This Violent Land (8 page)

Half an hour later, LeRoy Peyton, a tall, silver-haired and dignified looking man in a sober dark suit, arrived at the saloon. By that time, the three men Smoke had killed had been dragged out onto the front porch to await the mortician—the
American
mortician.

Smoke was sitting alone at a table in the back corner of the room.

“You must be the man Marshal Holloway sent,” Peyton said as he came up to the table.

“I am. Have a seat, Your Honor.”

Peyton chuckled. “It's been awhile since I've been addressed that way.”

“How would you like to be addressed that way again?”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm going to appoint you as a federal judge.”

Peyton looked surprised. “Hold on there, Deputy. I was just a state judge, but I know that a deputy U.S. marshal can't appoint a federal judge. Only the President can do that.”

“Really?” Smoke smiled faintly as he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “How many people in Salcedo know that? Besides, maybe Marshal Holloway can pull some strings and turn it into the real thing.”

“You know, you may have something there,” Peyton said slowly as he frowned in thought. “I don't think even Holloway has enough connections to get me appointed as a federal judge, but he just might be able to get me appointed as a magistrate. You're right. If I just assume the position until it's made official, nobody here will be the wiser.”

“You're going to have a lot of work cut out for you if you take the job,” Smoke said.

“I know. But I was getting tired of retirement, anyway.”

Smoke stood up, drew his pistol, and pounded it on the table loudly enough to get everyone's attention. “Folks, I have brought with me an appointment for His Honor, LeRoy Peyton, as a judge of the territorial court. Would everyone please stand for this solemn occasion?”

Without question or hesitation, everyone did so.

“And now, Your Honor, would you hold up your right hand and let me swear you in?”

Peyton did so and was “sworn in” by Smoke.

Afterward, Peyton addressed the others. “I am going to appoint new,
and honest
, city marshals. With the help of the good citizens of this town, we are going to make Salcedo a safe and law-abiding place in which to live.”

Peyton's announcement was met with enthusiastic applause and the bartender calling out that drinks were on the house.

Maybe there is something to be said for wearing a badge after all,
Smoke thought as he watched the celebration.

 

S
moke wandered around in northern New Mexico for several weeks, as the season changed to winter. The weather was cold, but the snows had held off so far. Smoke just drifted, thinking it wouldn't be good for him to go too far south. He owed it to Marshal Holloway to keep himself fairly close. The town of Risco seemed to just come up out of the desert in front of him, the buildings the same color as the ground from which they rose. He was greeted by an optimistic sign as he rode into town.

 

R
ISCO
, N
EW
M
EXICO
379 INDUSTRIOUS PEOPLE
Come Grow With Us

 

Tying his horse in front of the only saloon in town, Smoke swatted some of the trail dust from his clothes, then went inside. After looking around for a moment, he stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer.

“You're new in town,” the bartender said. It wasn't a question.

“I'm not actually
in
town,” Smoke said. “I'm just passing through. Thought I'd have a couple drinks, eat some food that isn't trail-cooked, and maybe get a room for the night.”

“What brings you to this neck of the woods?” the barkeep asked as he drew the beer.

“To be honest, I'm looking for someone,” Smoke said.

“Who are you lookin' for?”

Smoke gave the same answer as always. “Three men named Wiley Potter, Muley Stratton, and Josh Richards.” He was not wearing his deputy U.S. marshal's star. He wanted to do this on his own . . . at least the initial search.

“Nope, can't say as I've heard of 'em.”

“They came into a lot of money some time ago and they're probably really big spenders, unless they've already spent it all.” Smoke slid a coin across the hardwood to pay for his beer, then lifted the mug to his lips. Taking a swallow, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Is there a place to eat in this town?”

“You might try Kathy's Place just down the street.”

“Kathy's Place?”

“That's what it's called. You'll see the sign out front. She don't serve nothin' fancy, but the food is good.”

A voice spoke up from Smoke's left. “Hey, mister, what makes you think you can just come in here an' start askin' questions? What do you think we are, a liberry?”

Smoke turned to look at the man standing at the bar. The hombre had a scraggly black beard and was wearing a dirty shirt and a sweat-stained hat. He glared darkly at Smoke.

“Well, you don't get answers if you don't ask questions,” Smoke said, trying to ease the sudden tension with a smile.

It didn't work. The black-bearded man poked the air. “Yeah? Well, we don't like folks comin' in here, askin' a bunch of fool questions.”

“Barkeep”—Smoke nodded toward his antagonist—“this gentleman and I seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot here. Give my new friend a drink, on me.”

