“I’d like a beer, please,” Smoke said.
“With, or without the head?” the bartender replied.
“Without.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
“Tell me, Clinton, ain’t that Smoke Jensen that just stepped up to the bar?” someone at the far end of the bar said. Smoke heard the words clearly, as the speaker made no attempt to lower his voice. In fact, he had raised his voice, clearly indicating that he wanted Smoke to overhear him. And, in the increased volume, there was an implied threat.
Smoke had been through this many times before, and it was easy for him to ignore the speaker. His experience, though, told him that he would not be able to ignore this challenge indefinitely.
“Yes, that’s Jensen,” Clinton answered.
“Would that be the ’great’ Smoke Jensen, do you suppose?” His comment was dripping with sarcasm.
“Like I said, it’s Smoke Jensen.”
“What’s he a-doin’ here in Ft. Worth?”
“I heard he brought a bunch of cows down for the Conyers Ranch.”
“Hell, ain’t Conyers got enough cows?”
“He’s got a big ranch, lots of room for lots of cows.”
“I’ve heard of Smoke Jensen. He’s s’posed to be some famous gunfighter is what I’ve heard.”
“So they say,” Clinton replied.
“You know what I’m thinkin’? I’m thinkin’ that he don’t look like all that much to me.”
“Is that a fact? Well, I tell you what, Joad, there’s been a whole lot of men that’s said that before, ’n for some of ’em as said that, why them was the last words they ever said.”
“Seems to me like he just might be a feller that’s gettin’ by on his reputation,” Joad replied.
“That may be so, but if it is, it’s a reputation he’s earned.”
“You a-scared of ’im, are you, Clinton?”
“I have no reason to be afraid of ’im, because I have no intention of antagonizing him,” Clinton replied.
“Why don’t we just see if he can live up to this reputation of being so dangerous?” Joad suggested.
“What do you have in mind?”
“Why don’t you just watch, ’n maybe you’ll learn somethin’.”
“Joad, don’t you go bitin’ off more ’n you can chew,” Clinton cautioned.
Joad held his hand out toward Clinton, as if telling him to watch.
“Hey, Mr. Jensen. Mr. Smoke Jensen. That is your name, ain’t it? You the famous Smoke Jensen?” Joad asked, calling down to Smoke from the far end of the bar.
Smoke ignored the call, as he had ignored the earlier comments.
“What kind of a name is ’Smoke’ anyhow? Did your mama actually think that Smoke is a name?”
The bartender, with a nervous glance toward Joad, handed the beer to Smoke.
“Good job of drawing the beer. It’s without a head, just like I like it,” Smoke said, complimenting the bartender. He lifted the mug to take a drink.
“Thank you, sir,” the bartender replied.
“Tell me, Mr. Smoke Jensen, is it really true that you can walk on water? Or is that just one o’ the tall tales people tells about you?”
Smoke lifted the mug to take a drink of his beer. “Ahh, that did cut through the dust,” Smoke said with a smile.
“Hey, Jensen! How come it is that you ain’t payin’ no attention to me?” Joad called.
“Leave ’im be, Joad. He ain’t botherin’ nobody,” Clinton said.
“Yeah? Well he’s botherin’ me,” Joad replied. “I don’t figure he’s got ’ny right comin’ in here to the Purple Crackle Saloon, ’n breathin’ our air. Hey, Jensen! What are you doin’, breathin’ our air?”
“I told you to leave ’im be.”
“I’ll leave ’im be when he answers my question,” Joad said. “Hey Jensen, I asked you what are you doin’ breathin’ our air? Ain’t you got air of your own to breathe? I hear you got yourself a big ranch some’ers.”
“I think you should listen to your friend, Mr. Joad,” Smoke said. He was leaning forward with his elbows on the bar, and both hands cupped around the mug of beer. He had not yet looked at Joad, nor did he do so now.
“You know what, Jensen? I told my friend here that I think you are the kind of a feller that sort ’a trades on your reputation. You got a lot ’o men buffaloed, but not me. I don’t think you’re near as fast as ever’ one thinks you are, ’n I aim to prove it.”
“You’re dying to prove it, are you?” Smoke asked.
“Yeah, you might say that.”
