“Negro Matt fought a mountain lion with his bare hands and killed it. Preacher fought a bear up on the North Milk in Canada and killed it. Jedediah Smith fought a grizzly and killed it—by himself. Bear chewed off one of his ears, though. Shoo Fly Miller had a grizzly bear for a pet. Those old boys are still about half hoss, half alligator.”
“My word!” MacGregor said.
“Stick around, Mac,” Buck said cheerfully. “If you live through what’s coming up shortly, you can write the final chapter to the lives of the mountain men.”
It was going sour, Buck thought, walking from the PSR offices back to his hotel. He could sense it; an almost tangible sensation. The gunhands that were constantly in view were behaving in a surly manner. Cursing more and drinking more openly. Buck noticed a distinct lack of kids playing on the boardwalks and streets. He noticed a couple of loaded-down wagons parked in front of the general store.
Buck stopped in front of a saloon and asked the scar-faced Joiner, “What’s going on?”
“Two schoolteachers and their families pullin’ out. Didn’t like the way Miz Sally was treated. The boss is some sore, let me tell you.”
Buck smiled.
Joiner looked sourly at him. “You find something funny about that, West?”
“Just that a man can’t push some women, is all.”
Joiner grunted. It was obvious to Buck that he was looking for a fight. And Buck wasn’t.
When Joiner saw that Buck wasn’t going to fight, he said, “There can’t be much sand to your bottom, boy.”
Buck met him eye to eye. “If you want to get a shovel and start digging for that sand, Joiner, feel free to do so. But I’d suggest you make one stopover first for a little digging.”
“Oh? And where’s that?”
“Boot Hill.” Buck turned and walked on up the street. As he turned, his right side blocked to Joiner’s view, Buck slipped the hammer thong off his .44.
He could feel Joiner’s eyes boring into his back as he walked.
“Buck West!” Joiner shouted. “Turn and fight, you tinhorn!”
Buck heard Joiner’s hand as his palm struck the wooden grips of his pistol.
Turning, Buck drew, cocked, and fired, all in one fluid motion. Joiner’s pistol clattered to the wooden boardwalk as the .44 slug from Buck’s gun hit him squarely in the center of the chest. Joiner staggered backward, grabbed at a wooden chair for support, missed the arm of the chair, and sat down heavily on the boardwalk, one hand supporting himself, holding himself up, the other hand covering the hole in his chest.
“You bassard!” Joiner hissed at Buck.
“You pushed me, Joiner,” Buck reminded the man.
Joiner groaned and let himself slump to the boards.
Burton ran out of the apothecary shop, crossed the street, and knelt by the dying Joiner. When he looked up at Buck, his face was flushed with hate. “If you’re so damned good with a gun, why didn’t you just shoot the gun out of his hand? You didn’t have to kill him.”
“I ain’t dead!” Joiner protested weakly.
“You ain’t far from it,” Burton told him.
“Get me a preacher!” Joiner said.
“He’d probably do you more good than a doctor,” Burton agreed.
Buck punched out the spent brass and slid a live round into the chamber. He dropped the empty brass to the dirt of the street just as the sounds of a carriage approaching rattled through the air. The carriage whoaed up beside the blood-slicked boardwalk and the tall gunhand standing impassively over the dying Joiner.
“Oh, my word!” the woman seated in the carriage said.
“Help me, Miz Janey!” Joiner cried.
A group of Cornish miners, in town from their work at a nearby silver mine, gathered around, beer mugs in callused hands.
“The bloke’s nearly done,” one immigrant from Cornwall observed. “Shall we sing him a fare-thee-well, mates?”
“Aye. Let’s.”
A half-dozen voices were raised in song, drunkenly offering up a hymn.
A jig dancer from the hurly-gurly in front of which Joiner lay dying stepped out. “Can I have your pockets, love?” she asked Joiner.
“Get away with you!” Reverend Necker said, running up. “You filthy whore!”
“Careful, Bible-thumper,” the jig dancer said. “Or I’ll tell everybody where you was the other evenin’.”
Necker flushed and bent down over the dying Joiner.
“He kilt me!” Joiner said, pointing a trembling finger at Buck.
“Damn sure did,” Necker said.
Buck raised his eyes to look squarely at the woman seated in the fancy carriage.
Janey met the tall young man’s direct stare.
The elegantly dressed woman flushed as Buck’s eyes stared directly at her.
“Save me, Preacher!” Joiner groaned. “I don’t wanna go to Hell. I got a family to take care of.”
“Where are they, son?” Necker asked. He looked at the blood on his hands. Joiner’s blood. “Yukk!” Necker said.
“Damned if I know,” Joiner said. Then he closed his eyes and did the world the greatest favor men of his ilk could do. He died.
Janey stared at Buck. Her eyes widened as Buck smiled. She watched as Buck turned and walked away.
It couldn’t be! she thought. That was impossible. Kirby was back in Missouri, probably working that damned hardscrabble farm.
But she knew the man who had killed Joiner. She knew him. It was her brother.
14
Janey stood in her bedroom, absently gazing out the window. So Buck West was really Kirby Jensen, aka Smoke. She laughed, but the laugh was totally void of mirth. She suddenly remembered all the good times they’d shared as children, back in Missouri. It had been a hard life, but despite that, there had been plenty of love to go around. Never enough money for nice things, but none of them had gone hungry.
“Crap!” Janey said, turning away from the window. She didn’t know what to do. The gunfighter was blood kin, but Janey felt no warmth toward him. She looked around her. Damned if she was going to give all this up for a man she hadn’t seen since he was a snot-nosed kid tryin’ to farm forty rocky acres with a damned ol’ mule.
She walked downstairs, searching for Josh.
“Gone, ma’am,” the Negro houseman informed her.
“Gone, where?”
“Up to the north range to inspect the herds, ma’am. Won’t be back for several days.”
“Bull-droppings!” Janey blurted.
The houseman’s eyes widened.
“Thank you, Thomas,” Janey said. “That will be all.”
Now she sure didn’t know what to do.
MacGregor ceased his pacing, his mind made up. He would not leave Bury, as had been his original plan. He would stick it out here. If Buck West, aka Smoke Jensen, was successful in his plan, what a book that would make! And, the Scotsman smiled grimly, he could close the federal pages on Potter, Stratton, and Richards.
“He’s really the outlaw Smoke?” Flora asked Sally.
“He’s Smoke Jensen, but he’s no outlaw,” Sally told the gathering of joy-girls.
“We can’t get out of town, Miss Sally,” Rosa said. “The little boy, Ben, says Potter and Stratton gave orders to that nasty Rosten not to rent us wagons or horses. We’re stuck.”
Sally nodded. As Josh Richards had once explained to her, the Pink House was one of the best constructed buildings in town. The two-story structure was built of logs, with excellent craftsmanship in the construction, with carefully fitted corners. Instead of a mixture of clay and moss filling the chinks, solid mortar had been used. With a little rearranging of furniture, the house could easily withstand any stray bullets.
“All right, ladies,” Sally said. “Here’s what we’ll do…”
“What’s happening!” Deputy Rogers said. “I don’t understand none of it. It’s like…it’s like ever’thang was just fine one day, and the next day it’s all haywire!”
Sheriff Dan Reese knew what was happening, but he didn’t feel like explaining it to this big dummy standing before him. He’d seen boom towns go sour before. And he knew that sometimes a feller could skin the clabber off the top and salvage the milk. Not often, but sometimes.