“Find on him,” Emil repeated. He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I know what you are saying.” He chuckled. “Yeah, find on him. I like that.”
Quentin removed a twenty-dollar bill from his billfold and put it on the table in front of the three brothers. “Here,” he said. “Drink, eat, buy yourself a woman, but don’t go anywhere and don’t do anything until you hear from me again.”
“How long will that be?” Emil asked.
“As long as it takes.”
Chapter Eight
The Colorado Cattlemen’s Association sponsored the dinner that night, holding the event in the Association Hall. Smoke wore a suit, only because Sally had had the presence of mind to pack one for him. A banner, spread across the front of the ballroom, read:
Colorado Springs
COLORADO CATTLEMEN
The room was a kaleidoscope of the muted gray, brown, and blue suits of the men, among which flitted, like butterflies, the brightly colored gowns of the women. Smoke was glad that Sally had come with him because, in his mind at least, she was clearly the most beautiful woman present.
The guest list included Colorado’s leading citizens. In addition to the state’s most successful cattlemen, there were others present, like Owen Goldrick, founder of Colorado’s first public school; William Byers, editor of the
“Mrs. Jensen,” Goldrick said, greeting her. “How wonderful to see you here tonight. You are not only Colorado’s best schoolteacher, but clearly you are our state’s most beautiful.”
“Mr. Goldrick, you have not lost the ability to charm,” Sally replied with a chuckle. “And you must know that I am no longer teaching.”
“Sadly, I do know,” Goldrick said. He turned to Smoke. “And, Mr. Jensen, I want you to know that I shall forever hold you responsible for denying the state the gift of her teaching.”
“I plead guilty,” Smoke said, smiling as he accepted the good-natured gibe.
“Smoke, could I see you for a moment?” Tom Murchison asked.
“Sure. What is it?”
“I have someone I think you should meet.”
Murchison led Smoke through the crowded ballroom toward a man who was standing apart from everyone else. The man was about fifteen years older than Smoke, about the same height, but considerably heavier, as evidenced by the fact that his vest strained against the buttons. He was clean shaven and bald, except for a narrow ring of white hair that encircled his head, and was smoking a cigar.
“Smoke Jensen, this is Pogue Quentin,” Murchison said.
“Mr. Quentin,” Smoke said with a nod of his head. Quentin had given no hint that he was about to offer his hand, so Smoke kept his by his side as well.
“I’ve heard of you, Jensen,” Quentin said, not removing the cigar from his mouth as he spoke. “I hear you’ve got a pretty nice little ranch up there around Big Rock.”
“I’m pleased with it,” Smoke replied.
“You would have been better off staying up there and tending to your business,” Quentin said. “You’ve wasted your time coming here.”
“Oh? And how is that?”
“You came here to buy Prince Henry, right? Only, you ain’t goin’ to get him. I plan to buy him myself.”
“You don’t say? Well, that should make for a spirited bidding tomorrow then, shouldn’t it?”
“One way or another, Jensen, I generally get what I go after,” Quentin said.
Someone rang a small bell then, calling all the attendees to the table for the meal. As they were being served, the auctioneer stepped up to a podium to say a few words.
“Ladies,” he said, acknowledging the women who were in attendance, “and gentlemen. I want to welcome you to Colorado Springs, and to the Hereford auction we will be conducting tomorrow. As a special treat, and to give you an idea as to what the future of the beef industry is, tonight you will be dining on steaks prepared from Herefords. Enjoy.”
Smoke had eaten Hereford beef before, so he wasn’t surprised at how much better the meat was than that from a longhorn. There were several who were surprised, though, and the conversation during dinner was about the superiority of Hereford beef.
Pogue Quentin was sitting at a table that was on the other side of the room from Smoke. As the waiters started serving the dinner, the chair beside Pogue was empty, but his son came in to sit before the waiters reached their table.
“Did you take care of it?” Pogue asked his son.
“Yeah, I took care of it,” Billy Ray said.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
