“Yes.”
“I reckon it’s about time then.” She closed her eyes, smiled, and said, “Thank you, God, for sending me a warrior.” Then the woman leaned her head back and died.
Smoke buried the woman and moved on, making camp a few miles from the scene of cruelty and savageness. He would try that little town on the Rio Grande, on the southern edges of the La Garita Mountains; see if any of the scum had ridden in there. What was the name of that place? Yeah, it came to him. Somebody had named it Gap.
Wasn’t much to Gap, Smoke thought, as he approached the town from the north. A saloon, a little hotel, a general store, a cafe and barber shop. Maybe two dozen houses. He swung down in front of the small livery and looked at the man sitting in a cane-bottomed chair in front of the place.
“That horse has got a mean eye on him,” the man said.
“Feed him, curry him, and take care of him,” Smoke said, dropping the reins. “Give him all the grain he wants. And don’t get behind him. He’ll kick the crap out of you.”
“Gonna cost you extra for me to take care of that wall-eyed bastard.”
Buck lifted his head and showed the man his big teeth.
“Don’t call him names. He’s sensitive about that.”
“I’ll make a deal with you,” the man said. “You stable and feed him, and I’ll just charge you for what he eats.”
“That’s fair enough. Livery looks full.”
“Bunch of lawmen in here, U—nited States marshals; stayin’ over to the ho-tel. Chasin’ some gang, they is.” He squinted his eyes. “Don’t I know you?”
“Never been here before in my life.”
“You shore look familiar. I seen your pitcher somewhere. Maybe on a wanted poster?”
Smoke laughed. “Not likely. I ranch up north of here, outside of Big Rock.”
“That’s Smoke Jensen’s country. He’s kilt a thousand men.”
“Not quite that many.”
“You know him?”
“I know him. You got a marshal in this town?”
“Yep. Right over there’s his office.” The man pointed. “Name is Bradley.”
Smoke took his gear and checked in at the hotel. He got the last room available. He registered as Jen Sen.
“Funny name,” the desk clerk said. Then he looked into the coldest eyes he’d ever seen. “No offense meant, mister.”
“You been in this country long?” Smoke asked.
“Just got in from Maryland a few months back.”
“Then learn this: you belittle a man’s name out here, and you’d best be ready to back it up with guns or fists.”
“Here, now!” a man said. “There’ll be none of that around me.”
Smoke turned. A man stood before him with a big badge on his chest that read: “Deputy U. S. Marshal.”
Smoke took in his hightop lace-up boots and eastern clothes. He wore a pistol in a flap holster. He looked at the other men. They were all dressed much the same.
“Who in the hell do you think you are?” Smoke said, taking an immediate dislike for the man.
“United States Marshal Mills Walsdorf.”
“Come to bring peace to the wilderness?” Smoke said with a smile.
“I do not find law enforcement a humorous matter, sir. It’s very serious business.”
“I’d say so. That’s what that woman told me, in so many words, just before I buried her a couple of days ago.”
“What? What? Where did this take place?”
“North of here. Gang of scum rode through and shot her husband to ribbons. Then raped the woman and her two children. Same gang of trash that shot up Big Rock.”
“Did the woman identify the gang?”
“She did.”
Mills waited. Tapped his foot impatiently. “Well, speak up, man! Who were they?”
“Lee Slater’s pack of filth”
“Scoundrels!” one of Walsdorf’s men muttered darkly.
“Which direction did they head, man?” Walsdorf demanded in a tone that told Smoke the man was accustomed to getting his way, when he wanted it.
“South.”
“Oh, say, now!” another Fed said. “I find that hard to believe. We’ve been here several days and have seen no sign of them.”
He didn’t exactly call him a liar, so Smoke let the remark slide and leaned against the front desk. “Where are you boys from?”
“From the Washington, D.C. and Chicago offices,” Walsdorf replied.
Smoke sized up Mills Walsdorf. About his own age, and about his size, although not as heavily muscled in the arms and shoulders. His hands were big and flat knuckled and looked like he’d used them in fights more than once.
“You look familiar,” Mills said. “I’ve seen you somewhere.”
“I do get around.”
Mills spun the register book and snorted at Smoke’s name. Jen Sen. That’s obviously a phony name. Are you running from the authorities?”
“If you represent the authority, I wouldn’t see any need in it.”
“I think, sir, that I do not care for your attitude.”
“I think, sir, that I do not give a damn what you care for.”
Mills drew himself up and stared Smoke in the eyes. “You need to be taught a lesson in manners, sir.”
“And you think you’re just the man to do that, huh?”
“I’ve thrashed better men than you more than once.”
“Cut your bulldog loose, Walsdorf,” Smoke said easily. ‘just anytime you feel lucky.”
Jen Sen, the desk clerk was musing. Jen Sen. Jensen. Smoke Jensen! “That’s Smoke Jensen, Marshal,” he said softly.
The color drained out of Walsdorf’s face. A sigh passed his lips.
“Hear me well, Mr. U.S. Marshal,” Smoke said. “Lee Slater and his gang attacked Big Rock about ten days ago. They killed several people, including a little girl. And they wounded my wife, Sally. The former Sally Reynolds. You’ve probably heard the name, since her family owns most of New England. Nobody shoots my wife, Walsdorf, and gets away with it. Nobody. Not Lee Slater’s bunch, not a marshal, not a sheriff, not the President of the United States. There’s a little town up on the Gunnison, where the Taylor River feeds into it. I found three of Slater’s men there. I hope somebody buried them shortly after I rode out ’cause they damn sure smelled bad alive.
“Now, I’m going to find the rest of that gang, Walsdorf. And I’m going to kill them. All of them. And I don’t need some fancypants U.S. Marshal from back East stumbling around screwing up what trail there is left. You understand me?”
Mills drew back in astonishment. Nobody, nobody had ever spoken to him in such a manner. He shook his finger in Smoke’s face. “Now, you listen to me, Mr. Smoke Jensen. I realize that you have some reputation, but the West is changing. Your kind is on the way out, and it’s past due in coming. Now I . . .”
“Jensen!” the shout came from the street. “Smoke Jensen! Step out here and die!”
“Albert,” Mills said, “step out there and see what that man is bellowing about.”
A man filled the doorway, paused, then stepped inside. He wore a badge pinned to his shirt. He looked at Smoke. “That’s Chris Mathers. He’s a local troublemaker. Pretty good with a gun. Better than I am. You killed his big brother several years ago. He used to ride for a scum named Davidson.”
“I remember Davidson. Ran an outlaw town. I killed him and his personal bodyguard, man by the name of Dagget. I don’t remember any Mathers.”
