Singer’s jaw dropped so far down Smoke thought it might hit the card table. He turned around and pushed open the doors, walking across the street to his horse. As he swung into the saddle, he was thinking. Should get real interesting around No-Name…real quick.
4
As Smoke was riding out of the town, one of Tilden’s men, who had been in the bar around the card table, was fogging it toward the Circle TF, lathering a good horse to get the news to Tilden Franklin.
Tilden sat on his front porch and received the news of the gunfight, a look of pure disbelief on his face. “Matt killed Red? What’d he do, shoot him in the back?”
“Stand-up, face-to-face fight, boss,” the puncher said. “But Matt ain’t his real name. It’s Smoke Jensen.”
Tilden dropped his coffee cup, the cup shattering on the porch floor. “Smoke Jensen!” he finally managed to blurt out. “He’s got to be lyin’!”
The puncher shook his head. “You’d have to have been there, boss. Smoke is everything his rep says he is. I ain’t never seen nobody that fast in all my life.”
“Did he let Red clear leather before he drew?” Tilden’s voice was hoarse as he asked the question.
“Yessir.”
“Jensen,” Tilden whispered. “That’s one of his trademarks. Okay, Donnie. Thanks. You better cool down that horse of yours.”
The bowlegged cowboy swaggered off to see to his horse. Tilden leaned back in his porch chair, a sour sensation in his stomach and a bad taste in his mouth. Smoke Jensen…
What to do?
Tilden seemed to recall that there was a murder warrant out for Smoke Jensen, from years back. But that was way to hell and gone over to Walsenburg; and the men Smoke had killed had murdered his brother and stolen some Confederate gold back during the war.*
Anyway, Tilden suddenly remembered, that warrant had been dropped.
No doubt about it, Tilden mused, with Smoke Jensen owner of the Sugarloaf, it sure as hell changed things around some. Smoke Jensen was pure hell with a gun. Probably the best gun west of the Mississippi.
And that rankled Tilden too. For Tilden had always fancied himself a gunslick. He had never been bested in a gunfight. He wondered, as he sat on the porch. Was he better than Smoke Jensen?
Well, there was sure one way to find out.
Tilden rejected that idea almost as soon as it popped into his mind.
He did not reject it because of fear. The big man had no fear of Smoke. It was just that there were easier ways to accomplish what he had in mind. Tilden had never lost a fight. Never. Not a fistfight, not a gunfight. He didn’t believe any man could beat him with his fists, and damn few were better than Tilden with a short gun.
He called for his Mexican houseboy to come clean up the mess made by the broken cup and to bring him another cup of coffee.
The mess cleaned up, a fresh cup of steaming coffee at hand, Tilden looked out over just a part of his vast holdings. Some small voice, heretofore unheard or unnoticed, deep within him, told him that all this was enough. More than enough for one man. You’re a rich man it said. Stop while you’re ahead.
Tilden pushed that annoying and stupid thought from his mind. No way he would stop his advance. That was too foolish to even merit consideration.
No, there were other ways to deal with a gunhawk like Jensen. And a plan was forming in Tilden’s mind.
The news of the saloon shooting would soon be all over the area. And the small nester-ranchers like Nolan and Peyton and Matlock and Colby would throw in with Smoke Jensen. Maybe Ray and Mike as well. That was fine with Tilden.
He would just take them out one at a time, saving Jensen for last.
He smiled and sipped his coffee. A good plan, he thought. A very good plan. He had an idea that most of the gold lay beneath the Sugarloaf. And he’d have the Sugarloaf. And the mistress of Sugarloaf too.
Sally.
Sally had dressed in boys’ jeans and a work shirt. Her friends and family back in New Hampshire would be horrified to see her dressed in male clothing but there came a time when practicality must take precedence over fashion. And she felt that time was here.
She looked out the window. Late afternoon. She did not expect Smoke to return for another day—perhaps two more days. She was not afraid. Whenever Smoke rode in for supplies it was a two- or three-day trek—sometimes longer. But those prior trips had been in easier times. Now, one did not know what to expect.
Or from which direction.
As soon as Smoke had gone, she had saddled her pony, a gentle, sure-footed mare, and ridden out into the valley. She had driven two of Smoke’s stallions, Seven and Drifter, back to the house, putting them in the corral. The mountain horses were better than any watch-dog she had ever seen. If anyone even came close to the house, they would let her know. And, if turned loose, the stallion Drifter would kill an intruder.
He had done so before.
The midnight-black, yellow-eyed Drifter had a look of Hell about him, and was totally loyal to Smoke and Sally. Sally had belted a pistol around her waist, leaned a rifle against the wall, next to the door, and laid a double- barreled express gun on the table. She knew how to use all the weapons at hand, and would not hesitate to do so.
The horses and chickens fed, the cow milked, all the other chores done, Sally went back into the house and pulled the heavy shutters closed and secured them. The shutters had gun slits cut into them, which could be opened or closed. She stirred the stew bubbling in the blackened pot and checked her bread in the oven. She sat down on the couch, picked up a book, and began her lonely wait for her man.
Smoke put No-Name Town far behind him and began his long trip back to Sugarloaf. He would stop at the Ray ranch in the morning, talk to him. The fat was surely in the fire by now, and the grease would soon be
