Jensen?”
“I’m Smoke Jensen.” Apprehension was apparent in his voice.
“Mr. Jensen, Doctor Gunther sent me to find you. He said to tell you Mrs. Jensen is awake and is asking about you.”
“Thank you!” Smoke practically shouted the words as he was already on his way almost before the boy could finish his report.
Smoke ran down the street to the doctor’s office and, as he had before, took the steps up the side of the hardware store two at a time. He barged into the office, again without knocking, but it didn’t disturb Dr. Gunther, who was expecting him.
“She is conscious,” Dr. Gunther said.
Smoke hurried to Sally’s side. “I thought I taught you to duck,” he said, taking her hand in his.
Sally smiled. “Smoke, what are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? Did you think I would stay at the ranch, once I learned you had been shot?”
“I’ve been shot?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Oh, yes,” Sally said, her voice weak. “I’d nearly forgotten that.”
Smoke chuckled. “You’re quite a woman, Sally, if you can be shot and nearly forget it.”
“Oh! The two thousand dollars! I threw it! I don’t know what happened to it.”
“Tamara has it.”
“I’m glad.”
Smoke raised Sally’s hand to his lips and kissed it.
“Is that the best you can do?” she asked. “That’s the way you greet some old lady at a party.”
“I don’t want to do anything that will hurt you.”
“I’m not made out of glass.”
Smiling, Smoke leaned over to kiss her on her forehead, but when she pursed her lips, he knew she wanted a real kiss, so he obliged her.
“Maybe if the other folks would leave, I could climb up on the table beside you,” Smoke suggested.
Sally laughed out loud, then winced in pain and put her hand to her wound.
“Oh, Sally, I’m sorry,” Smoke apologized.
“Don’t be ridiculous. That was a perfectly outrageous thing for you to say.” She smiled. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The saloon was relatively quiet, with only a couple tables full. A bar girl, finding the pickings slim, was leaning against the wall next to the piano, talking to the bald headed piano player. Wes Harley stood alone at the far end of the bar, nursing a drink. Four at a table were playing cards.
A couple cowboys came into the saloon, laughing and talking, brushing the dust from their clothes. When they noticed Harley, and the hairless skull that was his head, they stopped in mid-conversation to stare at him. He looked back with an unblinking stare of his own.
“What’ll it be, gents?” the bartender asked.
The cowboys continued to stare.
“You boys just goin’ to stand there and gawk? Or are you going to order?”
“Oh,” one of them said. “Uh, two beers.”
“Two beers it is,” the bartender replied. He turned to draw the beers. As soon as he put the beers in front of the two young men, they picked them up and held them to their lips, drinking with Adams apple bobbing swallows, until all the beer was gone. With a mighty sigh of satisfaction, they put the glasses back down and swiped the backs of their hands across their lips.
“One more,” one of the boys said.
“You boys have quite a thirst on you,” the bartender said. “Been ridin’ long, have you?”
“Yes, sir, we have,” the taller of the two answered. “We’ve been on the trail for nearly three weeks. Come up from Texas, we did.”
“Did you now?” The bartender put two new beers in front of them. “That’s a long ride. What brings you to Laramie?”
“We’re lookin’ to get on with a ranch up here.”
“Texas,” Harley hissed. He continued to stare into his glass as he spoke, not bothering to look over at the two young cowboys.
“You got somethin’ against Texas, mister?” one of the young men challenged.
“You rode a long way for nothin’,” Harley said. “If I was you, I’d turn around and head back. There ain’t no self-respectin’ rancher from Wyoming goin’ to hire trash from Texas.” He continued to stare into his glass.
“Mister, I don’t appreciate bad talk about Texas.” The young man’s level of irritation rose.
