“So far I’ve managed to stay out of trouble,” Smoke said. When he was on the vengeance trail, and on the dodge because of it, Buck West was the name he was known by during his stay in Risco.
Like many of the other tradesmen in town, Dixon was not a wanted man, and had never committed a criminal act other than the technical crime of harboring wanted fugitives. Since all he was doing was tending bar, Smoke doubted if he could have been charged with that.
Dixon drew a beer without being asked, then put it in front of him. “Well, if you ain’t wanted, what are you doing here? Risco ain’t the kind of place someone visits for pleasure.”
“Maybe it’s for old time’s sake,” Smoke replied. “You know, to see you, and a few other old friends?”
“I doubt there is anyone here now that was here when you were, except for me. Most of the merchants make a killin’ here, sell out, and move on. And most of our residents—well, to tell you the truth, Buck, they don’t generally live that long. They wind up hung or shot. I’m surprised to see that you are still alive.”
“Sometimes I’m surprised myself.”
“I’ll ask you again, what are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for some people. And I was sort of hoping I might find them here.”
“Have you turned bounty hunter, West? Are you looking to cash in on the reward for someone? Because I can’t help you, you know that. If I turned someone over to a bounty hunter, my life wouldn’t be worth a wooden nickel.”
“I’m not a bounty hunter, Dixon,” Smoke said. “This is personal.”
“Do you see that man sitting over there, reading?”
Smoke had seen him when he first came into the saloon. In fact, he had checked everyone out when he first came in, not only to see if he might recognize the Slater brothers, or Harley, but to make certain there was nobody who might recognize him.
“Yeah, I saw him when I came in.”
“His name is Webb. He’s a judge.”
“A judge? Here?” Smoke asked, surprised by the pronouncement.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t say he was an honest judge,” Dixon said with a little chuckle. “But, he sort of runs things here, or at least, keeps things even. Maybe you seen the corpse hangin’ from the tree when you come into town.”
“I did see it. Smelled it too.”
“Yeah, some of the people are already com-plainin’ about the smell. Anyway, Judge Webb is the one that held the trial and sentenced him to hang. So, if you got somethin’ personal against someone here, I’d suggest you talk to the judge.”
“All right, I will. Thanks,” Smoke said. “Oh, what does the judge drink?”
“Whiskey. Blended,” Dixon said.
“Pour me a shot.”
Carrying his beer and a shot of whiskey, Smoke walked over to Webb’s table. “May I join you for a few minutes, Your Honor?”
Webb looked up from his book. “Please do not call me Your Honor. There is no longer anything about me that is honorable.”
“All right.” Smoke put the glass of whiskey in front of Webb and, with a nod of thanks, Webb picked it up and tossed it down.
“Now, sir, what can I do for you? But I must tell you before we begin to talk, that as I am not a conventional outlaw—I do not steal or rob—my only source of income is the money I get by providing legal advice.”
“I’m not asking for legal advice per se,” Smoke said. “But I am perfectly willing to pay you for engaging in this conversation.”
“Per se? My, one does not often hear language like that here. It is refreshing. Are you an educated man, sir?”
“My wife is a schoolteacher. She has done what she could to educate me.”
“You are also married. I must say, you are an unusual specimen for this settlement. What can I do for you, Mister ...” He left the word blank for Smoke to fill in.
“When I was in this town before, folks knew me as Buck West.” Smoke nodded toward Dixon. “That is how Mr. Dixon addressed me a few moments ago. I’m going to tell you my real name, Judge, and in doing so, I am, in a manner of speaking, putting my life in your hands.”
“Are you a lawman?” the judge asked.
Smoke shook his head. “Not by profession, though from time to time I have been deputized. My name is Smoke Jensen.”
The judge was silent for a moment. “So you are the famous Smoke Jensen.”
“Yes. And I’m here to—”
“You don’t have to tell me why you are here, Mr. Jensen. I know why you are here.”
“You do?”
“We may be isolated, but from time to time newspapers find their way here. I am aware that your wife was shot, either by Dinkins, or one of the men with him. I expect you are after them.”
