This Violent Land (15 page)

“Stoner, if you were getting ten times as much money, you could never get a woman like that,” Potter said.

On that beautiful spring day, the woman didn't so much as glance toward them as she climbed into the carriage.

“Mr. Jefferies, do you know who those men were?” Janey asked her driver as the carriage rolled down the long drive from the house to the road into town.

“No, ma'am, I don't. I truly don't,” Jefferies replied.

She had written eight bank drafts for five hundred dollars apiece earlier that morning. Eight men were leaving the house as she did. For some reason, the thoughts going through her head were very troubling.

“I
have no idea who they were or what it was all about,” Janey told Sally as the two women shared breakfast. “But I know they are up to no good. You don't just give eight men five hundred dollars apiece unless you expect them to do something for you. In this case, I know whatever it is, is something illegal.”

“Janey, why do you stay with that man?” Sally asked.

“He pays well,” Janey replied with a wry smile.

“You are much too intelligent to waste your life with him. I know you could find something better to do.”

“The only other thing I would be qualified for is to work for Flora. I've done that enough to know I don't want to do it again. I've made my bed, Sally. Now I must sleep in it.”

 

 

 

Now that Smoke had a wife and a baby to support, he had given up his search for Richards and the other two men. He still wore the badge of a marshal emeritus, but he had promised Nicole that sometime in the summer, he would take her and the baby to Denver, and he would turn in the badge. He was not only through with hunting for Potter, Stratton and Richards, he was through with the deputy marshal business. He still wore his gun, but it was more an act of habit, rather than necessity.

Nicole had recently asked how long it would be before they went to Denver. She had never seen the city and was excited over the prospect of visiting it. Smoke knew that being all alone, so far from anyone else, was probably hard on her, though she had never mouthed so much as one complaint. She seemed perfectly satisfied and happy with her little mountain home, her husband, and her child.

They weren't entirely alone, of course. Preacher was a frequent guest, even though he had to ride some ten miles to get from his place to theirs. He often told them it was foolish to name a baby after an old man, but Smoke and Nicole knew he was pleased by it. They were also tickled to see how taken with the boy he was.

“The kid knows me,” Preacher said late one morning. “You see the way his face gets all lit up, ever'time I come over and he sees me?”

“Of course he knows you, Preacher,” Nicole said. “He thinks you're part of the family. And why shouldn't he think that? You are a part of the family.”

“You think maybe when the kid gets old enough that . . . maybe . . . he could call me Granpa? I mean, I know I'm not, but—”

“Oh, but you are his grandpa,” Nicole said. “In every way that counts, you are Little Art's grandpa.”

“You know what I'm gonna do when the boy gets old enough? I'm gonna teach him to hunt and fish. And I'm gonna start early on him, too. I ain't gonna wait until he's half growed, so's I have to unlearn him a bunch of things, like I had to do with Smoke,” Preacher said, happily anticipating being a part of the child's life. “You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna ride to the closest town and get some geegaws for you and that youngun.”

After a quick lunch, Preacher spent the afternoon riding the dozen miles into town. A group of men were gathered in front of the saloon. Most were local men, but he saw two of them appeared to be gunhands. He actually recognized one—a man he knew only as Felter.

A former cavalryman, Felter had been publicly flogged and then dishonorably discharged for desertion in the face of the enemy, the enemy being the Cheyenne up in the northern part of the territory. After his humiliation and discharge from the army, he had turned bounty hunter, selling his gun to the highest bidder.

Preacher rode on past the saloon down to the store, where he bought some ribbon for Nicole and a silver cup for the baby. “Can you sort of scratch his name on that cup?”

“Sure, I can engrave his name,” the storekeeper said. “What is it?”

“Same as mine,” Preacher said with a broad grin.

The merchant frowned. “The baby's name is Preacher?”

The question irritated him. “No, it ain't Preacher. It's Art, dadgum it.”

“I'll be damned. I ain't never heard you called nothin' but Preacher.”

The old mountain man waited around until the engraving was done, then, with his purchases secured in the saddlebag of his horse, he decided to stop into the saloon for a drink before he headed back.

As he stepped up onto the porch, a young man wearing a red checkered shirt, dark trousers tucked into polished boots, and a pair of pearl-handled revolvers grinned at him. “Hey, Grandpa! Ain't you too old to be walking around without someone to look after you? You're likely to forget your way back home.”

Preacher glanced at the young man and without breaking stride or even giving him a second look, drove the butt of his Henry into the loudmouth's stomach. The young smartmouth doubled over, vomiting in the street.

Preacher reached down and pulled out both of the young gunman's pistols, then dropped then in the watering trough. “Maybe you better run along on home now, sonny. When you've got yourself full growed, why maybe you can come on back and play with the adults.”

Aware of Felter's uncompromising gaze, Preacher pushed on into the dark shadows of the saloon and stepped up to the bar. “Give me a beer and a shot of whiskey.”

Just as the drinks were delivered, the city marshal came inside. “Any trouble out there, Preacher?”

“Nothing I couldn't handle.”

The marshal chuckled. “That young fellow you doubled over calls himself Kid Austin. He thinks he's quite a hand with those fancy guns.” The marshal stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer, then waited until the bartender stepped away. He turned toward Preacher and spoke quietly. “I haven't seen Smoke around for a while.”

“That's 'cause he ain't been around for a while.”

“You in touch with him?”

“Sometimes I am and sometimes I ain't.”

“Sometime when you are in touch with him, you might let him know there's some bounty hunters after 'im.”

“What for? Smoke ain't got the law after him.”

The marshal shook his head. “This don't have nothin' to do with the law. From what I've heard, it's money bein' put out by three men who want your friend dead.”

“Potter, Stratton, and Richards,” Preacher muttered.