The bartender poured a couple fingers of whiskey in a glass and set it in front of the bearded man. “Here you go, Miles. Compliments of the gentleman.”

Miles pushed the glass away so hard that it fell off the bar on the other side.

The bartender stepped back quickly to keep the spilled whiskey from splashing on him. “Damn it, Miles, you had no call to do that,” the apron said angrily. He picked up the glass. “You coulda broke the glass.”

Miles turned toward Smoke again. “I don't like you, mister. I don't like you at all.”

“Really? And here, I thought you and I were getting along so well.”

The others in the saloon laughed at Smoke's dry comment.

“Miles, this fella is doin' all he can do to be friendly,” a man said.

“What's put the burr under your saddle?” one of the others in the saloon asked.

“Because he's nosy, and I don't drink with nosy folks.”

“Let me get this straight,” Smoke said. “You don't drink with just anybody? Or you just don't drink with nosy anybodies?”

Again, others in the saloon laughed.

“Miles, seems to me like this feller is just a little too quick for you,” someone said.

That was the last straw. Miles, his face flushed red with anger and embarrassment, charged toward Smoke with a loud yell.

“Look out, mister! He's got a knife!” someone shouted, and Smoke saw a silver blade flashing toward him.

Smoke jerked to one side as adroitly as a matador avoiding a charging bull. He palmed his pistol from his holster and brought it down hard on Miles's head.

Miles went down.

Smoke pouched the iron, drained the rest of his beer, put the glass down, and slapped another coin on the bar beside it. “I'll have another.”

“Them three fellas you was askin' about? Stratton, Potter, and Richards?” the bartender said as he placed a second mug of beer in front of Smoke.

“Yes?”

“They was here for a while. They started 'em a saloon and gamblin' house down at the other end of the street, but a cowboy got kilt one night, and the next mornin' they was all three gone.”

“They killed the cowboy?”

“Some say Richards is the one who done it, others say it was Potter. It's pretty much for sure that one of 'em done it. Anyhow, they was all three gone the next day.”

“Do you have any idea where they went?”

The barkeep shook his head. “No, sir, I don't have no idea at all.”

“Well, thanks for the information.”

“Miles, there, worked for them. He had a pretty good job throwin' out drunks and people that got out of hand. The story was that if someone started winnin' money at buckin' the tiger or blackjack, he'd throw them out, too. What set him off, I reckon, is when he heard you askin' about 'em. I don't know why he feels any loyalty to them three. They left him behind like they did ever'one else that worked for 'em. You know these fellas, do you?”

Smoke shook his head. “I've never met them.”

“Why are you lookin' for 'em? Are you a bounty hunter?”

“No, it's personal.”

The bartender nodded. That was all the information he needed. Out on the frontier, nobody pried too much into another man's business.

Miles groaned, then slowly got to his feet, rubbing the bump on his head. “What happened?” he asked as he looked around groggily.

“You fell off the bar rail,” the bartender replied.

“What? How did I do that?”

“I don't know, but that's what you done. Maybe you had too much to drink. I think you should go home and sleep it off.”

“Yeah,” Miles said, still rubbing the bump on top of his head. He looked at Smoke. “Who are you?”

“Just someone who stopped in for a beer,” Smoke replied.

Miles saw his knife lying on the floor. “I must have dropped that.” Picking it up, he put it back in its sheath, then stumbled out the door.

“Damn, he didn't remember a thing about what happened to him!” exclaimed one of the patrons in the saloon.

“Yeah, sometimes when folks get knocked out like that, they don't remember nothin' afterward,” another said.

“I wanted him to know that someone took him down,” a third man said. “He had it comin', the way he used to treat folks when he worked in that other place.”

“It'll come to 'im, eventually, I reckon.” The bartender gave Smoke a meaningful look. “Might be better if you were out of town by then, mister. Better for Miles, I mean. You took it easy on him this time. Not so sure you'd do it again.”

“Neither am I,” Smoke said, now that he knew the man had worked for the three lowdown murderers he was looking for.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Smoke had removed the star from his packet, pinned it onto his shirt, and stepped into the sheriff's office.

The balding, walrus-mustached lawman was sitting in his chair with his feet propped up on his desk, drinking coffee. He didn't get up. “What can I do for you?”

“Sheriff, I'm Deputy United States Marshal Smoke Jensen, and I'd like to talk to you about some men who, I understand, lived here for a while.”

The sheriff sat up, stirred from his casual pose by the revelation that Smoke was a federal star packer. “I'm Sheriff Murchison, Deputy, and I'll be glad to help you if I can. Who are the men?”

“Wiley Potter, Muley Stratton, and Josh Richards.”

