This Violent Land (18 page)

“Not almost. Goin' to.” Smoke's voice was strained with pain. “I've only got one left.”

“Ah, yes, only one left. But you see, kid, that one you got left is me. And you ain't goin' to get through me.”

“I think I will. And after I take care of you, I'm going after your bosses.”

Felter grinned. “That would be Potter, Stratton, and Richards, would it?”

“That's right.”

“You've kilt how many men, now . . . eighteen? Just to get to Potter, Stratton, and Richards?”

“Nineteen,” Smoke pointed out.

Felter disagreed. “No, only eighteen. Your wife kilt Stoner.”

“Nineteen, and I'm not counting Stoner. I'm counting you.”

* * *

Up on the hillside, the miners had watched the entire battle, listening not only to the pop of gunshots, but also the curses, the shouts of anger and fear and pain as, one by one, Smoke had killed those who were trying to kill him.

“Damn,” one of the miners said. “Jensen looks half dead. There's no way he can take Felter now.”

“Don't sell him short,” Jake said. “There ain't very many men like Smoke Jensen . . . maybe nobody like 'im. But if you're wantin' to bet, my money's on him, even now, hurt as bad as he is.”

* * *

Down below in the street, Felter chuckled again. “You know what, Jensen? I don't think you could beat me even if you wasn't all slowed down by them wounds. But I know damn well you can't do it now.” He transferred the drink from his left hand to his right, then held it out toward Smoke. “Here, kid, take a drink. You look like you need it.”

Suddenly, and without calling it, he dropped the whiskey and his hand streaked down to his pistol quick as a striking snake.

Felter was fast, but Smoke was faster. By the time the last echo of the single shot reverberated back down from the hillside, Smoke was still standing, a ribbon of smoke drifting from the end of the barrel of the pistol he was holding in his hand.

Felter lay dead in the street before him.

Smoke pouched the iron, then walked over to the hitch rail and put his hand on it to keep himself erect.

The miners, who had watched the whole battle in awe, came down from the hillside, pausing here and there to look at a body. A couple of the more courageous, moved hesitantly, cautiously, up to Smoke.

“You hard hit, son,” one of the miners said.

“Yeah,” Smoke said.

“You goin' to need some doctorin'.”

“Yeah,” Smoke said again. “I'll be gettin' some doctorin' done. Help me on my horse.”

A couple miners helped him get mounted, then watched in awe as he rode away.

“Folks will be readin' about this day a hunnert years from now,” one of them said.

“I hope whoever does the writin', gets it right,” another replied.

 

S
moke had been thinking of Preacher when he'd said he would find a doctor to treat his wounds. Preacher, he knew, could do more for him than any doctor he had ever met or known, but he was nearly dead by the time he reached the cabin more than a week later. He had holed up for a while and done what he could to stop the bleeding, which was the only reason he had lived this long. But the damage was tremendous and needed more care than he could give himself.

The smile on Preacher's face faded quickly when he saw how badly hurt Smoke was. “Boy, what the hell happened to you?”

“I got them, Preacher. The ones who killed Nicole and my boy. I got them, and I killed every last damn one of them.”

“Yeah, well, I'm glad you did. But you look half dead yourself. How come you ain't gone to see no doctor?”

A small, pained smile spread across Smoke's face. “I thought I just did.” He winced once. “And I don't mind telling you, Preacher, I'm hurting pretty bad.”

Smoke sagged in the saddle, and would have fallen, if Preacher had not stepped up quickly to grab him.

“Come on in the house, boy. I'll do what I can for you, but I don't know as I've ever doctored anybody shot up as bad as you.”

 

 

 

“All of them?” Richards asked, gasping the words out in disbelief. “Surely you aren't telling me he killed all of them, the twelve new men we sent, as well as Felter and Canning.”

“That's what folks are saying,” Potter said. “They're saying that when the shooting was over, that miners' camp looked like the battlefield at Shiloh.”

“What the hell kind of man is this?” Stratton exclaimed. “There ain't no one man who can take on fourteen men, all by hisself, and kill 'em all! Is there?”

“Yeah? Well, if what Wiley is sayin' is true, this one can,” Richards argued.

“Well, there is one more thing,” Potter pointed out.

“What's that?”

Potter grinned. “The word is, he was so shot up his ownself that it's more than likely he's dead now.”

“Good,” Stratton said emphatically.

“What do you mean,
good
?” Richards asked. “Bein' bad shot up ain't the same thing as bein'
dead
. Nobody has found his body yet, have they?”

“No,” Potter said, shaking his head. “There ain't nobody found his body.”

“Then, far as I'm concerned, Jensen isn't dead. And that's the way we're goin' to treat it.”

“What are we goin' to do now?” Stratton asked.

“We can hire some more people.” Potter smiled. “After all, that last bunch we hired didn't cost us nothin'.”

“And the first bunch only cost us half of what we said we was goin' to give 'em,” Stratton added.

Richards shook his head. “That hasn't gotten us very far, has it?”

“Well, we have to do something about him. I mean, he's goin' to find us sooner or later. I don't know about you two, but I don't want to face Jensen, not even with the odds three to one,” Potter said.

