This Violent Land (21 page)

She smiled. “Oh, my. I love a man with a good appetite.”

“My goodness, Sheriff, are you sure the county can afford breakfast for this man?” Prosecutor Adams asked.

“Well, I don't know,” Sheriff Hector replied with a laugh. “I suppose it depends on whether or not he orders seconds.”

Smoke grinned. “I think I can get by on this.”

“I hope so,” Suzie said. “Otherwise I'll have to put on three or four more cooks.” Laughing, she started toward the kitchen.

“I hope Deputy Jensen is up to the task we're going to give him. He is already costing us a ton of money,” Judge Martin teased.

“I'll do my best for you,” Smoke promised with a good-natured chuckle.

“First, I want to thank you for coming,” Sheriff Hector said. “Did Marshal Holloway fill you in on what's going on here?”

“Not really. He just said you were having some problems. Some
incidents
, he called them.”

“I'll say we are. Bloody incidents over the last eighteen months. We've had a stagecoach dynamited, with five people killed—the driver and shotgun guard, a man, his wife and their little boy. The criminals did that all for eighty-seven dollars. Eighty-seven dollars, mind you, and five people were killed.”

Judge Martin added, “Some men broke into a banker's house where they held his wife and little girl hostage while they forced him to bring them thirty thousand dollars from the bank.”

“And more recently a train was robbed, again using dynamite that caused it to derail. Ten people were killed and twenty-three were injured,” Prosecutor Adams concluded.

“It was horrible,” the sheriff said. “We're convinced the same bunch is responsible for both the stagecoach holdup and the train robbery.”

“Because of the dynamite angle,” Smoke said, nodding slowly.

“That's right. And since witnesses told us it was three men who caused the train wreck, we suspect they're the same ones who terrorized the banker and his family.”

“More than likely,” Smoke agreed. “You've had some busy people up here.”

Suzie and two others brought their breakfasts then.

Suzie served Smoke. “Here you go, hon. If you need anything else, you just let me know.”

“Thanks, I will,” Smoke replied with a friendly smile.

What he really needed, Suzie couldn't provide. That was a lead to the whereabouts of the ruthless outlaws responsible for the carnage in Summit County.

T
he four men started on their meals before Sheriff Hector resumed their conversation.

“You said we have had some busy people up here, and that is true,” he told Smoke, “but like any operation, someone is always at the head, and if you cut the head off, the snake will die.”

“You have any idea who that might be?” Smoke asked as he slathered molasses over his pancakes.

“Yes, we have a very good idea,” Hector said. “We believe Clell Dawson is behind it.”

Smoke paused just before forking a bite of pancakes into his mouth and looked at the sheriff. “Clell Dawson? That's who you think is behind all this?”

“Like I said, we have a very good idea that he is.”

“I'd say that it's more than just a very good idea,” Adams said. “We are sure he is behind it.”

“Well, you're free to say that, Dan,” Judge Martin said. “After all, when the deputy brings Dawson in, it will be your job to prosecute him. But I will have to sit in judgment over him, so it is incumbent upon me to maintain some sense of detachment. Therefore, I can't allow myself to say anything more.”

“I'm interested, Deputy Jensen, why you question this?” Hector asked. “Do you know Dawson?”

Smoke shook his head. “No, I've never met him. But I do know who he is. I've never heard of him doing anything like this before.”

“It's him, all right,” Hector insisted. “But the thing is, Dawson is too good with a gun for me to take him, and I don't mind admitting it. He's killed I don't know how many in gunfights. I've complained to the capital about him but haven't gotten any help. Since you've heard of him, you know it's going to take someone who's really good with a gun—someone like you—to be able to bring him in.”

“Do you have any idea where I might find him?”

“Oh, yes, we know exactly where he is,” Sheriff Hector said confidently. “That's another reason I asked for you. He isn't in Summit County anymore. He's moved to Boggsville. That's down in Bent County. But you have the same jurisdiction there that you do here.”

“Boggsville?” Smoke nodded and filed the information away in his brain. “All right, I'll go look him up.”

The three men at the table smiled and nodded, obviously well pleased with the results of the meeting.

“Thank you, Deputy,” the judge said. “The people of Breckenridge appreciate your help.”

“Better save your thanks until I've caught up with Clell Dawson and seen what's what,” Smoke responded dryly.

