roamed wild and free across the land, with Preacher teaching first the boy and then the man called Smoke. It brought back memories to Smoke, memories that unashamedly wet his eyes. If York noticed—and Smoke was sure he did—the ranger said nothing about it.
Located in the valley of the Arkansas, Leadville was once the state’s second largest city. It was first a roaring gold town, then a fabulous silver boom town, and then once more a gold-rush town. When Smoke and York rode into Leadville late one afternoon, the town was still roaring.
Smoke and York had experienced no trouble on their way into the boom town, unlike so many other not-so- lucky travelers. Roving gangs of thugs and outlaws had erected toll booths on several of the most important roads leading into the town, and those who refused to pay were robbed at gunpoint; many were killed. Robberies, rapes, assaults, and wild shoot-outs were almost an hourly occurrence within the town’s limits.
When Smoke and York rode into the busy city, Leadville’s population was hovering between fifty thousand and sixty thousand—no one ever really knew for sure. It was the wildest place in the state, for a time. The town’s only hospital was guarded by a hundred men, day and night, to keep it from being torn down by thugs. Churches were forced to hire armed guards to work around the clock. The handful of police officers were virtually powerless to keep any semblance of order, so that fell to various vigilante groups. It was a town where you took your life in your hands just by getting out of bed in the morning.
“I ain’t too thrilled about no hotel, Smoke,” York commented on the way in.
“There wouldn’t be a room anyway. We’ll stable the horses, pick up some supplies, and hit the saloons. We might be able to hear something. Let’s take off these badges.”
The only “hotel” in town that might have had empty beds was the Mammoth Palace, a huge shed with double bunks that could easily sleep five hundred. A guest paid a dollar for an eight-hour sleeping turn.
And in the midst of it all, churches were flourishing. If not spiritually, then financially. One member suggested that he buy a chandelier for the church. Another member asked, “Why? None of us knows how to play it!”
Smoke and York turned their horses onto State Street, where several famous New York chefs operated fancy eating places. Oxtail soup cost five cents a bowl at Smoothey’s, and it was famous from the Coast to the Rockies.
Smoke waved at a ragged newsboy and bought a local newspaper,
“We’ll sleep with our horses,” Smoke told the livery man.
“That’ll be a dollar extra, boys. Apiece.”
York started to protest, then noted the look on Smoke’s face and held his peace.
“Give them a bait of corn and all the hay they can handle,” Smoke told the man. “And do it now. If you go into Drifter’s stall after I’m gone, he’ll kill you.”
“Son of a bitch tries to stomp on me,” the livery blustered, “I’ll take a rifle to him.”
“Then I’ll kill you,” Smoke said softly, but with steel in his voice.
The man looked into those cold, hard eyes. He swallowed hard. “I was jokin’, mister.”
“I wasn’t.”
The liveryman gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Yes, sir. I’ll take the best of care of your horses. Whatever you say mister…ah?…”
Smoke smiled and thought, To hell with trying to disguise who we are. “Smoke Jensen.”
The liveryman backed up against a stall. “Yes, sir, Mr. Jensen, I mean, whatever you say, sir.”
Smoke patted the man on the shoulder. “We’ll get along fine, I’m sure.”
“Yes, sir. You can bet I’ll do my damndest!”
Smoke and York stepped out into the hustle and confusion of the boom town. Both knew that within the hour, every resident of the town would know that Smoke Jensen had arrived.
They stepped into a general store, checked the prices of goods, and decided they’d resupply further on.
“Legal stealin’,” York said, looking at the price of a pair of jeans. He put the jeans back on the table.
They walked back outside.
“We can cover more ground if we split up,” the Arizona Ranger suggested. “I’ll take the other side of the street. What say we meet back at the stable in a couple of hours?”
“Sounds good to me. Watch your back, York.”
“I hear you.” York checked the busy street, found his chance, and darted across. As it was, he almost got run over by a freighter. The freighter cursed him, and rumbled and rattled on.
Smoke walked on. There was something about the tall man with the two guns, in cross-draw style, that made most men hurry to step out of his way. If someone had told Smoke that he looked menacing, he would not have believed it. He could never see the savage look that was locked into his eyes.
Smoke turned a corner and found himself on Harrison Avenue, a busy business thoroughfare. He strolled the avenue, left it, and turned several corners, cutting down to hit State and Main.
Then he saw Natick, stepping out of a brothel. Smoke stopped and half turned, blending in better with the crowd. He backed against a building and began reading the paper he’d bought, still keeping a good eye on Natick. He hoped the outlaw might lead him to Davidson and Dagget.
But Natick stepped out into the street and walked toward a saloon. Smoke turned away and walked in the opposite direction, not wanting to stare too long at the man, knowing how that can attract someone’s attention.
Smoke lounged around a bit, buying a cup of coffee and a sandwich at prices that would make a Scotsman
