Contents
Title Page
A Good Day for Dyin’!
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Copyright
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
A GOOD DAY FOR DYIN’!
“Here they come,” the shopkeeper said. “I heard that Major Cosgrove has offered a thousand dollars to anyone who kills you.”
“Is that all?” Smoke asked. “That’s an insult. I’ve had a hundred times that amount on me.”
Smoke pulled both guns and stepped out onto the high boardwalk overlooking the street, cocking the .44s. Preacher had taught him that when somebody’s huntin’ you, why hell, just take it to them and open the dance.
“Is it a good day to die, boys?” Smoke called, lifting the .44s and looking down at the men below.
“Damn!” one of the JB hands said, a rifle in his hands and the words drifting to Smoke. “This ain’t gonna be no tea party.”
“You can believe that,” Smoke said, and opened fire, and the street was suddenly filled with the roar of rolling thunder.
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Dying is a very dull, dreary affair. And my advice to you is to have nothing whatever to do with it.
W. Somerset Maugham
One
Sheriff Monte Carson swung down in front of the mountain home and petted several of the many dogs that lived around the place. Properly stroked, they scampered off to resume their playing. Monte looked up as the front door opened. The sheriff had never gotten used to how big the man was who stood in the door-way. The man was inches over six feet, and with the weight to go with it. His shoulders were door-wide and hard-packed with muscle. His hips were lean and the muscles in his legs strained his denim jeans.
“Smoke,” Monte said.
“Monte,” the West’s most famous gunfighter said. “You’re just in time for breakfast and coffee. Come in.”
Monte took off his hat and stepped into the lovely home of Smoke and Sally Jensen. He howdied and smiled at Sally, just as beautiful as ever, and took a seat at the kitchen table. Sally turned to the stove and cracked three more eggs and added another thick slice of ham to the other skillet.
“What’s up, Monte?” Smoke Jensen asked, pouring the sheriff a cup of coffee.
“Smoke, how long’s it been since you heard from your sister Janey?”
The question took Smoke by surprise. “Why … years. I thought she was dead.”
“She is,” Monte said bluntly, as was the Western way. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a telegraph. “This came in early today. It’s from the marshal of a little town up in Montana. Right smack in the middle of the Rockies. A mining town called Red Light.”
Smoke looked at the man and Sally turned from the stove, arching an eyebrow at that.
Monte smiled. “I know. Strange name for a town. You’d better read the wire, Smoke.”
Sally put the sheriff’s ham and eggs and home-fried potatoes in front of him and Monte took knife and fork to hand and fell to eating, after buttering a hot biscuit.
The telegraph read: JANEY JENSEN, DIED RECENTLY OF NATURAL CAUSES AND LEFT EVERYTHING TO HER BROTHER. IMPORTANT THAT MR. K. JENSEN COME TO RED LIGHT AS SOON AS POSSIBLE TO LAY CLAIM TO ESTATE, WHICH INCLUDES BUSINESS IN TOWN AND RANCH IN VALLEY.
It was signed, CLUB BOWERS, SHERIFF, RED LIGHT, MONTANA.
“I knew a Club Bowers,” Smoke said. “He was an outlaw.”
“Same one,” Monte said. “I know him, too. That might give you an idea what kind of town it is.”
“Just where is Red Light?” Sally asked.
“In the middle of nowhere,” Monte said. “It’s a mining town, and it is isolated. Nearest town of any size is a good hundred miles away. There’s talk of changing the name from Red Light to something else, but so far it’s just talk.”
Smoke sipped his coffee and stared at the sheriff. “Monte, you’re walking around something. Come on — what is it?”
“This is one of those freak strikes, Smoke. It’s in a place where gold and silver shouldn’t be. But they were found, and it’s a good vein. It’s slowing down some, but it’ll probably be producing for a good many years to come. I know about Red Light. I had a friend killed up there a couple of years ago. The town is set up in the mountains, above one of the prettiest valleys you ever put your eyes on. Valley runs for miles and miles. River runs right through the entire length of the valley. The ranchers down there supply the beef for the miners. Tell you the truth, in a situation like that, I’d rather have a ranch than a gold mine. You’d best get up there. If you tarry long, you just might not have a ranch left.”
“The other ranchers might take it?”
“You betcha. And you’ll notice the wire read ‘K. Jensen.’ That tells me your sis never let on about your nickname. You bet those other ranchers