Over supper, Huggie said, “Del Rovare is a day behind me. I told him what was happenin’ up here and he quick started windin’ up his business and he’ll be along.”
“I haven’t laid eyes on Del since…why, it’s got to be before Nicole was murdered.”
Those around the table fell silent as everybody remembered how Smoke Jensen went after the men who had molested and murdered his wife and son.
“I come through that part of the country some years back, Smoke,” Huggie said. “That land is bein’ farmed by a real nice couple and they’re doin’ well. I told them the story of the graves. They musta come in right after you left. They been takin’ care of Nicole and the baby’s restin’ place. Flowers all the time around the graves.”
Smoke nodded his head. “Good,” he said softly, then excused himself and walked out onto the porch.
Conny started to rise to join him and Sally touched his arm. “No. Let him alone. Nicole and Smoke had a special relationship. Part of him will always belong to her memory. And that’s the way it should be. It was a terrible thing what those men did to her and a tiny baby.”
“Did Smoke really stake one of them out over a big anthill and pour honey on him?” Ted asked.
“Yes, he did. He also gelded another and cauterized the wound with a hot running iron.”
Several of the cowboys suppressed a shudder at just the thought of that.
“He must have been some riled up,” Conny said.
“When my husband gets riled up, Conny,” Sally said, “believe me, you’ll know it.”
By the end of the week, Smoke figured that all the new-hired gunslicks that was coming in, were in. And the names were impressive. One-eyed Shaw, Curly Bob Kennedy, Stew Lee, Purdy Wilson, Phil Dickinson. There were other lesser-known gunhands, but all were good at their trade.
Del Rovare had ridden in, looking about as old as God, but still rawhide tough, nimble, and very, very fast on the shoot. He owned a ranch down in Wyoming, the D/R brand. But when a friend was in trouble, Del buckled on his guns and saddled up for the ride.
And it was rumored that Buckskin Deevers was on Clint’s payroll. If that was true, Clint had sunk to new lows, for Buckskin was just about as sorry as any man who ever lived. There was nothing he wouldn’t do.
Smoke personally knew some of the gunhands that Clint had hired, and felt that if he could talk to them, a few might just pull out. With that thought in mind, Smoke rode into Blackstown one week after Jud Howes had pulled out and Bronco Ford had been named foreman at the Circle 45. The hitchrails in front of the saloon were lined with horses, some with brands Smoke had never seen, many wearing the Circle 45 brand. He paid a visit to Harris Black before heading for the saloon.
“I was hoping my eyes were deceiving me,” the sheriff said. “But I might have known you couldn’t stay away from a fight.”
Smoke smiled at the man and took a seat. “Actually, Harris, I came to town to talk to some of those men over there. I know a few of them.”
“So you convince two or three of them to ride out. My brother will just hire more. What will you have accomplished?”
“Why do I get the feeling that you are not in a real good mood?”
“I got fifteen hired guns belly up to the bar over at the saloon. The word I get is that they’re under orders to shoot any Double D rider they see. I can’t prove that, but that’s the word I get from several sources, including the bartender, who is so scared of my brother he’d walk on fire before he’d testify to that in any court of law. Now you ride in just as bold as brass and tell me that you’re going over to that saloon to talk to some of those tanked-up hired guns. You’re right, Smoke. I’m not in a real good mood.”
“Who’s over there, Harris?”
“I don’t know all of them. But I did see Tall Mosley, Little John Perkins, and Paul Stark. I spent half the morning sendin’ out wires to sheriff’s offices all over the west. There isn’t a warrant out for any of them. Except for Buckskin Deevers and he isn’t about to show his face in town.”
“Sheriff, I don’t want a lot of bullets flying around the main street of town. If you tell me to haul it out of here, I’ll leave without a word.”
Harris shook his head. “I can’t do that. Hell, I won’t do that. But I tell you what I will do. I’ll walk over there with you. It’s right at noon and a cold beer would taste good before I grab something to eat.”
“Let’s do it.”
Harris stood up, checked another pistol for loads, and shoved it behind his belt. He checked his other Colt and then smiled thinly at Smoke. “I believe in insurance. You loaded up six and six?”
“I’m full.”
“I think both of you are crazy!” Deputy Simpson said, moving to the gun rack. “Sheriff, you want any of us to come with you totin’ shotguns?”
“No. Just stay handy in case the lead starts flyin’.”
The men stepped out to the boardwalk and stood for a moment. “What does it say in the Bible about Daniel in the lion’s den?” Harris said.
“I don’t know. But he made it out.”
“Let’s hope we’ll be so lucky.”
“I think God had something to do with Daniel getting out.”
“I had a feeling a month ago I should start goin’ to church more often.”
Smoke chuckled and stepped off the boardwalk, the sheriff right beside him. Citizens and shoppers started ducking inside buildings. The wide main street suddenly became deserted.
23
The two men pushed open the batwings and stepped inside the saloon, walking shoulder to shoulder. Once inside, from long habit, they moved apart. The place was filled to overflowing with gawkers, ne’er-do-wells, gamblers, and hired guns. The hum of conversation died as the two men were noticed.
Smoke leaned against the wall and surveyed the situation through cool eyes, his gaze stopping at Tall Mosley. “Been a while, Tall.”
“Several years, Smoke,” the long, lanky gunfighter said. “Down around Boulder Creek, I think it was.”
“That’s right.” He shifted his eyes to Little John Perkins. “John.”
“Jensen,” the little gunslick said. “You finally stuck your nose into something that you can’t handle, didn’t you?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, John. I’m still here.”
Paul Stark turned and put his back to the bar. He stood smiling at Smoke. “Ain’t seen you in two-three years, Jensen. You lookin’ prosperous.”
“I’m well.”
“Your family?”
“They’re fine.”
“I heard your wife is here.”
“Out at the Double D.”
Paul’s smile was not pretty. He straightened and dropped his hands to the butts of his guns. “I been lookin’ forward to this. Ever since I first laid eyes on that wife of yours. When you’re cold in the ground, Jensen, I’ll lift the skirts of that pretty woman of yourn. I’ll strip her nekked and see how she likes it rough.”
Smoke shot him. He did not change expression, nor blink an eye. He just pulled, cocked, and fired before anyone could move a muscle. The bullet took the gunfighter in the center of the chest and Paul Stark was dead before his butt hit the floor. No one saw when he pulled his second gun.
“He had no right to say that about your wife,” a Circle 45 hired gun said. “I might be shootin’ at you ’fore long, Jensen. But I’ll not say a word about a good woman.”
“Paul raped a woman down in New Mexico a couple of years ago,” another man said. “I never did have no use for him.”
Smoke eased the hammers down on his .44s and a sigh could be heard from the crowd. A few of those who had witnessed the blinding speed and deadly accuracy of Smoke Jensen would finish their drinks and ride on. No amount of money was worth dying for.