A big smile spread across the sheriff's face. “You've found them!”

“No, but I am looking for them. And you can help me.”

The sheriff shook his head. “If you're askin' me where they are, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do to help you. I don't have any idea. I heard from someone that they had been seen up in Wyoming, and I sent a telegram to a sheriff up there, sayin' they was wanted for murder, but I never got no reply.”

“So they are wanted men?”

“You're damn right they are. I want 'em,” Sheriff Murchison said.

Smoke smiled. “Then, if you would, please, Sheriff, write out a request for help from the U.S. marshal's office. That will give me the authority I need to look for them.”

The sheriff got a confused look on his face. “I thought you was already lookin' for 'em.”

“Yes, but that was for a personal reason. If I have a request from you, it'll be official.”

Sheriff Murchison pulled open the middle drawer of his desk and took out a piece of paper. “You're damn right I'll write out a request,” he said, taking the pen from the inkwell.

 

 

 

On his ride back to Colorado, Smoke had decided to spend some time with Preacher. He pulled up to the cabin weary and cold, and dismounted. Gray clouds filled the winter sky overhead.

Preacher heard him ride in and met him at the door. He noticed the star pinned to Smoke's shirt right away. “So, you've got yourself a full-time job, do you boy?”

“Yeah, I do. I tried to turn in my badge, but Marshal Holloway talked me into keeping it. Only now I'm getting paid for it.”

“How much?”

“Forty dollars a month, plus travel expenses.”

“I reckon that's a goodly amount of money, all right. Since the market for plews is 'bout all dried up, I don't keep up with money much anymore. I see you stopped at Schemerhorn's Tradin' Post. What have you got there?”

“Oh, I picked us up some flour, beans, bacon, cornmeal, sugar, coffee, that sort of thing,” Smoke replied as he lifted the sack of supplies he had carried into the cabin.

“What'd you go and waste your money on sugar for? You know damn well I got me a couple beehives, and in my way of thinkin', honey's better'n sugar any day.”

“Oh, honey is fine all right. And don't get me wrong, Preacher, I like rabbit and squirrel, and dove and quail and duck . . .”

“And don't forget beaver and possum, and deer and bear meat,” Preacher added. “And chickens. Remember, I got me some chickens now, and they ain't just for eatin'. Truth is, them chickens is givin' me eggs. I'd near 'bout forgot what a likin' I had for eggs. I shoulda got me some chickens a long time ago.”

“Aren't you glad I talked you into it?” Smoke asked, grinning.

“Yeah, but I was afixin' to get me some chickens anyway. You just happened to remind me of it, is all.”

“Yes, well, I'm glad I thought to remind you. But speaking of eggs, wouldn't you like some bacon and biscuits to go with them? And later, maybe some cornbread and beans?”

“Yeah, that wouldn't be bad,” Preacher said. “Hey, and I know where there's some wild greens to go with them beans and cornbread.”

“I knew you'd appreciate that. I got some coffee too.”

“Yeah. Now, coffee, that is somethin' you got to go down to Schemerhorn's for. Coffee and a beer ever now an' ag'in is about the only thing they is in civilization that's worth a little more'n a bucket of warm piss.”

Preacher had come out to the mountains when he was fourteen years old, after leaving the family farm in Ohio. During the first part of his journey, he had freed a slave girl who was three quarters white, fought river pirates on the Mississippi, ridden a raft down the river where, even though still a boy, he had taken part in the Battle of New Orleans with Andrew Jackson.

Shortly after arriving in the Rocky Mountains, he'd killed a bear with only a knife, but was badly mauled. He was taken in by a couple trappers named Pierre Garneau and Clyde Barnes. Those two old mountain men not only saved his life, they taught him everything he needed to know about trapping beaver and living alone in the High Lonesome.

In the time he had been in these mountains, he had seen an era come and go, and had attended rendezvouses with men like Grizzly Adams and Jim Beck-worth. He had once spent the winter with Kit Carson. He had seen more things and had more adventures than most men could cram into a lifetime . . . and he was just getting started.

When Smoke had come along, Preacher took him under his wing, teaching him as much as he knew. It was just as Pierre Garneau and Clyde Barnes had done for him, more than half a century earlier. Smoke had never known a finer man than Preacher, nor a truer friend.

“Seein' as you got yourself a job, I don't reckon you'll be spendin' that much time with me now, will you?” Although Preacher tried to say the words teasingly, there was a hint of melancholy in his voice. He had never been married long enough to have children of his own, and ever since Smoke's father Emmett had been killed, Preacher regarded Smoke as his own son.