Richards wasn't giving up. “Let me think about it for a while. I'll come up with something, and when I do, I'll run it by the two of you to see what you think about it.”

“Yeah, well, come up with it pretty quick,” Stratton said. “I don't cotton to the idea of Jensen being out there, hangin' around, waitin' to strike.”

The three men had just finished their conversation when Janey came into the parlor. “Good evening, gentlemen. Why, Josh, are your friends are sitting here without a drink in their hands? What kind of host are you? Mr. Potter, Mr. Stratton, would you like a drink?”

“Well, now that you mention it, yes, I believe I would,” Potter replied with a smile.

She smiled at him. “Bourbon and branch.”

“You remember. I'm flattered.”

She laughed. “That's not hard to remember. All three of you have the same preference.”

Janey came back into the parlor a few minutes later, carrying four drinks on a tray. “I hope you gentlemen don't mind if I drink with you.”

“Ha! Why should we mind? If we go to any saloon in town, we have to pay to have a drink with a pretty woman.”

“Yeah, well, as long as you understand that this pretty woman belongs to me,” Richards griped.

“That's right, Josh, honey. I'm your woman.” Janey walked over to him and planted a kiss on his cheek.

The four of them engaged in light talk for a few more minutes, then, as they finished their drinks, Potter and Stratton stood.

“You will let us know when you come up with an idea, won't you?” Potter asked.

“You can count on it,” Richards replied.

He waited until after his partners left before he turned to Janey. “All right,” he snapped. “What is it?”

“What is it? Why, honey, what on earth do you mean?”

“Most of the time when I'm with Potter or Stratton, you can't leave fast enough. You've made it very clear to me that you don't like them. But here, today, you were all sweetness and smiles. I know you want something, so, why don't you come right out and tell me what it is?”

“I want to go to Kansas City.”

Richards frowned. “What do you mean? For good? Are you pulling out of here?”

She returned his frown with a smile. “Now, honey, I've got a very good thing here with you. Why would I want to give that up? No, I don't want to go to Kansas City for good. I just want to go for a visit. Of course I'm coming back.”

“Oh,” Richards said.

“Besides, I would be going for you.”

“What does that mean?”

“I keep your books, remember? I know we're getting a bit overstocked with cattle. I intend to visit the slaughterhouses while I'm in Kansas City to make arrangements to sell off some of the PSR cattle.”

It was Richards's time to smile. “Well, I'll be damned. Yes, that would be a good idea.”

“And since it would be a business trip, it would also pay for my visit,” Janey pointed out.

“Meaning I would pay for the visit,” Richards said.

“Well, of course you would, darling. They
are
your cattle, after all. Why should I be expected to pay for the trip to sell them?”

Richards chuckled and shook his head. “Janey, Janey, Janey. You are as crooked as I am. The only difference between us is, you're better looking.”

 

 

 

Two days after the conversation between Janey and Richards, three men were waiting alongside the Union Pacific tracks in a remote area of the county. A few minutes earlier, they had placed one stick of dynamite under the south rail. They waited far enough away from the track so that when the train derailed, they would be in no danger.

Janey was a passenger on that train bound for Kansas City. It was true that she was going to arrange with one of the packinghouses for shipment of some PSR cattle, but it wasn't the only reason she was going to Kansas City.

She was beginning to get more and more troubled about her relationship with Richards. As the train moved along the tracks, Janey was lost in thought.

 

 

Over the years since she had left home, she had run into more than one person named Jensen, none of whom she was related to or had ever heard of. As far as she knew, Smoke Jensen was just another man named Jensen.

Except, from what she had been able to learn, he was no ordinary man. It was being said that he had killed as many as twenty men that Richards had sent after him. The man Smoke Jensen could be dangerous, not only to Richards but indirectly to her, as well.

It was her intention to find out if it was safe for her to return to Kansas City. She thought of her time there.

* * *

 

 

Janey didn't hear the explosion that derailed the train. One minute they were flying across the open land at better than twenty-five miles per hour, and the next minute the car had left the tracks, where it bumped along for several feet before it turned over, rending a crash of metal and the shattering of glass. Men shouted, women screamed, and children cried as they were thrown violently from their seats, crashing into each other.

Janey was on top of the pile, so she wasn't as badly hurt as some of the others. The screams, shouts, and cries stilled, replaced by low moans and whimpers.

She looked for a way out of the car lying on its left side and quickly climbed on a seat and poked her head and shoulders through one of the windows from the right, which had become the top.

She saw the reason for the crash. The train had been purposely derailed and was being robbed.

“Hey, what's going on here?” shouted a man who had just climbed out of the car in front of her and dropped to the ground.

One of the robbers turned his pistol toward the shouting man and fired. The bullet drove into the man's chest and threw him backward.

She quickly dropped back down into the car and saw some others trying to get out. “No, stay where you are! This train is being robbed, and they're killing passengers who get out of the cars.” She began tending to some of the more injured passengers, periodically looking out to see if the robbers were still there.

Not until she saw them ride away did she give the word. “The robbers are gone! Those of you who can, help me get the injured out of the train.”

Once again, this violent land had brought death and destruction to the innocent . . . and the not-so-innocent.