“Thanks, Doc.” Smoke walked out to the front porch with him, then watched as he climbed into his surrey and drove off.
When Smoke came back into the house, Cal greeted him with a cup of coffee. “I figure it’s going to be a long night.”
“Yeah, thanks. I think you are right.” Smoke took the coffee and sat in the leather chair near the window, looking out at the stars, the moon, and the castellated escarpment that guarded the north end of his property. The window was open and he could smell his cattle and horses, and hear the sounds of the night creatures—the howl of a distant coyote, the whicker of a horse, the thrum of frogs, and the hum of insects. Sugarloaf was as fine a ranch as there was in all of Colorado, and it had made Smoke a rich man, though he wasn’t a person who thought often of that.
Big Heart Creek, which provided water for his stock and kept his land green, played out before him, glistening like molten silver in the moonlight. From his perspective, it was as if the creek was running, not south toward the West Elk Mountains, but into the yester years of his life. Smoke Jensen had come a long way from Kirby Jensen, the sixteen-year-old boy who, during the Civil War had worked the southwestern Missouri farm like a man, doing all he could to keep himself alive during that terrible time. It was necessary that he do all the work because his older brother, Luke, had gone to war with his father. Luke got himself killed, his mother had died, and his sister ran off with a peddler, later to become a soiled dove.
It seemed like there was never enough food then, and he was always hungry. But even as a sixteen-year-old boy he was tough. The work had hardened his muscles and sharpened his mind. When his father came back from the war, there was nothing to keep either one of them in Missouri, so Kirby and his father came west. Not too long after that, he lost his father, but gained a lifelong friend, an old mountain man called Preacher. He also picked up a new name. Kirby Jensen became Smoke Jensen.
He didn’t know if he was dreaming or remembering his past, it just seemed to flow effortlessly through his mind so that he was no longer aware of time or place—until he smelled bacon frying.
Opening his eyes he saw that Pearlie and Cal were still in the parlor, and both were asleep. Curious, he walked toward the back of the house and saw a splash of light spilling into the hall from the kitchen. Putting his hand on the handle of his pistol, he moved quickly, but quietly to the kitchen door and looked in.
Sally was standing over the stove frying bacon!
“Sally!”
She jumped. “Goodness gracious, Smoke, you scared me to death. You ought to know better than to come up on a person like that.”
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? It’s been twenty-four hours since I had anything to eat, and I’m starving to death.”
“But you should be in bed.”
“Oh, poo. Come here. Put your hand on my forehead. You can see that I don’t have a fever.”
“I—” Smoke started, but that is as far as he got.
“I’m making biscuits too. They ought to be out in a moment. I know it will be an early breakfast for you, but I would like for you to join me.”
It wasn’t until then that Smoke realized that he’d had no supper, so it was quite a while since he had eaten as well.
“I hope you made enough for me ’n Cal,” Pearlie said, appearing in the door of the kitchen then.
“I did. I knew you two wouldn’t turn away from a meal, no matter what time it might be ser ved,” Sally said. “But, I’m sorry to say, no bear claws.”
“That’s all right. Fresh biscuits is near ’bout as good.”
“Pearlie, I’m going to remind you of that, next time you start pestering Sally for my bear claws,” Smoke remarked.
“
“Come here.” Smoke put his arms around her, pulling her close to him. “I’m so happy right now, I don’t care if you ever make them again.”
“Oh, Lord, Smoke, don’t say that!” Pearlie said.
Smoke laughed out loud.
CHAPTER TWENTY
By the time Dinkins, Harley, and the two Slater brothers reached the town of Risco, they had put out all five hundred reward posters on Smoke Jensen. By making the reward as high as five thousand dollars, Dinkins knew that not only every bounty hunter in the country, but even those who had never considered such a thing, would be after Smoke to get the reward money. No one would question the authenticity of the poster until it was too late— until they showed up with the body of Smoke Jensen to collect the reward. Then, like as not, they would be charged with murder.
Dinkins laughed at that last thought. He did not like bounty hunters, posse members, or anyone who represented authority. The idea of some bounty hunter or vigilante facing a murder charge, tickled him.
Shortly after their arrival, Dinkins and the others took rooms in the brothel. Located across the alley behind the saloon, it was a row of six small houses, all connected so that each little crib shared a wall with the crib next to it. Dinkins woke up the morning after their arrival with a ravenous hunger and a raging need to urinate. The soiled dove he had chosen the night before was still asleep beside him. She had the bedcover askew, exposing one enormous, blue-veined breast. One leg dangled over the edge of the bed. She was snoring loudly and a bit of spittle drooled from her vibrating lips. She didn’t wake up when Dinkins crawled over her to get out of bed to get to his
