“Give me your hand, I’ll hold you,” Smoke said. “Then, take a look so you can ease your conscience.”
The young woman offered Smoke her hand, and he held it firmly as she leaned out to look toward the rear. She giggled. “He looks really mad.”
“I didn’t butt in where I wasn’t wanted, did I?” Smoke asked.
“No, no, not at all. He was being very boorish. I’m glad you stepped out here when you did.”
The girl’s smile and the expression in her eyes suggested that she would be more than willing to express her gratitude in other ways, but Smoke just returned her smile, then touched the brim of his hat before he went on forward to see to his horse.
“You say you killed him in front of his mama?” Sheriff Adams said as he identified the body of Elliot Simpson. Identification wasn’t all that easy. The bullet had entered the back of Simpson’s head, and exited through his face. The resultant wound left his face very disfigured.
“Yeah, that’s how I knew for sure who he was,” Taggart answered.
“I don’t suppose you bothered to try and bring him in alive?” the sheriff asked.
“I don’t write the posters, Sheriff,” Taggart said. “The poster says dead or alive, it doesn’t say alive or dead. And you know what I figure?”
“What’s that?”
“I figure anytime a poster says dead or alive, what it really means is they want him dead. Think of all the money and time you save by not having a trial.”
“His mama must have taken it some hard,” the sheriff said.
“She knew her son was an outlaw. She had to expect somethin’ like this sometime.”
“Yes, but not right in front of her,” Sheriff Adams said. “Noni Simpson is a good woman.”
“A good woman who raised a bad son. Are you going to authorize the payment or not?”
“Yeah, I’m going to authorize the payment.” Sheriff Adams took a sheet of paper from his desk drawer and wrote on it.
Taggart took the receipt down to the bank where it was paid without question. From the bank, he went to the saloon where he had a few drinks, and played some cards. “Any of you have any idea where Smoke Jensen might be?”
“Like as not he’s at his ranch, Sugarloaf,” one of the other players said.
“I bet he ain’t,” another said.
“What makes you think he ain’t?”
“Ain’t you been readin’ the papers none? Someone shot his wife.”
“Damn, I ain’t heard that. Was she kilt?”
“I don’t know, but it don’t really make no never mind. If someone shot his wife, whether it kilt her or not, he’ll be goin’ after ’em.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Bill Dinkins, Wes Harley, Travis and Frank Slater were waiting at a turnout at the top of the hill the coach from Escalante to Suttle had just started to navigate. Harley climbed to the top of a rock that enabled him to see the various switchback turns in the road leading up to the pass.
“Can you still see the coach?” Dinkins called up to Harley.
“Yeah, they’ve made the last switchback. They’ll be here in a couple more minutes.”
Travis laughed out loud.
“What are you laughing at?” Dinkins asked.
“I just pissed a grasshopper off a weed. That makes him a pissed-on grasshopper.”
“So?”
“Don’t you get it? A pissed-on grasshopper is a pissed-off grasshopper.” Travis laughed again.
“Get ready,” Dinkins said without joining in the laughter. “The coach will be here in just a couple more minutes.”
“It means he’s mad,” Travis said, still trying to explain his joke.
“Get ready,” Dinkins said again.
Harley came back down from the rock. “They’re real close now.”
“Yeah, I can hear ’em,” Dinkins said.
The coach was close enough they could hear the driver’s shouts, whistles, and popping of the whip, as well as the clatter of hooves, and the squeaking and jarring of the coach itself.
“Heah! Heah! Giddap there, hosses! Just a little way and you can take a breather! Heah!”
“Get ready!” Dinkins hissed.
When the coach reached the top of the grade the driver called the team to a halt. The horses could be heard,
