The Family Jensen # 1

by William W. Johnstone

  “Do you think we’ll run into any trouble between here and town?” Sandy asked when they had gone a couple miles. He sounded a little nervous.

  “I’d be mighty surprised if we don’t,” Matt said. “All along, Bannerman’s been trying to keep this from ever going to court. He won’t back off now.”

  “Maybe we should have brought some of the warriors with us,” Sandy suggested.

  “Maybe,” Matt agreed.

  Sandy frowned. “Well, then, why didn’t we?”

  “Best worry about that later,” Preacher said, his voice sharp. “Look yonder!”

  Matt glanced to his left, saw a group of riders emerging from a stand of trees. “They’re over there, too,” he said, inclining his head to the right, where more riders had just come over a ridge. “Looks like they’ve got us boxed in!”

  Sandy groaned in despair. “What are we going to do?”

  “Make a run for it!” Matt said. His eyes searched for the nearest cover. “Head for that knoll up ahead!” He nodded toward some rocks on the top of the little hill. They wouldn’t provide much cover, but they were better than nothing.

  And something was definitely better than nothing, Matt thought as he leaned forward in the saddle, heeled Spirit into a gallop, and heard the ominous sound of guns beginning to pop.

  Chapter 35

  The three men rode hard as they headed for the knoll. Their pursuers continued to close in from both sides, but Matt thought he and Preacher and Sandy stood a good chance of reaching the little hill in time. Luckily, nobody could aim very well from the back of a galloping horse, so it would be a fluke if any of them were hit.

  Bad luck sometimes happened, no matter how well-prepared you were, and misfortune struck at that moment. Sandy’s pony stepped in a hole and went crashing down in a welter of flailing legs. Sandy yelled as he was thrown off and flew through the air.

  Matt reined in hard as he called to Preacher, “Cover us!” The old mountain man yanked Horse to a stop and whipped out his Winchester. He sprayed lead toward the onrushing riders as fast as he could work the rifle’s lever.

  Matt raced to the spot where Sandy had fallen. The young man had landed hard but didn’t seem to be hurt. He was already scrambling to his feet. Matt extended his arm and leaned down from the saddle. Sandy grabbed Matt’s wrist and swung up behind him.

  “Can your horse carry both of us?” Sandy gasped.

  “Hide and watch!” Matt replied as he heeled Spirit into a run again.

  The chase was on once more. Preacher slid his Winchester back in its sheath and sent Horse pounding after Matt and Sandy. The delay had allowed the attackers to close in, making their fire more accurate. Bullets kicked up dirt around the hooves of the horses as they reached the knoll and started up the slope.

  Matt drew his Colt and triggered several shots at the men on the right. Preacher’s .44 blasted toward the men on the left. Slugs whined around them as they ran a gauntlet of lead toward the top of the knoll. They reached it untouched, and the three men leaped off the horses and flung themselves down behind the rocks. Matt yanked his rifle from its sheath as he hurriedly dismounted, and Preacher held on to his Winchester. Both of them fired from prone positions as they sprawled behind the low rocks.

  “Keep your head down,” Matt warned Sandy. “All we have to do is hold them off for a few minutes…”

  “A few minutes!” Sandy repeated as he ducked while bullets whined over his head. “What’s going to happen in a few minutes?”

  A grim smile tugged at Matt’s mouth. “You’ll see.”

  Bannerman’s hired killers had the knoll completely surrounded. They dismounted and hugged the ground behind rocks and hummocks of earth as they continued firing up at the three men atop the knoll. A couple minutes of fierce fighting went by, but neither side did any real damage to the other.

  Then Preacher laughed and said, “It’s about time!”

  “About time for what?” Sandy asked.

  “For your father to play his cards in this game,” Matt said.

