he had shot lay sprawled on the trail. One he had shot dead, the other had died only moments before, gutshot and dying hard, calling out for God to help him. The same God the girls he had helped rape and torture had called out to, no doubt.
Smoke watched as the men broke cover and ran for their horses. He waited and watched as they rode back down the trail. Smoke slipped back to Buck, booted his rifle, and took off. He would hit another outlaw camp that evening. He liked the night. He was very good in the night. The Orientals had a word for it that Smoke had read in a book Sally had bought for him. Ninja.
He liked that.
* * *
“That dude is still at the hotel, ma’am,” a hand reported to Sally. “He’s gonna get his ashes hauled if he don’t stop with the bad mouth against Smoke.”
“He’d just sue you,” Sally told him.
“One of them,” the hand said disgustedly. “I’m afraid so. What’s he saying about my husband?”
“That Smoke has turned cold-blooded killer. That he enjoys killin’. That he’s crazy. Monte is gonna have to put him in jail for his own protection if this keeps up.”
Sally nodded her head. “I wired friends back East to check into whether there is any connection between Judge Richards and Larry. They could find none—at least on the surface. I don’t believe there is any connection. Larry is just meddling, hoping to discredit Smoke in my eyes.”
“You want me to conk him on the head and toss him in an eastbound freight wagon, ma’am?”
Sally laughed. “No, Jim. But I’m not going to ask anyone to protect him, either. Larry is, I’m afraid, going to learn a hard lesson about the West and its people.”
“He’s liable to end up in a pine box, ma’am.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “There is always that possibility. But he’s a man grown, and has to take responsibility for his words and deeds. I warned him of the consequences if he persisted in spreading vile gossip about my husband. We’ll just let the chips fall, Jim.'
“It won’t be long, ma’am. Somebody’s gonna tell that greenhorn lawyer to check, bet or fold pretty darn quick.” He put his hat back on his head. “And, ma’am . . . it’s likely to be me that does it.”
Sally watched the hand walk back to the bunkhouse. She knew that the West was, in many respects, a very tolerant place. A person’s past was their business. A handshake was a deal sealed. A person gave their word, it was binding. And if you bad-mouthed somebody, you had damn well better
be prepared to back it up with guns or fists. It was the code, and the code was unwritten law in the West.
“Larry,” she muttered, “you’re heading for a stomping if you don’t close that mouth.”
Chapter Ten
“That’s it, mister!” a cowboy said to Larry. “I’ve had your flappin’ mouth. Now shut the damn thing and shut it now!”
Larry turned in his chair and stared at the man. The others in the cafe fell silent. For days the citizens in and around Big Rock had put up with the Easterner’s bad—mouthing of Smoke Jensen. Most of them felt it was just the man’s ignorance and let it slide. But it was getting wearing . . . very wearing. The cowboy from Johnny North’s ranch was one of those Smoke had befriended, and he had had quite enough of Larry’s mouth.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” Larry questioned, removing his napkin from his shirt-front and laying it on the table.
“I said for you to close that flappin’ trap of yours,” the cowboy said. “Smoke ain’t here to defend himself agin your lyin’ mouth. And I for one have had enough of it.” He pushed back his chair and stood up, walking to Larry’s table.
“Sir,” Larry said, “I have a right to an opinion. That is a basic right. One only has to look at Jensen’s record of brutality and callousness to see that the man has no regard for law and order and the rights of others. I . . .”
The cowboy slapped him out of the chair. Larry’s butt bounced on the floor. He stared up at the man, his mouth bloody from the callused hand of the cowboy. His eyes were wide from shock.
Larry looked over at the sheriff. Monte Carson was recovering from his wounds, his left arm still in a sling where the .45 slug had busted his forearm.
He stared at Larry with decidedly unfriendly eyes.
“Do something!” Larry hollered.
“What do you want me to do?” Monte questioned.
“This brute assaulted me!” Larry yelled, crawling to his knees and grabbing the back of a chair for support. “I want him placed under arrest.”
“You’re under arrest, Clint,” Monte said, sugaring his coffee.
“The fine for disturbing the peace is two dollars,” Judge Proctor said, carefully cutting the slice of beef on his lunch plate.
Twenty silver dollars hit the floor from the pockets of patrons seated around the cafe.
Willow Brook, wife of the town’s only lawyer, Hunt, counted the money on the floor. “I think that means you can break the law a few more times, Clint,” she said.
“What?” Larry screamed. “What kind of justice is this?”
“Western kind,” Clint said, and jerked the man up by his shirt.
“Unhand me, you heathen!” Larry yelled.
Clint did just that. He tossed Larry out the front door, and the man landed in a horse trough.
“And don’t come back in here!” the cafe owner yelled, once Larry had bubbled to the surface. “You are now officially barred from dinin’ in my establishment.”
“The cuisine was terrible anyway!” Larry yelled.
“I ain’t never served nothin’ like that in my life!” the cook screamed from the back.
“Ignorant oaf!” Larry said, stepping out of the horse trough with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances. “I’m going to sue everybody in that establishment!” He pointed at the cafe.
Monte walked to the door. “Get off the street, or I’ll put you in jail for attempting to incite a riot,” he told Larry
“You’ll put me in jail!” Larry shouted. He shook his finger at the sheriff. “You’ve not heard the last of this, sir,” he warned. “I am an attorney of some reputation. I can assure you all that the consequences will be dire. I . . .”
“You got nine more chances, Clint,” Monte said.
The cowboy stepped out onto the shaded boardwalk, and Larry took off running toward the Majestic Hotel. His shoes squished with every step. His ears were flame-red from the laughter he was leaving behind him.
Mills Walsdorf led his men some twelve miles out of town and halted the parade.
“What’s up, Mills?” Moss asked.
“We make camp here.”
“Lot of daylight left,” Winston pointed out the obvious.
“We have to make plans,” Mills told them, swinging down from the saddle. “And that might take several days. Perhaps even a week or more. We can’t just go riding willy-nilly after Smoke Jensen.”
The U.S. Marshals looked at each other and smiled. Harold said, “I wondered why you bought so many provisions.”
“We must always be prepared. We’re on our own now, men. No one back in town knows where we are. I told Earl we were heading east.”
“But we rode north!” Sharp said.
“Precisely.”
“I’ll gather some firewood,” Winston said, turning his head to hide his smile.
“We’ll all gather wood,” Mills said‘ “Since we’re going to be here for some time.”
Smoke saw to his horses’ needs first, rubbing them down carefully and picketing them near graze and water. He then ate a cold and early supper. He slipped off his boots and stuck his feet into moccasins that had been made especially for him. They were Apache moccasins, with high leggings that would prevent his trousers from catching on low branches or underbrush. He blackened his face with dirt and tied a dark bandana around his forehead.
He checked his guns and his knife, then picked up his rifle and slung it over his shoulder.