“If you be friendly, swing down and have some coffee,” the farmer called. “If you’ve come to make trouble for us, my woman and my two boys have rifles on you from the house.”
“I’m the new marshal at Barlow,” Smoke called. “The name is Smoke Jensen.”
“Lord have mercy!” the farmer said. “Come on in and put your boots under our table. The wife nearabouts got the noonin’ ready to dish up.”
“I’m obliged.”
The fare was simple but well-cooked and plentiful, consisting of hearty stew made with beef and potatoes and carrots and onions, along with huge loaves of fresh-baked bread. Smoke did not have to be told twice to dive in.
Not much was said during the nooning, for in the West, eating was serious business. The farmer told Smoke his name was Brown, his wife was Ellie, and his boys were Ralph and Elias. And that was all he said during the meal.
After the meal, Ellie poured them all coffee and Smoke brought the family up to date on what had taken place in Barlow.
The farmer, his wife, and his sons sat bug-eyed and silent during the telling.
“Lord have mercy!” Brown finally exclaimed. “You whupped Red Malone. I’d give ten dollars to a seen that!”
Smoke imagined that ten dollars was a princely sum to Mr. Brown.
“I stopped going into Barlow because of the hoodlums and the trash, Mr. Jensen,” Ellie said. “And I certainly wouldn’t be caught dead in Hell’s Creek.”
“I can understand that, Mrs. Brown,” Smoke said. “I surely can.”
“I take the wagon and go into town about once every three months,” Brown said. “We’re pretty well set up here. I got me a mill down on the crick, and we grind our own corn and such. Haul my grain and taters into town come harvest, and we get by.”
“You got neighbors?”
“Shore.” He pointed out the back. “Right over the field yonder is Gatewood. Just south of him is Morrison. And beyond that is Cooter’s place. Just north of me is Bolen and Carson. We done that deliberate when we come out. In twenty minutes of hard ridin’, we can have twelve to fifteen guns at anybody’s house.”
“Smart,” Smoke agreed. “Has Max Huggins given any of you any trouble?”
Man and wife cut their eyes to one another. The glance did not escape Smoke.
Ellie sighed and nodded her head.
“Yeah, he has, Mister Smoke,” Brown said. “His damned ol’ gunhands has ruint more than one garden and killed hogs and chickens. They killed the only milk cow Bolen had, and his baby girl needed that milk. His woman had dried up. The baby died.”
Smoke drew one big hand into a huge fist. “Who led the gang that did it?”
“Vic, they called him.”
“Vic Young,” Smoke put the last name to it. “I know of him. He’s poison mean. Rode into a farmyard down in Colorado and shot a girl’s puppy dog for no reason. I haven’t had any use for him since I heard that story.”
“Man who would shoot a girl’s puppy is low,” Elias said.
“He’s got him a widow woman he sees about five miles from here,” Brown said softly.
Both boys grinned.
“Does he now?” Smoke said.
“Be fair and tell it all,” his wife admonished him gently.
“You’re right, mother,” Brown said. “I’m not bein’ fair to the woman.” He looked at Smoke. “Martha Feckles— that’s the wider’s name—does sewin’ for them painted ladies in Hell’s Creek. She’s a good woman; just got to make a livin’ for her and her young’uns, that’s all. This trash V ic, he come up to her place one night and—” he paused, “well, took advantage of her.”
“He raped her, Mister Smoke,” Ralph said.
“Hush your mouth,” Ellie warned him.
“No, it’s all right, ma,” Brown said. “Let the boy tell it. Mister Smoke needs to know, and these young folks know more about it than we do.”
“He beat her up bad, Mister Smoke,” Ralph said. “Miss Martha, she’s got her a daughter who’s thirteen—Elias is sweet on her—”
“I am not neither!” Elias turned red.
“Shut up,” the father warned him. “You are, too. Ever time you get around her you fall all over your big feet and bleat like a sheep. Tell it, Ralph.”
“This Vic, he told Miss Martha that if she didn’t go on ... seein’ him, he’d do the same to Aggie.”
“I ought to kill him!” Elias said, considerable heat in his voice.
“Hush that kind of talk!” his mother told him. “The man’s a gunfighter.”
“Listen to your ma,” Smoke told the boy, whom he guessed to be about fifteen at the most. “You have a right to defend hearth and home and kith and kin. You leave the gunfighting to me. Is that understood, boy?”
