The next morning the Indians had pulled back, and were now milling around on top of a hill. They were making no attempt to conceal themselves, because they were well out of range.
“Bold bunch of bastards, aren’t they?” Smoke asked.
John had a pair of binoculars and he used them to study the Indians, only one of whom was mounted.
“I’ll be damn,” John said.
“What is it?”
“The Indian on the horse. Take a look at him. Look at his face. Do you see the black and red vertical lines on his cheek?”
“Yes.”
“Claire pointed that out to me when we visited Iron Bull’s camp. That means this man is the leader.”
“Is he now?”
“I wonder if we killed him . . .”
“Would the others leave?” Smoke finished.
“It’s worth a try.”
Smoke looked at him. “That’s a hell of a long shot. Six or seven hundred yards, easily.”
“But if we both shot at the same time?”
“I’ve only got one rifle round left,” Smoke said.
“Then, one of us had better hit him,” John suggested.
“Wait,” Smoke said. “I’m going to try a trick Preacher showed me once. It might improve our chances of hitting him. But it’s all or nothing, because if we miss, we are going to be in a bad fix.”
“What do you have in mind?” John asked.
Smoke took out the bullet from his pistol, and the one from his rifle. Then he separated the two bullets from their casings. Looking down into the rifle casing, he saw that there was room to add more powder. He filled the rifle casing the rest of the way, with powder from the pistol casing.
“Good idea,” John said, and he did the same thing, combining the powder from two bullets into one.
John chuckled. “But this is absolutely an all-or-nothing draw of the cards.”
When both were ready, they rested the barrels of the rifles on the windowsills and took long and careful aim.
“I’ll count to three,” Smoke said. “One, two, three.”
Swift Hawk was standing next to Whips His Horses when he heard an angry buzz, then a loud pop. Looking up he saw blood squirting from Whips His Horses’ head, and from a wound in his chest. Whips His Horses fell at Swift Hawk’s feet.
“How can this be? How can they kill from so far?” one of the Indians asked in awed fear.
The Indians were disoriented. Whips His Horses’ medicine had not protected him, which meant it could not protect them.
“Swift Hawk, there are but five of us now. And surely the spirits are angry with us, for no ordinary man can kill from so far away.”
“And the bullets of both men found their mark,” another said.
“Their medicine is strong,” another said. “Swift Hawk, what shall we do?”
“We will make peace,” Swift Hawk said.
Swift Hawk mounted his horse then, slowly, very slowly, started riding toward the adobe cabin.
“Here they come,” John said. “What’ll we do now?”
“Wait,” Smoke said. “Look!”
The approaching Indian held his hand up, palm forward, and he continued to ride.
“I believe he wants to make peace,” John said.
“They don’t need to know we are out of ammunition. Hold your rifle by your side in your left hand,” Smoke said. “We’ll go outside to meet him, with our right hands up in the sign of peace.”
Swift Hawk rode to within twenty yards of the cabin, all the while holding his hand up. Smoke and John stood out front, holding their hands up as well.
“No more will the Crow make war against Liver Eater!” Swift Hawk said in English.
“No more will I will eat the liver of the Crow,” John said.
Swift Hawk nodded, then turned and rode away.
EPILOGUE
Some may think, upon reading this study of two of Colorado’s most colorful characters, that I have taken what might be considered a soft approach to history, using words that are more sensual than cerebral. And because of this, some readers might suggest that this is a substitute for academic research.
I assure you that nothing can be further from the truth. No amount of scholarly inquiry, particularly of the kind that requires poring over the printed word, whether it be the work of earlier scholars, newspapers, diaries, or letters, could be more accurate than getting the story directly from one of the actual participants. As of the time of this writing, Smoke Jensen is still alive, and still one of Colorado’s living treasures.
The peace negotiated between Swift Hawk and John Jackson held up, and never again was there trouble between them. In fact, John Jackson eventually declared himself to be a brother to the Crow.
He never married again, so there are no direct descendants of this storied legend. He was, during his lifetime, a soldier in the Union army, a soldier of fortune with the French Foreign Legion, a scout, hunter, and trapper. In the end, he returned to Pennsylvania where he died, alone, in a veteran’s hospital on December 21, 1900.
Jacob W. Armbruster, Ph.D.
Professor of History, University of Colorado
Boulder, Colorado
April 9, 1925
J. A. Johnstone on William W. Johnstone “When the Truth Becomes Legend”
William W. Johnstone was born in southern Missouri, the youngest of four children. He was raised with strong moral and family values by his minister father, and tutored by his schoolteacher mother. Despite this, he quit school at age fifteen.
“I have the highest respect for education,” he says, “but such is the folly of youth, and wanting to see the world beyond the four walls and the blackboard.”
True to this vow, Bill attempted to enlist in the French Foreign Legion (“I saw Gary Cooper in Beau Geste when I was a kid and I thought the French Foreign Legion would be fun”) but was rejected, thankfully, for being underage. Instead, he joined a traveling carnival and did all kinds of odd jobs. It was listening to the veteran carny folk, some of whom had been on the circuit since the late 1800s, telling amazing tales about their experiences, which planted the storytelling seed in Bill’s imagination.
“They were mostly honest people, despite the bad reputation traveling carny shows had back then,” Bill remembers. “Of course, there were exceptions. There was one guy named Picky, who got that name because he was a master pickpocket. He could steal a man’s socks right off his feet without him knowing. Believe me, Picky got us chased out of more than a few towns.”
After a few months of this grueling existence, Bill returned home and finished high school. Next came stints as a deputy sheriff in the Tallulah, Louisiana, Sheriff’s Department, followed by a hitch in the U.S. Army. Then he began a career in radio broadcasting at KTLD in Tallulah, Louisiana, which would last sixteen years. It was there that he fine-tuned his storytelling skills. He turned to writing in 1970, but it wouldn’t be until 1979 that his first novel, The Devil’s Kiss, was published. Thus began the full-time writing career of William W. Johnstone. He wrote horror (The Uninvited), thrillers (The Last of the Dog Team), even a romance novel or two. Then, in February 1983, Out of the Ashes was published. Searching for his missing family in the aftermath of a post-apocalyptic America, rebel mercenary and patriot Ben Raines is united with the civilians of the Resistance forces and moves to the forefront of a revolution for the nation’s future.