This Violent Land (9 page)

“Just long enough to eat up all the store-bought food I brought,” Smoke replied with a laugh. “And maybe long enough to take you down to Schemerhorn's to spend some of this newly earned money on a couple of those beers you were talking about.”

The talk about the money Smoke had earned as a deputy marshal was just that, talk. What only Preacher and Smoke knew was that Smoke's father lay buried in a place called Brown's Hole, up in the northwest corner of Colorado, near the Idaho line. And buried right beside him was a veritable fortune, several thousand dollars in gold that had once belonged to the Confederacy.

Initially stolen by Potter, Stratton, and Richards, Emmett had recovered some of the gold. By that time, the Confederacy was no more, and Emmett had fought too long, too hard, and had lost too many close friends in the war to give that money to the Yankees. He was dead, and the money belonged to Smoke. He was a very wealthy man, though he didn't show it in the way he lived.

Despite his youth, Smoke already knew there were a lot of things that money just couldn't buy.

F
or the next few weeks, it was like old times as the two men hunted and fished. Preacher still ran a trapline just to keep his hand in, but he had only a few traps out and most of the beaver skins he took, he used himself, making caps and muffs to ward off the winter cold.

“Hey, old man,” Smoke said one day when the weather had thawed a bit and after they had eaten most of the bacon and beans and used up all the flour and cornmeal. “What do you say we go down to Schemerhorn's so you can get reprovisioned?”

“Boy, you've done got yourself all citified on me, ain't you? You already tired of game? I'll have you know I lived here for years before Schemerhorn ever built that tradin' post of his.”

“I thought we might get a couple beers, too,” Smoke added with a smile.

“Well, damn! Why didn't you say so? Let me get my cap.”

It took them an hour to ride down from the mountains to what was the semblance of civilization nearest to Preacher's cabin. They tied up their animals in front of a building constructed of notched logs. It was of a fairly substantial size with a sign hanging down from the eaves.

 

S
CHEMERHORN'S
T
RADING
P
OST
DRY GOODS, GROCERIES, AMMUNITION
,
GUN POWDER, LIQUOR, AND TOBACCO
Seamus Schemerhorn, Proprietor

 

Stepping inside the building, they were assailed with a dozen different comforting fragrances—cured wood, smoked meat, tobacco, flour, and various spices. Seamus Schemerhorn—a tall, bald man with a full mustache, a hawk-like nose, and wire-rimmed spectacles—was sweeping the floor. There were no other customers in the store.

It was relatively dark inside, the principal illumination being the bars of sunlight, filled with dancing dust motes, that stabbed down from the narrow windows at the top of the walls. A lantern sat at the end of the counter augmenting the dim light, the burning wick adding the smell of kerosene to the other fragrances.

Schemerhorn looked up at the two as they came in stomping snow off their boots and smiled at them in recognition. “Hello, Preacher, hello, Smoke. Preacher, I haven't seen you in so long that I swear I was about to send someone up to your cabin to bury you,” he teased.

“You send someone up to my cabin that I ain't expectin', and it'll more'n likely be me buryin' them,” Preacher said.

Schemerhorn laughed. “Damn, I hadn't even thought about that. You might just be right. You need some provisions, do you?”

“Yes,” Smoke said. “But first we thought we might have a couple beers.”

Schemerhorn went around behind the counter, which, on an occasion such as this, could double as a bar. He drew two beers and put one in front of each of the two men. Smoke reached over to the beer Schemerhorn had put in front of Preacher and pulled it to himself. “These are mine. Let that old man order his own beer.”

Schemerhorn chuckled. “I guess I just wasn't reckonin' on that much of a thirst. Two beers for you as well, Preacher?”

“Do I look like some kinda drunk to you, Schemerhorn?” Preacher asked. “One beer is plenty for me, thank you most to death.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Schemerhorn said, holding up his hands, open palms facing Preacher. “One beer it is.”

Schemerhorn drew another beer and set the mug in front of Preacher.

“With a shot of whiskey chaser,” Preacher added.

