“Mary Lou, what is it?” Lenny asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” Mary Lou answered. “I’ve only heard you play in the saloon—I had no idea you could play like this. I’ve never heard such music. I never knew anything could be so beautiful.”
Chapter Nineteen
Sally stayed back to visit with Kathleen and Mary Lou, while Smoke, Cal, Lenny, and Tom Murchison walked down to the New York Saloon.
“Hey, Lenny, it’s good to see you back,” Rodney Gibson said when Lenny and the others stepped inside.
“Hi, Mr. Gibson. I suppose Mr. Evans told you where I went. I hope you didn’t mind.”
“He said you went to tell Pearlie’s friends about his trouble.”
“Yes, sir, I did. These are Pearlie’s friends, Smoke Jensen and Calvin Woods. And this is his lawyer, Tom Murchison.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Gibson said, shaking hands with the three men.
Also present in the bar were Lloyd Evans, Elmer Brandon, Doc Patterson, and Deckert. Lenny introduced them as well.
“I suppose you know that Mary Lou isn’t working here anymore,” Gibson said.
“Yes, sir, she’s working for my ma now.”
“I ought to be angry with your mother for taking her away from me, but I’m not. Mary Lou is a good girl who fell on some hard times. I hope things work out for her.”
“I do, too,” Lenny said.
“So Pearlie has a lawyer, does he?” Doc Patterson asked. He chuckled. “I don’t reckon that’s going to make Pogue Quentin all that happy.”
“Oh? Does Pogue Quentin not believe in the right of the accused to have counsel?” Murchison asked.
“Oh, I reckon he is all right with it in principle,” Doc Patterson said. “He’s just not that happy with it in fact, when the lawyer is defending the man who killed his son. Especially if the lawyer is from out of town, and not controlled by Quentin.”
“Are all the lawyers in town controlled by Quentin?”
“The lawyers and the law.”
“Why does the town put up with it?” Cal asked.
“I reckon because he owns everything in town,” Deckert said.
“He doesn’t own my saloon,” Gibson said.
“And he damn sure doesn’t own my newspaper,” Brandon said.
Doc Patterson chuckled. “He doesn’t like that either. Sometimes your articles get him pretty upset.”
“Freedom of the press, gentlemen,” Brandon said, holding up his finger to make a point. “It is the most precious of all our rights and as long as I own this newspaper, and that will be as long as there is breath in my body, I will be a voice crying out in the wilderness against the evil oppressor.”
Doc laughed, and applauded quietly. “Spoken like a noble patriot,” he said.
“There he is!” a loud voice called then, and looking toward the swinging bat wing doors, they saw Marshal Dawson and Deputy Wilson. Wilson was pointing at Smoke. “That’s the one who said he was going to kill me.”
“What’s your name, mister?” Dawson asked, his face scowling in anger and intimidation.
“Jensen. Smoke Jensen.”
The hard set of Dawson’s face drained away, his pupils narrowed, and he took a quick, short breath.
“
“That’s an interesting question,” Smoke replied. “I’m the only Smoke Jensen I know, so I suppose you could say that I am ‘the’ Smoke Jensen, but I don’t know for sure.”
“What difference does it make who he is?” Wilson asked angrily. “I told you, he said he would kill me if we hung Pearlie.”
Dawson said nothing.
“Well, there he is, just standing there,” Wilson said. “You ain’t goin’ to let him get away with that, are you? I’m an officer of the law. He can’t talk to me like that.”
Dawson still said nothing.
“Ask him,” Wilson said. “Ask him if he said he was goin’ to kill me if Pearlie got hung.”
When Dawson remained quiet, Wilson spoke again.
“Ask him,” he demanded again.
“Do you really want to ask that question?” Smoke asked, not answering directly.
“No,” Dawson said, speaking for the first time. “I don’t intend to ask the question. Let’s go, Wilson.”
