She went out behind the saloon to Emma’s crib, which was the second from the end, and knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” Emma called.
“Emma, honey, it’s me. Wanda. Is Mr. Harley in there with you?”
A second later the door opened, and Harley stood there, wearing only his pants and boots. Wanda had never been with Harley and for a second, she was struck dumb seeing just how hairless his body was. Even though Emma had said, “He doesn’t even have hair around his pecker. You should see him. He is as hairless as a baby,” she really wasn’t prepared for what she was seeing.
“What is it?” Harley asked gruffly. “What do you want?”
“There is someone who wants to meet you in the street,” Wanda said.
“What do you mean, meet me in the street?”
“I think he wants to have a gunfight with you.”
To her surprise, Harley smiled. “Well now, a gunfight. Good. It was getting a little boring around here. Who is it?”
“I don’t have any idea,” Wanda lied.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Word had spread, not just through the saloon, but all through town, that someone had challenged Wes Harley to a gunfight in the street. The name of the man who had challenged him, Dixon informed the others, was Buck West, a long-ago resident of Risco.
“Why does this West fella want to go up agin’ Harley for?” someone asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe he just wants to make a name for himself. Whoever kills Wes Harley is goin’ to be famous, that’s for sure.”
“No. What you mean is, whoever goes up agin’ Wes Harley is goin’ to be dead. And that’s what’s about to happen here. We’re about to see this Buck West fella get hisself kilt by Wes Harley.”
Outlaw Way was lined on both sides with spectators, as every resident of Risco had turned out to watch the gunfight.
Smoke was standing in front of the saloon. He felt a little exposed. No doubt there were people in the crowd who had one reason or another to want him dead. But there was also an intense interest running through the crowd, the excitement of seeing a gunfight take place between two men who had far-reaching reputations as to their skills with a pistol.
“Here comes Harley!” someone shouted, and the excitement of the crowd grew more pronounced.
Someone had told Smoke that Wes Harley looked like a walking skeleton, and he thought that description was apt. Harley was a gangly-looking man, that was true, but it wasn’t the fact that he was skinny, as much as that he was hairless, and his head really did look like a skull.
He walked into the middle of the street in front of the general store. He stood, not facing Smoke, but with his side to him, presenting much less of a target that way.
“Before I kill you, mister, you want to tell me who you are?” Harley asked.
“The name is Jensen. Smoke Jensen.”
Smoke’s name arced through the crowd, from man to man, like an electric spark jumping between the telegraph key and the sounder.
“Smoke Jensen!”
“Jensen!”
“If there is anyone who could face Harley even up, it would be Jensen.”
“I hope he kills Harley. I haven’t liked that son of a bitch since he got here.”
“Hell, I wish they would just kill each other.”
Laughter greeted the last comment.
“Folks! Folks, let me have your attention!” Judge Webb shouted, stepping into the street between Smoke and Harley. He held his arms up in the air. “Your attention, please!”
“You got our attention, Judge. Say whatever it is you are a’plannin’ on sayin’,” someone from the crowd called back.
“Mr. Jensen came to me a little while ago. He has assured me he is not here in pursuit of bounty, nor does he want to arrest anyone. Oddly enough, his fight is not with Harley, but with Dinkins, and Frank and Travis Slater, they being the men who shot his wife. But, I pointed out that I do not think he can get to them without going through Mr. Harley, thus bringing about the confrontation we are all about to witness.
“I’m going to say now that if anyone in the crowd violates the integrity of this duel, I will see to it that you join Mr. Marlow in hanging from the tree.”
“So,” Harley said. “You are the famous Mr. Smoke Jensen. Yes, sir, killing you is going to be quite a feather in my cap.”
Smoke said nothing.
“You have nothing to say to me, Mr. Jensen?” Harley came down hard on the word mister.
“I’m not here to have a conversation with you, Harley. I’m here to kill you,” Smoke said calmly.
Because of the way Harley was standing, presenting his left side to Smoke, his gun hand was hidden. Smoke couldn’t be sure when Harley started his draw. When he saw Harley twist around toward him, he realized Harley had already pulled his gun, getting it out stealthily as they were talking.
Harley fired even as Smoke was drawing, but the bullet missed, flying past his ear with a loud pop. Smoke returned fire and didn’t miss.
Harley went down on his back, his arms extended on either side, his gun sliding out several inches from his hand.
Smoke held the smoking pistol in his hand for a moment longer. When he was convinced Wes Harley was dead, he holstered his pistol.
Several of the crowd gathered around Harley, looking down at him with morbid curiosity, thus leaving Smoke standing alone, several feet away.
“Mr. Jensen?” The woman who called out to him was short, fat, and aging.
“Yes?”
“You don’t remember me, Mr. Jensen, but my name is Wanda. I met you once many years ago when you were playing cards in a saloon where I was working.”
Smoke smiled, and touched the brim of his hat. “Well, it’s nice to see you again, Wanda.”
“Thank you, but I’m not trying to call back old memories or anything. I understand you are looking for Dinkins and his men?”
“Yes, I am. Do you know where they are?”
“They rode out of town about fifteen minutes ago, soon as they heard your name.”
It wasn’t hard to pick up the trail of three horses moving quickly. Smoke was too far back, and they were moving too fast for him to catch a glimpse of them, but he didn’t need to see them to know where they were going. The trail was leading into a canyon. Black Canyon.
One of the steepest, darkest, and most rugged of all canyons, Black Canyon was formed by the Gunnison River as it flowed through hard ancient rocks at the western edge of the Rocky Mountains on its way to joining the Colorado River at Grand Junction. Smoke had been there before. He knew the canyon walls, composed of volcanic schist, were predominantly black in color, and because the gorge reached a depth of over 2,000 feet and because it was no more than 1,500 feet across, the walls seldom received any direct sunlight. For that reason it was called Black Canyon.
Smoke was a little leery as he approached the canyon. He knew it would be an ideal place for the outlaws to set up an ambush. He stopped for a moment and listened hard, trying to hear anything from ahead ... the whicker of a horse, a voice, even the scratch of iron-shod hooves on stone. If there had been any sound, it should have carried to him quite easily, as the canyon walls had the effect of a megaphone.
But, listen though he did, he could hear nothing.
He reached down and patted his horse on the neck. “What do you think, Seven? You up to going in there?”
Seven whickered, as if he understood what Smoke was saying. The horse was exceptionally intelligent with an innate awareness of things. Smoke knew that Seven sensed danger, but he also knew the horse wouldn’t falter.
Smoke took a deep breath and pulled his rifle from the saddle sheath, then started into the canyon. He hadn’t ridden more than one hundred yards into the canyon before Seven stopped.