson. He’s a backshooter. Big Mamma O’Neil. Louis Longmont. Louis is all right. Just as long as no one pushes him.”
“And now we have Fontana.”
“For as long as it lasts, yes. The town will probably die out when the gold plays out. I hope it’s soon.”
“You’re holding just a little something back from me, Smoke.”
He hesitated. “Tilden Franklin wants you for his woman.”
“I’ve known that for a long time. Has he made his desires public?”
“Apparently so. From now on, you’re going to have to be very careful.”
She lay still for a moment, silent. “We could always leave, honey.”
He knew she did not wish to leave, but was only voicing their options. “I know. And we’d be running for the rest of our lives. Once you start, it’s hard to stop.”
In the corral, Seven nickered, the sound carrying to the house. Smoke was up and dressed in a moment, strapping on his guns and picking up a rifle. He and Sally could hear the sounds of hooves, coming hard.
“One horse,” Sally noted.
“Stay inside.”
Smoke stepped out the door, relaxing when he saw who it was. It was Colby’s oldest boy, and he was fogging up the trail, lathering his horse.
Bob slid his horse to stop amid the dust and leaped off. “Mister Smoke,” he panted. So the news had spread very fast as to Smoke’s real identity.
“Bob. What’s the problem?”
“Pa sent me. It’s started, Mister Smoke. Some of Tilden’s riders done burned out Wilbur Mason’s place, over on the western ridge. Burned him flat. There ain’t nothing left no where.”
“Anybody hurt over there?”
“No, sir. Not bad, leastways. Mister Wilbur got burned by a bullet, but it ain’t bad.”
“Where are they now?”
“Mister Matlock took the kids. Pa and Ma took in Mister Wilbur and his missus.”
“Where’s your brother?”
“Pa sent him off to warn the others.”
“Go on in the house. Sally will fix you something to eat. I’ll see to your horse.”
Smoke looked toward the faraway Circle TF spread. “All right, Franklin,” he muttered. “If that’s how you want it, get ready for it.”
7
Leaving Bob Colby with Sally, Smoke saddled Drifter, the midnight-black, wolf-eyed stallion. Sally fixed him a poke of food and he stashed that in the saddlebags. He stuffed extra cartridges into a pocket of his saddlebags, and made sure his belt loops were filled. He checked his Henry repeating rifle and returned it to the saddle boot.