He returned fire, his bullet catching the would-be assailant in his throat, knocking him onto the table behind him. The table turned over, dumping Barlow to the floor. Unaware of that, Smoke had already turned his attention back to Slim.
Slim fired at Smoke, his bullet crashing into the beer mug Smoke had just put down. Smoke returned fire and Slim dropped his pistol, then clasped his hand over his wound. The blood pooled up behind his hand, then spilled over as his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell.
Smoke stood his ground, holding a smoking pistol as he looked around the room. He didn’t think there was any more danger, but he wasn’t prepared to turn his back on it, just yet. There were only four other people in the saloon, three men and one bar girl. The men’s faces all reflected surprise and even a little excitement over what they had just witnessed. The woman’s face showed surprise and fear.
Smoke put the pistol away just as he heard the fall of running footsteps outside. A man wearing a badge burst into the saloon. “Someone want to tell me what happened here?”
“These two men tried to kill me,” Smoke said. “They shot first and missed. I shot back and didn’t miss.”
“So, you are telling me that two of them shot first, but you still managed to kill them?”
“He’s tellin’ it true, Deputy Burns,” the bartender said.
“Absolutely true,” one of the other men said.
“You others agree?”
“Deputy, Mr. Barlow started shooting first. For no reason at all that I could see,” the bar girl said. “Then Mr. Jensen shot back, and it was while Mr. Jensen was shooting at Mr. Barlow, that Slim started shooting. So Mr. Jensen turned around and shot him too.”
“Jensen?” the deputy asked. “Are you Smoke Jensen?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Jensen, the telegrapher is looking for you. He stopped by the marshal’s office about ten minutes ago, askin’ if we knew where you were.”
Smoke didn’t even bother to answer the deputy. He took off on a dead run toward the railroad depot.
“Don’t worry none about this!” the deputy called to him. “Ain’t goin’ to be no charges!”
Smoke did not stop running when he went inside the depot. He ran through the waiting room, and to the back corner where there was a Western Union sign.
“My, you seem to be in quite a hurry,” the telegrapher said. “Is what you have to say that important ?”
“I’m Smoke Jensen. Do you have a telegram for me?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Jensen. Just a moment.” The telegrapher leafed through some of the messages he had on the counter in front of him, then came up with what he was looking for. “Here it is.”
SMOKE CAN YOU COME HOME QUICK MISS SALLY IS TOOK SOME WORSE
PEARLIE
“Any reply, Mr. Jensen?” the telegrapher asked.
Hastily, Smoke wrote out an answer, then left it and the money on the counter in front of the telegrapher. He didn’t bother to wait for his change.
I AM COMING NOW
Luckily, both Parlin and Big Rock were on the railroad, which meant Smoke could be back home much faster than if he returned by horseback. But the next train wasn’t due for four more hours, then it would be three hours on the train until he reached Big Rock.
Pittsburg
The printer took the first impression off his press and looked at it.
WANTED
FOR MURDER
SMOKE JENSEN
$5,000 REWARD
DEAD OR ALIVE
to be paid by
Sheriff of La Plata County
“You sure I’m not going to get into trouble for this?” the printer asked.
“Get in trouble for what?” Dinkins replied.
“You know for what. I don’t believe for one minute that Smoke Jensen is wanted for murder.”
“What difference does it make to you whether he is wanted or not? How much would you normally get for printing five hundred of these things?”
“Five dollars,” the printer admitted.
“I’m giving you one hundred dollars,” Dinkins said. “Seems to me like anyone getting one hundred dollars for a five-dollar job would not be all that anxious to look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“What are you going to do with these posters?”
“That’s none of your concern,” Dinkins answered.
“Just don’t tell anyone where you got them,” the printer said as he accepted five twenty-dollar bills.
With the five hundred wanted posters in hand, Dinkins rode back out of town where the others were camping. He had not told them why he was going into town so they were curious when he returned.
“We’ve got some work to do,” Dinkins said as he opened the package containing the posters. He pulled one out and held it up to show to the others. “We are going to plaster these posters all over the place.”
“Whoa, we can’t pay no five thousand dollars just to have Jensen kilt,” Travis Slater said. “I thought you said we was only goin’ to pay one thousand dollars.”
“Yeah, but that’s before I got the idea of having the state pay for it,” Dinkins replied.
“What do you mean? Is Jensen wanted for murder?”
“Not as far as I know,” Dinkins said.
“But that’s what this poster says.”
Dinkins chuckled. “Yeah, don’t it?”
“But if he ain’t wanted for murder, and somebody kills him and brings him in, there won’t be no money paid at all.”
“There you go, Travis. You’re smarter than I thought you were,” Dinkins said.
“Ha! Good idea, Little Brother,” Harley said. “There are bounty hunters all over the state who will shoot first, and ask questions second.”
“Let’s get these things posted,” Dinkins said, dividing them up and passing them out to the others.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
On the train from Parlin to Big Rock
Nervously, Smoke paced up and down in the train, going from the front car to the rear car, two or three times during the trip. What, exactly, did Pearlie mean when he said she was “took some worse?”
Finally he forced himself to sit down and stare through the window at the passing countr yside. Smoke watched a coyote spring up, then run for several yards, easily keeping pace with the train. In the distance he saw antelope grazing and once he saw a big horn sheep, standing on a precipice, looking out over the world.
After three hours on the train, Smoke started seeing countryside that was familiar to him. Recognizing that they were getting close to Big Rock, he got more anxious.
What would he find when he got home?
When the train ground to a stop ten minutes later, Smoke was the first one off. He hurried up to the stock car and was standing impatiently as the railroad liveryman slid open the door.
“Hurry, man, hurry,” Smoke said.
“I have to wait until they bring the ramp.”
“No you don’t. Seven!” Smoke called. He whistled. “Seven, come down boy!”
Seven, who was already saddled, appeared in the doorway.
“Come on down, boy,” Smoke called.
Seven measured the distance, then jumped, landing easily. Before the liveryman could even comment, Smoke mounted and, slapping his legs against the side of his horse, left the depot at a gallop. Though Smoke wanted to gallop all the way, he knew Seven could not sustain a gallop for more than a mile or two. But he could maintain a rapid trot, if given a few walks, for fifteen miles or so. He had only eight miles to go, so he slowed Seven from a gallop, to a brisk trot. It took him less than half an hour to reach Sugarloaf.
As he rode into the front yard he saw Dr. Colton’s surrey parked out front. He didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad sign. He told himself it was a good sign. If the doctor was there, that meant that Sally was still alive.