“Unless you want us over here every day for a couple of weeks, Vale, why don’t you have your boys assist us? It would move a lot faster.”
Cheyenne’s leathery old face struggled to hide his grin. Smoke was pushing the big blow hard into a corner and the man couldn’t find a way out.
Vale blustered and hissed like a spreadin’ adder and shifted around in the saddle. “I ain’t helpin’ you do nothin’, Jensen. I don’t give a damn how often you come over here. You just make sure all the beeves you push across the crick are wearin’ Box T brands, or by God, you’ll answer to me.”
“We can do that now, Vale,” Smoke told him. He booted the Winchester and dropped his right hand to his thigh, close to the butt of that deadly .44.
Jud didn’t like that idea at all. It was seven against two, for a fact. But it was also a fact that this was a no-win situation. Cheyenne was an old he-coon from ’way back. Jud’s men might take him, but the old man was sure to empty two, maybe three saddles before he went down; and even down the old goat was as dangerous as a cornered grizzly. Even dying, if you got too close to the old bastard, he’d sure likely come up with a knife and cut you from brisket to backbone.
Smoke Jensen was quite another matter. Everybody knew he’d been raised by Preacher, and Preacher was a legend. Jensen had killed more than a hundred men—and that wasn’t counting Injuns. Jud Vale knew the first thing to happen should he grab for iron, was that Smoke was going to blow him right out of the saddle.
And there just wasn’t no percentage in dying.
“Round up your damn cattle and get off my range,” Jud finally backed down. He savagely jerked his horse around and galloped off, his men following him.
“I hate a man treats a horse like that,” Cheyenne said. “A horse or a dog. You show me a man who’s unkind to animals and I’ll show you a man that just ain’t no damn good.”
“I’m going to have to kill that man someday, Cheyenne. I can see it coming.”
“I ’spect, Smoke, they’s a long line of folks ahead of you thinkin’ the same thing.”
Saturday, they went to the trading post on Mud Lake.
Walt drove the wagon, with Alice by his side, and Doreen, all prettied up, and Micky sitting on boxes in the back of the wagon.
Doreen was a looker, no doubt about that, and a flirty thing, too. Smoke did his best to avoid her sliding glances. The heat coming out of her eyes could fry an egg. Although Smoke didn’t think kitchen cooking was what she had on her mind.
Cheyenne, Winchester across his saddle horn, rode on one side of the wagon. Smoke on the other.
As they rode and rattled up to the big store, Cheyenne pointed out the two fresh graves out back of the building.
Doreen and Alice and Micky went into the store part of the building to shop, and Smoke, Walt, and Cheyenne went into the bar to have a beer.
“Not you agin!” the barkeep moaned, as Smoke stepped inside.
“I’m peaceful,” Smoke grinned at him.
“Haw! You won’t be when some of them no-count hardcases from the Bar V show up. Just don’t wreck my damn place,” he warned.
“Why don’t you just shut up and get us a bottle,” Cheyenne told him. “You prattle on like a scared old woman.”
The bartender looked at the skinny old mountain man with the wicked look in his eyes and shut his mouth. He placed a bottle on the bar and several shot glasses. Smoke pushed the shot glass away and ordered a beer.
Cheyenne downed one quick belt and poured another, taking the shot glass and moving to the far end of the bar where he could watch the door. He had left his Winchester in the saddle boot. If anything happened in the barroom, he would rely on the old Colt with the worn handles hanging low on his right side. Or on the Bowie knife sheathed on his left side. Or on the .44 derringer in his boot. Or anything else he could get his hands on. If it just had to be, the old mountain man would pick up a porcupine to use as a weapon and damn the needles.
Micky had a bottle of sarsaparilla and was sitting on a bench in front of the store. Coming to town was quite an outing for the boy.
Alice and Doreen were oohhing and aahhing over some new dress material in the store.
Two farmers were sitting at a table, nursing mugs of beer, talking quietly. They finished their drinks and left. A fat man, a drummer from the looks of him, was sitting alone at a table next to a window. He kept shifting his eyes to Smoke, stealing fast sly glances.
“Say!” he finally spoke. “Aren’t you Smoke Jensen, the gunfighter?”
Smoke cut his eyes. “I’m Smoke Jensen.”
“Well, I’ll just be hornswoggled! I just read a big article on you in the
“Not quite that many,” Smoke corrected.
“Kilt two right in here a few days back,” the barkeep said with a grin. “This is my place. I’m Bendel.” He pointed. “Kilt ’em right over yonder. They’s buried out back.”
“You don’t say!” the drummer bobbed his head up and down. “I’m from St. Louis myself. I got the finest line of women’s underthings and unmentionables on the market today, I do.”
“How kin you sell ’urn if you cain’t mention um?” Cheyenne asked him.
The drummer looked startled for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that.” He stared at the old mountain man. “Are you somebody famous?”
