very nearly out of control.
Sally and the ladies of Barlow met with the editor of the paper and designed and had printed dozens of invitations. Smoke made certain that Max Huggins and Red Malone received an invite.
Max stared at his invitation for a long time, being careful not to smudge the creamy bond paper. “What’s Jensen doing this time?” he questioned the empty office. “He’s got to have something up his sleeve.” Then it came to him: If he attended this shindig and there was any trouble caused by his men, Max and Red would be gunned down on the spot; shot down like rabid skunks.
The big man was filled with grudging admiration for Jensen. Slick. Very, very slick. If he and Red didn’t attend, Jensen and the others would be put on alert that something was going to happen out in the county, and it would be open season for any Lightning rider or gunhand from Hell’s Creek caught out after dark.
He sent one of his bodyguards to fetch Val Singer, Warner Frigo, Dave Poe, and Alex Bell to his office.
“Me and Red will be attending this shindig,” he informed the outlaw leaders. “And there better not be any trouble out in the county. You hold the reins tight on your boys ... and I mean tight.”
“It might be a trap,” Val pointed out.
Max shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. The people of Barlow are going to let off a little steam, that’s all.” He waved the invite. “This is their way of insuring that they can do so without fear of any trouble.” He eyeballed them all. “And, by God, there isn’t going to be any trouble. Those are my orders. See that they are carried out.”
Red Malone had recovered from his beating at the hands—or fists—of Smoke Jensen. He stared hard and long at the invitation. He laid it on his desk and stared at it some more.
Was it a trap? He didn’t think so. But he had a week to nose around and find out for sure. “We goin’, ain’t we, Daddy?” Tessie asked, looking and reading over his shoulder.
Red turned his head and stared at his daughter, all blond and pretty and pouty and as worthless as her brother, Melvin. He loved them both—as much as Red Malone could love anything—but realized he had sired a whore and a nut.
“I don’t know,” he told her.
She pouted.
“Stop that, girl. You look like a fish suckin’ in air.”
Tessie plopped down in a chair and glared at him. “I got me a brand-new dress I got outta that catalog from New York, and I ain’t had no chance to wear it. Now I got a chance to wear it and you tell me we might not go.”
Red sighed. “Where’s Melvin?”
“Same place he always is: shootin’ at targets.”
The boy was good with a gun, Red thought. Fast as a snake. But was he as fast as Jensen? Maybe. Just maybe the boy might do one thing in his life that was worthwhile: killing Smoke Jensen.
“Come on, Daddy!” Tessie said. “Let’s go to the dance and have some fun.”
Red stared at her, wondering whom she was bedding down with this time around.
The girl had more beaus than a dog had fleas.
“Pooh!” Tessie said. “I never get to do anything.”
Except sneak out at night and behave like a trollop, Red thought. “I said I’d think about it,” he told her. “Now go tell the cook to get dinner on the table. I’m hungry.”
She sat in her chair and pouted.
“Move!” Red yelled.
She got up and left the room, shaking her butt like a hurdy-gurdy girl.
Red sighed and shook his big head. The only thing he regretted about his wife leaving him was that she didn’t take those damn kids with her.
“Max has accepted,” Sally told Smoke, holding out the note from Hell’s Creek. “This came on the southbound stage a few minutes ago.”
Smoke read the note and smiled. “One down and one to go. No word from Red yet?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Smoke!” Jim’s sharp call came from the outside. “Melvin Malone ridin’ in. You watch yourself around this one. He’s crazy as a skunk.”
Smoke walked to the door and stepped out, after removing the hammer thongs from his .44’s. He’d heard too much about Melvin to be careless around him. He watched the young man swing down from the saddle, being careful to keep the horse between himself and Smoke.
Smart, Smoke thought. He’s no amateur.
Melvin stepped up on the boardwalk, studying Smoke as hard as Smoke was studying him. Melvin was about six feet tall and well built, heavily muscled. He was handsome in a cruel sort of way. He wore two guns, the holsters tied down. The spurs he wore were big roweled ones, the kind that would hurt a horse, and Melvin looked the type who would enjoy doing that.
“Jensen,” the young man said, stopping a few feet away. “I’m Mel Malone.”
“Nice to see you, Mel. What’s on your mind?”
Killing you, was the thought in Mel’s head. He kept it silent. Big bastard, Mel thought. Big as them books made him out to be. “My pa said to give you a message. We’ll be coming to the dance and box supper.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that, Mel. Yes, sir. Sure am. You be sure and tell Red I’m looking forward to seeing him again. He is feeling all right, now, isn’t he?”
