“I understand, Judge.” Smoke leaned back in his chair. “If we can get most of this done by the dance night and keep a close eye on Max to check his reaction, we can know pretty well that he had burning us out in mind. Then he’ll have to come up with another plan.”
“He will,” Judge Garrison said. “The man is totally and utterly ruthless.”
“What are you gonna do with them mercenaries when they step off the stage, Smoke?” Jim asked.
“Oh, welcome them to town, Jim,” Smoke said with a smile. “Roll out the red carpet.”
That afternoon, Smoke met the southbound stage and was pleased to see it was full, with several men riding on top. The driver handed the mailbag to Marbly’s wife—who was the town’s postmistress—and seeing there were no passengers departing Barlow, he hollered his team forward.
Those men perched precariously on top gave Smoke some extremely dirty looks as the stagecoach pulled out. Its next stop would be a way station some fifty miles south, where it would change teams, another stop near Salmon Lake for food and a fresh team, and then on into Missoula, some one hundred twenty-five miles from Barlow.
“Stage was full today,” Mrs. Marbly noted, handing Smoke a letter posted from Kalispell, addressed to Sally Jensen, the Grand Hotel, Barlow, Montana Territory. “That means some are giving up on Hell’s Creek.”
“That it does, ma’am,” Smoke said. “Those were all gamblers riding on top. The inside was filled with saloon girls. When the gamblers and the wilted roses start leaving a town, it’s like they say about rats leaving a ship. It’s about to sink.”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say,” Mrs. Marbly said. “I’m not an evil-hearted person, Marshal Jensen. My motto is if you can’t say something good about a person, don’t say anything at all. But that motto has been sorely put to the test by those holligans and trash up at Hell’s Creek. If God were to strike them all dead, I would dance on their graves, Lord forgive me.”
She walked back into the store. A good, decent woman who had been pushed just too far, one time too often. Smoke knew she carried a Smith & Wesson pocket .38 in her purse. And he had no doubts but that she would use it.
He took the letter back to the hotel, gave it to Sally, and waited until she had read it.
“You guessed, of course, that it was from Victoria?”
He nodded his head.
“This was posted yesterday in Kalispell—that’s only thirty miles away from Hell’s Creek—but it’s still fast service. There have been a rash of killings in Hell’s Creek. Outlaws killing outlaws. One of them managed to escape from the town and came to Robert for treatment. He told Robert that Big Max had ordered the killings. He didn’t know why, but that something big was up. Then the man died. Robert—he’s no fool—took the body back into Hell’s Creek and told Big Max he had found the body on the road and thought it should be reported to the authorities. Big Max thanked him for being such a civic-minded person and told Robert he’d take care of it. Max knows that Robert is scared to try to leave because of the threats made against Lisa. What does it mean, Smoke?”
“Probably that Val Singer and Warner Frigo and the other gang leaders are getting rid of those they feel might not be able to keep their mouths shut once this something big goes down. So much for honor among thieves.”
“And this something big is? ...”
“Probably a raid against the town. A raid that includes killing everyone here. Sally, have the hotel pack me a bait of food. I’m going to take a little trip. I should be back by late tomorrow afternoon. I’ll arrange for Jim and Sal to meet the stage in case Dubois and Mittermaier should arrive; but I think it’s still a couple of days early for that.”
“Where are you going, honey?”
“To get the one thing this town needs, Sally.” He grinned. “A doctor.”
Smoke had checked the land office and knew where the Turner spread was located. He spared his horse, resting often, and rode into Big Max Huggins’s country well after dark. He avoided the town by several miles and pulled up at what he hoped was the Turner spread about ten o’clock.
He circled the house to see if they kept a dog and was relieved to find they did not. Smoke picketed Star and slipped up toward the house. He flattened himself against the woodshed when the front door opened and a man stepped out. The man closed the door behind him and stood in the front yard, breathing in the cool night air.
“Dr. Turner?” Smoke called softly.
The man spun around, startled.
“Take it easy, Doctor,” Smoke said. “I’m friendly. I’m going to walk toward you, both my hands in plain sight. OK?”
“Who are you?” the doctor demanded.
“The name is Jensen. Smoke Jensen.” Smoke walked closer.
“Hold it right there!” the doctor warned. “I have a gun.”
“No, you don’t,” Smoke replied, stepping closer. “And even if you did, it’s doubtful you’d know how to use it.”
Smoke stopped a few feet from the man and stared at him.
“If you’re Smoke Jensen, tell me about yourself.”
“My wife’s name is Sally. We live in Colorado on a spread we named the Sugarloaf. My wife went to college back east with your wife, Victoria. Sally calls her Vicky. Vicky lost her parents while she was in school and had to work very hard to get through. You have one child that lived, Lisa. Your wife can’t have any more children. Sally got a letter from Vicky today, telling us about the recent killings in Hell’s Creek and the outlaw who staggered up to this ranch and told you about it. You got this ranch by befriending an old man who was visiting back east. You ...”
“Enough.” The doctor held up a hand, visible in the faint light of a quarter moon. He smiled and stuck out the hand for Smoke to shake it. “Welcome to our home, Mr. Jensen.”
