Chapter Fourteen
The body of Willis was toted off—Muckelmort and the undertaker would go through his pockets to determine the elaborateness of the funeral—and the town began once more coming back to life as darkness settled in. The saloon was doing more business than it could handle, and the owner actually wished the other saloons would hurry up and get their board floors down and the canvas sides and roof up to take some of the pressure off his place.
Louis volunteered to take the first shift, and the others went to bed early—they each would do a four hour shift.
In the mountains, the outlaws slept fitfully, not knowing when or even if Smoke Jensen or that old warhorse Charlie Starr would strike.
Charlie and Smoke, camped miles apart, slept well and awakened refreshed. They rolled their ground sheets and bedding, boiled their coffee and fried their bacon, then checked their guns, and made ready for another day.
The members of Lee Slater’s gang, their size now cut by three more, were quiet as they fixed their breakfast and drank their coffee. Taylor and Bud had ridden in during the early evening, and Taylor’s condition had both depressed and angered the outlaws. His legs were swollen badly, and the man had slipped into a coma as blood poisoning was rapidly taking his life.
“That there’s the most horriblest-lookin’ thing I ever did see,” Woody commented, looking at Taylor. “Smoke Jensen don’t fight fair a-tall.”
“My ass hurts!” Bud squalled.
“Pour some more horse liniment on it,” Lee told a man.
Bud really took to squalling when the horse medicine hit the raw wounds. Everyone was glad when he passed out from the pain and the hollering stopped. ‘
The men mounted up and pulled out, a silent and sullen group of no-goods.
“How long do we intend to remain here?” Albert asked Mills, over breakfast.
“Until we come up with a plan to capture Smoke Jensen,” the senior U.S. Marshal said. “Anybody got one?”
No one did.
“Pass the beans,” Mills said.
Back in Washington, D.C., the chief of the U.S. Marshal’s Service looked across his desk at a group of senators. The senators were very unhappy.
“Smoke Jensen is a national hero,” one senator said. “He’s had books and plays written about him. School children worship him, and women around the nation love him for the family man he is. The telegrams I’m receiving from people tell me they don’t believe these murder warrants are valid. I want your opinion on this matter, and I want it right now.”
Without hesitation, the man said, “I don’t believe the charges would stick for a minute in a court of law. But a federal judge signed them, and we have to serve them.” He smiled. “But the information I’m receiving indicates that our people out West are not at all eager to arrest Smoke Jensen.” He lifted a wire from Mills Walsdorf. “They have, shall we say, dropped out of sight for a time.”
“Then the Marshal’s Service is out of the picture?” another senator questioned.
“For all intents and purposes, yes.”
The senator lifted a local newspaper. “What about these hundreds of bounty hunters chasing Jensen?”
The marshal shook his head. “You know how that rag tends to blow things all out of proportion. The reporter they sent out there to cover this story wouldn’t know a bounty hunter from a cigar store Indian. He’s never been west of the Mississippi River in his entire life . . . until now.”
Another senator lifted a New York City newspaper and started to speak. The marshal waved him silent. “That paper is even worse. Smoke Jensen is probably up against a hundred people . . .”
“A hundred?” a Senator yelled. “But he’s just one man.” ‘
The marshal smiled. “You ever seen Smoke Jensen, sir?”
“No, I have not.”
“I have. One time about ten years ago when I was working out West. Three men jumped him in a bar in Colorado. When the dust settled, two of those men were dead and the third was dying. Smoke was leaning up against the bar, both hands tilled with .44s. He holstered his guns, drank his beer, fixed him a sandwich, and went across the street to his hotel room for a night’s sleep. I’m not saying he can pull this thing off and come out of it without taking some lead, but if anyone can do it, Smoke Jensen can. I can wish him well. But other than that, my hands are tied until some other federal judge overrides those warrants.”
“Judge Richards has left town on a vacation,” a senator said. “He’ll be back in two weeks, so his office told me.”
“He’d better stay gone,” the marshal said. “ ’Cause when Smoke comes down from those mountains, I got me a hunch he’s Washington bound with a killin’ on his mind.”
“Well, now!” another senator puffed up. “We certainly can’t allow that.”
The marshal smiled. “You gonna be the one to tell Jensen that, sir?”
The senator looked as though he wished the chair would swallow him up.
Smoke released his hold, and the thick springy branch struck its target with several hundred pounds of impacting force. The outlaw was knocked from the saddle, his nose flattened and his jaw busted. He hit the ground and did not move.
Smoke led the horse into the timber, took the food packets from the saddle bags, and then stripped saddle and bridle from the animal and turned it loose.
Smoke faded back into the heavy timber at the sounds of approaching horses.
“Good God!” a man’s voice drifted through the brush and timber. “Look at Dewey, would you.”
“What the hell hit him?” another asked. “His entar face is smashed in.”
“Where’s his horse?” another asked. “We got to get him to a doctor.”
“Doctor?” yet another questioned. “Hell, there ain’t a doctor within fifty miles of here. See if you can get him awake and find out what happened. Damn, his face is ruint!”
“I bet it was that damn Jensen,” an unshaven and smelly outlaw said. “We get our hands on him, let’s see how long we can keep him alive.”
“Yeah,” another agreed. “We’ll skin him alive.“
Smoke shot the one who favored skinning slap out of the saddle, putting a .44-.40 slug into his chest and twisting him around. The man fell and the frightened horse took off, dragging the dying outlaw along the rocks in the game trail.
“Get into cover!” Horton yelled, just as Smoke fired again.
Horton was turning in the saddle, and the bullet missed him, striking a horse in the head and killing it instantly. The animal dropped, pinning its rider.
“My leg!” the rider screamed. “It’s busted. Oh, God, somebody help me.”
Gooden ran to help his buddy, and Smoke drilled him, the slug smashing into the man’s side and turning him around like a spinning top. Gooden fell on top of the dead horse, and Gates screamed as the added weight shot pain through his shattered leg.
Horton and Max put the spurs to their horses and got the hell out of there, leaving their dead and wounded behind. Smoke slipped back into the timber.
The screaming and calling out for help from Gooden and Cares were soon lost in the ravines and deep timber of the lonesome. Dewey lay on the trail, still unconscious.
Smoke seemed to vanish. But even as he made his way through the thick brush and timber, he knew he had been very lucky so far. He fully understood that there was no way he was going to fight a hundred of the enemy without taking lead at some point of the chase and hunt.
He just didn’t know when.
Lee and his bunch muscled the dead horse off Cates and to a man grimaced at the sight of his broken and
