Smoke and Cal looked at each other.
“Monte is here?” Smoke asked.
“I guess so, from the way that fella was talkin’,” Cal said. “But I ain’t seen him yet.”
“Let’s see if we can find him,” Smoke suggested.
“Where do you think he might be?”
“My guess would be the sheriff’s office. Seeing as the local sheriff was one of the ones killed, I expect Monte has set up a temporary office there.”
The two men left the saloon, then walked down the street, dark except for the little squares of dim yellow light spilling through the windows of the occupied buildings. When they reached the sheriff’s office, they saw a black bow on the door of the office, put there in memory of the slain Sheriff Tyson. When they went inside they saw Sheriff Carson standing behind a desk, looking at an array of wanted posters which were spread out before him. Standing beside Sheriff Carson was the man who had been deputy to Tyson.
“Hello, Monte,” Smoke said as he and Cal stepped into the room.
Sheriff Carson looked up. “How is Sally?”
Smoke shook his head. “Not good, but she is still alive, and fighting it.”
“Do you know Thad Malcolm? He was Sheriff Tyson’s deputy. Thad, this is Smoke Jensen.”
Malcolm extended his hand. “We’ve never met, but I’ve heard a lot about you. All good,” he added hastily. Then the smile left his face. “I’m awful sorry about your wife, Mr. Jensen. I sure hope she pulls through all right.”
“Thank you, Deputy Malcolm.”
“Smoke, I’ve identified three of the people who did this.” Sheriff Carson pointed to the posters on his desk. “John Putnam. He’s the one that you killed, Cal.” Carson pointed to one of the other posters. “This is Cole Parnell. Putnam and Parnell were serving time together in the state prison at Cañon City. They were both released last month.”
Sheriff Carson picked up another wanted poster, and showed it to Smoke. “This august gentlemen, and believe me, I use that term in the most contemptuous way, is one William Dinkins. According to Mr. Martin and Mrs. McKenzie, Dinkins is the one who killed Mr. Flowers and shot Sally. But, shooting unarmed people in a bank isn’t something new to him. Two months ago, he killed a teller in a botched bank holdup in Buffalo. Last year, Dinkins led a gang of outlaws who robbed the Tucumcari, New Mexico, bank and he shot a twelve-year-old boy who was holding his hands in the air. He is a real prince of a fellow,” Sheriff Carson added sarcastically.
“I’m going to get him, Monte,” Smoke said. “He shot my wife, and whether Sally lives or dies, I’m going to get Dinkins.”
A young man stepped into the sheriff’s office. “Excuse me, Sheriff. Do you know where I might find Mr. Smoke Jensen?”
“I’m Smoke Jensen.” Apprehension was apparent in his voice.
“Mr. Jensen, Doctor Gunther sent me to find you. He said to tell you Mrs. Jensen is awake and is asking about you.”
“Thank you!” Smoke practically shouted the words as he was already on his way almost before the boy could finish his report.
Smoke ran down the street to the doctor’s office and, as he had before, took the steps up the side of the hardware store two at a time. He barged into the office, again without knocking, but it didn’t disturb Dr. Gunther, who was expecting him.
“She is conscious,” Dr. Gunther said.
Smoke hurried to Sally’s side. “I thought I taught you to duck,” he said, taking her hand in his.
Sally smiled. “Smoke, what are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? Did you think I would stay at the ranch, once I learned you had been shot?”
“I’ve been shot?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Oh, yes,” Sally said, her voice weak. “I’d nearly forgotten that.”
Smoke chuckled. “You’re quite a woman, Sally, if you can be shot and nearly forget it.”
“Oh! The two thousand dollars! I threw it! I don’t know what happened to it.”
“Tamara has it.”
“I’m glad.”
Smoke raised Sally’s hand to his lips and kissed it.
“Is that the best you can do?” she asked. “That’s the way you greet some old lady at a party.”
“I don’t want to do anything that will hurt you.”
“I’m not made out of glass.”
Smiling, Smoke leaned over to kiss her on her forehead, but when she pursed her lips, he knew she wanted a real kiss, so he obliged her.
“Maybe if the other folks would leave, I could climb up on the table beside you,” Smoke suggested.
Sally laughed out loud, then winced in pain and put her hand to her wound.
“Oh, Sally, I’m sorry,” Smoke apologized.
“Don’t be ridiculous. That was a perfectly outrageous thing for you to say.” She smiled. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Laramie
The saloon was relatively quiet, with only a couple tables full. A bar girl, finding the pickings slim, was leaning against the wall next to the piano, talking to the bald headed piano player. Wes Harley stood alone at the far end of the bar, nursing a drink. Four at a table were playing cards.
A couple cowboys came into the saloon, laughing and talking, brushing the dust from their clothes. When they noticed Harley, and the hairless skull that was his head, they stopped in mid-conversation to stare at him. He looked back with an unblinking stare of his own.
“What’ll it be, gents?” the bartender asked.
The cowboys continued to stare.
“You boys just goin’ to stand there and gawk? Or are you going to order?”
“Oh,” one of them said. “Uh, two beers.”
“Two beers it is,” the bartender replied. He turned to draw the beers. As soon as he put the beers in front of the two young men, they picked them up and held them to their lips, drinking with Adams apple bobbing swallows, until all the beer was gone. With a mighty sigh of satisfaction, they put the glasses back down and swiped the backs of their hands across their lips.
“One more,” one of the boys said.
“You boys have quite a thirst on you,” the bartender said. “Been ridin’ long, have you?”
“Yes, sir, we have,” the taller of the two answered. “We’ve been on the trail for nearly three weeks. Come up from Texas, we did.”
“Did you now?” The bartender put two new beers in front of them. “That’s a long ride. What brings you to Laramie?”
“We’re lookin’ to get on with a ranch up here.”
“Texas,” Harley hissed. He continued to stare into his glass as he spoke, not bothering to look over at the two young cowboys.
“You got somethin’ against Texas, mister?” one of the young men challenged.
“You rode a long way for nothin’,” Harley said. “If I was you, I’d turn around and head back. There ain’t no self-respectin’ rancher from Wyoming goin’ to hire trash from Texas.” He continued to stare into his glass.
“Mister, I don’t appreciate bad talk about Texas.” The young man’s level of irritation rose.
“You don’t have to talk bad about Texas,” Harley said. “All you have to do is mention the name. That’s bad enough.”
“Danny, leave it be,” the other boy said.
“The hell I will,” Danny said. “You don’t want any part of this, Andy, you just stand aside. But I don’t figure on lettin’ this hairless son of a bitch talk bad about Texas and not do nothin’ about it.”
“Tell you what,” Andy said. “Looks to me like we’re just gettin’ off on the wrong foot here. If we’re goin’ to work up here, we can’t be makin’ enemies the first day. Bartender, give our new friend here a beer, on me.”
“Mr. Harley?” the bartender asked uneasily. “Do you want another beer?”
“Not if some Texas trash bought it,” Harley replied.
“What is it with you, mister?” Danny asked angrily. “Here my pard is tryin’ to be real friendly with you, and you’re actin’ like that. You know what? Somebody needs to take you down a notch or two. And I might just be that somebody.”