“Indians after you, are they?” he teased.
“Indians?”
“The way you were barreling up the road there, I thought a pack of wild Indians might be chasing you.”
“Oh, pooh. Automobiles are made to drive fast.”
“Of course, why didn’t I think of that?” Smoke replied with a chuckle. “You got ’nything you need carried in?” Smoke asked.
“Two bags of groceries in the backseat,” Sally said, opening the door to get one bag. Smoke came out to carry the second.
“I picked up the mail down at the mailbox,” Sally said. “You got a letter from the University of Colorado.”
“Maybe they want me to come play on their football team,” Smoke teased.
Not until the groceries were put away did Smoke read the letter.
Mr. Kirby Jensen
Sugarloaf Ranch
Big Rock, Colorado
Dear Mr. Jensen:
I am a professor of history at the University of Colorado, and I am currently doing research on some of the pioneers of the early days of our state. I wonder if I could persuade you to come to Boulder to be interviewed. I am particularly interested in direct information regarding two of our more colorful characters: a man named “Preacher” and another named John Jackson. I believe you knew both of them.
The University would be happy to offset any expenses you might incur in responding to this request.
Yours Truly,
Jacob Armbruster, Ph.D.
Smoke showed the letter to Sally.
“What do you think?” he asked. “Should I go?”
“Yes, of course you should go. How often have I heard you comment about something you’ve read about our past, that you know is wrong? This would give you the opportunity to make certain that the facts are correct.”
“Yes, I guess you’re right. Okay, I’ll take the truck in to . . .”
“You most certainly will not take the truck,” Sally said resolutely. “Didn’t the Rocky Mountain News recently declare you to be one of Colorado’s leading citizens? How would it look if you drove onto campus in that ugly old truck. We will take the car.”
“We will take the car?”
“Yes, I’m going with you,” Sally said with a smile. “I would dearly love to do some shopping in Boulder.”
“I’d better tell Pearlie we’re going to be gone for a few days, so he can keep an eye on things.”
“I’ll get us packed.”
Boulder, Colorado—October 1923
Smoke and Sally checked into a hotel the night before he was to meet with Professor Armbruster. There were several college students in the lobby, the boys were wearing raccoon coats, and the girls had on cloche hats and dresses with short skirts. Some of the young girls were smoking, their cigarettes held in long cigarette holders.
Someone said something, and there was a loud burst of laughter. The hotel clerk apologized.
“These young people today,” the clerk said. “They seem to have no respect or regard for ladies and gentlemen of riper age, like yourself. But you and Mrs. Jensen will be on the top floor, so you won’t be able to hear them.”
“Ehh? What did you say, sonny?” Smoke asked, cupping his right ear and leaning forward.
“Smoke, stop that!” Sally scolded. But she couldn’t help but laugh at his antics.
“Smoke?” the hotel clerk said. “You are Smoke Jensen?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, sir, what an honor it is to have you at our hotel. If there is anything you need, please, just let me know. The telephone in your room will connect you directly with the front desk.”
The clerk banged on the little bell with the palm of his hand. “Front!” he called, and a moment later a young man wearing the uniform of a bellhop arrived.
“Take Mr. and Mrs. Smoke Jensen to Room 406, please,” he said. “Oh, and, sir, there is a radio in your room so that you may enjoy the broadcasts.”
The bellhop escorted them to their room, carrying their luggage, and received a generous tip. Sally waited until he left before she turned to Smoke.
“That was awful, what you did to that poor clerk, pretending you couldn’t hear.” Her chastisement was ameliorated, however, by a broad smile.
“Don’t you think he expected something like that? I mean, after all, we are of riper years,” Smoke said.
“Oh, hush,” Sally said, laughing. She turned on the radio, then began singing along with the song.
Smoke walked over to the window and looked out over the bright lights of the city. On the street below cars were moving steadily, forming a long streak of white lights in one direction and red lights in the other. Behind him, a little box was playing music, broadcast from some remote place. They had come here from Big Rock by automobile, traveling fast enough to cover in one hour a distance that took a full day when he first arrived in Colorado.
Tomorrow he was going to discuss Preacher and John Jackson. What in the world would they think if they could be here, right now, standing beside him looking through this same window?
“How on God’s earth can anyone stand all this noise and congestion? Who could live here more than a day?”
“What?” Sally asked.
Smoke chuckled. “I didn’t realize I had said that aloud. I was just thinking about what Preacher would say if he were here to see and hear all this.”
“Well, darling, you did say it aloud. And if you didn’t know it, maybe you are of riper years,” Sally teased.
“Hah. You’re not that far behind me, woman,” Smoke said. “Get your jacket. Let’s go find us a nice restaurant somewhere.”
“Oh, that sounds lovely.”
“Think they might have raccoon on the menu?”
CHAPTER TWO
Campus of the University of Colorado
The next morning, Smoke parked the Duesenberg in front of the Old Main building on the campus. There was a young man waiting in front of the building, and when he saw the light blue phaeton glide to a stop, he smiled and hurried over to the car.
“Are you Mr. Jensen, sir?”
“I am,” Smoke said.
The young man smiled. “I am Wes Pollard. Professor Armbruster asked me to watch for you so I could walk you to his office.”
Smoke returned the smile. “Well, you did a good job,” he said.
“I’ve read a lot of books about you,” the young man said.
“About ninety percent of them are fanciful,” Smoke said.
“But if only ten percent of them are true, you have still led a phenomenal life.”
Smoke followed the young man up the concrete steps to the redbrick building. Inside the building, the hardwood floors smelled of oil and wax, and he walked by a glass case housing athletic trophies. At the end of the hall, the last door on the right had a frosted glass door. The sign on the frosted glass read: DEPARTMENT OF HISTORY.
The young man opened door, stepped aside to let Smoke enter first, then came in behind him.
“Mrs. Peabody, this is Smoke Jensen,” the young man said, proudly.
“Did you say ‘Smoke’?”
“Kirby Jensen,” Smoke said.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Jensen,” Mrs. Peabody said. “Professor Armbruster is expecting you. Just a moment.”
Mrs. Peabody knocked lightly on the door, then went in, shutting the door behind her. A moment later the door opened again and a tall, bald-headed man came out. Smiling broadly, he extended his hand.