This Violent Land (3 page)

Johnny reached up to take his mother's hand. “No, ma'am. I don't want to go to jail.”

“Then you hold my hand, and we'll go outside together to board the train.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Outside the depot was the smell of smoke under the car shed, though the roof was high enough that the smoke wasn't oppressive. Six tracks could be seen under the shed, with concrete walks extending out between them. Four of the tracks were currently occupied, including track number three.

Smoke glanced toward the faces in the windows of the cars in the train on track number two, which was slowly pulling out of the station. He wondered, in passing, if one of them might be Stratton or Potter or Richards.

He had never seen Richards, but Smoke somehow knew he would recognize the man if he saw him. He couldn't explain exactly how—just something in his gut.

He climbed aboard his train and settled into his seat, then stared out the window as the train departed the station, rolled through the city, and finally into the unsettled countryside.

His assignment had nothing to do with finding the three men he had sworn to bring to justice, but the badge would give him more flexibility in his search.

When he asked questions from behind that star, the response was a little quicker and more detailed. The biggest advantage to the badge was that it gave him the freedom an ordinary citizen wouldn't have when taking the law into his own hands.

He didn't have to worry about that. He
was
the law.

 

A
s Janey drove the surrey down the road toward the PSR Ranch in response to Josh Richards's summons, the clop of the hoofbeats, not only of the horse pulling the surrey, but also the one Cecil was riding, built a cocoon of sound around her, allowing her to think without distraction. She considered Flora's offer to come work for her, and she knew that the idea wasn't all that far-fetched. She had worked in such a place before, for a madam in Dallas known as Chicago Sue. Sue had given her the name she had used for a while, Fancy Lil.

It was during that time of her life she had met the man known as Big Ben Conyers, one of her customers who had wanted more than an hour of lust, paid for and promptly forgotten. He had fallen in love with “Fancy Lil,” who was touched enough by his devotion to reveal her real name.

With more between them, Janey had gotten pregnant. When he heard the news, Big Ben had been eager to marry her. He had even taken her to his vast Live Oaks Ranch, north of Fort Worth, and seen to it that she had the best of care until she gave birth to their daughter, beautiful redheaded Rebecca. Janey had promised Ben that they would be married as soon as she recovered from giving birth.

Instead, she had cut and run, unwilling to saddle him with the disgrace of marrying a fallen woman. And she never, ever wanted Rebecca to hear the vicious taunts of other children about her mother being a kept woman. She wouldn't doom a child to that sort of life.

It had been easier to leave, knowing that Ben would raise Rebecca with all the love in his gigantic heart. Easier . . . and at the same time, the most difficult thing Janey Jensen had ever done in her misadventure of a life.

“There's Mr. Richardson out on the front porch,” Cecil said as they approached the house. His comment broke her reverie. “I'll put your horse and surrey away, ma'am.”

“Thank you, Cecil.” Janey brought the surrey to a halt, then stepped down and handed the reins to the young cowboy, who led both horses toward the barn. As she approached the porch she could see that Richards was impatient and irritated.

“Well, I see that ignorant cowhand found you.”

Janey climbed the steps to the porch, which extended all the way around the big house. “What do you want, Josh? I told you I was going into town for a while.”

“No doubt to visit with Flora.”

“Flora is my friend.”

“She is also a madam who runs a brothel,” Richards said derisively. “If people see you going there enough times, they'll believe you're one of the same.”

“What makes you think they don't believe that now?” Janey asked. “They all know what I am. It's just that I'm
yours
.”

“You don't have to be. You could be my wife, you know.”

Janey started to reply that she would rather be what she was than be his wife, but she held that response in check and forced a smile. “I know that, Josh. And I appreciate the offer. But let's leave things as they are for now. I enjoy being the business manager for this ranch. It gives me a sense of purpose.”

“But wouldn't being my wife give you a sense of purpose?”

“Not as much. If we were married, I would lose my identity as business manager and just be the wife of one of the owners.”

“The majority owner,” Richards said quickly.

Again, Janey managed a smile. “Yes, you would be the majority owner, but I would still be just your wife. Josh, don't you see that it's better this way? Besides, why do you need to marry me? Don't I share your bed from time to time? And don't you know that wives get headaches a lot more often than mistresses?”

