“I drifted on over into Nevada. By this time, I had bounty hunters really lookin’ for me. I avoided them, much as I could. Changed my name to Pearlie. I headed north, into the Bitterroot Range. Some lawmen came a-knockin’ on my cabin door one night. Said they was lawmen, what they was was bounty hunters. That was a pretty good fight. I reckon. Good for me, bad for them. Then I drifted down into Colorado and you know the rest.”
“Family?”
Pearlie shook his head. “None that I really remember. Ma and Pa died with the fevers when I was eight or nine. I got a sister somewheres, but I don’t rightly know where. What all I got is what you see, ma’am. I got my guns, a good saddle, and good horse. And that just about says it all, I reckon.”
“No, Pearlie, you’re wrong,” Sally told him.
The cowboy looked at her, puzzlement in his eyes.
“You have a home with us, as long as you want to ride for the brand.”
“Much obliged, ma’am,” he said, his voice thick. He did not trust himself to say much more. He stood up. “I better get back on the Sugarloaf East, ma’am. Things to do.”
Sally watched him mount up and ride off. She smiled, knowing she and Smoke had made yet another friend.
12
Surprisingly, Smoke noted, the election went smoothly. There was one central voting place, where names were taken and written down in a ledger. There was no point in anyone voting more than once, and few did, for Tilden Franklin’s men were lopsidedly out in front in the election count, according to the blackboard tally.
By noon, it was clear that Tilden’s people were so far ahead they would not be caught.
Hunt, Haywood, Colton, and Ed had voted and vanished into the surging crowds. Preacher Morrow stayed with Smoke.
“You’re not voting, Preacher?” Smoke asked.
“What’s the point?” Ralph summed it up.
“You’re a quick learner.”
“It’s not Christian of me, Smoke. But I took one look at that Tilden Franklin and immediately formed an acute dislike for the man.”
“Like I said, a quick learner.”
“The man is cruel and vicious.”
“Yes, he is. All of that and more. Insane, I believe.”
“That is becoming a catch-all phrase for those who have no feelings for other men’s rights, Smoke.”
Smoke was beginning to like the preacher more and more as time went by. He wondered about the man’s past, but would not ask, that question being impolite. There were scars on the preacher’s knuckles, and Smoke knew they didn’t get there from thumping a Bible.
Then the call went up: the other candidates had withdrawn. Tilden Franklin’s men had won. Within minutes, Monte Carson was walking the streets, a big badge pinned to his shirt.
Smoke deliberately stayed away from the man. He knew trouble would be heading his way soon enough; no point in pushing it.
He felt someone standing close to him and turned, looking down. Billy.
“What’s up, Billy?”
“Trouble for you, Smoke,” the boy said gravely.
Preacher Morrow stepped closer, to hear better. Haywood and Hunt were walking toward the trio. Smoke waved them over.
“Listen to what the boy has to say,” Smoke said.
Billy looked up at the adults standing about him. “Some of the Circle TF riders is gonna prod you, Smoke. Push you into a gunfight and then claim you started it. They’re gonna kill you, Smoke.”
“They’re going to try,” Smoke said softly correcting him.
“Where did you hear this, boy?” Hunt asked.
“I was up in the loft getting ready to fork hay down to the horses when the men came inside the barn. I hunkered down in the loft and listened to them talk. They’s five of them, Smoke. Valentine, Suggs, Bolton, Harris, and Wright.”
“I’ve heard of Valentine,” Smoke said. “He’s a gunhawk. Draws fighting wages from Franklin.”
“His name was mentioned too,” the boy continued. “They said Mister Franklin told them to nip this matter in the bud and end it. If you was to die, they said, the other nests would crumble like a house of cards. They said the new law was on their side and Mister Franklin told them they didn’t have nothin’ to worry about from that end.”
“I suggest we go see the new sheriff immediately,” Hunt said. “Let him handle this matter.”
Billy shook his head. “I don’t know who you are, mister. But you don’t understand the way things are. Monte Carson is Franklin’s man. Franklin says frog, Carson jumps. Judge Proctor is an old wine-head from over the Delores way. Franklin brung him in here to stick him in as judge. It’s all cut and dried. All made up agin Smoke.”
“Incredible!” Haywood said. “Oh, I believe you, son.” He looked at Billy. “Activities of this sort are not confined solely to the West.”
Billy blinked and looked at Smoke. “What’d he say?”
“Happens in other places too.”
