“It was time. And my name is not DeBeers.”
“Yeah. I kinda figured it was a phony. And I didn’t believe that Shirley bit, neither.”
“That’s right. You get my boots and spurs?”
York pointed to a bag on the ground. He had never seen such a change in any man. The man standing in front of him looked…awesome!
Smoke was dressed all in black, from his boots to his shirt. His belt was black with inlaid silver that caught the last glows of the setting sun. He wore a red bandana around his neck. He had buckled on twin .44s, the left handgun worn butt-forward, cross-draw style. He had shoved two more .44s behind his belt.
“Ah…man, you best be careful with them guns,” York cautioned. “You packin’ enough for an army. Are you fixin’ to start a war around here?”
“That is my hope, York.”
“Yeah?” Somehow, that did not come as any surprise to York. There was something about this tall man that was just…well, unsettling. He poured a cup of coffee and sipped it, hot, strong, and black. He looked at the tall man. Naw, he thought, it couldn’t be. But he sure looked like all the descriptions York had ever heard about the gunfighter. “Who are you, man?”
Smoke pulled a badge from his pocket and pinned it to his shirt. “I’m a United States Deputy Marshal. And as far as I’m concerned, York, all those warrants against you are not valid. And when we get out of here, I’ll see that they are recalled. How does that sound to you?”
York took a sip of coffee. Oddly, to Smoke, he had shown no surprise. “Sounds good to me, Marshal.” He stood up and pulled a gold badge out of his pocket and pinned it on his shirt. “Buddy York is the name. Arizona Rangers. I was wonderin’ if you plan on corralin’ this town all by your lonesome.”
“That’s a good cover story of yours, Ranger,” Smoke complimented him.
“Well, took us six months to set it up. The dodgers that are out are real. Had to be that way.”
“I gather you have warrants for some people in here?”
“A whole passel of them, including some on Dagget.”
“There is a large posse on the way in. They’ll be here just at dusk. The Utes have taken care of the guards along the road.”
York looked up at the sky. “That’s a good hour and a half away, Marshal.” He was grinning broadly.
“That’s the way I got it figured, Ranger. Of course, you do know that you have no jurisdiction in this area?”
“I’ll worry about that later.”
“Consider yourself deputized with full government authority.”
“I do thank you, Marshal.”
“You ready to open this dance, Ranger?” Smoke sat down on a log and buckled on his spurs. He looked up as York opened another bag and tossed him a black hat, low crowned and flat brimmed. “Thanks. I am ever so glad to be rid of that damned silly cap.” He tried the hat. A perfect fit.
“You did look a tad goofy. But I got to hand it to you. You’re one hell of a fine actor.”
Both men stuffed their pockets full of shells.
Rifle in hand, York said, “What is your handle, anyways?”
“Smoke Jensen,” the tall, heavily muscled man said with a smile.
York’s knees seemed to buckle and he sat down heavily on a log. When he found his voice, he said, “Holy jumpin’ Jesus Christ!”
“I’m new to the marshaling business, Ranger. I just took this on a temporary basis.” Then he explained what had happened at his ranch, to his wife.
“Takes a low-life SOB to attack a lone woman. I gather you want Davidson and Dagget and them others all to yourself, right?”
“I would appreciate it, Ranger.”
“They’re all yours.”
Smoke checked his guns, slipping them both in and out of leather a few times. He filled both cylinders and every loop on his gunbelt, then checked the short-barreled pistol he carried in his shoulder holster. Breaking open the sawed-off shotgun, he filled both barrels with buckshot loads. Smoke looked on with approval as the ranger pulled two spare .44s out of his warbag and loaded them full. He tucked them behind his belt and picked up a Henry repeating rifle, loading it full and levering in a round, then replacing that round in the magazine.
“I’ll tell you how I see this thing, Ranger. You don’t have to play this way, but I’m going to.”
“I’m listenin’, Smoke.”
“I’m not taking any prisoners.”
“I hadn’t planned on it myself.”
The men smiled at each other, knowing then exactly where the other stood.
Their pockets bulging with extra cartridges, York carrying a Henry and Smoke carrying the sawed-off express gun, they looked at each other.
“You ready to strike up the band, Ranger?”