With another chuckle, Schemerhorn poured the shot.

“While we're drinking, you might fill this order,” Smoke said, passing a list over to the merchant.

“I'll be glad to.”

“I'll not be riding back up to the cabin with you,” Smoke said to Preacher a moment later as Schemerhorn was moving about the store, gathering the supplies on Smoke's list.

“I figured as much,” Preacher replied.

“It's just that, if I'm going to deputy for Marshal Holloway, I don't think I should be taking too much time away.”

“Tell the old coot I said hello when you get back there.”

“Old coot?” Smoke laughed, then took a swallow of his beer. “Funny, that's just what he called you.”

 

 

 

“Governor of the Territory of Idaho,” Wiley Potter said. “How does that sound?”

“Do you think Governor Bennett is going to just step aside and let you be the governor?” Stratton asked.

“I know he's plannin' on givin' it up. That means there will have to be a new governor.”

“You forget, governors of territories ain't elected,” Richards said. “They are appointed by the President, and Grant is the President. There ain't no Yankee general gonna give an appointment like that to someone who fought for the South.”

Potter chuckled. “We wasn't exactly what you would call loyal to the South. Besides which, ever'one knows that his brother-in-law, Corbin, can get anything from Grant you want, if you pay him enough.”

“How much is enough?” Stratton asked.

“I don't know, but however much it is, it'll be worth it. Just think about what I can do for all our business enterprises if I'm the governor.”

“He has a point, Muley,” Richards said.

They heard someone come into the house.

“Janey, is that you?” Richards called.

She stepped into the ranch office to join Richards and the others. “Yes.”

“Janey, pour the four of us a drink,” Richards said, pointing to the liquor cabinet. “We're celebrating.”

“What are we celebrating?”

“Wiley, here, is going to be our new governor,” Stratton said.

Janey smiled. “Really? When did that happen?”

Richards shrugged. “It hasn't happened yet. But it's going to happen.”

“Well then, why don't we drink to it when it does happen?” she suggested.

Stratton laughed. “Josh, this woman sure has control over you, doesn't she?”

“I don't know,” Richards answered. “Do you have control over me, Janey?”

She walked over to him, then leaned into him and kissed him. “What do you think, my sweet?”

“Boys, I think maybe Janey is right. We'll drink to Wiley being governor when he has the presidential appointment in hand.”

Hearing the laughter behind her, Janey walked up the stairs to her room. More than a room, it was a suite, almost a private apartment. She had a bedroom, a sitting room, a private bathing room with running water and a wood-burning stove to heat water for her bath. Financially, she had it better than she had ever had it at any time in her entire life. But there was more to living than just being financially secure.

She thought of the families she had seen during her recent trip to Denver. Men and women, happily married, with children. Even as she thought of it, she realized that it was something she would never have.

She knew that Richards would marry her—he had suggested it more than once—but somewhere in the back of her mind was the idea that one should be in love before getting married. She loved the luxury Josh Richards was able to provide for her, but she didn't love
him
.

Also, she knew that if they did get married the relationship between them would change, drastically, and not for the better. As his wife, Richards would have authority over her, and she had no doubt that he would exercise that authority absolutely, and if necessary, cruelly. She would never give him that power.

She couldn't help but wonder, though, what her life would be like if she could find a man who really did love her, and who she could love.

 

 

 

“Hello, Miss Wilson,” Smoke said as he stepped into the United States Marshal's office a few days later.

“Hello, Deputy,” Annie Wilson replied.

“And how is the most beautiful girl in Denver?”

Annie laughed. “Smoke Jensen, I'm almost old enough to be your mama. Well, maybe not quite, but certainly old enough to be your big sister. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“I'm older than you think I am.”

“You forget, I keep the records of all our deputies. I know exactly how old you are.”

“Ah, but that's only in years. Surely experience counts for something, doesn't it?”

“You may have a point there, Deputy. I've also seen a file of some of your . . . uh . . . exploits. Some people could live a hundred years and not experience the life you've already lived.”

