“No bet. But he’s a pretty straightforward type of fellow. If they’re about me, he’ll tell me.”
They watched as Mills showed the documents to Winston and Moss. The men read the letters and shook their heads. Mills folded the letters and tucked them in an inside pocket of his jacket. The three of them then walked across the street and entered the office.
Mills came right to the point. “Smoke, we need to talk.”
“You look like you just swallowed a green persimmon, Mills. What’s the matter?”
“It isn’t good news, Smoke.” He poured a cup of coffee and sat down. “A federal judge in Washington is just about to put his signature to warrants. They’re murder warrants, Smoke. On you. Three of them.”
“The names of the men I’m supposed to have killed?”
“Potter, Richards, and Stratton.”
“I killed them, for a fact. Over in Idaho, years ago. But it was a stand up and fair fight. Me against the three of them.”
“Tell me about it, Smoke.”
Smoke’s mind went spinning back through the long years.
“All right, you bastards!” Smoke yelled to Richards, Potter, and Stratton. “Holster your guns and step out into the street, if you’ve got the nerve.”
The sharp odor of sweat was all mingled with the smell of blood and gunsmoke, filling the summer air as four men stepped out into the bloody, dusty street. All around the old town were the sprawled bodies of gunhands that had been on the payroll of the three men. They had taken on Smoke Jensen. They had died. Nineteen men had tried to kill Smoke in the ruin of an old ghost town out from Bury. Only three of them were still standing.
Richards, Potter, and Stratton stood at one end of the block. A tall bloody figure stood at the other. All their guns were in leather.
“You son of a bitch!” Stratton screamed, his voice as high-pitched as an hysterical woman. “You’ve ruined it all!” He clawed at his .44.
Smoke drew and fired before Stratton could clear leather. The man fell back on his butt, a startled expression on his face. He closed his eyes and toppled over.
Potter grabbed for his gun. Smoke shot him twice in the chest and holstered his gun before the man had stopped twitching in the dust.
Richards had not moved. He stood with a faint smile on his lips, staring at Smoke.
“You ready to die, Richards?” Smoke called.
“As ready as any man ever is,” Richards replied. There was no sign of fear in his voice. His hands were steady by the butts of his guns. “Your sister, Janey, gone?”
“Yep. She took your money and hauled her ashes out.”
“Trash, that’s what she is.”
“You’ll get no argument from me on that.”
“It’s been a long run, hasn’t it, Jensen?”
“It’s just about over.”
“What happens to all our holdings around here?”
“I don’t care what happens to the mines. The miners can have them. I’m giving all your stock to the decent, honest punchers and homesteaders.”
A puzzled look spread over Richards’ face. “I don’t understand. You did . . . all this!” He waved a hand. “For nothing?”
Someone moaned, the sound painfully inching up the street.
“I did it for my pa, my brother, my wife, and my baby son.” '
“It won’t bring them back.”
“I know.”
“Good God Almighty. I wish I had never heard the name Jensen.”
“You won’t ever hear it again, Richards. Not after this day.”
Richards smiled and drew. He was snake-quick, but hurried his shot, the slug digging up dirt at Smoke’s boots.
Smoke shot the man in the shoulder, spinning him around. Richards grabbed for his left-hand gun, and Smoke fired again, the slug taking the man in the chest. Richards cursed Smoke and tried to lift his Colt. He managed to cock it before Smoke’s third shot took him in the belly and knocked him down to the dirt. He pulled the trigger, blowing dust into his face and eyes. He tried to crawl to his knees but succeeded only in rolling over onto his back, staring at the blue of the sky.
Smoke walked up to the man.
Richards opened his mouth to speak. He tasted blood on his tongue. The light began to fade around him. “You’ll . . . you’ll meet . . .”
Smoke never found out who he was supposed to meet. Richards’ head lolled to one side, and he died.
Smoke holstered his guns and walked away.
“His brother,” Mills said. “Has to be. The judge’s name is Richards.”
“Well, then, he’s just as sorry as his damn brother was,” Smoke said. “And I’ll tell you this, Mills: no man will ever put handcuffs on me. No man.”
“Smoke . . .”
“No man, Mills. That was a fair fight, and judge Richards can go right straight to hell and take his warrants with him.”
Mills wore a crestfallen expression. “What if I’m ordered to arrest you?”
“Tell them you can’t find me. Ignore it. Quit your job. But don’t try to put cuffs on me. The warrants are bogus, Mills. It’s a made-up charge. There were dozens of people who witnessed that fight from the hillsides around the town. Don’t force my hand, Mills. It’s not worth your life, or any other lawman’s life.”
“You’d draw on me, Smoke?” the U.S. Marshal asked in a soft tone.
“If you forced me to do it. Lord knows I don’t want to drag iron against you, or any lawman, for that matter. But I won’t be arrested for something I didn’t do.”
“Smoke, the Marshal’s Service knows you’re here! If judge Richards signs those warrants, I will have no choice but to place you under arrest.”
“We all have choices, Mills. We all come to crossroads sometime in our lives. Many times the legal road is not the right road.”
Mills looked at Earl Sutcliffe. “And you, sir?”
“I stand by Smoke. I’ve talked to too many people who were at that fight in the ghost town. It was exactly as Smoke called it. I can have a dozen of the West’s most famed gunslicks in here in a week . . . all to stand by Smoke Jensen. If you want a bloodbath, just try to arrest Jensen.”
Mills shook his head. “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. He and his men left the office.
“Goddamn a bunch of political appointees,” Earl swore, which was something he did rarely. “Your government is becoming like the one I left across the waters: out of control.”
“Can you imagine what it will be like a hundred years from now?” Smoke asked, sitting down and picking up the little puppy from its bed by his desk. Earl grimaced. “That, my friend, is something that boggles the mind. But let’s concentrate on the present. What are you going to do if the judge signs those warrants?” .
“I damn sure won’t be placed under arrest.”
Smoke took paper from his desk and dabbed pen into the ink well. “I’ll write a friend of mine up in Denver. He’s a federal judge. I’ll ask him to look into the matter. I’ll ask him to block those warrants until a complete investigation is done into the matter. I’ll take the legal course until the road ends.”
Earl did not have to ask what Smoke would do once, or if, that legal road came to a blockade. He knew only that if any man tried to arrest Smoke Jensen for something he was innocent of, the streets would run red with blood. And Earl Sutcliffe knew this, too: he would do the same thing.
There comes a time when legal proceedings came into direct conflict with a law-abiding person’s basic human rights.
And this was damn sure one of those times.
Earl walked outside, leaving Smoke’s pen-scratching behind him. He looked up and down the wide street of the tiny village. “Don’t send good men in here to do a bad thing,” he muttered. “Because if you do, you’ll force
