2
That night, lying in bed, Sally said, “We don’t have to go up there, Smoke. I don’t want you to think I’m pressuring you in any way. Because I’m not.”
“You think a lot of this friend of yours, don’t you?”
“Like a sister, Smoke. She’s had a lot of grief in her life and I’d like for her to have some happiness. She’s overdue.”
“Want to explain that?”
“She lost two brothers in the Civil War. Her mother died when she was in high school. Then in her second year of college, her father died. She worked terribly hard to finish school. Took in ironing, mended clothes, worked as a maid; anything to put food in her mouth and clothes on her back. I’d help whenever I could, but Vicky is an awfully proud girl. She and Robert had one child ... that lived. Two others died. She can’t have any more. Their daughter Lisa is ten.”
Smoke waited for a moment, his eyes on the dark ceiling. “Finish it, honey. Tell it all.”
“This Max Huggins trash has threatened Lisa several times, to get to Vicky.”
Smoke thought about that. For about five seconds. He turned his head, his gaze meeting Sally’s eyes. “We’ll start packing up some things in the morning.”
On the day they received the telegram from Sally’s father, informing them of the steamer’s departure, Smoke rode around their ranch, checking things out and speaking to the hands. His crew was a well-paid and tough bunch, who to a man would die for the brand. Some of them had been outlaws, riding the hoot-owl trail for a time. Some were gunfighters who sought relative peace and found it at the Sugarloaf. All were cowboys, hardworking and loyal.
“I still think you ought to take some of the boys with you, Smoke,” his foreman grumbled. “Them’s a hard bunch up yonder.”
Smoke rolled a cigarette and handed the makings to his foreman. “You boys are needed here. There are still lots of folks who would just love to burn me out if they got the chance.”
“They won’t,” the foreman said quietly.
“You boys take care of the place. You know where I’ll be and how to reach me. We’ll see you when we get back.”
Smoke and Sally pulled out the next morning, Smoke riding a midnight-black gelding he called Star, and Sally on a fancy-stepping mountain-bred mare who could go all day and still have bottom left. Smoke led a packhorse with their few pieces of luggage and supplies.
They headed east, toward Denver, where they would catch the train. Sally had much experience with trains; Smoke had ridden only a few of them, preferring to travel in the saddle.
The beautiful woman and the handsome man turned heads when they boarded in Denver. And the whisper went from car to car: “That’s Smoke Jensen! See them guns? He’s killed a thousand men.”
Smoke signed a half-dozen books about him and patiently answered the many questions that were asked of him, mostly by newcomers to the West, men and women making their first trip from the East.
One mouthy preacher lipped off one time too many about violent men who lived by the gun. Smoke finally told him to shut his mouth and mind his own business. The preacher’s mouth opened and closed silently a few times, like a fish out of water. Then he sat back down and shut up.
They changed trains in Cheyenne and headed northwest, and Smoke had to endure yet another new bunch of pilgrims with a thousand questions.
“My, my,” Sally said during a lull in the verbal bombardment. There was a twinkle in her eyes. “I didn’t realize I was married to such a famous man.”
“Bear it in mind,” Smoke said with a straight face. “And the next time I ask for a cup of coffee, you quick step and fetch it.”
Sally leaned over, putting her lips close to his ear, and whispered a terribly vulgar suggestion.
Smoke had to put his hat over his face to keep from busting out laughing. Sally was every bit the lady, but like so many western women, she could be quite blunt at times.
A fat drummer twisted in his seat and asked Smoke, “Will we see any Indians this trip? I’ve never seen an Indian.”
“We might see a few,” Smoke told him, aware that everyone within hearing range had their ears perked up. “But the tribes have pretty well been corralled. What well more than likely encounter—if anything—is outlaws working the trains.”
“Outlaws!” a woman hollered. “You mean like ... highwaymen?”
“Yes, ma’am. Once we cross over into Montana Territory, the odds of outlaws hitting trains really pick up. Especially this train,” he added.
“What’s so special about this train?” the lippy preacher asked.
“We’re carrying gold.”
“Now, how would someone such as you know that?” the preacher demanded.
Smoke ignored the scarcely concealed slur upon his character. “I saw them loading it, that’s why.”
“Well,” the preacher huffed. “I’m certain the railroad has adequate security.”
“They got an old man with a shotgun sitting in the car, if that’s what you mean.”
The preacher turned away and lifted his newspaper.
“Are we carrying gold, Smoke?” Sally asked.
“Yeah. And a lot of it. And not just gold. We’re carrying several payrolls, too. For the miners.”