 

 

 

During the great Western migration, the town had become a stopover place for the wagons. Army troops at Bent's Fort made the route safe, and the improved road over Raton Pass made wagon travel relatively easy. When Richens L. Wootten established his toll road in 1866, even more wagon trains used the Mountain Branch because, although longer, it was safer and had more water than the Cimarron Cutoff.

Boggsville grew from a convenient resting place for the wagons to a settlement providing a stagecoach station, as well as lodging; grocery, dry goods, leather, hardware, and gun stores; saloons; and gambling halls so that it was no longer just a convenient settlement but had become a thriving town, servicing several ranches in the area. By the time the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad reached the community, it was on its way to being a small city.

When Clell Dawson had come to Boggsville one year earlier, he'd bought a part interest in the Trail Blazer Saloon. It had been his intention to settle down in Boggsville and lead a quiet life, supported by his share of the revenue earned by the Trail Blazer.

But that wasn't to be. Twice in the last year, he had encountered obstacles in his quest for a quiet life when he had been confronted by gunslingers looking for a reputation.

Both had found a grave, instead.

Down the street from the Trail Blazer, in the Circle Thirty-four Saloon, the groundwork for a third such confrontation was being laid by a discussion between John Norton and Darren Draper.

“Well, my point is, you're good with a gun,” Norton said. “You're good and you're fast. Very fast. But the question is, are you as good as Clell Dawson?”

Draper shrugged. “I figure I am.”

“You may be, but—and here is why I'm asking the question—nearly everyone has heard of Clell Dawson. But there ain't nobody who has ever heard of you . . . not more than a dozen or so people, at any rate.”

Draper smiled. “When somebody is as good as I am and there ain't that many people who know it, that gives me a big edge, don't you see? And the fact that I've managed to keep myself off the reward dodgers and out of newspapers . . . that just shows how smart I am.”

Norton chuckled. “You seem awful sure of yourself.”

“Yeah, I suppose I am. But you got to consider this. When a fella is in my profession, he has to walk a real narrow line between bein' real sure of hisself and bein' downright conceited.”

“I suppose so. But it's too bad,” Norton said.

“What's too bad?”

“It's too bad that we ain't never goin' to know which one of you is the best.”

Draper pulled the makings out of his pocket and began rolling a cigarette. “What makes you think we ain't never goin' to know?” He struck a match with his thumbnail and began puffing until the cigarette was lit, then he blew out a long cloud of aromatic smoke.

Norton frowned. “Well, how we goin' to know which of the two of you is best?”

“I'll tell you which one.”

“All right. Which one of you is best?”

“Which ever one of us is still standin' when this is over.” With that pronouncement, Draper eased his pistol out of the holster, opened the guard, and spun the cylinder to check his loads. That done, he walked out of the Circle Thirty-Four and down to the Trail Blazer Saloon.

Those who had been listening in to the conversation between Draper and Norton followed. They entered the saloon at the same time.

Clell could tell by the way Draper was walking why he was there and knew that the others had come to watch the show. “I've been about halfway expecting you, Draper.”

“Only halfway expecting me?”

“Yeah. I thought maybe you would have sense enough to go on your way and leave this behind you.”

“I was about ready to move on,” Draper said. “But I can't leave without finding out.”

“Finding out what?”

“You know what I'm talking about.”

Clell nodded. “Yeah, I suppose I do.”

“You understand that, don't you, Dawson? If I let this pass, how would that make me look? Why, I'd be the laughingstock of the territory.”

“That might be true, but on the other hand, you would still be alive,” Clell pointed out.

“What makes you so sure that I won't still be alive after we play out this hand we've been dealt?” Draper asked.

“You'll be dead.” Clell spoke the words calmly and with little emotion as if he had been asked whether he wanted a cup of coffee.

“On the other hand, you might be the one who winds up dead.” Draper tried to preserve some bravado.

“You can walk away now, and we'll both still be alive.”

Draper smiled, thinking perhaps Dawson was human after all. Perhaps he was a little frightened.
That could be my edge.
“I can't do that. We're going to have to deal with it, both of us, right here, right now. Too many people have come to see us shoot it out.” He smiled and took in the crowd with a wave of his left hand. His right never strayed far from the butt of his gun. “Look how many people are here. Don't you think we owe them a show?”

“Why should I have to kill you, just to satisfy them?” Clell asked.

Again his words had a disquieting effect on Draper, but a rapid blink was the only demonstrable evidence of his reaction.

