Damn Johnny to hell, he thought angrily. If he’d just kept his mouth shut and hadn’t tried to play the big man like usual, I wouldn’t be in this mess.
Jacoby looked up as the conductor came down the aisle, telling all the passengers that they would be on their way shortly and that all of their money and valuables would be returned to them at the next stop, thanks to Smoke Jensen and his friends.
“Uh, sir,” Jacoby asked, raising his hand like a schoolkid to get the conductor’s attention.
“Yes, sir?” he asked, stopping next to Carl’s seat.
“Will there be a telegraph at the next stop?” Carl asked, almost hoping the man would say no.
“Why, yes, I believe there is, sir.”
“Thanks,” Carl replied, turning his mind to just what he was going to say to Angus. He knew he’d better warn him about Jensen’s ability with a gun, but he didn’t want to come off sounding like he was afraid of the man, even though the plain truth of the matter was he was more frightened of Jensen than of anything else he could imagine. Carl scrunched down in his seat and pulled his hat down over his eyes. This was going to take some heavy thinking before they got to the next stop if he was going to get it right.
After all, he remembered, Angus MacDougal don’t exactly take kindly to being told he is wrong about anything, and especially not about this.
Angus MacDougal sat on his porch smoking a corncob pipe, still wearing his black mourning suit even though it’d been more than six months since his only son had been shot down in the streets of Pueblo, Colorado.
He glanced up from his reverie at the sound of hoofbeats rapidly approaching his ranch house. He nodded slowly to himself when he recognized the portly figure of Sheriff Wally Tupper riding toward him. Must be some news from Carl, he thought, getting slowly to his feet and stretching to get the kinks out. He felt like he’d aged ten years since Johnny died, but then the death of a loved one will tend to do that to a person, he reasoned as he walked down the porch and waved a greeting at the sheriff.
Tupper climbed down out of the saddle and held up an envelope in his hand as he climbed the steps to the porch. “Got this here wire for you from Carl Jacoby, Angus,” he said, his voice deferential as if he worked for Angus instead of the town of Pueblo. “It came in on the telegraph just this mornin’ and I rode right out here to bring it to you first thing,” Tupper said.
Angus took the paper, his eyebrows knitting together over a scowling face. “What’s it say?” he asked.
“I dunno,” the sheriff replied, his face screwing up in fright. “I wouldn’t presume to read a wire addressed to you, Angus. You know that.”
Angus smiled a halfsmile, reveling in the look of fear and trepidation on the sheriff’s face. He couldn’t help it, he just loved to intimidate other men, especially men who were supposed to be in authority.
“I know you’d better not, Wally,” he said in a low, hard voice. “Now go on into the kitchen and have the cook fix you some coffee while I read this, and then we’ll talk.”
Angus slit the envelope with a thumbnail and pulled out the folded sheet of paper. It was indeed a telegram from Carl Jacoby. Angus squinted his eyes—it looked to be from some pissant town in Minnesota that he’d never heard of before. Sighing at the indignities old age put on him, Angus reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a pair of reading spectacles he’d taken to using in the last year when he found he was unable to read the local newspaper without holding it way out at arm’s length.
The telegram read:
HAVE SEEN JENSEN AND HIS MEN IN ACTION STOP VERY IMPRESSIVE STOP DO NOT THINK THEY WOULD HAVE TO BACKSHOOT ANYONE STOP PLEASE CHECK SITUATION AGAIN BEFORE PROCEEDING STOP SHOULD ARRIVE BIG ROCK SEVEN TO TEN DAYS DEPENDING ON WEATHER END CARL
Angus crumpled up the paper and gritted his teeth so hard his jaw creaked. He whirled around and stomped across the porch and into his house. He found Sheriff Tupper drinking coffee out of a mug and flirting with his Mexican housekeeper, Lupe.
Angus took a deep breath and tried to calm down as Lupe poured him a cup of coffee and put it on the table in front of him.
“Would you excuse us, Lupe?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice soft. “Man talk.”
“Certainly, Senor,” she said, and quickly vanished from the dining room.
Tupper raised his eyebrows when he saw the crumpled sheet of paper in Angus’s hand. “Bad news?” he asked over the rim of his cup.
Angus didn’t answer until he’d gotten to his feet and walked over to the cabinet against the wall. He opened the door, took out a bottle of whiskey, and poured a dollop into his coffee, pointedly not offering any to Tupper.
“Tell me again about the day my boy Johnny was shot down, Wally,” Angus ordered shortly as he took a sip of his whiskey and coffee.
“You sure you want to hear all that again?” Tupper asked, his face showing his discomfort. The day he’d brought Johnny’s body home to Angus, he’d thought for a moment the old man was going to kill
“I asked, didn’t I?” Angus responded angrily, slamming his cup down so hard the coffee sloshed over the rim.
“Well,” Tupper began quickly, trying to picture that day in his mind, “from what I heard from those who were there, Johnny and the boys had been drinking a mite, an’ they proceeded to tease Jensen and the men with him about how they smelled. Shortly, one of those old mountain men riding with Jensen jumped up and . . . uh . . . ” Tupper hesitated, trying to decide how graphic to get with his description of the events. Finally, he decided to be a bit vague. “Jumped up and knocked Johnny to the floor.”
“And Johnny hadn’t drawn on the man up till then?” Angus asked, his eyes full of sorrow and anger.
“Nope,” Tupper replied. “Matter of fact, Johnny was flat on his back after the man attacked him without no warning,” he said, shading the truth a mite because he knew that was what the old man wanted to hear.
“What happened then?”
“Well, sir, Johnny’s friends took him outside an’ they waited for Jensen and his men to come out of the Feedbag