“Damn, Joad, did you listen to what he asked? He said are you dyin’ to prove it!” Clinton said.
“I ain’t goin’ to be the one doin’ the dyin’,” Joad said as he started his draw.
Although Smoke had both his hands wrapped around his beer, and was seemingly paying no attention to Joad, he had his pistol out pointing at his antagonist, even before Joad’s pistol cleared the holster.
“No, no! Wait!” Joad shouted. He let his pistol slide back in the holster as he stuck his hands up. “I ain’t drawin’ on you, Jensen, I was just funnin’ you is all.”
“That’s a dangerous way to have fun,” Smoke said.
“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Joad said, his hands still raised over his head.
“Take your pistol out of your holster,” Smoke ordered.
“No, sir, now, I ain’t a-goin’ to do that. You’d shoot me soon as you seen my hand on the gun.”
“You,” Smoke said to the friend who had cautioned Joad. “Clinton, is it?”
“Yes, sir, Clinton it is, Mr. Jensen. Roy J. Clinton,” the friend replied nervously.
“Well, Roy J, you seem like a sensible man. I want you to take Mr. Joad’s pistol out of his holster.”
Clinton did so, using only his thumb and forefinger, all the while keeping a cautious eye on Smoke.
“Take the cylinder out of the gun and hand it to me,” Smoke ordered.
Clinton removed the cylinder and handed it to Smoke, who put the cylinder in his pocket.
“Now, Mr. Joad,” Smoke said. “Suppose we all go back to enjoying our drinks without any more talk of shooting.”
“When do I get the cylinder back for my pistol?”
“When I leave, I’ll drop it in the watering trough out front. It shouldn’t be that hard for you to recover it.”
“The hell you will!” Joad shouted, rushing toward Smoke. He took a wild swing that Smoke ducked under. When Smoke came back up, it was with a left to Joad’s chin. The uppercut snapped Joad’s head back, and he backpedaled to get away from him. Then, seeing a whiskey bottle on the bar, he picked it up and threw it at Smoke.
A pistol roared and the bottle was shattered in midair. Looking around, Smoke saw Pearlie standing just inside the door, holding a smoking gun in his hand.
“Now, if you’re goin’ to fight my boss, who also happens to be my very good friend, I intend to see to it that you do it fair and square,” Pearlie said with a broad smile.
“Hello, Pearlie,” Smoke said. “It was good of you to stop by.”
“I come to tell you all the cows is off-loaded,” Pearlie replied.
“Barkeep, how much do I owe you for the bottle of whiskey my friend just broke?” Smoke asked.
“Uh, it was only half full, about a dollar and a half I reckon.”
Smoke put a ten-dollar bill on the bar. “This will pay for the whiskey, and give free drinks to everyone else until the money runs out.”
“Joad too?”
Smoke glanced over at Joad, who had a defeated look about him. “I don’t know,” Smoke said. “Mr. Joad, are you through trying to kill me, or beat me up?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Jensen. I won’t be tryin’ nothin’ no more.”
Smoke put the cylinder from Joad’s gun on the bar, then slid it down toward him.
“Give my new friend Mr. Joad the very first drink,” Smoke said.
; The others in the saloon cheered Smoke as he and Pearlie left the Purple Crackle Saloon.
CHAPTER FIVE
“There it is, just like I told you,” Lanagan said, pointing to a small cabin on Turkey Creek. “I seen it for the first time ’bout a year ago. There ain’t nobody that lives there, ’n it’ll make a good place for us to hole up.”
As Clete Lanagan and Dingus Claymore approached the little cabin, they were startled to see someone standing by the edge of the creek, in front of the cabin.
“What the hell?” Claymore said. “I thought you said there didn’t nobody live here.”
“It was plumb empty last time I was here.”
The man standing by the creek had neither seen nor heard Lanagan and Claymore approach.
“Howdy,” Lanagan called out, making his call as friendly and non-threatening as he could.
Lanagan’s hail visibly startled the man, who turned toward them with a look of nervousness on his face. He looked to be in his late sixties or seventies, with a full head of white hair, and a long white beard. He was unarmed, though there was a rifle leaned up against a tree about ten feet away from him.