Richards laughed. “By damn, you're right. Anyway, that's not why I had Cecil come get you. I need a paper signed by someone in Denver, and I want you to take it there in person, get it signed, and bring it back to me.”

“I'll need five hundred dollars,” Janey said without hesitating an instant.

“Five hundred dollars?” His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Janey, are you telling me that you are going to charge me five hundred dollars to take a paper to Denver and bring it back?”

“I'm not going to charge you anything to take a paper to Denver. My goodness, if I couldn't do a simple thing like that for free, why, I would be the biggest ingrate you ever heard of.”

“So you aren't going to charge me for delivering the paper?”

“Of course not,” Janey said. “Why would I do something like that? It's like I told you, I'm doing that for free.”

“I don't understand. What is the five hundred dollars for?”

“Darling, you don't expect me to go to Denver and not buy several new outfits, do you? That five hundred dollars is just a gift. After all, I know you want me to look good. And don't tell me you can't afford it, darling, because I do your books, remember? I know full well that you can afford it.”

Richards looked at her with narrowed eyes for a moment, then abruptly laughed. “You know what? A mistress would be a lot cheaper.”

“And a wife a lot more expensive,” Janey reminded him.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right. You got me. I'll give you five hundred dollars for the trip. But I expect you to come back looking more beautiful than ever.”

“You are a dear.” With a smile that produced dimples, she kissed the end of her fingers, then touched them to Richards's lips.

 

T
he first thing Smoke did when he arrived in Red Cliff was go to the sheriff's office to let the local lawman know he was in town. “Sheriff Donovan, I'm Deputy U.S. Marshal Smoke Jensen. Marshal Holloway sent me. He said you might need some help.”

Donovan was a lean, gray-haired, competent-looking man who had a questioning look in his eyes as he raised his head from the paperwork spread out on his scarred old desk and examined Smoke. “Pardon me for saying this, Deputy, but aren't you just a tad young for the job?”

“I was even younger when I rode with Asa Briggs during the war. Colonel Briggs never questioned me. And neither did the Yankees I fought with.”

“I heard of Asa Briggs. Him and Quantrill and Bloody Bill Anderson and Little Archie Clements. So you rode with that bunch, did you?”

“Not with all of 'em. Just with Briggs.”

“Well, I wore the blue myself, so I don't cotton to ever'thing those boys did.” Donovan shrugged. “But I reckon if you rode for them, you've got some sand about you. Just how much sand you have is the question.”

“I've got enough sand to kill someone who's trying to kill me,” Smoke replied.

Sheriff Donovan stroked his chin and studied Smoke for another moment or two, then a smile spread across his face and he stood up and stuck his hand out across his desk. “Do you know what, Deputy? I expect you do. It's good to see you, and I thank you so much for coming out here, all the way from Denver. Did you say your name was Smoke?”

“It's really Kirby, but my friends call me Smoke.”

“I know it's quick, but I'd like to consider myself a friend, Smoke. My name is Emerson.”

It felt a little odd calling a man that much older than him by his first name, but Smoke nodded. “Emerson, if I understood Marshal Holloway correctly, you're having a problem with cattle rustling.”

“Yeah, we are. Big-time. The person behind it is a man by the name of Stan Morgan, though he goes by the moniker of Red. The rustling is so bad that a lot of ranchers are losing their spreads, and it just so happens that Morgan is the one benefiting from it. He's buying up land and cattle at less than half of what they are worth. And the hell of it is, Morgan has half the people in this town believing he's innocent. Why, just last year he was elected president of the Cattlemen's Association.”

“Do you know for a fact that he's behind it?”

Donovan opened the middle drawer of his desk. “I've got signed affidavits here from two men up in Grand County who confess to buying stolen cattle from Morgan.”

“They confessed to it?”

“They didn't have much of a choice. The sheriff's deputy up there posed as a dealer and caught them dead to rights.”

“If you already have those confessions, why don't you arrest Morgan?”

“We have an election for sheriff coming up soon, and Morgan has already announced that he's running against me. If I arrested him, too many people would think it's just a matter of politics. But since Colorado is just a territory and not a state, you, as a deputy federal marshal, will have jurisdiction anywhere you go, whether he's committed a violation of a federal statute or not.”

“Yes, Marshal Holloway explained that to me. Do you have any idea where I might find the man?”

“I saw him and Lucas going into the Ace High Saloon about half an hour ago. I'm sure he's still there.”

