“Yes, sir.”
Smoke rose from the table and found his hat. “I’ll be riding now. You all feel free to come shop in Barlow. Well soon have us a newspaper and a schoolteacher and a preacher. I thank you for the meal.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a double eagle. Before Brown could protest, he said, “Buy some ammunition with that. It’s going to get real salty in the valley before long.”
8
Smoke rode over to the Widow Feckles’s house and made a slow circle of the grounds around the neat little home before riding up to the gate and swinging down from the saddle. A girl opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. She looked to be about thirteen or fourteen, and Smoke pegged her as Aggie.
“Good morning,” Smoke said. “I’m the new marshal over at Barlow. Don’t be afraid of me. I’m here to help, not hurt you or your mother.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Are you really Smoke Jensen?”
“Yes, I am. Is your name Aggie?”
“How’d you know that?”
“I nooned over at the Brown farm. Thought I’d come over and say hello to you and your ma. Is she home?”
“I’ll fetch her for you.”
Smoke waited by the gate. A very pretty woman stepped out onto the porch and smiled at him. “Mr. Jensen?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m Martha Feckles. You wanted to see me?”
“If I may, yes.”
“Please come in. I’ve just made a fresh pot of coffee.”
The sitting room was small but neat, the furniture old and worn, but clean.
“You go look after your brother, Aggie,” Martha said. “And don’t stray from the house.”
“Yes, Momma.”
When the girl had closed the door behind her, Smoke said, “Are you expecting Vic Young?”
That shook the woman. Her hands trembled as she poured the coffee. “Brown spoke out of turn, sir.”
“I don’t think so. I think they spoke because they’re worried about you. You’re in a bad situation—not of your doing—and they’d like to see you clear of it.”
“I’ll never be free of Vic,” she said with bitterness in her voice.
“Oh, you’ll be free of him, Martha. You can write that down in your diary. When do you expect him again?”
“This evening.”
Smoke sipped his coffee—mostly chicory—and studied the woman. She was under a strain; he could see that in her eyes and on her face. And he could also see the remnants of a bruise on her jaw. “Did Vic strike you, Martha?”
Her laugh held no humor. “Many times. He likes to beat up women.”
Smoke waited.
With a sigh, she said, “Vic’s killed women before, Mr. Jensen. He brags about it. I have to protect Aggie. I have to do his bidding for her sake.”
“No longer, Martha. You’ll not see Vic Young again. That’s a promise.”
“If you put him in jail, he’ll come back when he gets out and really make it difficult for us.”
“I don’t intend to put him in jail, Martha. I intend to kill him.”
His words did not shock her. She lifted her eyes to his. “I’m no shrinking summer rose, Mr. Jensen. I was born in the West. I don’t hold with eastern views about crime and punishment. Some peopte—men and women—are just no good. They were born bad. I’ll be much beholden to you if you saw to it that Vic did not come around here again. I can mend your shirts, and I do washing and ironing. I—”
Smoke held up a hand. “Enough, Martha. Do you have friends who would take you in for the night?”
“Why ... certainly.”
“I’ll hitch up your buggy, and you take the children and go to your friends for the night. You come back in the morning. All right?”
“If you say so, Mr. Jensen.”
After they had gone, Smoke put his horse up in the small barn, closed the door securely, and walked the grounds, getting the feel of the place. Back in the house, he read for a time. He dozed off and slept for half an hour, waking up refreshed. He made a pot of strong coffee and waited.
Just as dusk was settling around the high country, Smoke heard a horse approaching at a canter. He stood up and slipped the hammer-thong from his .44’s. He worked the guns in and out of leather and walked softly to the front door.
“Git ready, baby,” a man called from the outside. “And git that sweet little baby of yourn ready, too. It’s time for her to git bred.”
