Smoke just grinned at him. “Can you get a message to Preacher?”
“Shore. Good God, boy! You ain’t figurin’ on dealing Preacher in on this, are you?”
“Oh, no. Just tell him I’m all right and I’m glad to hear that he’s doing okay.”
“I’ll do it. You keep in touch, boy.”
Smoke rose to leave. “See you around, Slim.”
“Luck to you, boy.”
After the U.S. Marshal got over his initial shock of seeing the red and lavender-clad Shirley DeBeers introduce himself, he looked at the young man as if he had taken leave of his senses.
He finally said, “Have you got a death wish, boy? Or are you as goofy as you look?”
“My name is not really Shirley DeBeers, Marshal.”
“That’s a relief. I think. What is your handle—Sue?”
“Smoke Jensen.”
The U.S. Marshal fell out of his chair.
7
“The reason I wanted us to talk out here,” Marshal Jim Wilde said, standing with Smoke in the livery stable, “is ’cause I don’t trust nobody when it comes to that lousy damn bunch of crud over at Dead River.”
Smoke nodded his agreement. “You don’t suspect the sheriff of this county of being in cahoots with them, do you?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. He’s a good man. We’ve been working together, trying to come up with a plan to clean out that mess for months. It’s just that you never really know who might be listening. Are you really Smoke Jensen?” He looked at Smoke’s outfit and shuddered.
Smoke assured him that he was, despite the way he was dressed.
“And you want to be a U.S. Marshal?”
“Yes. To protect myself legally.”
“That’s good thinkin’. But this plan of yours ain’t too bright, the way I see it. Let me get this straight. You’re goin’ to act as point man for a posse to clean up Dead River?”
“That is my intention. At my signal, the posse will come in.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You, of course, will lead the posse.”
“Uh-huh.” The marshal’s expression was hound-dog mournful. “I was just afraid you was gonna say something ’bout like that.”
U.S. Marshal Wilde checked his dodgers to see if there were any wanted flyers out on Smoke. There were not. Then he sent some wires out to get approval on Smoke’s federal commission. Smoke lounged around the town, waiting for the marshal’s reply wires.
Trinidad was built at the foot of Raton Pass, on a foothill chain of the Culebra Range. The streets of the town twisted and turned deviously, giving it a curiously foreign look. The Purgatoire River separated the residential area from the business district.
Trinidad was known as a tough place, full of rowdies, and due to its relative closeness to Dead River, Smoke kept a close eye on his back trail.
On his third day in town, sensing someone was following him, he picked up his pursuers. They were three rough-looking men. Inwardly, he sighed, wanting nothing so much as to shed his role as Shirley DeBeers, foppish artist, and strap on his guns.
But he knew he had to endure what he’d started for a while longer.
He had deliberately avoided any contact with any lawmen, especially Jim Wilde. He had spent his time sketching various buildings of the town and some of the more colorfully dressed Mexicans.
But the three hard-looking gunhawks who were always following him began to get on his nerves. He decided to bring it to a head, but to do it in such a way as to reinforce his sissy, foppish act.
With his sketch pad in hand, Smoke turned to face the three men, who were standing across a plaza from him. He began sketching them.
And he could tell very quickly that his actions were not being received good-naturedly. One of the men made that perfectly clear in a hurry.
The man, wearing his guns low and tied down, walked across the plaza and jerked the sketch pad out of Smoke’s hands, throwing it to the street.
“Jist what in the hell do you think you’re doin’, boy?”
Smoke put a frightened look on his face. “I was sketching you and your friends. I didn’t think you would mind. I’m sorry if I offended you.”
Smoke was conscious of the sheriff of the county and of Jim Wilde watching from across the plaza, standing under the awning of a cantina.
The outlaw—Smoke assumed he was an outlaw—pointed to the sketch pad on the ground and grinned at Smoke. “Well, you shored did o-fend me, sissy-pants. Now pick that there pitcher book up offen the ground and gimme that drawin’ you just done of us.”
Smoke drew himself up. “I most certainly will do no such thing…you ruffian.”
The man slapped him.
It was all Smoke could do to contain his wild urge to tear the man’s head off and hand it to him.
