his trail. Jensen was just one man. One man!
Max sighed, thinking: But, Jesus, what a man.
It was a good thing he’d invited those friends of his from Europe. A damn good thing. They would be arriving just in time.
The good ladies of Barlow welcomed Martha Feckles and her children with open arms. The mayor gave her a small building to use for her sewing. And Judge Garrison, now that he was free of the heavy hand of Max Huggins, was proving to be a decent sort of fellow. He staked Martha for a dress shop.
The preacher and schoolteacher had arrived in town. The newspaper man was due in at any time. Some of those who had left when Max first put on the pressure were returning. Barlow now had a population of nearly four hundred. And growing.
The jail was nearly full. Each time the stage ran north, Smoke jerked out any gamblers, gunfighters, and whores who might be on it and turned them around. If they kicked up a fuss, they were tossed in the clink, fined, and were usually more than happy to catch the next stage out—south.
A depty U.S. Marshal, on his way up to British Columbia to bring back a prisoner, was on the stage the morning a gunslick objected to being turned around.
“There ain’t no warrants out on me, Jensen,” the man protested. “You ain’t got no right to turn me around. I can go anywheres I damn well please to go.”
“That’s right,” Smoke told him. “Anywhere except Hell’s Creek. ”
Amused, the U. S. Marshal leaned against a post and rolled himself a cigarette, listening to the exchange. He knew all about Hell’s Creek and Big Max Huggins. But until somebody complained to the government, there was little they could do. He knew the sheriff, the city marshal, and all the deputies in Hell’s Creek were crooked as a snake. But the outlaws working out of there never bothered anyone with a federal badge, and as far as he knew, there were no federal warrants on anyone in the town—at least not under the names they were going by now.
“Git out of my way, Jensen!” the gunny warned Smoke.
“Don’t be a fool, man,” Smoke told him. “You’re in violation of the law by bracing me. I don’t have any papers on you. So why don’t you just go to the hotel, get you a room, and catch the next stage out?”
“South?”
“That’s it.”
“I’ll rent me a horse and go to Hell’s Creek.”
“Sorry, friend,” Smoke told him. “No one in this town will rent you a horse.”
“Then I think I’ll get back on the stage and ride up yonder like my ticket says.”
Smoke hit him. The punch came out of the blue and caught the gunny on the side of the jaw. When he hit the ground, he was out cold.
Jim and Sal dragged him across the street to the jail.
“Slick,” the U.S. Marshal said. “Against the law, but slick.”
“You going to report what I’m doing?” Smoke asked.
“Hell, no, man! But I can tell you that the word’s gone out up and down the line: You’re a marked man. Huggins has put big money on your head. And I’m talkin’ enough money to bring in some mercenaries from Europe.”
“Are they in the country?”
“As near as the Secret Service can tell, yes. Two long-distance shooters, Henri Dubois and Paul Mittermaier, are on their way west right now. Our office has sent out flyers to you. Oh, yes. We know what you’re doing here. We can’t give you our blessings, but we can close our eyes.”
“Thanks. Dubois and Mittermaier—Frenchman and a German?”
“Yep. And they’re good.”
“I don’t like back-shooters. I’ll tell you now, Marshal: If I see them, I’m going to kill them.”
“Suits me, Smoke. Good hunting.” He climbed back on board the stage and was gone.
Smoke turned to Jim and Sal, who had just returned from the jail. “You hear that?”
They had heard it.
“Pass the word to all the farmers and ranchers. Any strangers, especially those speaking with an accent, I want to know about. You boys watch your backs.”
Sal spat on the ground. “I hate a damned back-shooter,” he said. “These boys are gonna be totin’ some fancy custom-made rifles. I see one, I’m gonna plug him on the spot and apologize later if I’m wrong.”
“You know what this tells me?” Smoke asked. “It tells me that Max is in a bind. What we’re doing is working. We can’t legally stop and permanently block freight shipments to Hell’s Creek. But we can hold them up and make them open up every box and crate for search. And I mean a very long and tedious search. It won’t take long for freight companies to stop accepting orders from Hell’s Creek.”
Jim and Sal grinned. “Oh, you got a sneaky mind, Smoke,” Sal said. “I like it!”
“The last freight wagons rolled through a week ago,” Jim said. “There ought to be another convoy tomorrow, I figure.”
“OK,” Smoke said. He looked at Sal. “You get a couple of town boys. Give them a dollar apiece to stand watch about two miles south of town. As soon as they hear the wagons, one of them can come fogging back to town for us. Everything going north has got to pass through here.” Smoke smiled. “This is going to give Max fits!”
The men grinned at each other. One sure way to kill a town was to dry up its supply line. Big Max was not going to like this.
