Being also hopelessly in love with Johnny’s older sister, Sarah, Jacoby had at once told the family he would do anything they wanted to help them get even for Johnny’s untimely death. He’d hoped this would endear him to Sarah, but she hadn’t seemed to notice him when he made the offer just after her brother’s funeral. She’d been quiet and kind of off in her own world, as if she was thinking of something else.
Old Angus MacDougal, eaten up with grief and the need for vengeance, had questioned Sheriff Wally Tupper about where Jensen and his friends had been heading after they’d killed his son. Sheriff Tupper had said that one of the men, a Cornelius Van Horne, was a famous Canadian railroad builder.
Angus had done some checking, and afterward he’d sent Carl up to Canada to follow Jensen and his men and to let the old man know when they headed back to the States so he could avenge his son’s death.
He’d told Jacoby to stay out of Jensen’s way, not to brace him or to let him know he was being watched, but just to keep an eye on him and make sure they didn’t leave Canada without Jacoby knowing about it.
Jacoby had done so gladly, sure that no one could have bested Johnny in a fair fight, him being the quickest man with a short gun Carl had ever seen—that is, until the gunfight he’d just now witnessed.
He was watching out the window as Jensen and the three men with him went up against outlaws who outnumbered them two to one. He’d gasped in disbelief when he’d seen the cowboys blow the outriders off their feet without even breaking a sweat.
Hell, he thought, sleeving sweat off his forehead, I was watching Jensen when he drew and I still didn’t see his hand move it was so fast, and the gents with him were just a hair slower, if that.
He didn’t think the outlaws would’ve gotten a single shot off if they hadn’t already had their guns in their hands, and still they hadn’t managed to draw blood from Jensen or any of his friends.
Jacoby shook his head, remembering how many times he’d been tempted over the past six months to just step up to Jensen and draw his gun and shoot the bastard. His stomach grew queasy at the thought of what would have happened had he been so foolish—he’d be lying dead and buried in the godforsaken wilderness above the border, that’s what. He snorted. Hell, as fast as Jensen is and as slow as I am, he’d have had time to build and light himself a cigarette and still could’ve shot me deader’n yesterday’s news.
He turned his head from the sight of the men from the train picking up the dead outlaws’ bodies and stacking them in an empty boxcar, and thought about what he was going to do next. He knew that if he continued on his mission for Angus MacDougal, sooner or later he would have to go up against Jensen and his friends, and that thought scared him half to death.
On the other hand, if he quit now and headed back to Pueblo with his tail between his legs, he was sure Sarah MacDougal would never give him another look—at least not the kind of look he’d want her to give him. She’d more than likely think him a coward and a fool, and would never again give him the time of day.
Damn Johnny to hell, he thought angrily. If he’d just kept his mouth shut and hadn’t tried to play the big man like usual, I wouldn’t be in this mess.
Jacoby looked up as the conductor came down the aisle, telling all the passengers that they would be on their way shortly and that all of their money and valuables would be returned to them at the next stop, thanks to Smoke Jensen and his friends.
“Uh, sir,” Jacoby asked, raising his hand like a schoolkid to get the conductor’s attention.
“Yes, sir?” he asked, stopping next to Carl’s seat.
“Will there be a telegraph at the next stop?” Carl asked, almost hoping the man would say no.
“Why, yes, I believe there is, sir.”
“Thanks,” Carl replied, turning his mind to just what he was going to say to Angus. He knew he’d better warn him about Jensen’s ability with a gun, but he didn’t want to come off sounding like he was afraid of the man, even though the plain truth of the matter was he was more frightened of Jensen than of anything else he could imagine. Carl scrunched down in his seat and pulled his hat down over his eyes. This was going to take some heavy thinking before they got to the next stop if he was going to get it right.
After all, he remembered, Angus MacDougal don’t exactly take kindly to being told he is wrong about anything, and especially not about this.
Angus MacDougal sat on his porch smoking a corncob pipe, still wearing his black mourning suit even though it’d been more than six months since his only son had been shot down in the streets of Pueblo, Colorado.
He glanced up from his reverie at the sound of hoofbeats rapidly approaching his ranch house. He nodded slowly to himself when he recognized the portly figure of Sheriff Wally Tupper riding toward him. Must be some news from Carl, he thought, getting slowly to his feet and stretching to get the kinks out. He felt like he’d aged ten years since Johnny died, but then the death of a loved one will tend to do that to a person, he reasoned as he walked down the porch and waved a greeting at the sheriff.
Tupper climbed down out of the saddle and held up an envelope in his hand as he climbed the steps to the porch. “Got this here wire for you from Carl Jacoby, Angus,” he said, his voice deferential as if he worked for Angus instead of the town of Pueblo. “It came in on the telegraph just this mornin’ and I rode right out here to bring it to you first thing,” Tupper said.
Angus took the paper, his eyebrows knitting together over a scowling face. “What’s it say?” he asked.
“I dunno,” the sheriff replied, his face screwing up in fright. “I wouldn’t presume to read a wire addressed to you, Angus. You know that.”
Angus smiled a halfsmile, reveling in the look of fear and trepidation on the sheriff’s face. He couldn’t help it, he just loved to intimidate other men, especially men who were supposed to be in authority.
“I know you’d better not, Wally,” he said in a low, hard voice. “Now go on into the kitchen and have the cook fix you some coffee while I read this, and then we’ll talk.”
Angus slit the envelope with a thumbnail and pulled out the folded sheet of paper. It was indeed a telegram from Carl Jacoby. Angus squinted his eyes—it looked to be from some pissant town in Minnesota that he’d never heard of before. Sighing at the indignities old age put on him, Angus reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a pair of reading spectacles he’d taken to using in the last year when he found he was unable to read the local newspaper without holding it way out at arm’s length.
The telegram read:
HAVE SEEN JENSEN AND HIS MEN IN ACTION STOP VERY IMPRESSIVE STOP DO NOT THINK THEY WOULD HAVE TO BACKSHOOT ANYONE STOP PLEASE CHECK SITUATION AGAIN BEFORE PROCEEDING STOP SHOULD ARRIVE BIG ROCK SEVEN TO TEN DAYS DEPENDING ON WEATHER END CARL
Angus crumpled up the paper and gritted his teeth so hard his jaw creaked. He whirled around and stomped across the porch and into his house. He found Sheriff Tupper drinking coffee out of a mug and flirting with his Mexican housekeeper, Lupe.
Angus took a deep breath and tried to calm down as Lupe poured him a cup of coffee and put it on the table in front of him.
“Would you excuse us, Lupe?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice soft. “Man talk.”
“Certainly, Señor,” she said, and quickly vanished from the dining room.
Tupper raised his eyebrows when he saw the crumpled sheet of paper in Angus’s hand. “Bad news?” he asked over the rim of his cup.
Angus didn’t answer until he’d gotten to his feet and walked over to the cabinet against the wall. He opened the door, took out a bottle of whiskey, and poured a dollop into his coffee, pointedly not offering any to Tupper.