“Maybe. But it's also true that some of the events in my life I would just as soon have not experienced. Is the marshal in?”

“He's with the governor right now. It'll be just a moment. There's some issues of the
Rocky Mountain News
, if you care to look at them while you wait.”

“Thanks,” Smoke said, picking up a paper and taking a chair to read it. One story quickly caught his attention, even though it was a couple of months old.

The door to Marshal Holloway's office opened, and he and the territorial governor stepped out. Governor McCook had reached the rank of brigadier general during the war and still carried himself with a military bearing. He had a full mustache that curled down to either side of his mouth, but he didn't have a beard.

Holloway said, “Governor, this is my newest deputy, Kirby Jensen. Though he is better known as Smoke.”

“Smoke, is it? Well, Smoke, Marshal Holloway has been saying good things about you. Keep up the good work.”

“I'll do my best, Governor,” Smoke replied as he dropped the newspaper back on the table where he had gotten it.

“I'm glad to see that you're back,” Marshal Holloway said to Smoke after the governor left. “I want to send you to the town of Running Creek.The sheriff there, Frank Tanner, has asked for help.”

“What does he need?”

“To be honest with you, Smoke, I don't know what he needs because he didn't say. But I know Frank. He's a good man, and he wouldn't ask for help unless he really needed it. How soon can you be ready to go?”

“About as long as it takes me to walk from here to my horse,” Smoke replied.

Marshal Holloway laughed. “Then apparently I'm keeping you from your work by standing here talking to you. Go, go. Don't let me detain you.”

 

W
hen bounty hunter Crack Kingsley walked into the Black Jack Saloon it was busy, but he found a place by the end of the bar nearest the door. He ordered a beer, then took out a flyer and examined it. The name on the flyer was Val Holder, and the reward was $2,500.

The line drawing of Holder wasn't as effective as a photo, but it was close enough that Kingsley was certain the man standing at the other end of the bar was the one he was looking for. He was helped along in the belief by having heard that Holder had taken up residence in Running Creek.

Having developed sort of a sixth sense about men like Kingsley, Holder had noticed him the moment he walked in. The dark-haired, dark-eyed man tossed his whiskey down, then ran his finger across the full mustache that curved around his mouth like the horns on a Texas steer and called out, “Mister bounty hunter.”

Kingsley was shocked to hear himself addressed that way. His effectiveness as a bounty hunter depended upon an element of surprise. If he had been recognized, that element was gone.

“Mister bounty hunter!” Holder called again, loud and authoritatively. “What's the matter? Have you gone deaf? Answer me.”

Everyone in the saloon recognized the challenge implied in its timbre. All other conversations ceased, and the drinkers at the bar backed away so nothing but clear space was between Holder and Kingsley. Even the bartender left his position behind the hardwood.

Kingsley looked up from his beer. “I'm sorry, mister. Do I know you?”

“You should. Isn't it your job to know me?” Holder asked. “You
are
a bounty hunter, aren't you?”

It hadn't started out so well, but Kingsley had to keep his nerve. “What makes you think that?”

“I know a bounty hunter when I see one. No, I know a bounty hunter when I
smell
one. And mister, I see and smell a bounty hunter.”

“I'm afraid you've got me mixed up with somebody else.”

“No, I don't think so,” Holder said confidently. “My name is Val Holder. I expect I'm the one you're looking for.”

“That name don't mean nothin' to me.” Kingsley lifted his mug to take a drink, hoping Holder didn't see that his hand was shaking.

“Well, let me tell you what it means. It means I am the law in this town.”

“You're the law? I don't see a badge.”

“I don't need a badge. I'm the law, simply because I say I'm the law. And I'm tellin' you now to ride on out.”

“Why should I?”

“Let's just say I don't like bounty hunters.”

“And if I choose to stay?”

Holder smirked. “You'd be makin' a big mistake.”

Kingsley had lost the advantage of surprise, but he had been in the business too long to be buffaloed out of a prize so big. No way was he going to turn away from $2,500. He wiped the foam from his lips with the back of his hand. “All right, Holder. You're right. I am a bounty hunter. My name is Crack Kingsley.”

