There had been no trouble from Jud Vale or his men during the time Smoke had been gone.
But gunfighters kept drifting into the area, in groups of twos and threes. Pretty soon, Smoke thought, Jud Vale was going to have his own private army. And he was going to have to make his move pretty quick, for he was paying out a lot of money for all his hired guns to sit around and do nothing. While many of the bounty hunters and hired guns could work cattle, Smoke had a hunch that damn few were going to. Most of them were just downright lazy.
On a bright, sunshiny morning, Smoke lined the boys up and laid it on the line to them, telling them what their parents had said, and leaving the final decision up to the young cowpunchers.
The boys huddled together for a time, and then Jamie stepped out of the group and faced Smoke.
“I allow as to how we’ll stay, Mr. Smoke,” the boy said. “We got to have the money to help out at home. And it ain’t as if we never faced outlaws and the likes of Jud Vale before, ’cause we all have. I figure it like this, and you tell me if it don’t meet with your approval and we’ll work something else out.”
Smoke waited, as did the other adults.
Jamie took a deep breath. “You see, sir, me and Alan and Cecil and two or three of the others, well, we know more about Jud Vale than you do, we think. We know it won’t make no difference to him whether it’s a grown man or a boy—not when it comes to standing in his way when he’s a-goin’ after something he wants. Like this ranch and Miss Doreen. So we went ag’in your orders and each of us stuck a pistol in our saddlebags.”
Smoke sighed. He couldn’t really blame the boys. He would have done the same thing had he been in their position. Smoke had been toting a pistol since he was thirteen. A Navy .36 caliber that had been given him back in ’63 by the as yet unknown Confederate guerrilla fighter name of Jesse James.
“’Way we all figure it, Mr. Smoke, it’s gonna be comin’ down to the nut-cuttin’ right shortly. And it ain’t fair for no one to ask us to ride unarmed when we might catch a bullet at any moment. I reckon that’s all I got to say, Mr. Smoke.”
Smoke towered over the boy, staring down at him. Finally, and with a sigh, Smoke nodded his head. 'All right, Jamie. I fear for your lives, but I can’t ask you to disarm yourselves. I been packing a pistol since I was just a boy. But I have to ask you all to show me that you know how to use those guns.'
“That’s fair, sir,” Jamie agreed. “When do you want us to do that?”
“Nothing like right now.”
Cheyenne took one group of boys. Rusty took another, and Smoke took the third.
But damned if Smoke was going to have ten-year-olds packing pistols. Any boy under the age of twelve would slay close to the house and work in the yard or in the barn or corral. The boys packing iron would be Jamie, Matthew, Ralph, Leroy, Cecil, Alan, Roily, Pat, and Oscar.
The frail Matthew, thick glasses and all, surprised Smoke. The boy was a born gun hand, the pistol seeming to be a natural extension of his arm. And his aim was deadly true. Even Jamie took a backseat to Matthew. Smoke had held the very strong suspicion that Matt had been secretly practicing his draw and firing for some time. He asked him about it.
“Yes, sir,” the boy said, blushing. “Whenever I could scrape up a few pennies to buy ammo, I been ridin’ out far from the house and workin’ at my draw.”
“It’s a natural talent you have, Matt. But it’s not one your ma and pa will look upon with favor. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I reckon that’s right. But if a feller’s got a knack for something, he ought to polish on it, shouldn’t he?”
Should he? Smoke silently pondered, staring down at the frail boy packing the short-barreled sheriff’s model Peacemaker. Should he? What would I be doing now if I had not discovered and polished my talent for weapons? How many graves have I filled because of my quickness with a gun? And did this boy have enough sand in him to live with a gun by his side and not use it recklessly?
But can I stop him? Should I stop him? This was still the frontier, and it was filled with hard, tough, and often cruel men. Men like Jud Vale and his hired guns.
“Yes, Matt,” Smoke said slowly. “Yes. Conditions being what they are, I guess you should polish it. As long as there are men like Jud Vale around, and with us being miles from the nearest law, I guess you should. But use that gun wisely, boy. If the law can handle it, let them. If you’re pushed into a corner, then it’s all up to you. I reckon that’s the way it’s always been and I suppose that’s the way it’s always going to be.”
“I ain’t smart like no grownup,” Matt said. “But that’s the way I think, too.”
Matt turned, drew, cocked, and fired. All in one smooth quiet motion, the bullet striking true. Smoke experienced a hard push of memory, winging him back in years. Back to when he was a boy, traveling with Preacher. Back to his first real gunfight with white men.
Preacher and the boy, Smoke, had stopped in a rip-roaring mining camp just west of the Needle Mountains. It would soon be named Rico.
They had bought their supplies and were just about to leave when two rough-looking and unshaven men stepped into the combination trading post and barroom.
“Who owns that horse out yonder?” one demanded, trouble plain in his voice. “The one with the SJ brand?”
The boy Smoke laid his purchases on the counter and slowly turned. “I do.”
“Which way’d you ride in from, boy?”
Preacher had slipped to his right, his left hand covering the hammer of his Henry rifle, concealing the click as he thumbed the hammer back.
Smoke’s hands were at his sides; his left hand just inches from his left hand gun. ”Who wants to know—and why?”
No one in the room said a word.
