Audie walked away. About three and a half feet tall physically, about six and a half feet of man and mind and courage.
Smoke sat back on his bootheels and wondered what razed meant.
He’d have to remember to ask Sally. She’d know. And with that thought, another problem presented itself to Smoke’s mind. Sally. He knew he cared a lot for the woman—more than he was willing to admit—but what did he have to offer someone like her? When news of what he planned to do to Bury reached the outside, Smoke Jensen would be the most wanted man in the west. Not necessarily in terms of reward money, for if he had his way, Potter, Stratton, and Richards would be dead and in the ground, but more in terms of reputation. A hundred, five hundred, a thousand gunhawks would be looking for him to make a reputation.
Back to the valley where Nicole and Baby Arthur were buried?
No. No, for even if Sally was willing to come with him, he couldn’t go back there. Too many old memories would be in the way. He would return to the valley for his mares; he wanted to do that. Then push on and get the Appaloosa, Seven.
Then…?
He didn’t know. He would like to ranch and raise horses. And farm. Farming was in his blood and he had always loved the land. A combination horse and cattle ranch and farm? Why not? That was very rare in the west—almost unheard of—but why not?
Would Sally be content with that? A woman of class and education and independence and wealth? Well, he’d never know until he asked her. But that would have to wait. He’d ask her later. If he lived, that is.
Deputy Rogers was the first to report back to Potter and Stratton and Sheriff Reese. Josh Richards was still out in the field; he knew nothing of the true identity of Buck West. Not yet.
“North road’s blocked ’bout three miles out of town,” Rogers reported. “An’ I mean blown all to hell. Brought a landslide down four-five-hundred feet long.”
Deputy Payton galloped up and dismounted. “South road’s blocked by a landslide. A bad one. Ain’t nothing gonna get through there for a long time. They’s riflemen stuck up all around the town, watchin’ the trails. Old mountain men, looks like.”
“I should have put it all together,” Stratton said with a sigh. “I should have known when that damn Jensen came ridin’ in, bold as brass. Should have known that’s who it was.”
“What are we going to do, Keith?” Wiley Potter asked.
“Wait and find out what Jensen wants. Hell, what else can we do?”
Audie had made himself a megaphone out of carefully peeled bark. He had stationed himself on a ridge overlooking the town of Bury.
“Attention below!” Audie called. “Residents of Bury, Idaho Territory, gather in the street and curb your tongues.”
“Do what with a tongue?” Deputy Rogers asked.
“Don’t talk,” Stratton said.
“Oh.”
“Armageddon is nigh,” Audie called. “Your penurious and evil practices must cease.
“What’s that about arms?” Dan Reese asked.
“Armageddon,” Reverend Necker said. “Where the final battle will be fought between good and evil.” He looked around him. “Has anybody got a jug? I need a drink.”
“I ain’t gonna hoof my tootsies nowhere,” Louise Rosten said. “They’s wild savages out there.”
“Just head straight across the flats toward the east,” her husband told her. “They’s a settlement ’bout thirty miles over yonder. Pack up the kids and git gone. Hell, you can outshoot me.”
“Hunts-Long and his Flatheads will escort the women and children to safety,” Audie’s voice once more rang out over the town. “They’ll be waiting on the east side of the creek. You have twenty-four hours. This will be my last warning to you.”
“I ain’t travelin’ with no damned greasy Injuns!” Veronica Morgan said. “I ain’t leavin’ the hotel.”
Her husband looked at her. “Get those snot-nosed brats of yours and get out. I’m tired of looking at your ugly face and listening to those brats squall.”
Veronica spat in her husband’s face and wheeled about, stalking back to the hotel.
“Potter! Stratton! Richards!” Smoke’s voice boomed through the bark-made megaphone. “This is Smoke Jensen. I’m giving you a better chance than you gave my pa, my brother, and my wife and son.”
None of the town’s residents had to ask what Smoke was talking about. They all, to a person, knew. They knew the town was built on stolen gold and Jensen blood. They all knew the whole bloody, tragic story. And they had consented to live with that knowledge.
Stratton’s heavy jowls quivered with rage and fear. He turned his little piggy eyes to Potter. “Now what?” he demanded.
“Just stay calm and keep your senses about you, man,” Potter said. “Look at facts. We’ve a hundred and fifty men in this town. Thirty of them are hardcases drawing fighting pay. Josh is out there,” he waved his hand, “with fifteen or twenty other gunhands. We’re up against a handful of old men and one smart-aleck gunhawk who is too sure of himself. We’ve both known Hunts-Long for years. He’s a peaceful, trusting Indian and so is his tribe. Send the women and kids out and we’ll make ready for a siege. The stage is due in three days. We’ll have someone there to meet it, turn it around, and get the Army in here from the fort. Then we’ll hang Smoke Jensen and his damned
