War, and Jessie knew it had only just begun.
He sat in the shade of a thatched
Jessie and Pickett scrambled to their feet, wondering if a party of Chisum riders had come for revenge. But what he saw in a ravine twisting into the camp was only a pair of horsemen, a little man in a battered top hat and a Mexican cowboy. However, both were carrying guns.
Jessie relaxed against a roof support of the
The pair rode up to him and halted sweat-caked horses in a patch of shade from a pinon limb. The man, only a boy by his appearance, spoke.
“We was told you were hirin’ a few men,” he said, his thin voice almost girlish, lilting.
“Men is what we’re hirin’,” Jessie replied, “not schoolboys who ain’t old enough to need a razor.”
“I’m eighteen,” the rider said, his ears sticking out away from his head in an odd fashion. “The name’s William Bonney an’ this here’s Jesus Silva.”
“Like I said, we ain’t hirin’ no kids,” Jessie replied in an offhanded way. “Come back in a couple of years.”
“We can shoot,” Bonney said. “I already killed a man over in Fort Grant, an’ that ain’t countin’ Indians or Mexicans.”
Jessie laughed. “You’re full of lies, boy. Now ride on outa here before I lose my patience. If you’re lookin’ for work, you might try the Chisum outfit. Or there’s this crazy Englishman by the name of John Tunstall who’s hirin’ a few cowboys now an’ then. Ask for Dick Brewer, He’s foreman for Tunstall an’ he ain’t much older’n you. Appears Mr. Tunstall ain’t opposed to changin’ diapers on some of his cowhands.”
Bonney stared at him, and Jessie felt a strange sensation when he looked into the young man’s green-flecked eyes. He had buck teeth and looked downright ridiculous in an old top hat, but there was something about him…
“You may be sorry you didn’t offer us any work,” Bonney said as he turned his horse. “We heard you was needin’ good men with guns.”
Jessie gave him a one-sided grin. “Like I said before, come back in a couple of years, when you’re old enough to grow some chin whiskers.”
Bonney and Silva rode off, back down the ravine. Jessie watched them go, wondering.
Pickett had stopped cleaning his Winchester long enough to listen to what was being said. “You might regret that, like the boy said, Jessie,” he remarked, going back to his gun cleaning. “I’ve got a pretty good nose for a man who ain’t got no fear in him. That Bonney boy ain’t scared of nothin’.”
“Maybe he’s just too young to know to be scared,” Jessie offered.
Pickett shook his head. “Age ain’t got all that much to do with it. It’s what’s in a man’s backbone that counts. He sure did look plumb silly in that ol’ hat, an’ them’s the worst-lookin’ buck teeth I ever saw. But there may come a time when you wish you’d have let ’em hire on with us. I hope I’m dead wrong about it, that we won’t be wishin’ we had Mr. William Bonney on our side of this fight.”Nine
Smoke’s chest and arms glistened with sweat as he split the last of yet another cord of wood piled beside the cabin. It had been hard at first, to see Puma’s old log dwelling where he and the Ute girl had lived so long ago, until smallpox took her. There were so many memories here for Smoke, and as colorful fall leaves swirled around him, with the coming of winter he couldn’t help a recollection or two, of time he spent with Puma in this aspen forest back when they were younger men, and it saddened him some to think of Puma being gone forever. He told himself that wherever Puma was, there would be mountains and rivers and clear streams.
On the ride up to the cabin he and Sally talked about their plans for an improved cow herd, the Hereford bulls and what Sally said was sure to be a way to raise crossbred breeding stock for the future. Smoke even told her about another idea he’d been toying with… to buy a Morgan stallion to cross on their mustang and thoroughbred mares, adding strength and muscle and short-distance speed to the offspring. On the way down to New Mexico he planned to inquire about purchasing a Morgan stud. He grinned when he thought about their three-day trip up to Puma’s cabin, how infectious Sally’s enthusiasm was when she talked about the Hereford crosses. She was a rancher at heart, with a natural gift for handling livestock, better than most experienced men who made a living off raising cattle. But Smoke’s grin was far more than amusement over her excitement when she talked about their future plans… it was an unconscious way of showing how much he loved her. He’d decided long ago that Sally had been the best thing that had ever happened to him. She had changed his life and he often wished for the words to tell her how much she truly meant to him.
Smoke rested the axe against the splitting stump and took a look northward. A line of dark clouds was building along the horizon. At these higher altitudes, a storm would mean snow, the first snowstorm announcing the coming of winter. They’d just barely had time to unpack the packhorses, clean out the abandoned cabin and stretch cured deer hides over the windows and rifle ports, repair rawhide hinges on crude plank doors, and clean out the rock chimney. Sally was inside now, fashioning hanging racks for their heavy winter clothing and other essentials, after putting their food staples away on what was left of the shelves Puma had made near the fireplace. They had plenty of warm blankets and a thick buffalo robe given to Smoke by a Shoshoni warrior years back. Last night, Smoke had held Sally in his arms atop that furry buffalo skin, watching her eyes sparkle in the firelight when he kissed her. He vowed to make this winter with her a special time, away from the day-to-day chores around the ranch which were now being done by Pearlie, Cal, and Johnny North… what little there was to do with no beef cattle on the place, only the horse herd and old Rosie, their Jersey milk cow, to attend to. Smoke knew Sally needed the rest as much as he did, not only from ranch work but away from the troubles that seemed to follow Smoke Jensen no matter how peacefully he tried to live now. Trouble had a way of finding him, and he hoped it wouldn’t track him down here, in a beautiful mountain valley near the headwaters of the White River, roughly eight thousand feet into the Rockies, where few white men had ever traveled, formerly the hunting ground of the Utes until a treaty with Washington moved them farther west. Here, Smoke could be at peace, spending time alone with his beloved Sally.
Falling aspen leaves showered to the forest floor, a mix of reds, bright yellows, and every shade of brown. Towering ponderosa pines grew thick on the slopes around them. The scent of pine was strong in the air, mingling with the smell of smoke coming from the chimney as Sally prepared their supper. They had plenty of foodstuffs and clothing, and enough firewood for even the most brutal winter, after almost a week of hard labor gathering dead limbs and fallen tree trunks. It had been a wonderful time, as was the ride up with Sally. If it were possible, he