“Lucas?”

“Lucas Babcock is his right-hand man,” Donovan explained. “He also does a lot of his dirty work. When somebody needs to be intimidated, Babcock is generally the one who gets sent to intimidate them.” The sheriff hesitated, then went on. “Listen, if Morgan resists arrest, don't push him just yet. As long as I have you to press the federal charges, I can get a couple of my deputies, and we'll help you make the arrest. What I'm saying is that Morgan is very good with a gun, and Babcock is even better. I wouldn't want you to put yourself into an untenable situation.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Smoke replied, trying to keep a touch of wry humor out of his voice. He pulled the warrant from his pocket, then took a pen from the inkwell on Sheriff Donovan's desk. “What were those names again? Their full names.”

“Stanley Morgan and Lucas Babcock,” Donovan said.

Smoke wrote them onto the blank space, then blew on the ink to dry it. He put the warrant in his pocket. “It might be a good idea for you to tell me what they look like.”

Donovan chuckled. “Yeah, it might at that. They call Morgan Red for a reason. It's not only his hair that's red. He has the reddest skin I've ever seen. You can't miss him. And Babcock has a handlebar mustache, as well as a purple scar that looks somethin' like a fishhook under his left eye.”

“What about the people in the saloon? Are they likely to take Morgan's side?”

“There will be a few who generally support him, I reckon, but they would mostly be honest people who just aren't ready to believe that he's a cattle thief. Like I said, he's already announced that he's going to run for sheriff. If it actually comes to a showdown between Morgan and the law, they'll stay out of it. Paul Gordon, the bartender, is a good man, and you can count on him to keep the others honest.”

“Thanks.” Smoke started to turn around and leave the office, then paused. “Oh, you might want to open a cell door. I wouldn't want Morgan and Babcock to feel unwelcome when I bring them back.”

As Smoke walked down the street from the sheriff's office to the saloon, he could hear piano music spilling through the openings above and below the batwing doors.

He stepped into the Ace High and moved quickly to the side and put his back against the wall, a procedure he used every time he entered a saloon. The place wasn't full, but it did have more customers than he would have expected early in the evening.

He studied the others in the saloon. Less than half of them were wearing guns, and less than half of those looked as if they really knew how to use them. From the descriptions Sheriff Donovan had provided, he recognized Morgan and Babcock at the far end of the bar. Unlike most of the men in the saloon, they were wearing their guns in a way that indicated they knew how to use them quite well.

Loosening his pistol in his holster, Smoke walked halfway down the bar, then stopped. “Would you two gentlemen be Stanley Morgan and Lucas Babcock?” The words were loud and authoritative.

Everyone in the saloon stopped talking and looked toward him. Those who were in position to see him from the front saw the star on his shirt. The two men standing at the bar between him and the men he had just called out to moved quickly to get out of the way.

“Who wants to know?” Morgan asked as he turned his head to gaze without much real curiosity at the newcomer.

“Mr. Morgan, I'm Deputy U.S. Marshal Smoke Jensen.” Although his name was gaining some recognition, he wasn't all that well-known. Since neither of them reacted to his name, he realized that neither had ever heard of him. That, he knew, was to his advantage.

“What can I do for you, Deputy?” Morgan asked.

“I have a warrant for your arrest, Morgan. And for you as well, Babcock. I stopped by Sheriff Donovan's office before I came overhere and asked him to get a jail cell ready for you. He ought to have it waiting for you by now.”

With that announcement, everyone in the saloon got up from the tables and moved out of the way, backing all the way up to the wall.

Out of the corner of his eye, Smoke saw a reflection in the mirror behind the line of whiskey bottles. A man who hadn't moved remained at the end of the bar behind Smoke, staring into his beer mug as if he had no interest in what was going on around him.

“What did you say?” Morgan asked, saying the words in a scoffing, laughing tone of voice. “Did you say that you asked that old fool of a sheriff to get a cell ready for us?”

“That's exactly what I said.”

“Now, why would you want to go and do a damn fool thing like that?”

Still standing in the same spot, Smoke answered. “Because, Morgan, I'm arresting you and your friend there for cattle rustling.”

“Are you crazy, Deputy?” Morgan threw out his left hand in an annoyed gesture. “What makes you think I have anything to do with all the cattle rustling that's been going on around here?”

