The Family Jensen # 1

by William W. Johnstone

  Sandor had taken some money from a beaded buckskin pouch. He laid it on the counter in front of Hammond. “This is for the suit,” he said.

  “Much obliged,” the storekeeper said as he picked up the bills and raked the coins into his other hand.

  “Garrard,” Smoke mused. “That’s the name of the fella those three troublemakers work for, isn’t it?”

  Hammond nodded. “That’s right. Gus Harley and Earl Ballew are shotgun guards on his coaches. Mitch Thorn’s what you’d call a troubleshooter, I guess. It’s quite a ways from here to Casper, across a lot of open country where bandits could stop a stagecoach without much trouble. Thorn rides along sometimes to make sure the coach gets through.”

  Smoke scraped a thumbnail along the beard-stubbled line of his jaw as he frowned in thought. He turned to Sandor and said, “Your pa’s name is Crazy Bear?”

  “That’s right,” the young man said.

  “And he’s a Crow chief?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think I’ve heard of him,” Smoke said. “An old friend of mine once told me about meeting up with a Crow chief called Crazy Bear. Said he was one of the biggest hombres he’d ever seen.”

  Sandor smiled. “That is my father. Your friend probably said he was one of the ugliest men he’d ever seen, too.”

  “Well, now that you mention it…”

  “I take no offense at such a description. My father is ugly, in the physical sense. But he is also the best man I have ever known. What is your friend’s name?”

  “He was called Preacher.”

  Recognition lit up Sandor’s dark eyes. “Preacher!” he repeated. “Of course. I have heard my father speak many times of him and the way they rescued my mother from the bad men who had kidnapped her.” The young man frowned suddenly. “Wait a minute. You said he was called Preacher?”

  “He crossed the divide a while back.” Smoke didn’t want to talk about it. Preacher’s death was still too recent, too painful, to dwell on.

  “I’m sorry. My father always spoke very highly of him. Perhaps you could ride by the village and tell him the news when you leave Buffalo Flat.”

  “Why can’t you tell him about it?” Smoke asked.

  “Because I am going the other way. I’m catching the next stage for Casper, and from there I will make my way on to Denver and eventually back east to college. My mother wishes me to have a white man’s education.”

  “Is that a fact?” Smoke and Preacher had known some educated Indians, although most had no interest in accepting the white man’s ways, and even less in going to school.

  “Yes. Why do you think I needed this suit of clothes?”

  Smoke smiled. “I’ll admit, I hadn’t spent a lot of time wondering about it. No offense, Sandor, but I’ve got my own chores to take care of.” He paused, then went on, “I reckon I could take the time to ride by your father’s village and tell him about Preacher.”

  “Good. It’s about ten miles northwest of here in the mountains.”

  “Not far from Bannerman’s Circle B spread,” Hammond put in. “There’s a road out there now, so it ain’t hard to find, Mister…?”

  Smoke hadn’t mentioned his name to anyone in Buffalo Flat so far, and he thought it would be a good idea to keep that up. He thought quickly, glancing down at his buckskin shirt as he did so, and then said, “Just call me Buck.”

  “All right, Buck,” Hammond said, and his smile made it clear he knew that wasn’t the name Smoke had been born with. But that was common on the frontier. A man might use half a dozen different monikers in the course of his life. “You said you needed some supplies?”

  “Yeah. Flour, salt, a little sugar if you’ve got it, some Arbuckle’s.”

  “How about some jerky?”

  “Sure,” Smoke agreed. “Usually comes in handy havin’ some jerky tucked away in the saddlebags, in case you run into a stretch where you can’t find any game for fresh meat.”

  “I’ll start puttin’ the order together,” Hammond said. “Be ready in half an hour or so. Are you ridin’ on out today, like Marshal Calhoun told you to?”

  “That depends. Is there a good hotel in town?”

  “Well, there’s a hotel. Can’t say as to how good it is. The Garrard House, couple blocks up the street.”

  Smoke raised an eyebrow. “Garrard? Same one who runs the stage line?”

  “One and the same. He’s got the livery stable, too, not surprisin’ since he had to have a barn and corrals for his stage teams. I got a feelin’ he’d like to spread out into even more businesses.”

  “Sounds like he’s trying to take over the whole town.”

  “You didn’t hear that from me, Buck,” Hammond said. “I don’t cotton to bein’ pushed around, but I still got to live and work here. Between Thorn and his cronies and Marshal Calhoun, Mr. Garrard usually gets pretty much whatever he wants.”

  “The lawman’s in his pocket, eh?”

  Hammond shook his head, but he wasn’t disagreeing with Smoke’s assessment. “You didn’t hear that from me, neither.”

  Smoke turned to look at Sandor. “When’s that stage you’re gonna take to Casper supposed to get here?”

  “Two days from now, if it’s on schedule,” the young man replied.

  “You plan to stay in town until then?”

  “I do. I’ve already said my farewells to my mother and father. I’d prefer not to go through that again.”

  “Then I think I’ll hang around Buffalo Flat for a while, too,” Smoke said.

  Sandor frowned. “You don’t have to stay here to protect me. I know it didn’t look like it out there, but I can take care of myself, you know. My father is a Crow warrior, after all. The blood of fighting men runs in my veins.”

  “Mine, too,” Smoke said, thinking of how his father had spent four years fighting for the Confederacy in the War of Northern Aggression. “But I’ve been on the trail for quite a while. I wouldn’t mind sleeping in a bed for a change.”

  “Well, in that case…” Sandor shrugged. “Anyway, I can’t tell you what to do. Just be careful if you run into Thorn and his friends again. Thorn is very fast with a gun, and while the other two can’t match his speed, they are killers, too.”

  “The boy’s right,” Hammond added. “You don’t want to have any more trouble with those hombres.”

  “No trouble,” Smoke agreed. “I’m a peaceable man.”

  Chapter 13

  When he checked in at the hotel, Smoke had to stop and think again before he scrawled a name in the register for the clerk. He had already established himself as Buck with the storekeeper, Luther Hammond, but he needed a last name to go with it. One name was as good as another, he supposed, since it was a lie anyway. He thought about the points of the compass. Buck North? Buck South?

  Sure as hell not Buck East.

  Buck West sounded pretty good, Smoke thought with a smile. He wrote the name in the register.

  The balding clerk read it upside down and asked, “Do you have any bags, Mister, uh, West?”

  “Only my saddlebags,” Smoke replied. They were already slung over his shoulder, and his Henry rifle was in his left hand. “You have a corral or a stable out back?”

  “No, sir, but you can take your mount right down the street to the Garrard Livery. Mr. Garrard owns it, too, so you get a break on the price, seein’ as you’re a guest in his hotel.”

  Smoke nodded. “How about a dining room?”

  “No, I’m afraid we don’t have one of those, either. But Clancy’s Café across the street has pretty good food.”

  “Clancy’s, eh? Garrard doesn’t own it, too?”

  “No, sir. Not yet, anyway.”

  Smoke looked at the clerk, but the man appeared to just be making conversation. His comment didn’t have any particular significance.

  The clerk slid a key across the desk. Smoke picked it up, nodded, and said, “Obliged.” He had already given the man a five dollar gold piece, which would pay for the r
oom for a week. He didn’t really intend to stay that long, but it was easier to pay in advance and get some money back when he left. He wasn’t broke, although he was a long way from rich and had gotten in the habit of watching what he spent.

  “Room 3. Turn right at the top of the stairs.”

  Smoke nodded again and went up. Like everywhere else he’d been in Buffalo Flat, the hotel had a lingering scent of raw wood about it, although there he could smell fresh paint, too. The lobby had a curiously empty look about it, as if Garrard hadn’t finished furnishing it yet.

  As long as the bed in his room was comfortable, it was all Smoke really cared about. He found room 3, opened the door, and tossed his saddlebags on the bed, then bounced the mattress up and down with his hand. Passable, he decided. He leaned the Henry in a corner and looked around. Other than the bed with its iron bedstead, the room contained only a small table with a basin of water on it, a single ladderback chair, and a ceramic thunder mug peeking out from under the bed. The floor was bare wood, with not even a rug. The single window overlooked the street and had a paper shade that could be pulled down instead of a curtain.

  It was a simple, utilitarian place, good only for sleeping, but since Smoke didn’t plan on doing anything else there, that was all right with him. The afternoon light had begun to fade as the sun lowered toward the Big Horns to the west, so he left the room. He wanted to tend to his horse before night fell.

  As he closed the hotel room door, he bent and stuck a small piece of broken matchstick between the door and the jamb. If it was lying on the floor when he came back, that would tell him that he’d had a visitor while he was gone. A wanted man could never let his guard down. Somebody might recognize him from one of those damn reward posters and try to collect the bounty on his head.

  He went out through the lobby to the street. Seven stood at the hitch rail where Smoke had tied him a short time earlier, after leaving Hammond’s store. As Smoke untied the reins, he wondered briefly where Sandor had gone. He’d left the young man at the store.

  That was none of his business, of course, and yet Sandor was one of the reasons he had decided to stay on in Buffalo Flat for a few days. If the young man was going to hang around the settlement until the stagecoach arrived, it was possible he would wind up in trouble again. If his path happened to cross that of Thorn, Ballew, and Harley, trouble was more than possible. It was highly likely.

  Nobody appointed you that fella’s guardian, Smoke told himself as he led the Appaloosa toward the livery stable. You got business of your own waitin’ for you in Idaho. Killin’ business. Revenge business.

  But it wouldn’t bring Nicole and Arthur back. Nothing would do that. Smoke found himself wondering if a man who lived only for hate could be considered truly human. Didn’t there have to be a shred of something else left, a reminder, small though it might be, of the man he once was?

  With a little shake of his head, he pushed those thoughts out of his brain. Time enough to ponder questions like that once his work in Bury was done—once Richards, Stratton, and Potter were all dead, along with any gunmen they had working for them.

  The stable was a large barn with a sign on it that read GARRARD LIVERY. Next to it was a smaller building that housed the office of the Garrard Overland Stagecoach Company, according to a sign on it. This fella Jason Garrard was a mite fond of the sound of his own name, Smoke mused. He led Seven past the stagecoach office and through the open double doors of the barn.

  “Hello?”

  A man came through a smaller side door and greeted Smoke. “Howdy. I was just over talkin’ to the boss. Need to put up your horse?”

  “That’s right,” Smoke said. “I was supposed to tell you that I’m staying down at the hotel, too. Clerk there said something about that getting me a break on the price.”

  The hostler looked Seven over and let out a low whistle of admiration. “Mister, I’d give you a break on the price just for the privilege of havin’ a fine-lookin’ Appy like this in my barn.”

  “I thought this was Garrard’s place.”

  “Well, yeah, it is,” the man said with a shrug. “What I mean to say is, I’d give you that break if I owned this stable. What I can do is give you my word that I’ll take mighty fine care of this big fella.”

  As the hostler moved forward and raised a hand to pet Seven on the shoulder, Smoke advised, “Best be careful. He can be a mite touchy.”

  The hostler drew his hand back. “One-man horse, eh? Well, I’ll handle him cautious-like, but he’ll still get the best care he can get in Buffalo Flat.”

  Smoke felt an instinctive liking for the stocky, middle-aged hostler. He smiled and said, “Thanks. My name’s West, Buck West.” It wouldn’t hurt to practice using his new name a little, he thought.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. West. I’m Hoyt Dowler. How long you plan on stayin’ in these parts?”

  “I’m not sure. Probably two or three days.”

  Dowler nodded. “Gimme a dollar and a half. That’ll cover the bill for three days, seein’ as you’re stayin’ at the hotel. If you stay longer, you can pay more then.”

  “Take two dollars,” Smoke said as he passed over a couple coins.

  “Sure.” Dowler pocketed the silver. “Anything else I can do for you?”

  “You look like a man who enjoys a good meal.”

  Dowler grinned and patted his ample belly. “You could say that.”

  “I’m told Clancy’s is a good place to eat. What do you think?”

  “Seamus whips up a hell of a good Irish stew.”

  Smoke nodded. “That’ll do me, then. See you later, Hoyt.”

  “So long, Buck.”

  Smoke turned toward the double doors, where he saw three figures standing in the opening, silhouetted by the fading light. With the glare of the setting sun behind them, he couldn’t make out their faces, but that didn’t matter. He recognized them by their shapes.

  “Oh, hell,” Hoyt Dowler said under his breath.

  Quietly, Smoke said, “Hoyt, take my horse and put him in a stall. Then you’d better head back out that side door. You can unsaddle him and rub him down later.”

  “But…but Mr. West—”

  “Just do as I say,” Smoke told him. “It’ll be all right.”

  Dowler swallowed hard, grabbed Seven’s reins, and led the horse away along the aisle that ran down the center of the barn.

  Thorn, Ballew, and Harley sauntered a few steps into the building. Thorn was in front, with the other two a step back and flanking him.

  “West, is it?” Thorn asked. “That’s your name?”

  “Buck West,” Smoke said. He was getting more practice than he’d really expected.

  “Well, I never heard of you, Buck West,” Thorn said, letting scorn drip from his use of the name. “And I reckon I’ve heard of just about everybody west of the Mississippi who’s slick on the draw.”

  “I never said I was slick on the draw,” Smoke pointed out.

  “You act like you think you are. It rubs me the wrong way.”

  “Why should you care?”

  Thorn’s upper lip curled in a sneer. “Because I’m the fastest gun around here. Maybe in the whole territory. And my friends here are almost as fast.”

  Smoke felt anger welling up inside him. He struggled to tamp it back down. Normally, he would let loudmouthed assholes like those three say what they had to say and then kill them, if they were bound and determined to draw on him. But he didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself. His reputation was big enough already. He didn’t want it to interfere with his mission of vengeance.

  “Well, that’s good to know,” he made himself say as he heard Dowler scurry out of the barn through the side door.

  “Don’t you want to find out if it’s true?”

  Smoke shook his head. “Not particularly.”

  He saw Thorn stiffen and knew that he’d made a mistake. His apparent lack of interest was even worse than a challenge to the gunman. Thorn
took it as an insult, a sign that Smoke thought he was insignificant.

  “You don’t have a choice, mister,” Thorn snapped. “We’re gonna settle this right here and now.”

  Smoke sighed. It looked like he was going to have to kill them after all.

  “Hold it!”

  The sharp voice came from behind Smoke and to his right. He almost whirled in that direction and slapped leather, but he realized that if he took his eyes off Mitch Thorn, the man would go for his gun. Instead Smoke stood there, steady as stone, while another man strode into the barn through the side door that Hoyt Dowler had used earlier.

  The newcomer wore a brown tweed suit. He was short and wide and had a shock of graying red hair. He demanded, “What’s going on here, Mitch?”

  “Nothing you need to be concerned with, boss,” Thorn replied. He looked irritated by the interruption.

  “I think it is,” the man who had to be Jason Garrard replied. Smoke supposed that Dowler had darted across the narrow gap between the livery stable and the stage line office to alert his employer that there was about to be a shootout in the barn. Garrard went on, “I think you’re about to kill this man, and we’ve had a talk about that.”

  “Damn it, Mr. Garrard—”

  “Buffalo Flat is a growing town,” Garrard went on as if he hadn’t even heard Thorn’s attempt to protest. “A lot of it is my town already, and more of it will be. But it’ll stop growing if it gets a reputation as a place where a man can get shot for nothing.”

  “It ain’t nothing!” Thorn burst out. He gestured with his left hand toward Smoke. “This son of a bitch horned in earlier and stuck up for that damn redskin when the boys and me threw him out of Hammond’s store. And now just look at him, standin’ there like he thinks he’s some sort of gunslick!”

  “You let me worry about Hammond,” Garrard said. “Once my store’s established, he won’t be around here for very long, anyway. A man’s got a right to bring his horse in and stable it. You can’t shoot him just because you don’t like his looks.”