“Killed for right and reason,” John muttered. His attorney’s mind was having a most difficult time comprehending that last bit.
Abigal looked like she might, at any moment, fall over from a case of the vapors. “And…your husband, this Smoke person, he’s killed men?”
“Oh, yes. About a hundred or so. That’s not counting Indians on the warpath. But not very many of them. You see, Smoke was raised by the mountain man, Preacher. And we get along well with the Indians.”
“Preacher,” John murmured. “The most famous, or infamous, mountain man of the West.”
“That’s him!” Sally said cheerfully. “And,” she pulled an old wanted poster out of her bag and passed it over to her father, “that’s my Smoke. Handsome, isn’t he?”
Under the drawing of Smoke’s likeness, was the lettering:
WANTED
DEAD OR ALIVE
THE OUTLAW AND MURDERER
SMOKE JENSEN
$10,000.00 REWARD
“Ye, Gods!” her father yelled, “the man is wanted by the authorities!”
Sally laughed at his expression. “No, Father, That was a put-up job. Smoke is not wanted by the law. He never has been on the dodge.”
“Thank God for small favors.” John wiped his sweaty face with a handkerchief.
Walter said, “And your husband has killed a hundred men, you say?”
“Well, thereabouts, yes. But they were all fair fights.”
The kids slipped away into the foyer and silently opened the front door, stepping out onto the large porch. Then they were racing away to tell all their friends that their uncle, Smoke Jensen, the most famous gunfighter in all the world, was coming to Keene for a visit.
Really!
Sally passed around the newspapers she had saved over the months, from both Fontana and Big Rock. The family read them, disbelief in their eyes.
“Monte Carson is your sheriff?” John questioned. “But I have seen legal papers that stated he was a notorious gunfighter.”
“He was. But he wasn’t an outlaw. And Johnny North is now a farmer/rancher and one of our neighbors and close friends.”
They had all heard of Johnny North. He was almost as famous as Smoke Jensen.
“Louis Longmont is a man of great wealth,” Jordan muttered, reading a paper. “His holdings are quite vast. Newspaper, hotels, a casino in Europe, and a major stockholder in a railroad.”
“He’s also a famous gunfighter and gambler,” Sally informed them all. “And a highly educated man and quite the gentleman.”
Shaking his head, John laid the paper aside. “When is your husband coming out for a visit, Sally?”
“As soon as he finishes with his work.”
“His work being with his guns.” It was not put as a question.
“That is correct. Why do you ask, Father?”
“I’m just wondering if I should alert the governor so he can call out the militia!”
9
On the morning he set out for Dead River, Smoke dressed in his most outlandish clothing. He even found a long hawk feather and stuck that in his silly cap. He knew he would probably be searched once inside, or maybe outside the outlaw town, and what to do with his short-barreled .44 worried him. He finally decided to roll it up in some dirty longhandles and stick it in his dirty clothes bag, storing it in his pack. He was reasonably sure it would go undetected there. It was the best idea he could come up with.
He adjusted the bonnets on Drifter and his packhorse, with Drifter giving him a look that promised trouble if this crap went on much longer. Smoke swung into the saddle, pointing Drifter’s nose north. A few more miles and he would cut west, into the Sangre de Cristo range and into the unknown.
About two hours later, he sensed unfriendly eyes watching him as he rode. He made no effort to search out his watchers, for a foppish gent from back east would not have developed that sixth sense. But White Wolf had told him that there were guards all along the trail, long before one ever reached the road that would take him to Dead River.
Smoke rode on, singing at the top of his lungs, stopping occasionally to admire the beautiful scenery and to make a quick sketch. To ooh and aah at some spectacular wonder of nature. He was just about oohed and aahed out, and Drifter looked like he was about ready to throw Smoke and stomp on him, when he came to a road. He had no idea what to expect, but this startled him with its openness.
A sign with an arrow pointing west, and under the arrow: DEAD RIVER. Under that: IF YOU DON’T HAVE BUSINESS IN DEAD RIVER, STAY OUT!
Smoke dismounted and looked around him. There was no sign of life. Raising his voice, he called, “I say! Yoo, hoo! Oh, yoo hoo! Is anyone there who might possibly assist me?”
Drifter swung his big bonneted head around and looked at Smoke through those cold yellow eyes. Eyes that seemed to say: Have you lost your damn mind!
“Just bear with me, boy,” Smoke muttered. “It won’t be long now. I promise you.”
Drifter tried to step on his foot.
Smoke mounted up and rode on. He had huge mountains on either side of him. To the north, one reared up over fourteen thousand feet. To the south, the towering peaks rammed into the sky more than thirteen thousand feet, snow-capped year-round.
