“Who the hell are you to tell me what rights I have and don’t have?” Wallace replied.
“It’s just common decency.”
“Tell you what, Emerson. Why don’t I just throw you in jail again?”
“For what? I haven’t done anything. I’m not even drunk.”
“You’re gamblin', aren’t you?”
“So what?”
“You can’t gamble in this town unless you are gamblin’ at a place that has a license. Woo doesn’t have a license. None of the Chinamen do.”
“Neither does the Gold Strike Saloon have a gambling license, but folks play poker there.”
“That’s different. Poker is a private game. The saloon doesn’t have anything to do with it. The Chinaman runs this game.”
Emerson stood up and shook his head. “You just won’t leave me alone, will you?” he asked. “All right, I’ll go back to the ranch.”
“No, not the ranch,” Wallace said. “I told you, you are going to jail.”
“I don’t think I want to do that,” Emerson said.
It was mid-afternoon by the time the train reached Cloverdale. Cloverdale was at the end of the line for the Nevada Central Railroad, and at the far end of the depot there was a roundhouse that would be used to turn the engine around for its return trip. Smoke Jensen stepped down from the train, then walked up to the attached stock car as his saddle and rifle were off-loaded and his horse led down the car ramp.
“Is this your horse, mister?” the stationmaster asked.
“Yes. I’m Kirby Jensen.”
Smoke used his real name because it drew less attention than the sobriquet by which he was more widely known.
“You going to take him now, or do you want to put him up?”
“I would like to put him up for a while, if you can recommend a place.”
The stationmaster smiled. “Yes, sir, I certainly can recommend a place. We have a livery here at the depot if you’d like to leave him here.”
“My saddle and my rifle?”
“We can take care of those too.”
“Good,” Smoke said. He took out two dollars and gave it to the stationmaster. “I’ll be back before this runs out.”
Smoke’s conversation with the stationmaster was interrupted by a loud yell coming from the other side of the train, which was still sitting at the station.
“There he goes, Sheriff!” a man’s voice sounded. The shout was followed by the sound of gunshots, and Smoke instinctively drew his pistol, then moved quickly to the rear of the train to see what was going on.
A figure suddenly appeared on the railroad track, having run up the slight grade on the other side. He was a small man, dressed as a cowboy and with a bushy, walrus-type mustache. The young cowboy looked back into the direction from which he had come, and Smoke saw terror in his eyes.
A shot came from the other side of the track, and the cowboy fell, sliding on his back headfirst down the railroad embankment on the near side. Smoke ran over to him and saw bubbles of blood coming from his mouth. He was trying hard to breathe, and Smoke could hear a sucking sound in his chest. He knew then that at least one bullet had penetrated his lungs.
“Oh, damn,” the cowboy said. “Oh, damn, I’ve been kilt, haven’t I?”
Smoke looked up to see two men, both wearing badges, standing on the tracks at the top of the embankment. One of the men was holding a smoking gun in his hand. Putting the pistol in his holster, he came down from the tracks to look at the man he had just shot.
“What about it, Sheriff Wallace? Is he dead?” the other badge-wearing man called from the top of the tracks.
Even as the question was asked, the cowboy drew his last, gasping breath.
“Yeah,” the sheriff replied. “He’s dead.” The sheriff glanced over at Smoke. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I just got off the train,” Smoke replied.
“I didn’t ask how you got here. I asked who you were, and I expect an answer.”
The train whistle blew then and with a rush of steam, a squeak of brakes being released, and a rattling of couplings, it started toward the roundhouse.
“The name is Kirby,” Smoke said. As his name was Kirby Jensen, he wasn’t lying, but he did give the sheriff a name by which few knew him, doing so because he thought that, for the time being, it might be best to stay in the shadows.
“Did you know him?” Sheriff Wallace asked, nodding toward the dead man. “Reason I asked, I’m not going to have to deal with you trying to get revenge for him or anything, am I?”
“I’ve never seen the man before,” Smoke said.
“Well, you’re lucky,” the sheriff said. “His name is Andy Emerson. He rides—that is he rode,” Wallace corrected, “for Milt Poindexter. The son of a bitch has been nothing but trouble for the last year. I’ve had him in jail more often