A few sharp intakes of breath came from the saloon patrons. Kingsley's name was well-known. It was also known that he specialized in going after “Dead or Alive” outlaws, and took none of them in alive.

“The thing is, Holder, you've got a pretty fair amount of money posted on you right now,” Kingsley went on. “And I don't intend to leave this town without claimin' my bounty.”

Holder raised an eyebrow. “Is that a fact? Well, Mr. Bounty Hunter, you won't be collecting any bounty on me.”

“And how do you propose to prevent me from doing that?”

“I propose to kill you,” Holder said easily.

More than a few quick intakes of breath could be heard. They were collective, creating quite an audible gasp from those who were intently watching the drama being played out before them.

Kingsley set his beer mug down, stepped away from the bar, and flipped his duster back so that his gun was exposed. He was wearing it low and kicked out, the way a man wears a gun when he knows how to use it. “You talk too much, Holder.”

Holder stepped away from the bar. He wore his gun low and kicked out, too. He smiled a cold, evil smile. “Well, Mr. Kingsley, you brought me to the ball, so . . .”

Although Kingsley had lost the advantage of surprise, he had been in shoot-outs before and he was fast. In fact, he was very fast, especially if he had the edge of drawing first. Without another word he made his move, pulling his pistol in the blink of an eye.

But Holder, whether reacting to Kingsley's draw or anticipating it, had his own pistol out just a split second faster, pulling the hammer back and firing in one fluid motion. In the close confines of the barroom, the gunshot sounded like a clap of thunder.

Kingsley's eyes grew wide with surprise at how fast Holder had his gun up and firing. He tried hard to beat the bullet with his own draw but he couldn't do it. Holder's shot caught Kingsley in the chest and the bounty hunter's eyes glazed over even as he staggered backward, crashing through the batwing doors and falling flat on his back on the boardwalk in front of the saloon. His gun arm was thrown to one side and the still unfired pistol was in his hand.

There was a moment of silence, then one of the patrons nearest the door ventured a peek over the top of the batwings. He turned and shouted back to the others, “He's dead, folks. He's deader than a doornail.”

“Bartender,” Holder said.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Holder?”

“Set up drinks for the house.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Holder.”

With a happy shout, everyone in the saloon rushed to the bar to give their order.

* * *

It was close to eleven o'clock that same night when Smoke arrived in town. Unlike his trip to Red Cliff, which had been by train, he had ridden on horseback to Running Creek after riding from Preacher's cabin to Schemerhorn's Trading Post, then from the trading post to Denver, and from Denver to Running Creek. In addition, he had risen at sunrise, which had occurred at about five o'clock. It had been one very long day.

He didn't make an attempt to contact the sheriff; he would look him up in the morning. All he wanted was a drink and a bed. A beer wouldn't do it. He wanted a stiff drink.

The Black Jack was the most substantial looking saloon in a row of saloons. He tied his horse at the hitch rail in front, stepped over a drunk who was passed out on the steps in front of the place, and went inside.

Stepping immediately to the side as usual, he looked around. The chimneys of all the lanterns were covered with soot, making the light dingy and filtered through drifting smoke. The place smelled of whiskey, stale beer, pungent tobacco, and unwashed bodies. A long bar on the left had dirty towels hanging on hooks about every five feet along the front. A large mirror was behind the bar, but like everything else in the saloon, it was so dirty Smoke could scarcely see any images in it. What he could see was distorted by imperfections in the glass.

Against the back wall, near the foot of the stairs, a baldheaded musician was playing a cigar-scarred and beer-stained upright piano. In the center of the saloon were eight or ten tables, nearly all of them occupied. A half dozen or so soiled doves were flitting about, pushing drinks and promising more if the price was right. A few card games were in progress, but most of the patrons were just drinking and talking. The subject of their conversation was the gunfight that had taken place in the saloon earlier in the day.

Most had heard of the gunfight in Red Cliff a few weeks ago. The killing that afternoon had roused speculation as to which of the two gunfighters was best.