  Dozens of Indian ponies suddenly appeared as if by magic, boiling up from the gully Matt had spotted earlier. He’d figured Crazy Bear would use it to approach the battleground and he was right. Whooping and yipping to demoralize their opponents, the Crow swept forward and charged into Bannerman’s men. Some sent rifle slugs smashing into their startled enemies, others pierced them with arrows, and some of the gunmen were trampled under the slashing hooves of the ponies. Matt and Preacher continued picking off any of Bannerman’s men they had good shots at, until dust swirled up around the base of the knoll and they could no longer see to aim.

  The fighting was brief. The grim noises of battle faded away, and the dust began to settle. Matt stood up and looked down the slope to see that all of Bannerman’s gunhawks were either dead, wounded, or captured. Preacher joined him and said, “Looks like that plan we hatched with Crazy Bear worked just fine.”

  Sandy stumbled to his feet. “You knew this was going to happen?” he demanded.

  “We couldn’t imagine that Bannerman would let you reach Buffalo Flat for that hearing without trying to stop you,” Matt said. “So we figured to lure his men into a trap by starting out for town with just the three of us, while Crazy Bear and some of his warriors followed us and stayed out of sight.”

  “In other words, the three of us were the bait!”

  Matt shrugged. “Call it what you want. We figured Bannerman would send most of his men out here to stop you from getting to town while the rest of them went after the stagecoach with that judge on it. We’ve taken care of this bunch, so I don’t reckon we’ll have any more trouble between here and Buffalo Flat.” He turned and peered off toward the south, as if he could see across the intervening miles. “Now it’s up to Smoke to get that judge there safe and sound.”

  Smoke and Halliday left Buffalo Flat early that morning, following the stage road that led south to Casper and ultimately on to Laramie and Cheyenne.

  “There’s an overnight stage stop down on the Middle Fork of the Powder River, close to where the river splits into three branches,” Smoke said. “That’s where the coach will be startin’ from this morning, I imagine.”

  Halliday nodded. “That’s the way it was when I rode it up here a few days ago.” He was mounted on a horse rented from Hoyt Dowler and seemed to be a decent rider. He had traded his town suit for range clothes, and from the way he handled himself, Smoke suspected he’d done a little cowboying at some time in the past.

  It was a beautiful morning with a deep blue sky overhead. The air was so clear it seemed like the snow-capped peaks of the Big Horns to the west were close enough to reach out and touch. On such a day, it was hard to believe anything could ever change, Smoke reflected.

  Then he thought about how different the West was from the untamed wilderness Preacher had first ventured into nearly sixty years earlier. Who knew what would happen in the next sixty years?

  The mountains would still be there, Smoke thought as he glanced toward the Big Horns. It was a considerable amount of comfort to know they would endure long after he and everyone else he ever knew were gone.

  The two men kept their horses moving at a steady, ground-eating pace, and they covered quite a few miles by mid-morning. If the stagecoach driver had started on the last leg of the journey at first light, as usual, he and Halliday ought to be meeting the vehicle soon, Smoke told himself.

  It was only a few minutes after that thought crossed his mind when he spotted a column of dust rising in front of them.

  “That’ll be the coach,” Smoke told Halliday as he pointed out the dust. Then he stiffened in the saddle and rose in his stirrups, his eyes narrowing as he peered at a second cloud of dust not far behind the first one.

  “What’s wrong?” Halliday asked.

  “Looks like somebody else is headed this way, too.”

  “Bannerman’s men?”

  “Could be,” Smoke said. “Out on these flats, it’s hard
to set up an ambush because there’s not enough good cover. But those gun-wolves could’ve gotten out of sight, waited for the stagecoach to pass them, then tried to overtake it from behind. I reckon that’s what’s happening right now.”

  “Then we’d better get a move on,” Halliday said as he drew his rifle from the saddle boot.

  “That’s just what I was thinkin’,” Smoke said. He heeled his horse into a run.

  The men galloped hard along the trail. The gap between them and the two clouds of dust closed rapidly. After a couple minutes Smoke was able to spot the stagecoach itself at the base of the first dust cloud, rocking and swaying on its thorough braces as it careened along the trail. The driver had the team at a full gallop.

