“Burgess has been hit! What’ll we do now, Red?”
“Shoot ’im! Shoot ’im!”
At least three pistols began firing from the darkness and Smoke was able to return fire, shooting slightly above and to the right of the flame patterns. Two of the men went down, but the third disappeared. A moment later he heard the thunder of hoofbeats as the last would-be train robber galloped away.
Smoke ran down the berm and, bending over and keeping alert, started toward where he thought the two assailants would be. He found the first one lying on the rocks. His eyes were open and fixed, and a quick look confirmed that he was dead. Smoke heard a low groan from the sagebrush, and holding his pistol at the ready, moved to the sound.
“Where are you?” he called.
“Here,” a weak voice replied.
Seeing him then, Smoke realized at once that the man represented no danger. Returning his pistol to his holster, he hurried over to him.
“Who are you?” Smoke asked.
“The name is McDill. I’m gut-shot. Please help me, I’m gut-shot.”
Smoke dropped to a knee beside the man, but one look was all it took to tell him that the man was a goner.
“I’m afraid there’s not much I can do for you, McDill,” Smoke said.
“I’m dyin’, ain’t I?”
“Yes,” Smoke said.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Coleman told us it would be easy. We would just take the ...” the man gasped, then died with a long, life-surrendering rattle.
“Smoke! Smoke, where are you?” It was Sally’s voice and there was a worried sound to it.
“I’m all right, Sally, I’m down here,” Smoke called back.
“I’ll come down,” Sally said.
“No need for you to do that. I’m coming up,” Smoke replied as he climbed back up the steep slope of the berm.
When he reached the top of the berm he saw that Sally was holding a pistol, and he knew it wasn’t a foolish show. Had she been needed, Sally would have acquitted herself well, because she could shoot as well any man, and much better than most.
By now the engineer had climbed down from the cab and stood looking down at the body of the fireman.
“Are you all right?” Smoke asked.
“Yes, sir, I’m fine,” the engineer said. “They didn’t have no business killin’ Jerry. All he was doin’ was puttin’ water into the tank.”
“If you can help me, we’ll put him up in the cab until we reach the next town,” Smoke said.
“Thanks. We’d better hurry though,” the engineer said. He took out his pocketwatch and looked at it. The next train is due within half an hour, we need to be out of the way.”
“Where’s the nearest sheriff?” Smoke asked.
“Las Animas. It’s about fifteen miles farther down the track,” the engineer said.
“We’ll tell the sheriff about the other three bodies out here. I expect he will want to come out and pick them up.”
“Ha!” the engineer said. “I wouldn’t doubt but what there’s a reward on these galoots, and it’ll be owed to you.”
“Does your friend have a family?” Smoke asked, indicating the fireman.
“Yes, sir,” the fireman said. “Jerry had him a wife and two kids. He was just tellin’ me about the kids talkin’ about Santa Claus and all.”
“If there is any reward, see to it that it goes to her.”
The engineer nodded. “Yes, sir, that’s mighty kind of you.”
Red Coleman had been riding hard since the bungled cattle robbery attempt. He slowed to a walk to give his horse a rest, then looked back over his shoulder. He had come at least two miles, maybe more, from the track and he was sure nobody was after him. He wasn’t sure who it was he had tangled with back there, but whoever it was was damn deadly with a pistol. And, as he recalled from the failed bank robbery, Smoke Jensen was deadly with a pistol, so it wouldn’t surprise him if it had been Smoke Jensen.
“All right, Mr. Smoke Jensen,” Coleman said aloud. “If I can’t take a fourth of your cows, I’ll figure out a way to take every damn one of them.”
Cimarron River, Indian Territory, November 17
Clay Ramsey and his party were camped on the north side of the Cimarron. They had passed through both the Choctaw and Creek nations without any difficulty, and now were in Osage territory. They had no cattle with them so had not experienced any tolls being collected. Clay had brought along three extra horses with him to give to the Indians if that became necessary, but so far he had not had to part with any of them.
They were sitting around a campfire, having had a good supper of chili verde and tortillas. For dessert they had sopapillas with molasses.
“I tell you what,” Dusty said. “I been trailin’ man and boy for near forty years now, and I’ve never had trail food like this. Most of the time we have nothin’ but beans and chuck wagon chicken.”
“Chuck wagon chicken?” Maria repeated with a little chuckle.
“He means bacon, ma’am,” Mo said.
“Would you play the guitar for us, Señor Dusty?” Maria asked.
“Yes, ma’am, it would be my privilege,” Dusty said. He walked over to the hoodlum wagon and, moving aside some of the gear, pulled out his guitar. Returning to the campfire, he checked the tuning, then pausing for a moment, began to play. The lower strings provided a steady rhythmic beat while the higher strings, plucked by quick and nimble fingers, brought out the melody, like a fine, golden thread woven through a rich piece of tapestry.
Clay wrapped his arm around Maria and she leaned into him as the music lifted from the guitar, as if following the glowing red sparks that danced their way up on the column of heated air until they became lost among the stars.
“Where did you learn to play the guitar like that, Dusty?” Clay asked.
“I spent some time at sea,” Dusty said. “Wasn’t much to do on board one of those ships, and there was a Spanish fella that could play the guitar. I talked him into teaching me, and I’ve been playin’ it ever since.”
“This is by a fella named Bach,” Dusty said. “Never learned the name of the piece though,” he added.
Dusty began playing and when he was finished Tom complimented him on it. “Beautiful,” he said. “And the piece you just played is called Prelude in D.”
“Damn, I’ll have to remember that,” Dusty said.
Dusty played a few more songs, then Clay and Maria crawled into the chuck wagon to go to bed. Dusty put away his guitar and threw out his bedroll close to the fire which, though the flames had died down, still retained much of its heat.
Mo and Dalton stayed up talking, long into the night.
“What was it like growing up in an orphanage?” Dalton asked.
“It wasn’t just any orphanage,” Mo said. “It was an orphanage run by nuns.”
“Did you like it?”
“I liked having a place to sleep and food to eat,” Mo said. “And I reckon I got more of an education than lots of folks do. But I wasn’t that keen on all the praying and Bible reading.” Mo chuckled. “I’ll bet I know the Bible better than most preachers.”
“Did you ever think of becoming a preacher?”
“Sister Mary Katherine wanted me to become a priest,” Mo said.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I like drinking, and I like women,” Mo said. “Also I never quite got a handle on that turn your other cheek thing. No thank you. I got turned out of the orphanage when I was sixteen, and I’ve been on my own ever since. And I like it that way.”
“Where did you learn to shoot like you do?”
“It was just something I wanted to do,” Mo said. “So I practiced a lot. Anybody can get good with practice.”
“I’ve been practicing too,” Dalton said. “But I’m not near as good as you are.”