“It don’t matter? You’re a bounty hunter, and you tell me the reward don’t matter? Then, if this ain’t about the reward, it has to be personal with you.”
“Yeah,” Boyle said in a low, gravelly voice. “It’s personal.”
“Why? What are you tryin’ to do, prove to ever’ body that an old man like you can still get the job done?”
“Oh, I know I can still get the job done. No, this is somethin’ else. This is about Lucy.”
“Lucy? I don’t know what your talkin’ about. I don’t know nobody named Lucy.”
“How many women have you kilt, that you can’t even remember their name?”
“What makes you think I’ve ever kilt a woman?”
“I was told you was the one that kilt her.”
“You was told wrong.”
“She’s the one that told me.”
“How could she have told you, if I had kilt her?”
“She committed suicide. Oh, you didn’t pull the trigger, but you kilt her just the same. You left ’er pregnant.”
“You’re talkin’ about Anabelle?”
“Lucy was her real name.”
“So, some whore kilt herself. How should that matter to either one of us?”
“She was my wife,” Boyle said.
“Is that a fact? Well, I understand now why she said she had never been with a real man before me,” Proffer said.
With an anguished shout, Boyle reached for his pistol, but even as he did so, Proffer was drawing his own gun. Before Boyle even realized he was in danger, Proffer was pulling the trigger, and the bounty hunter went down with a bullet in his heart.
The others in the saloon looked on in total shock over what had just transpired in front of them.
“Is there anybody in here who didn’t see him start his draw first?” Proffer asked.
Nobody disagreed, and several went over to look down at Boyle’s body.
“He’s dead,” one of the men said, though his affirmation wasn’t needed.
At that moment a boy came into the saloon, wearing a cap that said Western Union. He looked down at the body on the floor, then, frightened, stepped back.
“Boy, you got a telegram for someone in here?” the bartender asked.
“Yes, sir,” the boy said.
“Well, deliver it, then get on out of here.”
“It’s for him,” the boy said, looking toward Proffer. Proffer held out his hand.
The boy handed him the telegram, then waited a moment for an expected tip, which didn’t come.
“What are you waitin’ for, boy? I told you, deliver your telegram and get on out of here,” the bartender said.
“Yes, sir, but I normally get . . .”
“You normally get what?” the bartender asked, sharply.
“Uh, nothin’, sir. I don’t normally get nothin’.”
“Then get.”
The boy turned and, with one final look at the body lying on the floor, hurried out.
Proffer opened the telegram.
IF YOU ARE INTERESTED IN MAKING
SOME MONEY MEET ME IN FORT WORTH
YOUR COUSIN ED
It was nearly a month after Sheriff Peabody was shot, and two weeks after Cal had been shot, when Tom told both of them that they could go home. And in celebration of that event Marjane prepared a huge roast, inviting Tom and Becca, Dr. and Mrs. Palmer, Smoke and Sally, Pearlie and Cal, Julia and Tamara, and of course Dalton, to the sheriff’s house for dinner.
Ever since her mother had died, Marjane had been acting as the woman of the house, taking on the responsibility at the young age of fifteen. And because her father had to run for reelection twice in that time, it had often been necessary to have social events for his campaign workers and supporters. Those affairs made Marjane quite proficient as a hostess, a talent that was much on display at the gathering.
After they were called to dinner and all were seated around the table, Sheriff Peabody stood, and by that action garnered the immediate attention of all present.
“I would like to propose a toast,” he said, as he picked up his glass of wine. “First to you, Dr. Palmer. Dr. Whitman has assured me that if you had not done the things that needed to be done immediately after I was shot, that I wouldn’t have lived long enough for him to get here.” He turned his attention to Tom. “And to you, Dr. Whitman, for removing a bullet that was all but impossible to remove, and to you, Dalton, the best deputy I have ever had, for getting Dr. Whitman to come and treat me, and to you, Smoke, for saving my life when Garland and Higgins attempted to take it last week. And finally, to my daughter, for providing me with the comfort and love that has sustained me, not only through this recent ordeal, but also for the last six years, since my beloved Sara Lou died.”
