And Smoke did not believe that for a moment.
More than likely, Davidson and Dagget and all the others who voluntarily resided in Dead River were not insane. Perhaps they were just the personification of evil, and the place was a human snake pit.
He chose that explanation. Already, people who had committed the most terrible of crimes were saying they were not responsible for their actions because they had been crazy, at the time, before the time, whatever. And courts, mostly back east in the big cities, were accepting that more and more, allowing guilty people to be set free without punishment. Smoke did not doubt for one minute that there were people who were truly insane and could not help their actions.
But he also felt that those types were in the minority of cases; the rest were shamming. If a person were truly crazy, Smoke did not believe that malady could be turned off and on like a valve. If a person were truly insane, they would perform irrational acts on a steady basis, not just whenever the mood struck them.
He knew for an ironclad fact that many criminals were of a high intelligence, and that many were convincing actors and actresses. Certainly smart enough to fool this new thing he’d heard about called psychiatry. Smoke Jensen was a straight-ahead, right-was-right and wrong-was-wrong man, with damn little gray in between. You didn’t lie, you didn’t cheat, you didn’t steal, and you treated your neighbor like you would want to be treated.
And if you didn’t subscribe to that philosophy, you best get clear of men like Smoke Jensen.
As for the scum and filth and perverts in this town of Dead River, Smoke felt he had the cure for what ailed them.
The pills were made of lead.
And the doctor’s name was Smoke Jensen.
11
For one hour each day, Smoke sketched Rex Davidson; the rest of the time was his to spend as he pleased. He took his meals at the Bon Ton—the man who owned the place was wanted for murder back in Illinois, having killed several people by poisoning them—and spent the rest of his time wandering the town, sketching this and that and picking up quite a bit of money by drawing the outlaws who came and went. He made friends with none of them, having found no one whom he felt possessed any qualities that he wished to share. Although he felt sure there must be one or two in the town who could be saved from a life of crime with just a little bit of help.
Smoke put that out of his mind and, for the most part, kept it out. He wanted nothing on his conscience when the lead started flying.
He was not physically bothered by any outlaw. But the taunts and insults continued from many of the men and from a lot of the women who chose to live in the town. Smoke would smile and tip his cap at them, but if they could have read his thoughts, they would have grabbed the nearest horse and gotten the hell out of Dead River.
Brute saw Smoke several times a day but refused to speak to him. He would only grin nastily and make the most obscene gestures.
Smoke saw the three who had shoved him around in Trinidad—Jake, Shorty, and Red—but they paid him no mind.
What did worry Smoke was that the town seemed to be filling up with outlaws. Many more were coming in, and damn few were leaving.
They were not all famous gunfighters and famous outlaws, of course. As a matter of fact, many were no more than two-bit punks who had gotten caught in the act of whatever crimes they were committing and, in a dark moment of fear and fury, had killed when surprised. But that did not make them any less guilty in Smoke’s mind. And then as criminals are prone to do, they grabbed a horse or an empty boxcar and ran, eventually joining up with a gang.
It was the gang leaders and lone-wolf hired guns who worried Smoke the most. For here in Dead River were the worst of the lot of bad ones in a three state area.
LaHogue, called the Hog behind his back, and his gang of cutthroats lived in Dead River. Natick and his bunch were in town, as was the Studs Woodenhouse gang and Bill Wilson’s bunch of crap. And just that morning, Paul Rycroft and Slim Bothwell and their men had ridden in.
The place was filling up with hardcases.
And to make matters worse, Smoke knew a lot of the men who were coming in. He had never ridden any hoot-owl trails with any of them, but their paths had crossed now and then. The West was a large place but relatively small in population, so people who roamed were apt to meet, now and then.
Cat Ventura and the Hog had both given Smoke some curious glances and not just one look but several, and that made Smoke uneasy. He wanted desperately to check to see if his guns were behind the privy. But he knew it would only bring unnecessary attention to himself, and that was something he could do without. He had stayed alive so far by playing the part of a foolish fop and by maintaining a very high visibility. And with only a few days to go, he did not want to break that routine. He spent the rest of the day sketching various outlaws—picking up about a hundred dollars doing so—and checking out the town of Dead River. But there was not that much more to be learned about the place. Since he was loosely watched every waking moment, Smoke had had very little opportunity to do much exploring.
He was sitting before his small fire that evening, enjoying a final cup of coffee before rolling up in his blankets, for the nights were very cool this high up in the mountains, when he heard spurs jingling, coming toward him. He waited, curious, for up to this point he had been left strictly alone.
“Hello, the fire!” the voice came out of the campfire-lit gloom.
“If you’re friendly, come on in,” Smoke called. “I will share my coffee with you.”
“Nice of you.” A young man, fresh-faced with youth, perhaps twenty years old at the most and wearing a grin, walked up and squatted down, pouring a tin cup full of dark, strong cowboy coffee. He glanced over the hat-sized fire at Smoke, his eyes twinkling with good humor.
He’s out of place, Smoke accurately pegged the young cowboy. He’s not an outlaw. There was just something about the young man; something clean and vital and open. That little intangible that set the innocent apart from the lawless.
“My first time to this place,” the young man said. “It’s quite a sight to see, ain’t it?”
Smoke had noticed that the cowboy wore his six-gun low and tied down, and the gun seemed to be a living
