W.”
“I probably did. Joe got tired of bailing me out of jail, I reckon.”
“Joe who?”
“Joe Walsh. Owns the spread.”
“Good man?”
“One of the best. Arrow straight. Are you really Smoke Jensen?”
“Yes.” Smoke tapped the gunbelt on his desk. “This yours?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you use it?”
“I’m not real fast, but I don’t hardly ever miss.”
“That’s the most important thing. You wanted anywhere, Jim?”
“No, sir! I ain’t never stole nothing in my life.”
Smoke reached down on the floor and picked up a bulky package. He tossed it to Jim. “New jeans, shirts, socks, and drawers in there. Go get dressed. You’re my new deputy.”
Jim stared at him. “I’m a what?”
“My deputy. Your drinking days are over, Jim. You’re now a full-fledged member of the temperance league. You take one drink, just one, and I’ll stomp your guts into a greasy puddle in the middle of that street out there, and then I’ll feed what’s left to the hogs. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Fine. Get dressed and go down to Judge Garrison’s office. He’ll swear you in as a deputy sheriff. Then you meet me back here.” He looked at the clock. “Right now, I’ve got to meet a stage.”
“Out,” Smoke told the passengers before the stage had stopped rocking. Two hurdy-gurdy girls, a tin-horn gambler, one drummer selling corsets and assorted ladies’ wear, and Al Martin, a gunfighter from down Utah way, stepped down.
“You stopping here or going on to Hell’s Creek?” Smoke asked the drummer.
“Hell’s Creek.”
“Get back in the stage. The rest of you come with me.”
“And if I don’t?” the gambler challenged him.
Smoke laid the barrel of a .44 against the man’s head, knocking him to the street. He handcuffed him to a hitchrail, then faced A1 Martin.
“You got trouble in you, A1?”
“Probably. I know you, but I can’t put a name to the face.”
“Smoke Jensen.”
Al eyeballed Smoke, his eyes flicking from the badge to his face. The hurdy-gurdy girls stood off to one side.
“Get moving,” Smoke told the driver.
“Yes, sir. I’m gone!”
He hollered at the fresh team and rattled up the street.
“I’ll just have me a drink and wait for the southbound stage,” A1 said.
“That’s fine. Stay out of trouble.” He looked at the saloon girls. “You ladies get you a room at the hotel and stay quiet. You’re on the next stage south. It rolls through in the morning.”
They wanted to protest. But the name Smoke Jensen shut their mouths. They twirled their parasols, picked up their baggage, shook their bustles, and sashayed down the boardwalk.
“Off the street, A1,” Smoke told the gunfighter.
A1 tipped his hat, got his grip, and walked into the saloon.
Smoke dragged the gambler to the jail and tossed him in a cell.
“What’s the charge, marshal?” the gambler called.
“Disobeying an officer of the law and littering.”
“Littering?”
“You were lying in the street, weren’t you?”
“Hell, man. You put me there.”
“Tell it to the judge. He’ll have court sometime this month.”
Smoke stepped outside and rolled one of the few cigarettes he smoked a day. He lit up and smiled. It was going to be an interesting summer. He was looking forward to it.
Jim walked up, all decked out in his new clothes and with a shiny badge pinned to his shirt.
“What’d I miss?”