With the toasting completed, he held his glass out toward the others, who also lifted their glasses.
“Well said, Sheriff,” Dr. Palmer replied. “Hear, hear.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
When MacMurtry first saw the little cabin on Beans Creek, he knew it would be perfect for his needs. He didn’t know who lived there, but he was prepared to kill whoever it was, just so he could use the cabin.
He rode right up to the cabin then dismounted, so that anyone who might be in the cabin wouldn’t suspect anything. Walking up to the cabin, he knocked on the front door.
“Hello the cabin!” he called. “Hello, anyone here? I’m lost, and I need directions!” MacMurtry pulled his pistol, and held it down by his leg. What he intended to do was shoot the occupant of the house, as soon as the door was opened.
He knocked again, and when he got no reply, he tried the doorknob, surprised to find it unlocked. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside with his gun out in front of him.
The gun wasn’t needed because there was no one here. Without putting his gun away, MacMurtry studied the inside of the cabin. There was no food, no coffee, no personal effects of any kind. There weren’t even any clothes.
Not until MacMurtry ascertained that the cabin was empty, and had, in fact, been deserted for a long time, did he put his gun back in the holster.
The cabin would just right for the use he intended to make of it.
Now, all he had to do was go back to Audubon and keep his eyes open. He didn’t want his quarry to get away before he was ready.
* * *
From the Fort Worth Democrat:
Murder Still Unsolved.
The fiend or fiends who perpetrated the heinous murder of Dan and Betty Ann Dolan remain at large. It is suspected that one or more itinerant cowboys, out of work for the season, may have stopped by the store, perhaps in search of a handout.
The Dolans were well known for their generosity, and no doubt word of their beneficence has traveled far and wide, inducing the destitute to call upon them to provide just enough assistance to enable them to reach their destination. It is believed that this was just such a case, where, rather than be grateful for assistance thus tendered, that magnanimity was repaid with unspeakable evil. The bodies of the husband and wife were found together in death, as so many remembered them in life, their marriage to be continued in eternal glory.
The sheriff has neither clue nor idea as to who may have committed such a horrendous deed, but asks for anyone who may have some information to turn it over to his office. In the meantime the search, fruitless though it may be, will continue.
Ed Slater folded the newspaper and put it away, smiling as he did so. Had one of the others in the depot witnessed the smile with a knowledge of the article Slater had most recently read, they would have been curious as to how such a depressing article could have brought about a reaction. What they would not know is that the smile was in recognition that, though it was he who committed murder, it was now abundantly clear that he was free of any suspicion of the foul deed.
“Mama, the train is coming!” a young boy called, rushing into the depot.
The boy’s call was followed, almost immediately, by the
whistle of the approaching train.
Lucien Proffer would be on this train, and Slater was here to meet him. Slater walked out onto the depot platform with the others, some to board the train and some to meet the arriving passengers. Slater was to do both. He would meet Proffer, then ride on to Weatherford with him. Two horses waited in the livery at Weatherford, one for Slater, and one for Proffer.
“Here it comes, Mama, here it comes!” the young boy shouted, excitedly.
The heavy engine rolled by with red-hot coals dripping from the firebox, leaving a glowing path between the tracks. There was screech of steel on steel as the train finally came to a stop. As the engine sat waiting on the track, its relief valves opened and closed rhythmically so that it almost took on a life of its own. The heaving sighs of escaping steam seemed to match that of those who were waiting, anxiously, for the train to depart.
Slater watched until the arriving passengers disembarked from the train, then he joined those who were boarding and, once aboard, stepped into the last day-car, moving all the way to the rear to take the last seat.
