“They’ll get you, Jensen. They’re gonna have their way with your uppity wife in front of your eyes, then they’re gonna kill you slow. You ain’t gonna find them, Jensen. They’re dug in deep. But they’ll find you. And that’s a promise, Jensen. That’s…”
His knees buckled and his eyes rolled back into his head until only the whites were showing. Nappy crashed to the barroom floor and died.
Both lawmen punched out empties and reloaded. York said, “I’ll send a wire to the Tucson office and tell them to recall the dodgers on Nappy. You hit anywhere?”
“’Bout a dozen splinters in my knee is all.”
“I’ll be back, and then we’ll have us a drink.”
“Sounds good. I’ll have one while I’m waiting. Hurry up, I hate to drink alone.”
Smoke lost the trail. It wasn’t the first time it had happened in his life, but it irked him even more this time. Smoke and York had trailed the outlaws to just outside of Crested Butte, and there they seemed to just drop off the face of the earth.
The lawmen backtracked and circled, but it was no use; the trail was lost.
After five more days of fruitless and frustrating looking, they decided to give it up.
They were camped near the banks of Roaring Fork, cooking some fish they’d caught for supper, both their mouths salivating at the good smells, when Drifter’s head and ears came up.
“We got company,” Smoke said softly.
“So I noticed. Injuns, you reckon?”
“I don’t think so. Drifter acts different when it’s Indians.”
“Hallo, the fire!” a voice called.
“If you’re friendly,” Smoke returned the shout, “come on in. We caught plenty of fish and the coffee’s hot.”
“Music to my ears, boys.” A man stepped into camp, leading his horses, a saddle mount and a packhorse. “Name’s McGraw, but I’m called Chaw.”
“That’s Buddy York and I’m Smoke Jensen.”
Chaw McGraw damn near swallered his chaw when he heard the name Smoke Jensen. He coughed and spat a couple of times, and then dug in his kit for a battered tin cup. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down, looking at Smoke.
“Damned if it ain’t you! I figured you for some older. But there you sit, bigger ’en life. I just read about you in a paper a travelin’ drummer gimme. Lemme git it for you; it ain’t but a week old. Outta Denver.”
The paper told the story of the big shoot-out and the hangings and the final destruction of the outlaw town of Dead River. It told all about Smoke and York and then, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Smoke read about Sally being back in Keene, New Hampshire, awaiting the birth of their first child.
“What’s wrong, partner?” York asked, looking at the strange expression on Smoke’s face.
Not wanting to take any chances on what he said being repeated by Chaw, Smoke minutely shook his head and handed the paper to York. “Nothing.”
York read the long article and lifted his eyes to Smoke. The men exchanged knowing glances across the fire and the broiling fish.
“Help yourself, Chaw,” Smoke offered. “We have plenty.”
“I wanna wash my hands ’fore I partake,” Chaw said. “Be right back. Damn, boys, but that do smell good!”
Chaw out of earshot, Smoke said, “You ever been east of the Big Muddy, York?”
“Never had no desire to go.” Then he added, “Until now, that is.”
“Davidson is crazy, but like a fox. We destroyed his little kingdom, brought his evil down on his head. And now he hates you as much as he does me. And I would just imagine this story is all over the West.” He tapped the newspaper. “It would be like King Rex to gather up as many hardcases as he could buy—and he’s got the money to buy a trainload of them—and head east. What do you think?”
“I think you’ve pegged it. Remember what Nappy said back in the bar, just before he died?”
“Yes. But I’m betting he wants the child to be born before he does anything. It would be like him. What do you think?”
“That you’re right, all the way down the line. Dagget was one of the men who shot your wife, right?”
“Yes.”
“But she wasn’t showin’ with child then, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Rex can count. He’ll time it so’s the baby will be born, I’m thinkin’.”
“I think you’re right. And I’m thinking none of them would want to get back east too soon. Dagget is wanted back there, remember? You with me, York?”
“All the way, Smoke.”
“We’ll pull out in the morning. Here comes Chaw. We’d better fix some more fish. He looks like he could eat a skunk, and probably has.”
They said their good-byes to Chaw and headed east, taking their time, heading for Leadville, once called Magic City and Cloud City, for it lies just below timberline, almost two miles above sea level. Some have described the climate as ten months winter and two months damn late in the fall. Smoke and York followed old Indian trails, trails that took Smoke back in time, when he and Preacher
