Jensen?”
“Yes.”
“I’m on your side, Mister Smoke. Name’s Billy.”
Smoke extended his hand and the boy gravely shook it. Smoke studied the boy in the dim lantern-light of the stable. Ragged clothes, shoes with the soles tied so that they would not flop.
“How old are you, Billy?”
“Eleven, sir.”
“Where are your folks?”
“Dead for more years than I can remember.”
“I don’t recall seeing you before. You been here long?”
“No, sir. I come in a couple weeks ago. I been stayin’ down south of here, workin’ in a stable. But the man who owned it married him a grass widow and her kids took over my job. I drifted. Ol’ grump that owns this place gimme a job. I sleep here.”
Smoke grinned at the “ol’ grump” bit. He handed the boy a double eagle. “Come light, you get yourself some clothes and shoes.”
Billy looked at the twenty-dollar gold piece. “Wow!” he said.
Smoke led the boy to Drifter’s stall and opened the gate, stepping inside. He motioned the boy in after him. “Pet him, Billy.”
Billy cautiously petted the midnight-black stallion. Drifter stopped eating for a moment and swung his big head, looking at him through those yellow, killer-cold, wolf-like eyes. Then he resumed munching at the corn.
“He likes you,” Smoke told the boy. “You’ll be all right with him. Anyone comes in here and tries to hurt you, just get in the stall with Drifter. You won’t be harmed.”
The boy nodded and stepped back out with Smoke. “You be careful, Mister Smoke,” he warned. “I don’t say much to people, but I listen real good. I hear things.”
They walked to the wide doors at the front of the stable. “What do you hear, Billy?”
Several gunshots split the torch- and lantern-lit night air of Fontana. A woman’s shrill and artificial-sounding laughter drifted to man and boy. A dozen pianos, all playing different tunes, created a confusing, discordant cacophony in the soft air of summer in the high-up country.
“Some guy name of Monte Carson is gonna be elected the sheriff. Ain’t no one runnin’ agin him”
“I’ve heard of him. He’s a good hand with a gun.”
“Better than you?” There was doubt in Billy’s voice at that.
“No,” Smoke said.
“The boss of this area, that Mister Tilden Franklin, is supposed to have a bunch of gunhands comin’ to be deputies.”
“Who are they?”
“I ain’t heard.”
“What have you heard about me?”
“I heard two punchers talkin’ yesterday afternoon, over by a tent saloon. Circle TF punchers. But I think they’re more than just cowboys. They wore their guns low and tied down.”
Very observant boy, Smoke thought.
“If they can angle you in for a backshoot, they’d do it. Talk is, though, this Mister Franklin is gonna let the law handle you. Legal-like, you know?”
“Yeah.” Smoke patted the boy’s shoulder. “You take good care of Drifter, Billy. And keep your ears clean and open. I’ll check you later.”
“Yes, sir, Mister Smoke.”
Smoke stepped out of the stable and turned to his left. His right hand slipped the thong off the Colt’s hammer. Smoke was dressed in black whipcord trousers, black shirt, and dark hat. His spurs jingled as he walked, his boots kicking up little pockets of dust as he headed for the short boardwalk that ran in front of Beeker’s General Store, a saloon, and the gunsmith’s shop. Smoke’s eyes were in constant motion, noting and retaining everything he spotted. Night seemed to color into day as he approached the boom-town area.
A drunk lurched out from between two tents, almost colliding with Smoke.
“Watch where you’re goin,’ boy,” the miner mush-mouthed at him.
Smoke ignored him and walked on.
“A good time comes reasonable,” a heavily rouged and slightly overweight woman said, offering her charms to Smoke.
“I’m sure,” Smoke told her. “But I’m married.”
“Ain’t you the lucky one?” she said, and stepped back into the shadows of her darkened tent.
He grinned and walked on.
Smoke walked past Beeker’s store and glanced in. The man had hired more help and was doing a land office business, a fixed smile on his greedy, weasel face. His hatchet-faced wife was in constant motion, moving around