“In my mind there ain't no doubt,” said one of the men at a table. “This feller Smoke Jensen took on three men at the same time, and he kilt all three of 'em. You can't compare that with what Holder done just killin' one man.”

“The hell you can't,” another man contended. “Them three wasn't gunfighters. They was just cattle rustlers. They thought because there was three of 'em they could take 'im on. Holder called Kingsley out and stood up to 'im, face-to-face. And did you see Holder's draw? Faster'n greased lightnin' it was. Why, it was so quick I never seen nothin' more'n a jump of his shoulder and the gun was in his hand. In his hand and blazin', it was, and Kingsley was graspin' his chest and fallin' back through the door without gettin' off even one shot.”

“Still, three to one,” one of the others said, and the argument continued.

“You're both forgettin' the one who's the fastest of 'em all. Faster than Holder or Jensen.”

“Who would that be? You ain't goin' to say Hickok are you? 'Cause I seen him oncet, and I don't think he could hold a candle to either Jensen or Holder.”

“Clell Dawson, that's who. He kilt The Concho Kid, and The Concho Kid was maybe faster than either Jensen or Holder.”

“I heard o' him.”

“I'd sure like to see a couple o' them fellas go up ag'in each other,” another said, putting voice to what all were thinking.

“Whoowee! Wouldn't that be somethin' pure-dee, though?”

The bartender was pouring the residue from abandoned whiskey glasses back into a bottle when Smoke stepped up to the bar. The barkeep pulled a soggy cigar butt from one glass, laid the butt aside, then poured the whiskey back into the bottle without qualms.

Smoke held up his finger.

“Yeah?” the bartender responded.

“Whiskey.”

The bartender picked up the bottle he had just poured whiskey into.

“Not that bottle. A clean bottle.”

“You're some kind of particular, ain't you?” the bartender asked.

“If I want a cigar I'll smoke it, not drink it,” Smoke replied.

The bartender chuckled. “Most of the drinkers in here don't never even notice I'm here, let alone what I'm doin'. But since you called me out on it, I'll get you another bottle.”

The bartender took a bottle from one of the glass shelves behind him, pulled the cork, poured a drink, and handed it to Smoke, who examined the liquor for any possible residue before he paid for it.

“Go ahead. Check it out if you want. This here is a clean bottle,” the bartender said.

Smoke tossed the drink down without answering, then wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “I didn't see a hotel when I rode in.”

“That's 'cause the onliest one we had burnt down a couple months ago. We got rooms upstairs, though.”

“All right. I'll take one.”

“With or without.”

Smoke frowned. “With or without what?”

The bartender looked up in surprise. “Are you kiddin' me, mister? With or without a woman.”

“Without.”

“Six bits.”

“Six bits? Isn't that a little expensive?”

“If we left it empty so the girls could use it for their customers, we could make three, maybe four times that,” the bartender said. “Six bits, take it or leave it.”

Smoke had been in the saddle a long time. Six bits?
Hell,
he thought,
I'd pay six bucks to get a little sleep. “
Here.” He slapped the coins on the bar. “Tell your girls and their customers not to come into my room by mistake. If they do, they just might get shot.”

“Mister, I don't know who the hell you are, but it ain't healthy to go around making threats you can't back up,” the bartender growled. He picked up the silver and took it over to the money box, then reached for a key. “Here you go. It's Room Two, right at the top of the stairs. You'll have a good view of the street from there.”

“Thanks.” Smoke picked up his key.

“Yes, sir,” he heard someone behind him say as he started up the stairs. “Dawson, Holder, and Jensen, goin' at one another. That would be somethin' to behold. Folks would come from miles around to see somethin' like that.”

When he got to Room Two he lit the lamp, then had a look around. The room had one high-sprung, cast-iron bed, a chest, and a small table with a pitcher and basin.On the wall was a neatly lettered sign. D
O NOT SPIT ON THE FLOOR
. G
ENTLEMEN, PLEASE REMOVE SPURS WHILE IN BED
.