that crowded the hills. Though it had not yet reached him, the storm was moving quickly, and Smoke Jensen took a poncho from his saddlebag and slipped it on to be prepared for the impending downpour.
Smoke was on his way to Denver, and he was butt-sore from riding. Looking to hunker down from the approaching storm, he saw the little town of Willow Creek rising before him. The town had no more than half-a- dozen commercial buildings, and about three dozen houses.
Smoke leaned forward and patted his horse on the neck.
“What do you say that we find us a place to ride this storm out?” Smoke asked his horse. Often on long, lonely rides, Smoke wanted to hear a human voice, even if it was his own. Talking to his horse provided him with an excuse for talking aloud, without really talking to himself.
“A livery for you, and maybe supper and a beer for me,” he continued in his one-sided conversation.
The first few drops of rain had just started when Smoke rode in through the big open door of the Jim Bob Corral. His nostrils were assailed with the pungent but familiar smell of hay, horseflesh, and horse manure. To a city person the odor might be unpleasant, but to Smoke, the aroma was almost comforting. Smoke took off his poncho and rolled it up. He had just finished tying it back onto his saddle when a boy of about sixteen appeared, having come from somewhere deep in the shadows of the barn.
“You wantin’ to board your horse here, mister?” the boy asked.
“Yes,” Smoke answered. “Find a dry place for him, rub him down, and give him oats.” Smoke gave the boy a dollar.
“How long?” the boy asked.
“Just tonight.”
“Then it’s only a quarter,” the boy said. “I’ll get your change.”
“You keep the change,” Smoke said. “Just take extra care of my horse.”
A broad smile spread across the boy’s face. “Mister, the folks stayin’ over to the Dunn Hotel won’t be gettin’ no better treatment than this here horse.”
“I appreciate that,” Smoke said.
Smoke looked across the street at the saloon.
“Do they serve food in the saloon?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, and it’s good food too,” the boy said. “My ma cooks there.”
Smoke smiled. “Then I know I will enjoy it.”
The rain was coming down pretty steadily now as Smoke hurried across the street for the saloon. Stepping inside, he took off his hat, then poured water from the crown as he looked around. For a town so small, the saloon was surprisingly full. It even had a piano, at which a piano player was grinding away in the back.
More than half the patrons in the saloon turned to look at him, and as they realized he was not a local, even more turned to see who the stranger was in their midst.
The barkeep moved toward him when Smoke stepped up to the bar.
“Hope you ain’t put out none by ever’one lookin’ at you, but we don’t get a lot of visitors here, especially on a night like this.”
“A night like this is what drove me here,” Smoke replied.
The bartender chuckled. “Yes, sir, I see what you mean. What’s your pleasure?”
“I’d like a beer.”
“Yes, sir, one beer comin’ up.”
A moment later, the bartender put a mug of golden beer with a frothy head in front of Smoke. Smoke blew off some of the head, then took a long swallow. After a full day of riding, the beer tasted very good to him and he took another deep drink before he turned his back to the bar to have a look around the place that called itself The Gilded Lily.
A card game was going on in the corner and Smoke watched it for a few minutes while he drank his beer.
Smoke’s peripheral vision caught someone coming in through the back door, and turning, he saw a tall, broad- shouldered man, wearing a badge. Because he had just come in from the rain, water was dripping from the lawman’s sweeping mustache.
“I’m lookin’ for a man named Emerson Pardeen,” the man said.
One of the cardplayers stood up slowly, then turned to face the man with the badge.
“I’m Emerson Pardeen. Who the hell are you?”
“The name is Buck Wheeler.
“Yeah? Well, what do you want with me?”
“I’m taking you back to Dodge City to stand trial for the murder of Jason Tibbs.”
“Dodge City is in Kansas, this is Colorado. You got no jurisdiction here.”
“Maybe I should’ve told you I’m a United States marshal,” Wheeler added. “I’ve got jurisdiction everywhere.”
“Yeah? Well, Mr. United States Marshal Buck Wheeler, I ain’t goin’ back to Dodge City with you,” Pardeen said.