  “You take the right, I’ll take the left!” Smoke called to Halliday, who nodded in understanding. The two of them split up, each veering to one side of the trail so the racing coach could pass between them. Dust swirled, choking and blinding them for a second as the big Concord stagecoach flew by. Smoke heard gunshots and knew they came from the pursuers, but he couldn’t see to return the fire.

  When the dust blew away and his vision cleared, he saw eight men on horseback thundering toward him and Halliday, who was drawing rein on the other side of the trail. Smoke did likewise and raised the Winchester to his shoulder. He and Halliday opened fire as the pursuing gunmen realized they weren’t chasing a defenseless stagecoach anymore.

  The rifle’s lever was a blur as Smoke blasted out all fifteen rounds as swiftly as he could. He swung the barrel from left to right as he fired, and the hail of lead was rewarded by the sight of three men toppling from their saddles. Halliday’s shots were having an effect as well. Two more men fell to his slugs.

  That left three hired killers still charging toward Smoke and Halliday, blazing away as they came through. Smoke rammed the Winchester back in its sheath and drew both of his .44s. The range was close enough for handguns.

  Smoke emptied his right-hand gun first, since his wounded left arm was still stiff and sore. One man rocked back in the saddle and then pitched to the side, either dead or badly wounded. More dust, raised by the hooves of the gunmen’s horses, curled around him and, again, he couldn’t see very well.

  One of the remaining killers loomed up in front of him, only a few yards away. Smoke twisted in the saddle as the man fired. He heard the wind-rip of the bullet pass his ear as it narrowly missed. His left arm came up, slower than usual but fast enough for him to get a shot off before Bannerman’s man could fire again. At the moment Smoke might be slower with his left hand, but he was just as accurate as ever. The gunslinger’s head jerked back as the slug smacked into his forehead and killed him. His body thudded to the ground a second later.

  Smoke heard other shots and knew that Halliday was swapping lead with the remaining hardcase. When the guns fell silent Smoke holstered his right-hand Colt, then took the other revolver from his left hand in case he needed to use it fast. As the dust settled he saw that Halliday was still on the rented horse and the last of the gunmen was on the ground, writhing for a second before stiffening as death claimed him.

  “You all right?” Smoke called to the detective.

  Halliday nodded. “Yeah. That was the hottest shootout I’ve been mixed up in for quite a while.” A grin stretched across his angular face. “Brought back some memories…not necessarily good ones.”

  “I know what you mean,” Smoke said as he began to reload. He had killed so many men over the years that he sometimes wondered if the killing was ever going to stop. Someday it would, he thought, when times were finally peaceful…but he might not be around to see it.

  He looked over his shoulder and saw the stagecoach had come to a stop several hundred yards away. “We’d better go check on it,” he said to Halliday. “Make sure that judge is still all right.”

  They jogged their horses toward the coach. Before they got there, the door opened and a stocky, powerfully-built man stepped out holding a rifle. He wore a town suit, but his broad-brimmed tan Stetson and well-worn boots looked more like something a frontiersman would wear. He had a close-cropped dark beard shot through with gray and looked up at Smoke and Halliday with intense, keenly intelligent eyes.

  “Judge Starr?” Halliday asked as he and Smoke reined in.

  The man nodded. “That’s right. Who’re you?”

  “Name’s Halliday. Right now I work for a law firm in Denver.” Halliday inclined his head toward Smoke. “This is Smoke Jensen.”

  Judge Starr’s somewhat bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. “The gunfighter?”

  “Some call me that,” Smoke allowed. “The way I see it, I’m just a rancher.”

  Starr snorted. “A rancher with one of the fastest draws in the West, if not the fastest. I take it you gentlemen came out to meet me and escort me the rest of the way to Buffalo Flat?”

  “That’s right,” Smoke said. “We knew there was a good chance Reece Bannerman would try to stop you from getting there and conducting that hearing.”

  Starr raised a hand to stop him. “I won’t allow any testimony out here on the trail that might prejudice my judgment. Save that for the hearing, gentlemen.”

