“I don’t know that I will ever return,” he spoke quietly. “I wish it could have been different, Nicole. I wish we could have lived out our lives in peace, together, raising our family. I wish a lot of things, Nicole. Goodbye.”
With tears in his eyes, he mounted Seven and rode away, pointing the nose of the big spotted horse north.
But in a settlement on the banks of the Uncompahgre, Felter and Sam and Canning were telling a much different version of what happened in the cabin in the valley.
Fifteen
“I’m tellin’ you boys,” Felter said to the miners, “I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it. Them murderin’ Utes raped the woman, killed her and the baby, then scalped ’em. It was terrible.”
“Yeah,” Sam picked up the lie. “Then that outlaw, Smoke Jensen, he all of a sudden comes up on us — shootin’. He kilt Grissom and Poker and Evans right off. Just shot ’em dead for no reason. He went crazy, I guess. Stampeded our horses and Felter and me took cover in a waller. He took our horses.”
“Time we worked our way out,” Felter said, “this Smoke had killed the rest of our crew and staked out Clark on an anthill, stripped him neked and poured honey all over him.” He hung his head in sorrow. “Wasn’t nothin’ we could do for him. You boys know how hard a man dies like that.”
The miners listened quietly.
“I found Canning,” Felter said. “You all know what was done to him. Most awfullest thing I ever seen one white man do to another. Kid Austin was shot in the back; never even had a chance to pull his guns.”
Some of the miners believed Felter; most did not. They knew about Smoke, the stories told, and knew about Felter and his scummy crew. Some of them had known Preacher, and knew the mountain man would not take a murderer to raise as his son. The general consensus was that Felter and Sam and Canning were lying.
Felter had not told them of the men riding hard toward the camp; men sent by Richards and Stratton and Potter. That message was waiting for Felter when he arrived at the miners’ camp.
Several miners left the smoke-filled tent, to gather in the dusky coolness.
“Pass the word,” one said. “This boy Smoke is bein’ set up. We all know the story as to why.”
“Yeah. The fight’ll be lopsided, but I sure don’t wanna miss it. I hear tell this Smoke is poison with a short gun.”
“Myself. See you.”
Although the trail of Felter was three weeks old, it was not that difficult to follow: a bloody bandage from Canning’s wounds; a carelessly doused campfire; an empty bottle of laudanum and several pints of whiskey. And Indians told him of sighting the men.
It all pointed toward the silver camp near the Uncompahgre. And it also meant Felter was probably expecting more men to join him — probably more men than had attacked his cabin. How many brave men does it take to rape and kill one woman and a baby?
That thought lay bitter on his mind as he rode, following the trail with dogged determination.
Just south of what would soon be named Telluride, in the gray granite mountains, two miners stopped the young man on the spotted horse — stopped him warily.
“I was told you’d be ridin’ a big spotted horse with a mean look in its eyes,” a miner said. “I ain’t tryin’ to be nosy, young feller, but if you’re the man called Smoke, I got news.”
“I’m Smoke.” He took out tobacco and paper and rolled a cigarette, handing the makings to the miners.
“Thanks,” one said, after they had all rolled, licked, and lit. “’bout fourteen salty ol’ boys waitin’ for you at the silver camp. Most of us figure Felter lied ’bout what happened at your cabin. What did happen?”
Smoke told them, leaving nothing out.
“That’s ’bout the way we had it figured. Son, you can’t go up agin all them folks — no matter how you feel. That’d be foolish. They’s too many.”
“If they’re gun-hands for Potter or Richards or Stratton, I intend to kill them.”
“’Pears to me, son, they ’bout wiped out your whole family.”
“They made just one mistake,” Smoke said.
“What’s that?”
“They left me alive.”
The miners had nothing to say to that.
“Thanks for the information.” Smoke moved out.
The miners watched him leave. One said, “I wouldn’t miss this for nothin’. This here is gonna be a fight that’ll be yakked about for a hundred years to come. You can tell your grandkids ’bout this. Providin’, that is, you can find a woman to live with your ugly face.”
“Thank you. But you ain’t no rose. Come on.”
How the tall young man had managed to Injun up on him, the miner didn’t know. He was woods-wise and yet he hadn’t heard a twig snap or a leaf rustle. Just that sudden cold sensation of a rifle muzzle pressing against his neck.
“My name is Smoke.”
The miner almost ruined a perfectly good pair of long johns.
“If you got friends in that camp,” Smoke told him, “you go down and very quietly tell them to ease out. ’cause in one hour, I’m opening this dance.”
“My name is Big Jake Johnson, Mr. Smoke — and I’m on your side.”
Smoke removed the muzzle from the man’s neck.
“Thank you,” the miner said.