“Who are you?” the man asked, apprehensively.
“Oh, just a couple of hunters, scouting the area,” Lanagan replied, still maintaining a friendly tone in voice and demeanor. He nodded toward the cabin. “I was surprised to see you here. I rode through here a year or so ago, and the cabin was empty.”
“Yes, sir, it was empty when I come upon it back last winter, so I figured I’d just move in,” the old man said. He chuckled. “I have to tell you, you two is the first human people to come by since I got here, ’n that’s been at least eight months. I got some coffee, a mess ’o fish, ’n some taters from m’ garden, ’n some fresh cattail that boils up just real tasty. If you’d take a meal with me, why, I’d purely love the company. The name is McCall.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. McCall, we’d be pleased to join you,” Lanagan said as he and Claymore dismounted.
“You said that we are the first people you have seen since you moved in. Does anyone know that you live out here, Mr. McCall?” Lanagan asked, half an hour later, as the three of them ate the meal McCall had prepared for them.
“As far as I know, there don’t nobody know that I’m out here,” McCall replied. “I left Ohio more ’n forty years ago, ’n don’t reckon they’s anyone anywhere what knows, or even cares, whether I’m dead or alive.” He laughed, a high-pitched cackle. “I’ll tell you the truth, I’m the kind of feller that don’t particular get along all that good with people, so I don’t hardly never see no one anyhow. ’N I got me enough coffee ’n flour to last at least another two, maybe three months,” he laughed again. “That is, if I don’t get me no more company. Then I’ll have to go into town some’ers ’n get me some more. But until then, why, me’n Rhoda will just stay out here.”
“Rhoda?”
“Rhoda’s m’ mule. You didn’ see her, on account of I got ’er tied up over there in the stable.”
“How do you live?” Claymore asked. “What do you do for money?”
“Oh, sonny, I don’t need no money to live out here, that’s what’s good about it. I got game, ’n fish, ’n my garden’s come along real good. ’N when I do need somethin’, like maybe coffee, or flour or maybe some more bullets for m’ rifle, why, I can generally sell some venison, or a mess o’ mushrooms. I don’t hardly need no money at all to get by.”
“We need to ride on,” Lanagan said after they finished their meal. “We appreciate the meal.”
“I’ll walk you out to your horses,” McCall said.
The three men walked out to the horses Lanagan and Claymore had left ground tethered.
“I ’spect I’d best go check up on m’ mule,” McCall said. “It was just real fine to have you two stop by.”
Lanagan waited until McCall turned away, then he drew his pistol and shot McCall in the back of his head.
“We’ll make this our hideout. It was real nice of him to plant a garden for us,” Lanagan said.
“Where do you think we should bury him?” Claymore asked.
“I don’t care where we plant him, as long as the ground is soft so’s we don’t have to work so hard to get ’im planted.”
* * *
The 120,000 acres of gently rolling grassland and scores of year-round streams and creeks made Live Oaks Ranch ideal for raising cattle. With two dozen cowboys who were full-time employees, some with families, and another two dozen who were part-time employees, it was almost the size of a small town. And, indeed, it was listed on several maps of Tarrant County, and even some maps of the state, as if it were a town.
The part-time and full-time employees who weren’t married, lived in a couple of long, low, bunkhouses, white, with red roofs. In addition, there were at least ten permanent employees who were married, and they all lived in small houses, all of them painted green, with red roofs. These were adjacent to the bunkhouses. There was also a cookhouse that was large enough to feed all the single men, a barn, a machine shed, a granary, and a large corral. The most dominating feature of the ranch was what the cowboys called “The Big House.” The Big House was a stucco-sided example of Spanish Colonial Revival, with an arcaded portico on the southeast corner, stained glass windows, and an elaborate arched entryway.
Inside the parlor of the Big House, Big Ben Conyers was pouring bourbon and branch for Smoke, Pearlie, and Cal. Earlier, he had poured white wine for Sally and his wife, Julia.
“I appreciate you bringing me another thousand head,” Big Ben said. “And for making me a good price. I know they are worth twenty dollars a head on the market.”
“Yes, but these are all young cattle, and won’t bring that kind of money for another couple of years,” Smoke said. “I’m quite content with the deal we made.” He held his glass up, and Big Ben, Pearlie, and Cal did the same.
“To fine cattle, good horses, and great friends,” he said.
“Hear, hear,” Big Ben replied, and the four men drank to the toast.
“Tony Peters was in the Purple Crackle today,” Big Ben said. “He told me about your run-in with Hiram Joad.”
“Tony Peters? I thought he was off looking for gold, somewhere,” Cal said.
“He didn’t find any, so he came back,” Big Ben said.
“Ha!” Cal said. “Then he’s smarter than I thought he was.”
“What about this man, Joad?” Smoke asked. “He seemed awfully intent on starting something with me.”
“I’ve no doubt but that he did. He used to be a pretty good hand, but he got into an argument and a shoot-out with another man last year. Turns out that the other man was wanted for murder, and Joad collected a seven-hundred-and-fifty-dollar reward, so he quit his job and lived off the reward money for a while.
“Now, he fancies himself as being good with a gun, and feels he has to prove it. You and Pearlie here probably saved his life by showing him that he could be beaten. Maybe he won’t be so quick to try something now.”
“Anyone can be beaten,” Smoke said.
“You?” Big Ben asked.
“Anyone,” Smoke replied, topping off his comment with another swallow of his drink.
Big Ben nodded. “That’s probably a good attitude to have.”
“It’s the kind of attitude that can keep you alive,” Pearlie added. Pearlie, whose real name was Wes Fontaine, was nearly as good with a gun as Smoke.
“When did you last hear from Becca?” Sally asked, wanting to change the subject away from gunfighting.
“Oh, we get at least one letter per week from Becca,” Julia said. “She’s in Boston now, and loves it. Tom is chief of surgeons at Massachusetts General Hospital there.”
“I sure never took Tom for a doctor when I first met him,” Cal said. “I mean, he doesn’t look like any doctor I ever knew.”
“I know,” Ben said. “He doesn’t have that sense of... oh, call it superiority that so many doctors have. But
from all I’ve been able to find out, Tom Whitman is one of the finest doctors in the entire country.”
“And how is Dalton doing?” Smoke asked. “I heard he was a deputy?”
“Yes, over in Audubon,” Ben answered. “I had suggested that he learn a little more about ranching since he will be taking this place over someday, but he said he thought his first priority was to learn a little more about being a man. He thought it would do him good to get out on his own and get a little of the real world under his belt. And you know what? I agree with him. I not only agree with him, I’m proud of him.”
“What kind of sheriff is he working for?” Pearlie asked.
“The sheriff he’s working for is a real good man. I’ve known Andrew Peabody for a long time. In fact, he was my sergeant major during the war.”
“You might also tell Smoke that Sheriff Peabody has a very pretty daughter,” Julia added with a smile.
Ben laughed. “Yes, he does at that. And I’m certain that Martha Jane does add a degree of appeal for Dalton.”
“I’m sure you miss Rebecca,” Smoke said.
Big Ben smiled. “Indeed we do, but I’m happy to say that she is doing very well and seems to be quite happy there. I do wish she and Tom had stayed here in Texas, but Tom is Chief of Surgery at Massachusetts General Hospital, and by train, we are only a little over a week apart. It’s not like it was in the old days when it could take months to cover such a distance.”
“And by telegram, we can hear from her almost instantly,” Julia said.
“The world has certainly changed, just within our lifetime,” Pearlie said.
“Indeed it has,” Big Ben agreed.
“By the way, I haven’t seen Tamara since we got here,” Smoke said. “I wonder where she’s gotten off to.”
“No need to be wondering,” Julia said with a knowing smile. “All you have to do is find Billy Lewis.”
“Billy Lewis?” Sally replied.
“He’s Neil Lewis’s son, maybe six months older than Tamara. Once Tyrone left, Neil became my blacksmith and machinist. It took him a while to catch on, but now he’s as good as Tyrone ever was, and the truth is, I don’t think I could run the ranch without him. Tamara and Neil’s boy, Billy, were inseparable when they were growing up, and it looks to me as if they have taken up right where they left off,” Ben said.
Torture of the Mountain Man Page 4