“Oh!” Sally said, seized by a sudden fear. “Oh, God in heaven, Cal, you don’t think …” She let the sentence die in her throat, too frightened to give words to the terrible thought that maybe something had happened to Smoke and this was someone who had come to tell her.
“No, ma’am, I don’t think that,” Cal said, understanding what she meant. “If somethin’ had happened to Smoke, it would more’n likely be Sheriff Carson comin’ to tell us, or maybe Mr. Longmont. It wouldn’t be no stranger.” “Yes,” Sally said. “I’m sure you are right.” Sally walked out onto the porch and looked toward the rider. For a long moment, the anxiousness did not leave her face. Then, suddenly, she relaxed and broke into a great smile.
“Well, I’ll be. It’s Matt,” she said. “My goodness, I haven’t seen him in ages.” “Matt who?” Cal asked. “Who is Matt?” “An old friend,” she said as she stepped down from the porch and hurried to meet the rider with a welcome wave.
Fifteen minutes later Matt, Pearlie, and Cal were sitting around the kitchen table. Sally was in the kitchen as well, but at the moment she was standing by the stove, with the oven door open. The kitchen was redolent with the sweet aroma of freshly baked bear claws.
“You should’a seen ’im,” Cal said. “Pearlie hung on to that bull like a tick on a dog, an’ no matter what that bull did, goin’ this way and that, humpin’ up in the middle, kickin’ out his hind legs, he couldn’t shake Pearlie.”
“Cal didn’t do bad his ownself,” Pearlie said. “He won the calf-ropin’ and the bull-doggin’ contest.”
“I’m sure Smoke will be proud of both of you,” Matt said. “I’ll tell you the truth, Miss Sally, that smells mighty good,” Matt said.
“Sally makes the best bear claws in Colorado,” Pearlie said.
“Sally makes the best bear claws in the world,” Cal added, not to be outdone.
“You boys don’t have to butter me up,” Sally said. “I’m baking enough bear claws to satisfy even your appetites.”
“Too bad Smoke isn’t here to enjoy them,” Cal said.
“Yes, I had hoped to see Smoke,” Matt said as he took a bear claw from her. “Where is he anyway?”
“He is in Nevada,” Sally said. “Nicole’s brother, Bobby Lee Cabot, got himself into some trouble, and Smoke went to help him out.”2
“Really? What sort of trouble has Bobby Lee got himself into? I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
“Wait a minute, you know this fella, Bobby Lee, do you?” Cal asked.
“Sure do.”
“How come you know him and we don’t?”
“Cal, Matt knew Nicole, Smoke’s first wife,” Sally said.
“Wow, I had no idea you had known Smoke that long,” Cal said.
“Oh, I knew Smoke long before he ever thought about marrying Nicole,” Matt said. “But yes, I knew Nicole. I also knew Art, their baby.”
“Yeah, I know about Smoke’s first wife and his kid,” Cal said. “And I know they was both kilt, and Smoke kilt the ones who done it. Didn’t know you knew them, though.”
Sally laughed. “That’s understandable, Cal, since you didn’t even know about Matt until a few minutes ago.”
“When did you first meet Smoke, Matt?” Pearlie asked.
“You might say that Smoke met me,” Matt replied.
“What do you mean?”
“I was nothing but a kid, starving and freezing to death in the mountains, when Smoke found me. If he hadn’t found me when he did, I would’ve been dead within another few hours.”
“You might say that Smoke’s finding you was quite fortuitous,” Pearlie said with a broad smile.
“Why, Pearlie,” Sally said. “Fortuitous? I’m impressed.”
“Yes, ma’am. I learned that word while I was at the rodeo in Denver, and I’ve been lookin’ for a chance to use it.”
“Speaking of that, Matt, one might also say that your stopping by is quite fortuitous.”
“Fortuitous in what way?” Matt asked.
“Yesterday, I received a letter for you. I was going to give it to you before you left, but this seems as good a time as any.”
“A letter for me?” Matt asked, surprised by the statement.
“Yes. Well it was addressed to Smoke, but when I opened it, I saw that it was actually meant for you.”
“Who is the letter from?”
“It is from a man named John Bryce. Do you know him?”
“John Bryce?” Matt thought for a moment. Then he smiled and nodded. “Yes, I remember John Bryce. Smoke and I met him a long time ago. I was about to be tried for robbery and murder, the charge lodged by a crooked assayer. And since I was a stranger to the town, the sheriff took his word over mine. I hadn’t been tried yet, but it wasn’t looking good for me, and Smoke had already determined to break me out of jail if need be. Of course if he had done that it would have made criminals out of both of us. But, just before the trial, John Bryce, who was a journalist for a local newspaper at the time, wrote a story that cleared me. And I have a letter from him, you say?”
“Yes. Just a moment, I’ll get it for you.”
