“I kinda figured they was. But I got to tell you, I ain’t never hired out my gun.”
“Can you use it?”
“Oh, yeah. I reckon I’m as good as the next man. I’ve drug iron a time or two.”
“Any family?”
“Ma and Pa died years back. I got some cousins somewhere that I ain’t never seen.”
“Just curious. I want to know who to notify if you catch one.”
“Just plant me where I fall, I reckon. And make sure my horse is taken care of. He’s a good one.”
“I’m heading over to Malad City. Then we’ll head back to the Box T.”
“Sounds good to me. You got a name?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“You are a most exasperatin’ feller! You ’shamed of your handle?”
“No.”
Rusty cussed and then ate his bacon, mopping the grease out of his tin plate with bread. He poured another cup of coffee, rolled a cigarette, and leaned back. “You a gunfighter?”
“Some say I am.”
“You look familiar to me. I seen you somewheres before. On a wanted poster, maybe?”
“No. I’m not wanted. I own a ranch down Colorado way. The Sugarloaf. I’m just helping out an old couple. I don’t like to see folks shoved around.”
“Right nice of you. I kinda get riled up some myself when somebody tries to roll over other folks. You gonna tell me your name?”
Smoke smiled faintly. “I tell you my name, you might not come to work.”
“For a hundred a month and found? You could tell me your name was Satan and I wouldn’t back away.”
“All right,” Smoke replied. “Come to think of it, you just might be riding into a corner of Hell after all.” He left it at that.
Smoke and Rusty reached Malad City at mid-morning, just as the town was catching its breath after a wild and raucous night. Things had been reasonably quiet the previous night, with only one killing.
“Don’t never ask nobody for directions in this place,” Rusty told him. “When they laid out these streets, they just tossed a handful of sticks on the ground for a blueprint... and then followed it.”
They stabled their horses and Smoke pointed out a cafe, telling Rusty he’d meet him there in a few minutes. He took care of Walt’s bank draft and walked the boardwalk to the cafe. He saw several gunslicks he knew by name and a dozen more who had the hardcase brand stamped all over them. And a half-dozen punks who were looking for a reputation, but more than likely would find a grave to hold their swagger long before they found a reputation.
Smoke Jensen had been elusive for over a decade, surfacing outside of his ranch in Colorado only briefly. Many people knew his name but could not put a face to it, unless they had memorized the covers of the many penny dreadfuls, most of which were rarely accurate.
He received many a furtive glance as he walked toward the cafe, for danger clung to him; it was an aura that made many strong and brave men step aside until he had passed.
Smoke was scarcely into his thirties, just now approaching the prime years of his life, but he was already a living legend, and not just west of the Mississippi. Had he elected to cut notches into the handles of his Colts after each kill, he would have gone through half a dozen sets and still not have any handles left. But only tinhorns did that.
He opened the door to the cafe and stepped in, the good smells of cooking making him realize how hungry he was. Rusty was already working on his first plate of bacon and eggs and fried potatoes—and the first of several pots of coffee.
The redhead pushed out a chair with his boot and Smoke sat down.
“Been several folks wonderin’ who you are,” the newly hired puncher said. “Most I heard come to the conclusion that you was a lawman of some sort.”
“I’ve worn a badge a time or two,” Smoke admitted, then called out his order to the counterman. He picked up his cup and allowed the waitress to fill it.
She met his eyes. “I seen you two or three years back,” she spoke the words softly. “You be careful in this town. It’s filled up with hired guns, all of them just bumin’ to kill you.”
“I appreciate that.”
She nodded and walked back into the kitchen.
Rusty’s freckled face screwed up with disgust. “Seems like ever’body knows who you are but me!”
Smoke sugared his coffee and stirred. “The name is Jensen.”
The redhead’s fork froze midway to his mouth. “
“That’s it. Now close your mouth before a bug decides to fly in there.”
Rusty filled his mouth with food and then closed it. “Boy, I sure know how to pick ’em,” he muttered. “I’m beginnin’ to wonder if a hundred a month is enough.”
