“Shoshone friends of mine. But rations was gettin’ kinda sparse since Jud found the trail they was usin’ and posted guards on it.”
“Toward the end of this week, once the boys have settled in, we’ll take a ride to the trading post and stock up. I imagine Alice and Doreen would like a little outing.”
“I reckon so. Ain’t none of us been off this spread in months. And them boys you brung eat like starvin’ animals!”
The boys settled right in and soon needed very little supervision. They began stringing wire and doing a good job of it. Smoke took Cheyenne and several of the older boys and went looking for Box T cattle. He felt he knew where most of the cattle would be, and his hunch paid off.
“We been on Bar V range for a time,” Cheyenne pointed out.
“And seeing more and more of Walt’s cattle. Jamie, you boys start hazing them out and bunching them.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Smoke.”
They hadn’t gone another half-mile before Jud Vale and half a dozen of his hardcases came galloping up, punishing their horses needlessly. That was another way you could judge a man’s character—by the way he treated his horse. Smoke’s dislike for Jud Vale deepened as he looked at the lathered-up gelding he was riding.
“What the hell are you doing on my range, Jensen?” Jud demanded.
“Looking for Box T cattle, Vale. And finding them. You got any objections?”
Cheyenne had shifted positions so the muzzle of his Winchester was aimed right at a Bar V rider’s belly, and the Bar V man didn’t look a bit happy about it.
Smoke had pulled his Winchester out of the boot and had his thumb on the hammer. Jud didn’t seem to be too terribly thrilled about that either, since the muzzle was pointed in his general direction.
“Yeah,” Vale finally replied. “I got objections. I can’t help it if that old coot’s cattle wandered onto my range, eatin up all my grass.”
“Well, then, you should be glad to see us, Vale. We’re going to take them back to home range and then you won’t have to spend your nights worrying about them. Now we can either do that, or I can wire the territorial governor and ask for range detectives to be sent in here. How do you want it, Vale?”
The man puffed up like a ’possum and gave Smoke some dark looks. “Well ... git your damn cattle and git the hell off my land then. I’m tired of lookin’ at your damn ugly face, Jensen.”
“Unless you want us over here every day for a couple of weeks, Vale, why don’t you have your boys assist us? It would move a lot faster.”
Cheyenne’s leathery old face struggled to hide his grin. Smoke was pushing the big blow hard into a corner and the man couldn’t find a way out.
Vale blustered and hissed like a spreadin’ adder and shifted around in the saddle. “I ain’t helpin’ you do nothin’, Jensen. I don’t give a damn how often you come over here. You just make sure all the beeves you push across the crick are wearin’ Box T brands, or by God, you’ll answer to me.”
“We can do that now, Vale,” Smoke told him. He booted the Winchester and dropped his right hand to his thigh, close to the butt of that deadly .44.
Jud didn’t like that idea at all. It was seven against two, for a fact. But it was also a fact that this was a no-win situation. Cheyenne was an old he-coon from ’way back. Jud’s men might take him, but the old man was sure to empty two, maybe three saddles before he went down; and even down the old goat was as dangerous as a cornered grizzly. Even dying, if you got too close to the old bastard, he’d sure likely come up with a knife and cut you from brisket to backbone.
Smoke Jensen was quite another matter. Everybody knew he’d been raised by Preacher, and Preacher was a legend. Jensen had killed more than a hundred men—and that wasn’t counting Injuns. Jud Vale knew the first thing to happen should he grab for iron, was that Smoke was going to blow him right out of the saddle.
And there just wasn’t no percentage in dying.
“Round up your damn cattle and get off my range,” Jud finally backed down. He savagely jerked his horse around and galloped off, his men following him.
“I hate a man treats a horse like that,” Cheyenne said. “A horse or a dog. You show me a man who’s unkind to animals and I’ll show you a man that just ain’t no damn good.”
“I’m going to have to kill that man someday, Cheyenne. I can see it coming.”
“I ’spect, Smoke, they’s a long line of folks ahead of you thinkin’ the same thing.”
Saturday, they went to the trading post on Mud Lake.
Walt drove the wagon, with Alice by his side, and Doreen, all prettied up, and Micky sitting on boxes in the back of the wagon.
Doreen was a looker, no doubt about that, and a flirty thing, too. Smoke did his best to avoid her sliding glances. The heat coming out of her eyes could fry an egg. Although Smoke didn’t think kitchen cooking was what she had on her mind.
Cheyenne, Winchester across his saddle horn, rode on one side of the wagon. Smoke on the other.
As they rode and rattled up to the big store, Cheyenne pointed out the two fresh graves out back of the building.
Doreen and Alice and Micky went into the store part of the building to shop, and Smoke, Walt, and Cheyenne went into the bar to have a beer.
“Not you agin!” the barkeep moaned, as Smoke stepped inside.
“I’m peaceful,” Smoke grinned at him.
“Haw! You won’t be when some of them no-count hardcases from the Bar V show up. Just don’t wreck my damn place,” he warned.
“Why don’t you just shut up and get us a bottle,” Cheyenne told him. “You prattle on like a scared old woman.”
The bartender looked at the skinny old mountain man with the wicked look in his eyes and shut his mouth. He placed a bottle on the bar and several shot glasses. Smoke pushed the shot glass away and ordered a beer.
Cheyenne downed one quick belt and poured another, taking the shot glass and moving to the far end of the bar where he could watch the door. He had left his Winchester in the saddle boot. If anything happened in the barroom, he would rely on the old Colt with the worn handles hanging low on his right side. Or on the Bowie knife sheathed on his left side. Or on the .44 derringer in his boot. Or anything else he could get his hands on. If it just had to be, the old mountain man would pick up a porcupine to use as a weapon and damn the needles.
Micky had a bottle of sarsaparilla and was sitting on a bench in front of the store. Coming to town was quite an outing for the boy.
Alice and Doreen were oohhing and aahhing over some new dress material in the store.
Two farmers were sitting at a table, nursing mugs of beer, talking quietly. They finished their drinks and left. A fat man, a drummer from the looks of him, was sitting alone at a table next to a window. He kept shifting his eyes to Smoke, stealing fast sly glances.
“Say!” he finally spoke. “Aren’t you Smoke Jensen, the gunfighter?”
Smoke cut his eyes. “I’m Smoke Jensen.”
“Well, I’ll just be hornswoggled! I just read a big article on you in the Gazette. The writer said you’ve killed more’un five hundred men.”
“Not quite that many,” Smoke corrected.
“Kilt two right in here a few days back,” the barkeep said with a grin. “This is my place. I’m Bendel.” He pointed. “Kilt ’em right over yonder. They’s