“Nor I,” Carol Smith added.
Although there was a cab available in front of the restaurant, the depot was only a couple of blocks away, so Smoke waved the driver off, saying he would rather walk.
“The Phillipses and the Smiths were nice people, weren’t they?” Sally said.
“Yes, I enjoyed their company.”
“I’m so glad you invited me along. And I’m so happy we got Prince Henry. I’m going to treat him like a house pet.”
“Ha! Does that mean we’re going to keep an animal that weighs three quarters of a ton in the house?” Smoke asked.
Sally laughed. “Well, maybe not a house pet,” she amended. “I am glad we bought him, though.”
“Even though we paid a lot more than we intended?”
“Yes. I think he will pay off in the long run,” Sally said.
“I think you are right. At least, I hope you are right.”
“Jensen!” a loud, angry voice shouted.
Smoke had not seen Emil Sinclair standing in the shadows of the alley between the apothecary and a feed store. He whirled toward the sound of the shout, drawing his pistol as he did so. He didn’t have to use it, though, because even as Sinclair raised his own gun to fire, Sheriff Walker stepped up behind Sinclair and brought his gun down hard on Sinclair’s head.
Smoke put his pistol back in its holster.
“Lucky for me you came along when you did,” Smoke said.
“More ’n likely, it was luckier for Sinclair,” Sheriff Walker said. “I saw him sneaking in here and figured he was up to no good, so I followed him.”
“You’re a good man, Sheriff Walker.”
Walker smiled broadly. “Comin’ from you, Mr. Jensen, that’s quite a compliment,” he said.
When Smoke and Sally reached the depot, they saw several people gathered around one of the stock pens.
“Who would do such a thing?” someone asked.
“Never mind who, why would they do it?” another asked.
Curious, Smoke walked over to the pen, but before he even got there, he saw a Hereford lying on the ground. He quickened his pace.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Somebody shot this bull,” one of the bystanders said.
Smoke pushed his way to the fence, then looked at the animal. He saw someone squatting beside it.
“I just paid two hundred and fifty dollars for this bull,” the man said, shaking his head in anger. “I’d like to get my hands on the son of a bitch who did this.”
Smoke’s first reaction was one of relief that it wasn’t Prince Henry. But that was followed quickly by a sense of guilt for feeling such relief, since he knew that the man who had bought the bull was out the money.
“Mr. Jensen?” someone called.
Turning from the pen, Smoke saw the railroad dispatcher.
“Yes?”
“Your bull has been loaded onto a private stock car,” he said. “I have the bill of lading here. It’s all taken care of.”
“Thanks,” Smoke said, walking over to retrieve the papers.
“A terrible thing, that,” the dispatcher said, nodding toward the cow pen and the dead bull.
“Did you see what happened?” Smoke asked.
“No, sir, nobody did,” the dispatcher said. “Ken and I were in the depot when we heard the shot. When we looked out, we saw the bull lying on the ground.” He shook his head. “It takes a special kind of meanness to kill an animal for no reason,” he said.
Santa Clara
When Pogue and Billy Ray Quentin stepped down from the train, they were met by the foreman, Cole Mathers, and two other cowboys from the Tumbling Q.
“Where at’s the bull, Mr. Quentin?” Mathers asked.
“I didn’t get him,” Quentin replied with a growl.
“You didn’t? Why not? Was there somethin’ wrong with him?”
“No, he was a good bull. But some fool by the name of Jensen outbid me.”
“Ha. I didn’t think there was anyone who could outbid you,” Mathers said. “You got more money that Croesus.”
“Yeah, well, I won’t keep it if I throw it away in a foolish bidding war,” Quentin said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Jensen and the seller weren’t in cahoots, bidding against me just to run the price up.” He chuckled. “If they were together, I snookered them, ’cause once it reached a certain point, I quit bidding.”
“Yes, sir. Well, there ain’t never been nobody say you wasn’t smart,” Mathers said.
“Did you bring our horses?”
“Yes, sir, they’re tied up out front.”
“All right, good. Come on, Billy Ray, let’s go home,” Pogue said.
“Pa, I’ll come along later,” Billy Ray said. “I ordered me a pair of boots to be made, and I’m goin’ to go see if Donovan has ’em done yet.”
A little bell attached to the top of the door tinkled as Billy Ray stepped into Donovan’s Leather Goods shop.
“I’ll be right there,” a voice called from the back of the shop.
Donovan was a small man with thinning hair that he kept combed over the top. He was wearing a leather apron with a full pocket, in which he kept some of his tools.
“Ah, Mr. Quentin,” he said. “Come for your boots, have you?”
“Yes,” Billy Ray said.
“I have them right here,” Donovan said, taking a pair of boots down from the shelf. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”
“Yeah,” Billy Ray said. “They are. Let me try them on.”
“Please do,” Donovan invited.
Billy Ray sat down, pulled one of his old boots off, then stuck his foot down in the new boot. It didn’t go on easily, and he worked with it until he finally got it on. Then, when he stood up, he winced in pain as he took a step.
“They are too small!” he said. “You dumb son of a bitch! You made them too small!”
“They are still new, they will loosen up,” Donovan said. “I made them to the exact measurements.”
“I paid good money for these boots! And they don’t fit.”
“They will fit as soon as they are broken in, I assure you.”
Billy Ray sat down and pulled the boot off, then threw it through the front window. The glass shattered with a loud crash.
“Mr. Quentin!” Donovan gasped. “You broke my window!”
“Yeah, and that ain’t all I’m goin’ to break,” Billy Ray said as he picked up a bench, then slammed it into a leather cutter.
After leaving Donovan’s, Billy Ray walked down to the New York Saloon.
“Whiskey,” Billy Ray said to Lloyd Evans, the bartender. “Leave the bottle.”
Evans took a bottle from beneath the bar and put it in front of Billy Ray. Billy Ray pulled the cork with his teeth, then spit it into one of the nearby spittoons.
“Billy Ray, that means you just bought that whole bottle,” Evans said. “There ain’t no way we can re-cork it now.”
“I asked for the whole bottle, didn’t I?” Billy Ray replied with a snarl. He poured himself a glass.
Doc Patterson was standing at the bar just a few feet down from Billy Ray.
“Hello, Billy Ray,” Doc Patterson said. “How was your trip?”
“What trip?” Billy Ray replied. He tossed down the glass of whiskey.
“Didn’t you and your pa go up to Colorado Springs to buy a bull?”
“What? Oh, yeah,” Billy Ray said. He poured himself another glass. “Yeah, I guess we did.” He drank that glass as well.
“I’ll be anxious to see him,” Doc Patterson said. Doc was a veterinarian, and as he was the only veterinarian in the county, he did a lot of business with the Tumbling Q. “Tell your pa I’ll come out and look him over whenever he wants. I’ve read about him, sure will be nice to examine a champion. What’s he like?”
“What’s who like?” Billy Ray poured himself a third glass of whiskey.
“Why, Prince Henry, of course. I’m talking about the champion bull you bought,” Doc said.
“We didn’t buy no bull,” Billy Ray said. He tossed down the third glass, then poured a fourth, spilling a little of it onto the bar.
“You didn’t? I thought that was why you went.”