the boy off in the dark, he gave him a questioning look.
“What’s eatin’ on you, Cal?”
Cal couldn’t look Smoke in the eye, gazing up at the stars for a time. “I reckon it’s rememberin’ that Indian I shot back yonder, Mr. Jensen, remembering what he looked like with that big hole in him… knowin’ I done it.”
“Killin’ a man is never easy,” Smoke said gently. “Sometimes it’s necessary. Those Apaches were coming after us, and if one of ’em had gotten off a lucky shot, one of us might have been killed. You did what you had to do in order to save your friends and that’s part of accepting the responsibility of being a man.”
Cal shoved his hands in the front pockets of his denims. “I wasn’t scared or nothin’ like that. I reckon I hadn’t oughta admit it, but it sorta made me sick when I seen what I done. I wish I could be more like you, Mr. Jensen. I’ve seen what you done to bad men, like them boys who rode with Sundance Morgan. I seen how you stay calm, like it don’t rattle you none when you kill somebody.”
“It comes with time, Cal. You have to make up your mind that it’s them or you, or your friends. Some men seem to have a natural gift for fightin’, like some others have a gift with breaking horses.”
“It never did bother you right at first when you killed a man?”
He thought about it a moment. “I suppose I’d already made up my mind that it had to be done, that there wasn’t any other way. There’s some men who need killin’. They break the law and bring harm to other folks who can’t defend themselves. I never went out lookin’ for a man to kill. Seems like they always found me, one way or another, and I’ve been willing to oblige ’em when it was a fight they wanted.”
“You’re the best at it I ever saw, Mr. Jensen, but to tell the truth I don’t think it’s my natural callin’. You taught me how to shoot, an’ how to look out for myself. I’m real grateful for that. When I looked down at that dyin’ Indian, somethin’ in my head said maybe it was wrong, even though he had a rifle an’ he was shootin’ at us. I can’t explain it proper…”
“Some men ain’t cut out for killing, Cal. You know how to do it when it’s necessary, and that can be a good thing, so you can defend what’s yours if somebody tries to take it. I think you realized for the first time how final death is, after you took another man’s life. Understandable, to feel that way. It may keep you from becoming a killer yourself, unless you’ve got a good reason to kill.”
“But you’ve killed plenty of men and it don’t seem to bother you none. Leastways, you don’t show it”
Smoke turned back toward the fire. Cal would understand the incident today, given time. “I never killed a man who didn’t ask for the opportunity. The Apache you shot knew it could turn out either way… he’d lose his life, or you’d lose yours. He took a gamble, a calculated risk, and he lost. You did yourself proud, and you may have saved a friend’s life because of it… even mine if the Indian had gotten lucky.”
“I hadn’t thought of it quite like that,” Cal said. “Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all, what I did today.”
Lincoln Township was a little place, two stores and a blacksmith’s shop and a few smaller businesses, a two- story courthouse near the Rio Hondo, surrounded by the Capitan Mountains . When Smoke and his cowboys rode into town on an April afternoon, the village was in an uproar, and it wasn’t long until Smoke learned from a blacksmith that two funerals were about to commence.
“Billy Bonney an’ some of his friends gunned down Sheriff Brady an’ his deputy, George Hindeman. It was retaliation for the murder of John Tunstall, pure an’ simple. Billy the Kid, as they call him, led the attack. The governor is puttin’ out a warrant for his arrest, along with them others, We’s fixin’ to have two funerals today, the sheriffs and his deputy’s.”
Smoke didn’t care to hear all the details. “Can you give us directions to John Chisum’s ranch?” he asked.
“East of here. It’s called South Springs ranch an’ that’s where you’ll find him. It’s a day’s ride. Can’t miss it. It’s on the west bank of the Pecos River .”
Smoke gave the town a final look. People were standing in groups talking among themselves as two funeral wagons waited at the end of the street near the courthouse and a tiny church. “Thanks,” was all Smoke said, wheeling his horse eastward to ride out of Lincoln. The shootings weren’t any of his affair.
Pearlie had a twinkle in his eye when he looked at Srnoke, then he spoke to Cal “Like I said not too long ago, young ’un, where there’s trouble, you’ll usually find Smoke Jensen. Either it comes lookin’ fer him, or we ride smack into it. First thing a man learns when he rides for the Sugarloaf brand is to keep his guns cleaned an’ loaded. I knowed things was too quiet this past winter. Ain’t hardly spring yet an’ here we are, square in the middle of a range war.”
John Chisum was a towering figure at six-foot-four in boots, with a square jaw and slitted eyes, with suspicion in them when Smoke and his riders arrived at South Springs ranch. There were men wearing guns near the barns and corrals, a seedy-looking lot for the most part, paid shootists if ever Smoke laid eyes on one. It seemed every one of them was watching Smoke and his men ride in to the ranch.
Smoke swung down and walked up to Chisum, offering his hand. “Name’s Smoke Jensen, from Big Rock, Colorado Territory. I wrote you awhile back and you sent me prices on some Hereford bulls.”
Chisum’s expression changed to friendliness. “Of course, Mr. Jensen. I remember now. You were interested in a dozen to fifteen young bulls, as I recall. I quoted you a price of two hundred dollars each and the offer still stands.” He turned to a pockmarked gunman leaning against a porch post. “It’s okay, Buck. Tell the boys they can relax an’ go back to work. These men are invited guests.” He looked back at Smoke. “Tell your men to turn their horses into an empty corral an’ then come to the house. I’ll offer you coffee or whiskey or both, an’ a bite to eat as soon as Maria can get the stove going.”
“We’re grateful. It’s been a long ride,” Smoke said as he gave his horse’s reins to Pearlie.
Chisum frowned a bit. “Did you run into any difficulties on the way down?”
“A handful of renegade Apaches gave us a try a few days ago, but we handled it.”
As Smoke was climbing the porch steps, Chisum gave the hills a sweeping glance. “In case you haven’t heard, we’re having our share of problems in Lincoln County, only it isn’t Indians who are causing it. Cattle rustling has gotten so bad I’ve had to hire guards to watch my herds. There’ve been a number of killings, and I’ve lost almost a dozen men. A rancher friend of mine was murdered in cold blood, and just yesterday our sheriff and one of his deputies were gunned down. The army post over at Fort Stanton won’t do anything to stop all this killing, and I fear it will only get worse. The territorial governor, Lew Wallace, may be our only hope of ending what amounts to all- out war.”