The train got away with a series of jerks, each jerk accompanied by loud clanks as the slack was taken up between cars. Quickly the train gained speed and was traveling at a smooth twenty miles an hour by the time the conductor came through, checking the tickets.
Not until all the tickets were punched, and the conductor had left the car, did a tall, dark man with a sharp-featured face come to the back of the car and take the seat beside him.
“How am I s’posed to make this money?” he asked.
“Have you ever heard of a man named Smoke Jensen?” Slater asked.
“No.”
“It’s worth two hunnert and fifty dollars for you to get to know him.”
“You don’t mean know him, do you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then two hunnert ’n fifty ain’t enough.”
“Three hunnert,” Slater said.
“Five hunnert.”
“Three fifty.”
“Four hunnert, ’n I ain’t goin’ no lower,” Proffer said.
Slater fought to hold in his smile. By getting Proffer to do the job for four hundred dollars, that left a hundred for him from the advance, and the entire five hundred, after the bank was robbed.
“You drive a hard bargain, Lucien. But you don’t get any of the money ’til after the job is done.”
“Tell me about this man, Jensen. Who is he, and why do you want him . . .” Proffer stopped, then looked around the car to see if anyone was close enough to overhear the conversation. Deciding that they were not, he added the last word. “Killed.”
* * *
During the ride from Weatherford to Audubon, Slater started filling Proffer in on who Smoke was, and why he was to be killed.
“Maybe I’m not supposed to tell you this,” Slater said, “but the group I’m ridin’ with has big plans. Onliest thing is, we can’t put them plans into operation until after Smoke Jensen is kilt.”
“What kind of plans?”
“Hunnert-thousand-dollar plans,” Slater said.
“I want in on it.”
“It ain’t for me to say whether you can get in on it or not. That’s up to Clete Lanagan. He’s the boss.”
“You say this plan ain’t goin’ to work unless Jensen is kilt?”
“Yeah.”
“If you want him kilt, then I want in.”
“All right,” Slaters agreed. “I reckon if you kill Jensen, you got a right to join us. I’ll talk to Lanagan about it, ’n tell ’im I think we should let you join up with us.”
Slater was certain that, because they had lost so many men, already, that Lanagan would jump at the chance to have Proffer join them. But he didn’t say so, because he thought it would be advantageous for Proffer to think that Slater had paved the way for him.
“All right, I’ll kill this feller Jensen for you.”
“A beer will wash down the dust from the ride,” Slater said as they rode into town. He pointed to the Blanket and Saddle Saloon. “We’ll go there. If you want to find out about anythin’ that’s goin’ on in this town, that’s the place to start. Oh, but I don’t think we should go in together.”
“Why not?”
“I just think it would be better that way. I’ll go in first ’n you wait about a minute before you come in.”
“All right,” Proffer agreed.
Slater stepped inside.
“Tell me, Smoke, how is Cal doing?” the bartender asked the tall man who was standing at the bar.
“He’s coming along well, George, thanks for asking,” Smoke said. “He’s back at the hotel now, and Dr. Whitfield has let the sheriff go home, too.”
“That’s good news. They’re both good men, I’m glad to see that they’re doing so well. You know, Andy was standing just about where you are now, when was shot. Yes, sir, the cowardly bastard that shot him was standing right over there on the stairs. Candy had just been with him, ’n she still feels guilty about I, but I told her, they don’t nobody blame her for it.”
“Hey, Mr. Jensen, is it true that there’s been books wrote about you?”
Smoke chuckled. “Unfortunately, that is true. But I hasten to tell you that I have authorized no such books, and they are all fiction. I have done none of the heroic exploits portrayed in them.”
Slater listened to the conversation. Though Smoke Jensen had become the man who stood between the Lanagan gang and one hundred thousand dollars, he had never actually seen him before. This was a stroke of luck that he not only was able, now, to identify Smoke Jensen, the opportunity had also just presented itself for Jensen to be killed.
When Proffer came into the saloon, he walked down to the far end of the bar. Slater joined him.