  Smoke frowned in irritation and said, “But those were Bannerman’s men who were tryin’ to kill you.”

  “That assumes facts not in evidence.” Starr tucked his rifle under his arm. “Now, shall we go?”

  Smoke bit back an annoyed curse and nodded. “Yeah, I reckon so.” He watched as Starr climbed back into the coach and shut the door. The driver called out to the team, slapped the reins against their backs, and got them moving again. Smoke and Halliday fell in alongside the vehicle.

  “Reckon he’s a by-the-book judge, all right,” Smoke muttered.

  “That’s just what you want,” Halliday pointed out. “That means he’ll be more likely to rule in favor of your friend Little Bear if the claim is a valid one.”

  “I hope so. I don’t want to wind up havin’ to go against the government.”

  Halliday frowned over at him. “You’d do that?”

  “If it means stopping Bannerman and his high-powered cronies back in Washington from getting away with the biggest, dirtiest landgrab in history…I’ll do whatever it takes,” Smoke said.

  Chapter 36

  Sandy’s horse hadn’t broken its leg in the fall, but it was lame, so Sandy traded mounts with one of the Crow warriors who had sprung the trap on Bannerman’s hired killers. Accompanied by Crazy Bear and three warriors, Matt, Preacher, and Sandy rode on to Buffalo Flat. The Indians drew a bit of attention but didn’t cause a panic as they rode down the street. Folks were used to seeing the Crow around there.

  Jason Garrard emerged from his hotel and lifted a hand in greeting to Matt, who reined in and nodded to him. “Mister Garrard.”

  “That’s Mayor Garrard now,” the man said with a smile. “I’ve decided to go into politics.” He looked a little less friendly as he nodded to his son-in-law. “Sandy.”

  “Hello, Mr. Garrard,” Sandy said. “It’s good to see you again.”

  From the looks of it, an uneasy truce existed between the two men, Matt thought. They had to get along with each other because of Robin, but they might not ever genuinely like each other.

  Matt considered Garrard an ally of sorts. The man had put his shady dealings behind him and was working for the betterment of the entire community. Matt said, “A federal judge will be on the stagecoach when it comes in, Mr. Garrard. He’s going to hold a hearing about Sandy’s claim to the upper portion of the valley. Is there a place in town big enough to have a hearing like that?”

  “Sure. You can use the lobby of the hotel. Should be plenty of room in there, and we can bring in chairs from the dining room, as well as a table for the judge.”

  “That would be fine. Thanks.”

  Garrard nodded to Crazy Bear and the three warriors. “Will the, ah, Indians be coming in?”

  “I think that would be a good idea,” Matt said.


  “Well, all right. Maybe having some savages around won’t spook my guests too much.”

  Matt glanced at Crazy Bear, knowing that the chief understood English. His face remained as impassively ugly as ever.

  The men dismounted. Garrard said to Sandy, “How are my daughter and granddaughter?”

  “They’re fine,” Sandy told him. “We’ll be spending more time in town soon.”

  “I hope so. I want Emily to grow up knowing her grandpa.”

  It took Matt a second, then he realized that Emily was Moon Fawn’s white name. She was a lucky little girl, he thought. She would grow up experiencing both worlds, Indian and white.

  Preacher said, “You and Sandy go on inside, Matt.” He inclined his head toward Crazy Bear and the Crow warriors. “Me and these fellas will stay out here. We ain’t too fond of havin’ hard roofs over our heads. Never quite got used to it.”

  Matt nodded. “All right. You keep an eye out for Smoke and that stagecoach.”

  Garrard enlisted the help of his desk clerk and began preparing the hotel lobby for the hearing. Matt and Sandy pitched in, and so did some curious traveling salesmen who were staying at the hotel. The drummers didn’t know what was going on, but anything that broke up the monotony of their lives was welcome. Before long, they had the sofas that normally sat in the lobby moved out of the way and had set up several rows of chairs from the dining room.

  “This may interfere with your business,” