The important thing about that hatred was it didn’t leave room inside him for the pain he would otherwise feel.
Richards…Potter…Stratton. Those were the names of the men Smoke Jensen intended to kill. The men who had taken away everything that meant anything to him. The men responsible for the deaths of Smoke’s wife Nicole and their son Arthur, as well as the baby’s namesake, the old mountain man called Preacher. They had taken it all from him, and he would take everything from them. His only regret was that the worst he could do was kill them.
Smoke rode straight in the saddle like a cavalryman. His brown, broad-brimmed Stetson was pulled low over his face. Ash-blond stubble sprouted on his jaw. He had already cropped his hair close to his skull, and was thinking about growing a beard to change his appearance even more. After all, he was a wanted man. There was a $10,000 reward on his head because those lying bastards had made him out to be an outlaw and killer when in reality they were the ones who were evil.
Bounty hunters were already after him, and they didn’t care whether they brought him in dead or alive. In fact, most of them would probably prefer to kill him. It was easier to handle a dead body than a live prisoner, especially one as dangerous as Smoke Jensen.
So, as he slowly, methodically, made his way through Wyoming toward Idaho and the town of Bury, where he knew he would find the men he was looking for, he considered the best way to stay alive would be to leave his true identity behind. He needed new clothes instead of the fringed buckskins he wore. As much as he loved the Appaloosa he called Seven, the horse was mighty distinctive. He might have to change mounts. Hell, Smoke had thought a few days earlier, it might even be a good idea if he started calling himself by another name, although he was damned if he could think what it would be. He had been Kirby Jensen, then Preacher had given him the nickname Smoke. Those were the only names he had ever known.
Those were things he mulled over, but he wasn’t in any hurry. He had all the time in the world. His hate for Richards, Potter, and Stratton would always be there.
In the meantime, he could use some supplies, and might pick up some new duds while he was in Buffalo Flat. He reined Seven toward a hitch rail in front of a big, false-fronted building with a sign that read HAMMOND’S EMPORIUM.
Before he could get there, the door opened suddenly and a man burst out, running onto the high porch that also served as a loading platform. Smoke realized an instant later the man was being forced to run. Right behind him, gripping the back of his belt and his coat collar another man was shoving him forward.
When they reached the edge of the porch, the man doing the pushing stopped short and gave his hapless victim an extra shove. The fellow’s mouth opened in an alarmed yell as he flew off the porch with his arms and legs windmilling frantically, which didn’t do him a bit of good.
He crashed into the street, splattering a pile of horse apples underneath him. His face drove into the dirt with stunning force. His fingers scrabbled at the ground, he drew a leg up, and dug the toe of his shoe into the street as he tried to lift himself onto his hands and knees. He didn’t have the strength and after struggling for a moment, he let out a groan and slumped back down on his belly, grinding the horseshit into his coat even more.
Smoke had reined Seven to a halt when he saw what was happening, to prevent the horse from stepping on the man who’d been thrown out of the general store. He sat there impassively as two more men emerged from the building and joined the one who’d done the throwing.
“Funniest thing I ever saw, Mitch!” one of them whooped as he smacked the palm of his hand against the black chaps on his thigh. “I swear, that Injun looked like he was tryin’ to fly, the way he was flappin’ his arms around!”
“Didn’t do him no good did it?” his thickset companion added, also with great amusement. “He still done belly-flopped right in that pile o’ horseshit!”
A short, slender middle-aged man with a massive mustache drooping over his mouth edged out of the open door onto the porch and said in a tentative voice, “Uh, he hadn’t quite got around to payin’ me for that new suit yet, boys, and I reckon it’s ruined now.”
The two spectators instantly lost their air of joviality and turned to the store’s proprietor. “What’re you botherin’ us about, Hammond?” demanded the stocky one in the steeple-crowned white hat.
The man who wore a black leather vest over a red shirt and a black hat to go with his black chaps, crowded the aproned storekeeper and poked him in the chest with a rigid forefinger. “Yeah, you best run on back into your hole like the little rat you are!” he scolded.
Smoke’s eyes took in the fact that all but the shopkeeper wore low-slung guns. He had seen the likes of them many times since coming west with his pa. They were hardcases who considered themselves badmen. Maybe they really were tough…but chances were, they weren’t nearly as tough as they thought they were.
The first man, who was tall, lean, and hatchet-faced, carried himself with the air of a leader. He turned, took a bill from the pocket of his whipcord trousers, stepped past his companions, and tucked the money into the top of the storekeeper’s apron.
“There,” he said in chilly tones. “There’s your payment for the damned suit, Hammond. Mr. Garrard always pays his bills, and so do the men who work for him.” The man spat near Hammond’s feet. “It’s more than you deserve for letting a filthy redskin shop in your store.”
“He…he’s got just as much right to come in here as anybody else,” Hammond said, surprising Smoke by his willingness to speak up when he was surrounded by three gun-hung gents who were also considerably bigger than he was.
The hatched-faced man smiled, but there was no humor in the expression. “He’s got a right to come in, and we’ve got a right to throw him out on his ass.”
“I say we throw ol’ Hammond here on his ass, too,” the man in the black chaps suggested. “Throw him right down there in the shit next to that redskin.”
Smoke glanced around the settlement. Quite a few people had stopped on the boardwalks or come out of the buildings onto the porches to watch what was going on, but nobody had made a move to step in. His instincts told him that nobody would. He didn’t particularly care what happened to the storekeeper or the young man who’d gotten thrown in the street, but he had things to do and this business was holding him up. He was getting a mite impatient.
Quietly, he said, “I’d be obliged if you’d leave that man alone.”
His voice was deep and powerful and carried well despite the fact that he hadn’t raised it. The three hardcases turned to look at him with surprise on their faces. Obviously, they weren’t used to anyone interfering with whatever they wanted to do.
“What the hell did you say, mister?” asked the man in the big white hat.
“Said I’d be obliged if you’d leave him alone,” Smoke drawled. “He looks like he runs the store, and I need to buy some supplies.”
The hatchet-faced man eyed Smoke’s well-worn buckskins and said, “What hole in the woods did you crawl out of?”
Smoke ignored the question. He lifted the reins in his left hand and nudged Seven closer to the hitch rail. When he got there, he turned the Appaloosa alongside the rail so that Seven was between him and the men on the porch while he swung down from the saddle. No use in giving them too tempting a target. Smoke stepped up to the horse’s head, whipped the reins around the wooden rail, then moved out into the open. Every nerve, every muscle, was ready for blinding action if any of the men tried to hook and draw.
The hatchet-faced man suddenly smiled. “Stranger’s got a point, boys,” he said.
“What?” the man in the black chaps asked. “You gonna let him get away with talkin’ to us like that, Mitch?”
“Can’t interfere with the workings of commerce,” Mitch said. “That wouldn’t be right at all. Come on. Let’s go up the street to the Birdcage. I’m buying.”
His two companions didn’t like it, but a free drink was a free drink, and no
t something to be refused. They cast dark, murderous glares at Smoke, then went to the end of the porch, down the steps, and started along the boardwalk toward the saloon. The hatchet-faced man ambled after them, keeping an eye on Smoke as he did so and never quite turning his back until he was well away from the store. The last Smoke saw of his face, he was still wearing that smirk.
Smoke knew what had happened. Mitch had recognized the stance and attitude of a fellow gunfighter and wasn’t ready to challenge him…yet. But it might well come to that unless Smoke mounted up and rode out of Buffalo Flat pronto.
He wasn’t going to do that. He wasn’t in the habit of running from trouble and sure as hell wasn’t going to start.
Hammond came to the edge of the high porch. With his Adam’s apple bobbing in his stringy neck, he asked, “You don’t know who those fellas are, do you, mister?”
“No, and they don’t know who I am, either,” Smoke said, “so I reckon we’re even.”
Another groan came from the man who’d been tossed out of the store. Smoke had gotten a pretty good look at him while the man was flying through the air, even though the glimpse had been a brief one. The man was young, probably no more than twenty, and even if the hardcases hadn’t mentioned him being an Indian, Smoke would have known it from the black hair and eyes, the high cheekbones, and the coppery skin.
Since it wasn’t common to find an Indian wearing a town suit, a white shirt with a stiff collar and a tie, and store-bought shoes. Smoke felt curiosity stirring inside him. He stepped over to the young man’s side and reached down to take hold of his arm.
“Let me give you a hand, friend.”
Smoke’s broad shoulders in the buckskin shirt were a good indication of how strong he was. He lifted the young man to his feet without much effort. The youngster was unsteady and would have fallen if not for Smoke’s hand on his arm.
Smoke wrinkled his nose. “You’re gonna need a change of clothes, because that suit may have to be burned.” He looked up at Hammond. “You have another one like it?”
The storekeeper nodded. “Yeah.”
“Bring it out the back. You probably don’t want this fella going through the store the way he is now.”
Hammond rubbed his jaw in thought and then nodded. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. But I got to get paid this time.”
“You got paid for this suit,” Smoke pointed out. “I saw that hombre called Mitch give you the money. This fella must have the cost of a suit with him, or he wouldn’t have been buyin’ one in the first place, now would he?”
“No, I reckon not. What you say makes sense, young fella. I’ll meet you around back in a few minutes if you’ll help Little Bear back there.”
Smoke nodded. “Come on,” he told the Indian.
They went along the alley beside the store, the young man still stumbling some. He muttered under his breath.
Smoke either didn’t quite catch the words, or else the man was speaking some strange language that Smoke had never heard before, because he didn’t understand a thing the fellow was saying.
When they reached the back of the store, Smoke saw several empty crates on the ground. He upended one and told his companion, “Here, sit down before you fall down. Are you hurt? The way you keep stumbling around, maybe you busted something when you landed in the street.”
“I—I’m all right,” the young man replied in a trembling voice. “I just…just…” He pawed at damp eyes with the back of a hand. Smoke realized those weren’t tears of pain. The youngster was crying because he was so mad. It was fury that caused him to shake.
“Better take it easy,” Smoke advised. “Hammond called you Little Bear. Is that your name?”
Before the young man could answer, heavy footsteps sounded in the alley and a harsh voice said, “Hey!”
Smoke turned in that direction. A barrel-chested man strode toward him, glowering angrily. A lawman’s badge glittered where it was pinned to his vest.
Chapter 12
Smoke’s hands moved toward the twin .44s holstered on his hips. He was a wanted man, whether the charges were justified or not. He managed to stop the instinctive reaction, and hoped the lawman hadn’t noticed it. He didn’t want to get in a shootout with the small-town star packer. That would give his status as a fugitive some legitimacy.
“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” he asked.
“It’s marshal,” the man said. He had a good-sized gut hanging over his belt, but despite that, he didn’t look particularly soft. “Marshal Thad Calhoun. I’m the law in Buffalo Flat. What’s this I hear about a run-in you had with Mitch Thorn, Earl Ballew, and Gus Harley?”
“It wasn’t much of a run-in,” Smoke said. “I asked them to leave the storekeeper alone, and they did it.”
“Thorn’s killed men for less, damn it!”
Smoke shrugged. “He didn’t try to kill me.”
“Well, you’re just damn lucky,” Marshal Calhoun blustered.
“Somebody is, anyway.”
Calhoun’s forehead creased in a frown. “What do you mean by that, mister?”
Before Smoke could answer, the back door of the store opened and Hammond came out, a fresh suit of clothes draped over his arm. He stopped at the top of the steps leading down to the ground and said, “Hello, Marshal.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doin’, Luther?” the lawman demanded.
“Why, doin’ business, of course,” Hammond replied, looking and sounding genuinely puzzled.
Calhoun pointed at Little Bear. “With him?”
“His money spends just as well as anybody else’s. I’m sorry, Marshal, but there ain’t no law saying I can’t sell a suit of clothes to an Indian.”
“Well…maybe not. But you had to know it’d annoy the hell outta Thorn and his cronies if they caught that redskin in your store.”
“Listen, Thad,” Hammond said. “The only ones who set out to cause trouble here are Mitch Thorn and those other two hardcases who work for Garrard. If you’ve got a problem with anybody, it ought to be with them.”
Calhoun glared and hitched up his gunbelt, although it sagged right away again with the weight of his big belly pressing down on it. “Don’t try to tell me how to do my job,” he huffed.
“And don’t try to tell me how to do mine,” Hammond shot right back at him. Smoke found himself liking the little banty rooster of a storekeeper.
Calhoun blew out his breath and shook his head in exasperation. “You been warned, Luther,” he said, then turned to Smoke and went on, “As for you, mister, I sure as hell hope you’re just passin’ through Buffalo Flat, because you ain’t wanted here.”
Actually, he was, Smoke thought wryly. Ten grand worth of wanted, in fact. But he said, “I just stopped to buy some supplies.”
“Fine. When you’ve bought ’em, you’ll ride on, if you know what’s good for you.”
With that, Calhoun turned and stomped back up the alley, heading for the street. Smoke watched him go.
Hammond came down the steps, saying, “Take those filthy clothes off, Little Bear. You got the money to pay for these?”
“Yes,” the young man said sullenly. “And my name is Sandor.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot. Your ma calls you one thing, and Crazy Bear calls you another. Reckon you’re Little Bear in the Crow village and Sandor here in town, is that it?”
The young man nodded as he stripped off the soiled coat. He dropped it on the ground at his feet and began unbuttoning his shirt. It wasn’t as filthy as the coat and trousers were, but it stunk of horse droppings, too.
He looked over at Smoke and nodded. “Thank you.” He wasn’t so mad that he was crying and shaking anymore, but his dark eyes were still deeply troubled. “There’s no way of knowing what those men might have done if you hadn’t intervened.”
Hammond laughed, then said, “I’m sorry, Little Bear…I mean, Sandor. It’s just that I’m not used to hearin’ an Indian talk like that.”
“My mother made sur
e that I learned to speak English properly, as well as her native Romany.”
“Romany,” Smoke repeated, recognizing the name. “You’re part gypsy.”
Sandor nodded. “My mother is Rom, my father is Crow. Though my mother lives as a Crow woman would live, she has never forgotten her heritage. I was named after her father.”
“Folks need to remember where they come from,” Smoke said.
Sandor put on the clean clothes. Hammond looked down at the pile of filthy ones and sighed. “I suppose burning’s the best thing for them,” he said. “Seems a shame, but I don’t reckon I could ever get that smell out. Just leave ’em there for now, and I’ll tend to ’em later.” He turned to Smoke. “You said you needed some supplies?”
“That’s right.”
“Soon as Sandor here pays me, I’ll be glad to help you.”
Sandor pointed toward the building. “My money is inside, in my pack.”
“All right, fine.”
They entered the store through the rear door. The inside was like dozens of other frontier emporiums Smoke had seen, with shelves of goods along the walls and in the center of the main room, as well as a counter in the back where Hammond could pack supplies in boxes and tote up bills. A lot of the lumber had a raw, new look to it, and Smoke realized the walls looked the same way. That was true of the rest of the settlement as well.
“This town hasn’t been here very long, has it?” he asked Hammond.
“Only about six months,” the storekeeper replied. “It’s growin’ by leaps and bounds. Fella named Bannerman brought a herd of cattle up from Texas and started a ranch not far from here. That prompted other stockmen to give it a try, and as they came in, the town followed. I heard about it, brought three wagonloads of goods up here, and set up my store in a tent, startin’ out.” He waved a circling hand to take in the sturdy building around them. “You can see how it’s grown since then. Whole town’s the same way. Things really took off when Jason Garrard started runnin’ stagecoaches between here and Casper. Nothing like a line of communication with the outside world to make a town grow.”
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