“Do you see that tall man standing at the other end of the bar?” Slater asked, quietly.
“How can I miss the son of a bitch? It looks like a tree growin’ down there.”
“That’s Smoke Jensen,” Slater said. “I’ll just get out of your way and let you go to work.”
Slater took his beer and walked over to an empty table at the back end of the room.
Although Smoke didn’t know who the man was, he had seen Slater when he came into the saloon a moment earlier. And it did not escape his observation that when the second man came in, the two had a brief conversation, before the first man left, and took the farthest table from the bar. Why would he do that?
After he left, the tall, dark man with the chiseled face remained standing at the bar, and Smoke saw that the man was studying him in the mirror. When Smoke looked up to lock eyes in the mirror, the man, pointedly, looked away.
Smoke was used to people recognizing him, and then staring at him. He was a well-known personality, and people looked at him to satisfy their curiosity. But he also knew what it was like to be measured as a target, and that was exactly what was happening now.
In many life-and-death engagements over the past several years, Smoke had prevailed because he could draw faster and shoot straighter than anyone he had faced. However, as he had told the Colonel, anyone can be beaten. But Smoke possessed another talent, one that couldn’t be taught, but had become more pronounced with time and experience. Smoke had the unique sense, a gut instinct is the way he would describe it, to know when someone was about to try to kill him. And he felt that now.
Smoke studied his beer, and though Proffer might have thought that Smoke hadn’t noticed him, nothing could be further from the truth. Smoke was intently aware of the man standing at the far end of the bar, and every nerve ending of his body was alert and ready.
“You want another beer, Smoke?” the bartender asked.
“No, thank you, George, I think I’ll just nurse this one a little longer.”
“’Yes, sir, just let me know when whenever you want another one,” George said, and because at the moment, only Smoke and the man at the far end were actually standing at the bar, George busied himself by cleaning
the empty glasses.
Smoke continued to monitor, in the mirror, the man at the far end of the bar, doing it in way that wasn’t obvious. But the more he studied him, the more he was certain that the subject of his close observation was going to make a play.
Smoke decided to test his conjecture. He knew that if the man did intend to draw on him, he would want to do so when he perceived he had the maximum advantage. Smoke put it into motion by picking up his beer with his right hand, so that his gun hand would be occupied. However, he was keenly aware of the situation, and ready to react, instantly.
Proffer, seeing that Jensen’s gun hand was occupied, and believing that Smoke was totally unaware that he was about to be challenged, took advantage of the opportunity that had just been presented.
“Draw, Jensen!” the man shouted from the other end of the bar.
The loud challenge shocked everyone else in the bar, who had no inkling that they were about to be witness to a life-and-death confrontation.
Smoke was not shocked, and reacting quickly, he dropped the beer mug, drew, and fired before the mug even hit the floor.
The man fired as well, but his pulling of the trigger was nothing but a reflexive action, muscle memory in the finger of a dead man. Lucien Proffer fell facedown on the floor.
* * *
Slater, who had witnessed the scene from the back of the bar, was shocked, not that the shooting had occurred; he had expected that, but he was shocked at the results. He had believed that in a face-off gunfight between Proffer and Jensen, even with the conditions neutral for both parties, that Proffer would prevail. But this gunfight had taken place with Proffer having all the advantages. And yet, Proffer lost.
Smoke Jensen was going to be an even bigger problem than any of them had realized.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
From the Audubon Eagle:
Deadly Encounter In Blanket and Saddle
Yesterday Lucien Proffer, a person with the reputation as a gunfighter that was thought to be nulli secundus, involuntarily surrendered that accolade when Smoke Jensen proved that Proffer’s “second to none” was but a hollow claim. Proffer, in front of a dozen men and two of the Blanket and Saddle’s “working ladies,” pulled his pistol and shouted his kill or be killed challenge.
Torture of the Mountain Man Page 25