“You admit that there has been a lot of cattle rustling going on?”

“Yeah, sure there has. I know about it because I'm the president of the cattlemen's association, but I don't have anything to do with it.”

“From what I've heard, your organization is losing members, what with so many ranches being driven out of business by the rustling. I've also heard that you're the one benefiting from their losses.”

“Benefiting? I'm helping them. I'm buying them out when they have no place else to go.”

“For pennies on the dollar,” Smoke pointed out.

“They don't have to sell unless they want to,” Morgan responded with a sneer.

Smoke glanced again at the mirrored reflection of the man standing at the bar behind him. Still no movement, not even so much as a glance of curiosity.

Babcock spoke up for the first time. “Didn't you just say that you was a deputy United States marshal?” he asked in a rusty-sounding voice.

“I did.”

“Well, even if we was guilty, which I'm sure as hell not saying that we was. But even if we was, it wouldn't be any of your concern. You've got no authority in Summit County.”

“Sure I do. As a deputy United States marshal, I've got authority from New York to San Francisco.”

“Only for federal cases. Since when is cattle rustling a federal offense, anyway?” Morgan asked.

Smoke smiled as he explained the situation. “Morgan, this is a territory, not a state. I have authorization all over Colorado. I can arrest you for stealing the United States mail or for spitting in the street.”

Babcock grunted. “That's a pretty lame charge, ain't it, Deputy? Are you tellin' us that the whole federal government is comin' down on me an' Mr. Morgan just for spittin' in the street?”

“No. I'm not telling you that the whole federal government is coming down on you, period.”

“Well then, what are you tellin' us?” Morgan demanded.

“I'm telling you that
I'm
coming down on you.”

“But you're a deputy U.S. marshal,” Babcock protested.

“That's right.”

“So that means that you do represent the whole federal government.”

A broad smile spread across Smoke's face. “Well now, if you're going to put it that way, I suppose you could say that I do represent the whole federal government.”

“I'm getting tired of all this palaver,” Morgan snapped. “This isn't about spitting in the street, is it?”

“No, it's about stealing cattle,” Smoke repeated.

“So you come out here from Denver, just to get involved in a local case?” Morgan asked.

“It's my job.”

“Stickin' your nose in somebody else's business isn't much of a job,” Morgan said.

“Is that so? Well, right now it's the only job I have, and the truth is, I sort of like it. I especially like it when I can put lowlife people like you in jail.”

“Deputy, look out!” the bartender suddenly shouted.

Even as the bartender shouted his warning, Smoke caught sight of movement in the mirror. Spinning around, he saw that the man who had been so studiously nursing his drink at the far end of the bar was pointing a gun at him.

Smoke pulled his own gun, drawing and firing in the same fluid motion, doing it so quickly that the noise of his shot blended with his assailant's shot. They sounded like one gun going off, even though the other man had fired a split second sooner. Smoke felt the bullet fly through the air next to his ear.

“Look out! Babcock and Morgan have drawed on you!” someone else shouted.

Smoke whirled back toward the two men. Remembering that Donovan had told him Babcock was the faster of the two, he took him first.

Even with the gun already in his hand, Babcock was unable to get a shot off before Smoke fired. The bullet slammed into Babcock's chest and threw him against the bar. He bounced off and pitched forward.

In a quick, unbroken action, Smoke shot Morgan as the cattleman was squeezing the trigger. Like the shot of the first man who had tried to kill Smoke, Morgan's bullet whizzed by harmlessly. Smoke, however, was deadly accurate, his bullet catching Morgan between the eyes. It bored through his brain and exploded out the back of his skull in a grisly pink spray. Morgan toppled backward on the sawdust-littered floor. His right arm flopped over onto Babcock's body, the smoking gun still in his hand. Morgan's eyes were open, but a third opening, a small, black hole right at the bridge of his nose, trickled out a small amount of blood. The floor beneath his head was already stained red with the blood that had gushed from the exit wound.

The others in the saloon looked at Morgan's body in shock. It had all happened so fast that for a moment, they could almost believe it hadn't happened at all. Validation of the shooting was the drifting cloud of acrid smoke from the five shots that had been fired in less than a second.

“Are they all dead?” someone asked in awe.

“Yeah,” another man answered.

“Huh. He got all three of 'em. I ain't never seen nothin' like that!”