the train was pulling into the station.
“Now I call that good timing,” Smoke said, hauling back on the reins as the train squealed, squeaked, rumbled, and rattled to a halt.
“Smoke, I want you to promise me something,” Sally said as the two of them stepped down from the buckboard.
“I’ll promise you anything, my love, you know that,” Smoke replied.
“Let’s not go overboard when bidding for that bull. I think we should give ourselves a limit.”
Smoke chuckled. “I’ve already taken care of that,” he said. “I’m only taking seven hundred fifty dollars. That’s as high as I will be able to go.”
“Good,” Sally said. “If you think having a champion bull is important, I hope we can buy him. But if we can’t, then I’m sure we can find another bull who—how was it you put it? Has an eye for the ladies?”
Smoke laughed, then reached back into the buckboard to pick up their luggage. “Cal, I’m counting on you to look out for things while I’m gone,” he said.
“I will, Smoke,” Cal promised. “Don’t you worry none about that. I will. You two have a good time in Colorado Springs, and bring back that bull.”
“I’ll bring him back.”
“If he doesn’t cost too much,” Sally added.
“If he doesn’t cost too much,” Smoke agreed.
Smoke and Sally walked across the wooden depot platform, then stepped up into the train. Once in the car, they sat on the depot side of the train with Sally taking the window seat. As the train pulled out of the station, Sally waved at Cal, who sat in the buckboard, watching them leave. Smiling broadly, Cal waved back.
“Bless his heart, he sure misses Pearlie,” Sally said as the train began gathering speed.
“I know he does. We all do,” Smoke said. “But Pearlie being gone is good for Cal.”
“How is it good for him?”
“One of the things about growing up is learning how to adjust to changes,” Smoke said.
“Smoke, Cal was orphaned when he was barely into his teens. It was a struggle just for him to stay alive. It isn’t as if he hasn’t had to deal with changes.”
Smoke nodded. “I guess you are right at that,” he said. He leaned back in his seat, then pulled his hat down over his eyes.
“What are you doing?” Sally asked. “Smoke Jensen, are you just going to sit there like that for the whole trip?”
“It’s going to be a long overnight trip,” Smoke said. “And I got up early this morning.”
“You get up early every morning.”
“Yeah, I do, don’t I?” Smoke made no effort to remove his hat.
Sally looked at him for a moment, then reached up and took his hat off his head. Before he could say anything, she kissed him, then replaced his hat.
“What was that all about?” Smoke asked
“Don’t I always kiss you good night?” she asked with a little chuckle.
As Smoke napped beside her, Sally turned in her seat to look at the countryside that was unrolling just outside the window. The scenery, now taking on the golden hue of sunset, was beautiful, and she thought again how lucky, and how unlikely, it was that she, a New England Yankee, would wind up here, married to this man who was already a legend in his own lifetime.
Growing up in New Hampshire, Sally came from a family of great wealth. She could have stayed in New Hampshire and married “well,” meaning she could have married a blue blood from one of New Hampshire’s old, established, and wealthy families. She would have hosted teas and garden parties, and grown old to become a New England matriarch.
But while such a future promised a life of ease and tranquility, that wasn’t what Sally had in mind. She envisioned a much more active—some might suggest uncertain—future. Thus, she announced to one and all that she intended to leave New Hampshire.
“You can’t be serious, Sally!” family and friends had said in utter shock when she informed them that she intended to see the American West. “Why, that place is positively wild with beasts and savages.”
“And not all the savages are Indian, if you get my meaning,” Melinda Hobson said. Melinda Hobson was of “the” Hobsons, one of New Hampshire’s founding families.
But Sally had a yen to see the American West, as well as a thirst for adventure, and that brought her to Bury, Idaho Territory, where she wound up teaching school.
It was in Bury that she met a young gunman named Buck West. There was something about the young man that caught her attention right away. It wasn’t just the fact that he was ruggedly handsome, nor was it the fact that, despite his cool demeanor, he went out of his way to be respectful to her. That respect, Sally saw, applied to all women—including soiled doves—even though he was not a habitue of their services.
But it was the intensity of the young man that appealed to Sally—a brooding essence that ran deep into his soul.
Then, she learned that his name wasn’t even Buck West, it was Smoke Jensen. And the hurt he felt was the result of a personal tragedy of enormous magnitude. Smoke’s young wife, Nicole, had been raped, tortured, murdered, and scalped by men whose evil knew no bounds. They had also murdered Arthur, his infant son.