Surprised, the marshal asked, “You know about 'em?”

“I've heard of 'em,” Preacher said without giving out any more information.

“Yes, sir, that's the ones all right. Kid Austin is one of the bounty hunters. Those other two out on the porch are called Felter and Canning. All three of 'em are workin' for Potter, Stratton, and Richards. From what I hear, there's five more of 'em, hardcases they are, that's ridin' with 'em. They're camped out just north of town. When you leave, and I hope it's soon, ride out easy and cover your trail.”

Preacher nodded. “Thanks.”

* * *

The bullet that almost took him out of the saddle hit him in the left shoulder, driving out his back. Preacher slammed his heels to the side of his horse, and keeping low in the saddle, headed for a hole in the mountains. Through his pain, he could hear men yelling off to his right.

Felter hollered, “Get him alive! Don't kill him. He knows where Jensen is.”

Getting Preacher took more doing than the men chasing him had. Another rifle barked and the slug hit him in the leg, deflecting off bone and angling upward, ripping a hole when it exited out his hip, taking a piece of bone with it.

Preacher leveled his Henry. He intended to blow the lights out of all three varmints, but his injury threw his aim off. The shots that erupted from the rifle all went low and struck the horses instead. The men crashed to the ground as their mounts collapsed.

Preacher wheeled his horse and urged it into a run. Behind him, the men leaped to their feet, yelling curses as they futilely emptied their six-guns after him.

The racket was lost in the background as he slipped away from them. He was losing a lot of blood, and it was all he could do to stay in the saddle throughout the late afternoon as he rode, barely conscious, until he reached a small lake, where he stopped for the night. He wrapped his hip and shoulder the best he could, in spite of knowing that he was close to death.

He lived through the night, then mounted his horse, and continued his ride. Through sheer iron will, stubbornness, and hardheaded determination, he finished the long journey to Smoke's cabin.

Nicole was out front when he rode up.

“Howdy, pretty thing,” Preacher said, then he toppled from his pony.

“Smoke! Come quick!” Nicole cried. “Preacher's here. He's dying!”

“No, I ain't,” Preacher rasped as Smoke rushed out of the cabin to kneel beside him. “I didn't come . . . this far, to up . . . and die on you. Give me a week or two . . . of restin' and eatin' . . . and I'll be ready to go back to my own place . . . and leave you folks be.” Too hurt to say more, Preacher closed his eyes.

Together, Smoke and Nicole dragged him inside.

* * *

True to his prediction, Preacher made a remarkable recovery over the next few weeks as the weather warmed and April turned into May. When the time came for him to leave, Smoke helped him load up his packhorse.

After telling Nicole and the baby good-bye, Preacher went out front to mount up. Smoke followed him.

“Smoke,” the old mountain man said. “Them people that put the bullets in me is lookin' for you. I don't think they got no idea 'bout where at you are alivin' now, but you might want to keep an eye open all the same. I know you wasn't goin' to look for 'em no more, but that don't mean they ain't lookin' for you. So be careful.”

“I will be,” Smoke promised.

As Smoke watched Preacher ride off, he couldn't help but wonder if he could ever live in peace. That ever-present speculation haunted him, especially considering that he had a wife and son.

 

 

 

After losing their horses to Preacher's rifle, the three bounty hunters had spent a few very long and very unpleasant hours on foot, finally arriving back in town. They'd managed to acquire horses before the gang had moved on to yet another small town.

They were a quarrelsome bunch while they waited for their opportunity.

Kid Austin was quick with a pistol—uncommonly fast—perhaps the quickest of them all. The others left him alone.

Because the man they were hunting was a friend of the old mountain man who had humiliated him in front of the saloon, Kid Austin had a particular hatred for Smoke. He dreamed of killing him, of facing him down in the street, beating him to the draw, and watching him die hard in the dirt, crying and begging for mercy, while men stood on the boardwalks and feared the man called Kid Austin, and women stood and wanted him.

Felter was much more patient and shared none of the Kid's dreams. Felter didn't know exactly how many white men he had killed—around twenty-five or so—but none of them in a face-to-face shoot-out. Unlike Kid Austin, he didn't consider killing a sport. He killed when it made things easier for him to do whatever he had in mind doing. Or if he got paid for it.

He spun the cylinder of his Colt and said to the others, “They got to be in that valley, somewhere southwest of here. Everything points in that direction.”

“Do you remember that old Indian we talked to?” Canning asked. “He said something about a blond-haired woman that was the only white woman down in that valley. Richards said that Jensen has took him a wife and has a kid. That blond-haired woman the Indian was talkin' about has to be his.”

“More'n likely,” Poker said.

Canning grinned. “You boys can have the gunfighter; I'll take me a taste of his wife. I'd like to have me a white woman.”

“I tell you what, Canning, you can have all the squaws you take a mind to,” the bounty hunter named Grissom told him. “There don't nobody give a damn about them. But you do that to a white woman, and you're going to wind up gettin' yourself hung.”

Canning's grin spread across his unshaven face. “Not if I don't leave her alive to tell any tales, I won't.”

“What about the kid?” Poker asked.

“We'll kill the kid, too,” Canning said. “Hell, it don't make no mind to me. Besides, we don't want to leave a young sprout around to grow up and get mean, then come lookin' for us when we're old men, do we?”

To a man, the bounty hunters agreed that made sense. They would pleasure themselves with the woman, then kill her and the kid.

“I want Smoke Jensen for my own self,” Kid Austin put in. “I want to face him straight on so I can beat him at his own game. The rest of you can just watch me.”

“Yeah, Kid,”said the man called Poker. “You're a real grizzly, you are.”

Austin pointed his gun as he closed one eye. “I just need one chance.”

Felter grinned. “That's good, Kid, 'cause one chance is all you're likely to get.”