“Is that really what you want, Draper?” Clell went on.

“Yeah, that's really what I want. I think the talkin' is over. It's come time for me and you to settle this thing, once and for all. That is, unless you want to back out and admit that I'm better'n you. What will it be, Dawson?”

Clell didn't give in. “You dealt the cards. It's up to you to hold 'em or fold'em.”

“I'm goin' to hold 'em,” Draper said. “I've been wonderin' which of us was the fastest. Hell, ever'body has been wonderin'.”

“I haven't been wonderin.' ” Clell shook his head. “And I doubt that many others have been wonderin'. I know that they know. And deep down, Draper, even you know.”

For the first time since he had confronted Clell Dawson, Draper was beginning to have second thoughts.
What the hell was I thinking, to push things this far?
Those second thoughts turned to apprehension, that apprehension turned to outright fear, and that fear was mirrored in his eyes and in the nervous tic on the side of his face. His tongue came out to lick his lips.

Clell waited for Draper to make his move, an easy grin spreading across his face.

Even that, the grin in the face of an impending shoot-out where he could be killed, had the effect of unnerving Draper. With all that was in him, Draper wanted to turn and walk . . . no . . .
run
away.

But he couldn't do that, of course. If he did, he could never show his face anywhere again.

Suddenly, and without calling it, Draper's hand started for his gun, but Clell's gun was out just a heartbeat faster. That heartbeat of time was all the advantage Clell needed, for he fired first. Draper caught the slug high in his chest.

Draper dropped his unfired gun and slapped his hand over his wound. He looked down in surprise as blood began streaming between his fingers. He took two staggering steps toward his shooter, then fell to his knees. He looked up, his eyes registering shock, fear, and then the dreadful realization that he was dying. “You . . . you killed me.”

“Yes, I have,” Clell replied, returning his pistol to his holster.

“I never would have believed it.” Draper smiled, then coughed, and flecks of blood came from his mouth. “I was sure I was faster than you.”

“It's a little late for you to be learning this, but nothing in life is sure,” Clell said easily.

Draper fell facedown on the saloon floor.

“I'll be damned,” someone said. “That beats anything I've ever seen.”

* * *

Smoke arrived in Boggsville on the next morning's train, having left Seven behind. Before he left the station, he bought two return tickets on the afternoon train to Breckenridge.

“Will someone be going back with you?” the ticket agent asked.

“I expect so.”

“Well, it's too bad you can't stay in town a little longer and enjoy some of our hospitality.” The agent stamped the tickets, then passed them across the counter in exchange for the fourteen-dollar fare.

“It looks like an interesting enough town,” Smoke said. “Maybe I'll come back someday.”

“We had us a real famous person who lived here for a while, you know.”

“You did, did you? And who was that?”

“Why, it was none other than Kit Carson, that's who.”

“That's very interesting.” Smoke restrained a chuckle, thinking Preacher and Carson had been close friends at one time. He remembered the story.

 

“
Until he got to makin' eyes at the same Injun girl I was interested in,” Preacher explained.

 

Smoke was still grinning as he stepped out into the street. A rather sizeable cluster of people were gathered around the front of the hardware store. For a moment, he wondered what had their attention.

He didn't have to wonder for too long. Someone in the crowd moved, and Smoke saw what they were all looking at. Standing upright in the window was an open coffin, and inside the coffin was a body. A sign was pinned onto the shirt of the cadaver.

Too far away to read it, he decided to walk down to see what it said.

“Fastest damn thing I ever seen,” someone was saying as he approached the crowd.

“Yeah, and what makes it so amazin' is that Draper was real fast his ownself. They say that he already kilt six men.”

“Number seven wasn't very lucky for him then, was it?” another said.

A ripple of nervous laughter came at that pronouncement.

Close enough, Smoke read the sign.

 

D
REW
D
RAPER
THOUGHT HE WAS FASTER
THAN
C
LELL
D
AWSON
HE WASN'T

 

“Has anybody seen Dawson this mornin'?” one of the men in the crowd asked.

That was a lucky break for Smoke. It meant he didn't have to ask the question himself.

“He's where he's always at. He's astandin' at the end of the bar down at the Trail Blazer like nothin' at all happened.”

“I thought maybe after the shoot-out yesterday he might not come in to the saloon today.”

“Hell, with somebody like Clell Dawson, yesterday was just another day.”

“How many men you think Dawson has kilt now?”