York was facing Natick and two other hard-looking men that Smoke did not know and did not remember seeing in Dead River.
And the crowd was rapidly moving back and away, out of the line of fire.
It was almost a repeat performance of Nappy and his crew. Except that this time a photographer was there and had his equipment set up, and he was ready to start popping whenever the action began.
The town marshal, a notorious bully and killer, was leaning up against the bar watching it all, a faint smile on his face. He was not going to interfere on behalf of either side.
“Mort!” Smoke called.
The marshal turned and faced Smoke, and his face went a shade paler.
“Jensen,” he whispered.
“Either choose a side or get out,” Smoke warned him, clear menace in his voice.
It was a warning and a challenge that rankled the town marshal, but not one he wanted to pick up. Quick with his guns and his fists, boasting that he had killed seven men, Mort’s reputation was merely a dark smudge on the ground when compared to Smoke’s giant shadow.
The marshal nodded and walked outside, turning and going swiftly up the street.
“All right, boys,” York said. “You all know Smoke Jensen. Make your play.”
The three outlaws drew together. One did not even clear leather before Smoke’s guns belched fire and smoke, the slug striking the outlaw in the center of the chest. The second outlaw that Smoke faced managed to get the muzzle free of leather before twin death-blows of lead hammered at his belly and chest.
York’s guns had roared and bucked and slammed Natick against a rear wall of the saloon, down but not quite dead.
Smoke walked to him. “Natick?”
“What do you want, Jensen?” the outlaw gasped.
“I know why you broke with Davidson and the others.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Because you may be a lot of bad things, but you’re no baby killer.”
Natick nodded his bloody head. “Yeah. I couldn’t go along with that. I’m glad it was you boys who done me in. Pull my boots off for me, Jensen?”
Smoke tugged off the man’s boots. One big toe was sticking through a hole in his sock.
“Ain’t that pitiful?” Natick observed. “I’ve stole thousands and thousands of dollars and cain’t even afford to buy a pair of socks.” He cut his eyes to Smoke. “Rex and Dagget’s got some bad ones with them, Jensen. Lapeer, Moore, The Hog, Tustin, Shorty, Red, and Jake. Studs Woodenhouse, Tie Medley, Paul Rycroft, Slim Bothwell, and Brute Pitman. I don’t know where they’re hidin’, Jensen, and that’s the truth. But Davidson plans on rapin’ your woman and then killin’ your kid.”
Natick was whispering low, so only Smoke and York could hear his dying words. The photographer was taking pictures as fast as he could jerk plates and load his dust.
Smoke bent his head to hear Natick’s words, but the outlaw would speak no more. He was dead.
Smoke dug in his own pocket and handed some money to a man standing close by. “You’ll see that he gets a proper burial?”
“I shore will, Mr. Jensen. And it was a plumb honor to see you in action.”
The photographer fired again.
The batwings snapped open and a dirty man charged into the bar, holding twin leather bags. “She’s pure, boys. Assayed out high as a cat’s back. The drinks is on me! Git them damn stiffs outta the way!”
17
John and his sons and daughters and their families looked at the pictures John had sent in from New York, looked at them in horror.
Bodies were sprawling in the street, on the boardwalks, hanging half in and half out of broken windows. One was facedown in a horse trough, another was sprawled in stiffened death beside the watering trough.
And John’s son-in-law, Smoke Jensen, handsome devil that he was, was standing on the boardwalk, calmly rolling a cigarette.
“That’s my Smoke!” Sally said, pointing.
Smoke was wearing his guns cross-draw, and he had another one tucked behind his gunbelt. In another picture, the long-bladed Bowie knife he carried behind one gun could be clearly seen. In still another picture, Smoke was sitting on the edge of the boardwalk, eating an apple. In the left side of the picture, bodies could be seen hanging from the gallows.
John’s stomach felt queasy. He laid the pictures aside and stifled a burp when Sally grabbed them up and began glancing at them.
“There’s a bandage on Smoke’s head,” she noted. “But I can’t see that he was shot anywhere else.”
“Who is that handsome man standing beside him?” Walter’s sister-in-law asked. “He’s so…rugged-looking!”
“Lord, Martha!” her sister exclaimed. “He’s savage-looking!”
“He’s some sort of law enforcement officer,” Walter explained, examining the picture. But his badge is somewhat different from…ah…Smoke’s. Excuse my hesitation, Sister, but I never heard of a man being called Smoke.”
“Get used to it, Walt,” Sally said, a testy note to her statement. After being in the West, with its mostly honest and open and non-pompous people, the East was beginning to grate on her more and more.
Her father picked up on her testiness. “Sally, dearest, it’ll soon be 1882. No one carries a gun around here except the law officers, and many times they don’t even carry a gun, only a club. There hasn’t been an Indian attack in this area in anyone’s memory! We are a quiet community, with plans underway to have a college here; a branch of the state university. We are a community of laws, darling. We don’t have gunfights in the streets. Keene was settled almost a hundred and fifty years ago….”
“Yes, Father,” Sally said impatiently. “I know. 1736, as a matter of fact. It’s a nice, quiet, stable, pleasant little community. But I’ve grown away from it. Father, Mother, all of you…have you ever stood on the Great Divide? Have you ever ridden up in the High Lonesome, where you knew you could look for a hundred miles and there would be no other human being? Have any of you ever watched eagles soar and play in the skies, and knew yours were the only eyes on them? No, no you haven’t. None of you. You don’t even have a loaded gun in this house. None of you women would know what to do if you were attacked. You haven’t any idea how to fire a gun. All you ladies know how to do is sit around looking pretty and attend your goddamn teas!”
John wore a pained expression on his face. Abigail started fanning herself furiously. Sally’s brothers wore frowns on their faces. Her sisters and sisters-in-law looked shocked.
Martha laughed out loud. “I have my teacher’s certificate, Sally. Do you suppose there might be a position for me out where you live?”
“Martha!” her older sister hissed. “You can’t be serious. There are…savages out there!”
“Oh…piddly-poo!” Martha said. She would have liked to have the nerve to say something stronger, like Sally, but didn’t want to be marked as a scarlet woman in this circle.
“We’re looking for a schoolteacher right this moment, Martha,” Sally told her. “And I think you’d be perfect. When Smoke gets here, we’ll ask him. If he says you’re the choice, then you can start packing.”
Martha began clapping her hands in excitement.
“Smoke is a one-man committee on the hiring of teachers?” Jordan sniffed disdainfully.
“Would you want to buck him on anything, Brother?”
Jordan stroked his beard and remained silent. Unusually so for a lawyer.
Smoke and York left Leadville the next morning, riding out just at dawn. They rode north, past Fremont Pass, then cut east toward Breckenridge. No sign of Davidson or Dagget or any of the others with them. They rode on, with Bald Mountain to the south of them, following old trails. They kept Mount Evans to their north and gradually began the winding down toward the town of Denver.