“How about you, Lujan?” Smoke asked the gunfighter.
“Oh, I think that when you pull out I might ride down south with you. I have talked it over with Silver Jim and the others. They re coming along as well.” He lit a long slender cigar and looked at Smoke. “You know, amigo, that this little war is far from over.”
“I think they’ll wait until we’re out of Montana Territory to hit us.”
“Those are my thoughts as well.”
“We’ll hang around until Hardrock’s shoulder heals up. Then we’ll ride.”
Lujan smiled. “The first of the reward money has arrived. The old men said I would take a thousand dollars of it or we’d drag iron. I took the money. It will last a long time. I am a simple man and my needs are few.”
“I’d hate to have to drag iron against those old boys,” Smoke conceded. “They damn sure don’t come any saltier.”
Lujan laughed. “They have all bought new black suits and boots and white dusters. They present quite a sight.”
Parnell packed away his double-barreled blasters. But his reputation would never quite leave him. He would teach school for another forty years. And he would never have any problems with unruly students.
Walt and Leah Hillery pulled out early one morning in a buckboard. They offered no goodbyes to anyone, and no one lifted a hand in farewell. It was said they were going back East. They just weren’t cut out to make it in the West. back East.
Several of the wounded outlaws died; the rest were chained and shackled and loaded into wagons. They were taken to the nearest jail-about a hundred miles away-escorted by the squad of Army troops.
The brief boomtown of Gibson settled back into a quiet routine.
Young Bob drew his time and drifted, as Smoke had predicted he would. The hard-eyed young man would earn quite a name for himself in the coming years.
Then came the wedding day, and the day could not have been any more perfect. Mild temperatures and not a cloud in the sky.
Del and Fae, Parnell and Rita, Liz and Gage, Ring and Hilda, and Beans and Sandi got all hitched up proper, with lots of fumbling around for rings and embarrassed kisses and a big hoo-rah right after the weddings.
Beans took time out after the cake-cuttin’ to speak to Smoke.
“When you pullin’ out, partner?”
“In the morning. I’m missin my wife and kids. I want to get back to the Sugarloaf and the High Lonesome. Reno is pullin’ out today; headin’ back to Nevada.”
“Them ol’ boys is gonna be comin’ at you, you know that, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes. Might as well get it over with, ’way I look at it. No point in steppin’ around the issue.”
“You watch your backtrail, partner.”
Smoke stuck out his hand and Beans took it. “We’ll meet again,” Smoke told him.
“I’m countin’ on it.”
As was the western way, there were no elaborate or prolonged goodbyes. The men simply packed up and mounted up before dawn and pointed the noses of their horses south, quietly riding down the main street of Gibson, Montana Territory, without looking back.
“Feels good to be movin’,” Pistol said. “I git the feelin’ of being all cooped up if I stay too long in one place.”
“Not to mention the fact that your face was beginnin’ to frighten little children,” Hardrock needled him. “All the greenbacks you got now you ought to git you a bag special-made and wear it over your head.”
Smoke laughed and put Dagger into a trot. It did feel good to be on the trail again.
They followed the Smith down to the Sixteenmile and then followed an old Indian trail down to the Shields—the trail would eventually become a major highway.
The men rode easily, but always keeping a good eye out for trouble. None of them expected it until they were out of the territory, but it never hurt to be ready.
They began angling more east than south, crossing the Sweetgrass, taking their time, enjoying some of the most beautiful scenery to be found. They would stop early to make camp, living off the land, hunting or fishing for their meals, for the most part avoiding any towns. They ran out of coffee and sugar and bacon just north of the Wyoming line and stopped in a little town to resupply.
The man behind the counter of the general store gave Smoke and the others a good eyeballing as they walked into the store. The men noticed the clerk seemed awfully nervous.
“Feller’s got the twitchies,” Hardrock whispered to Silver Jim.
“I noticed. I’ll take me a stroll down to the livery; check out the horses there.”
“I’ll go with you,” Hardrock said. “Might be walkin’ into something interestin’.”
“You Smoke Jensen, ain’t you?” the clerk asked.
“Yes.”
“You know some hard-lookin gents name of Eddie Hart and Pooch Matthews? They travelin’ with several other gents just as hard-lookin’.”
“I know them.”
“They here. Crost the street in the saloon. My boy—who earns some pennies down to the stable—heared them talkin’. They gonna kill you.”
“They’re going to try.” Smoke gave the man his order and then took a handkerchief and wiped the dust from his guns. Hardrock stepped back into the store.
“Half a dozen of them ol’ boys in town, Smoke.”
“I know. They’re over at the saloon.”
As the words were leaving his mouth, the town marshal stepped in.
“Jackson Bodine!” Hardrock grinned at the man. “I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age.”
“Hello, Hardrock.” The marshal stuck out his hand and Hardrock gripped it.
“When’d you take up lawin’?”
“When I got too old to do much of anything else.” He looked at Smoke. “I don’t want trouble in my town, Mister-whoever-you-are.”
“This here’s Smoke Jensen, Jackson,” Hardrock said.
The marshal exhaled slowly. “I guess a man don’t always get his wishes,” he said reluctantly.
“I don’t want trouble in your town or anybody else’s town, marshal. But I’m afraid this is something those men over in the saloon won’t let me sidestep.” Briefly, he explained what had taken place over the past weeks.
The marshal nodded his head. “Give me ten minutes before you call them out, Smoke. That’ll give me time to clear the street and have the kids back at home.”
“You can have as much time as you need, Marshal.”
The marshal smiled. “I never really knew for sure whether you were real or just a made-up person. They’s a play about you, you know that?”
“No, I didn’t. Is it a good one?”
The marshall laughed. “I ain’t seen it. Folks that have gone to the big city tell me they got you somewheres between Robin Hood and Bloody Bill Anderson.”
Smoke chuckled. “You know Marshal, they just may be right.”
Jackson Bodine left the store to warn the townspeople to stay off the streets.
“He’s a good man,” Hardrock said. “Come out here ‘bout, oh, ’42 or ‘43, I reckon. Preacher knows him. ’Course, Preacher knows just about ever’body out here, I reckon.”
Silver Jim stepped inside. “I could have sworn we dropped Royce back yonder at the ranch,” he said. “But he’s over yonder, ’live and well and just as ugly as ever.”
“Anybody else?” Lujan asked.
“Lodi, Hazzard, Nolan ...” His eyes touched Lujan’s unblinking stare. “And Diego and Gomez. Three or four more I know but can’t put no names to.”
The Chihuahua gunfighter grunted. “Well, gentlemen, shall we cross the street and order us a drink?”
“I am a mite thirsty,” Hardrock said. “Boredom does that to me,” he added with a smile.
Thirty-One
The men walked across the dusty street, all of them knowing the gunfighters in the saloon were waiting for them, watching them as they crossed the street.