“Pure flapdoodle, Larry. That’s all it is.”
Bountiful listened for another five minutes, and then with a frown on her face she walked silently to the doorway and stepped outside. She waved at a hand coiling a rope by the corral.
“Yes, ma’am?” he said, after running over to the house.
“Ride!” she told him. “Get into town, find Monte and find out where Smoke is. Get word to him.” She told him what she had overheard.
The hand threw the rope down, his face tight with anger. “I’ll go in there and stomp that varmint right now!”
“No!” Bountiful told him. “Finding Smoke is more important. He might be in danger of being taken back East to stand trial in some federal court. There are in U.S. Marshals after him. They might already be with him, and he doesn’t know they’re to arrest him.”
The hand nodded his head. “You watch that skunk in yonder, Miss Bountiful. He’s just too slick for my likin’.”
“I’ll watch him for me and Sally. You ride.”
“I’m gone!”
She stepped back into the house in time to hear Sally ask, “Larry, exactly why did you come all the way out here from the city?”
“Why . . . to take you back where you belong, Sally.”
“I beg your pardon?” Sally’s words were filled with astonishment.
“Sally, this is still a wild and savage land. You don’t belong out here. There is no culture, nothing that even resembles refinement . . . the nicer things in life. I have come to ask you to leave this place and return to the city. Not necessarily to be with me, although that is my highest aspiration. Sally, I believe once there, out of this horrible place, you will see things in a much different light and . . .”
Sally held up a hand. “That’s enough, Larry! Actually, that is far too much. If my husband were here, he’d throw you out of the house for saying such things.” Actually, what Smoke would probably do is shoot you! But she kept that thought to herself. “Larry, you must be insane to suggest such things.”
“I have only your best interests at heart, Sally.”
“I appreciate that, Larry. Now listen to me. I am a married woman with children. I love my husband very much, and I am quite happy here on the Sugarloaf . . .”
“The what?”
“The Sugarloaf—that is the name of our ranch, Larry. And I intend to stay here until I die, and be buried here. Is that understood?”
“Sally, haven’t you understood a word I’ve said? What are you going to do when your husband is sentenced to prison?”
“Prison? What are you talking about, Larry?”
“A federal judge is right now contemplating issuing federal warrants for Smoke’s arrest. All the wild men of the West are dead or dying, Sally. Most of the famed gunfighters and outlaws have met their just due. Very learned men in the field of crime have met and concluded that violence begets violence and also that the poor criminal has been greatly misunderstood. They have urged President Arthur to abolish capital punishment and to set up programs to reeducate inmates and ban the carrying of guns nationwide . . .”
Sally started laughing. She laughed until tears momentarily blinded her. She wiped them away just about the time Bountiful stopped laughing in the next room.
“I fail to see anything amusing about this, Sally,” Larry said stiffly.
“It’s going to be far less amusing when somebody tells my husband he can’t carry a gun, Larry. What nut came up with the idea that the poor criminal has been misunderstood?”
“I would hardly call Dr. Woodward a nut, Sally.”
“Dr. Woodward?”
“Yes. He has just returned from Europe where he studied with some of the greatest doctors in the world, whose specialties include the mind . . .”
“Psychiatrists.”
“Why, yes, that’s right. I . . .”
“Get out of here, Larry. Leave. Now. Go on back to the city and don’t come West again. This is no place for you. And don’t ever again suggest I leave my husband. Now, go, Larry.”
When Larry had driven off in his rented buggy, Bountiful came into the room. “You heard?” Sally asked.
“Yes. I sent a hand into town to tell Monte. He’ll get word to Smoke. Do you suppose there is anything to what he said, Sally?”
“Yes. I’m afraid there is.” She shook her head.
“The poor misunderstood criminal. What is this world coming to?”
* * *
Earl Sutcliffe was doing his best not to yawn as Mills droned on. “And in conclusion,” Mills said, “it is the belief of many knowledgeable people that the criminal should not be treated nearly so harshly as we have done in the past. The criminal is literally pushed into a life of crime due to peer pressure and his social and/or economic station in life.”
“Incredible,” Earl said.
“Yes, isn’t it. You see, Dr. Woodward has found that in many cases, say, a boy from the wrong side of the tracks falls in love with the daughter of a rich man . . . of course the two worlds can never meet. That traumatizes the young man and leaves him feeling rejected and disillusioned and angry. If he then goes out and robs or kills, it isn’t really his fault.”
Earl sighed. “Mills, do you really believe that nonsense?” '
“Nonsense, sir?” .
Wes. Nonsense. Because that is what it is. Most people who grow up in poverty don’t turn into murderers. Most do their best to work their way out of a bad economic situation. Your Dr. Woodward is simply trying to cover up for a group of very sorry, worthless, no-good people who want something for nothing and will go to any lengths to get it. And the only length they deserve is the number of feet in a hangman’s rope. Good day, sir.” He rose from the bench and walked into Smoke’s office.
Smoke smiled at him. “Did Mills make a convert out of you, Earl?”
“Not hardly. The man is well-educated but totally out of touch with reality.” He looked up at the rumble of a stagecoach pulling into town.
Both men watched as Mills was handed a small packet of mail by the driver. The man sat down on the bench and read, occasionally looking across the street at Smoke’s office, a startled expression on his face.
“It concerns one of us,” Earl opined.
“Any warrants out on you?”
“None that I am aware of. You?”
“I don’t think so. However, anything is possible. I’ve been hearing rumors that are coming from back East. Somebody back there doesn’t like me very much.”
“So it’s true, then,” Earl muttered.
“You’ve heard them?”
“Yes. I was in St. Louis just a few months ago. I spoke with a man from Chicago who asked if I knew you. I told him only by reputation. He had heard that some federal judge back East was pushing to have some warrants reissued on you. Something about a shooting that happened years ago. Over in Idaho.”
“Damn!” Smoke swore. “That was back in ’73. I wasn’t much more than a kid when I helped destroy the town of Bury and killed Richards, Potter, and Stratton. They were the men who helped kill my brother and my father, and who hired the men who raped and killed my first wife and killed our baby son.”
Earl grunted. “Then they certainly deserved killing. Tell me, those three you mentioned—did either of them have any relative or family friend in a position of power back East?”
“Not that I know of. But it could be. But there were no warrants issued from that shooting. I’m certain of that. And I know damn well I left those men dead.”
“Well, somebody has an axe to grind with you. And from the look on Mills’ face, he isn’t too happy with the letters he just received. Want a wager as to the identity of the party mentioned in those missives?”
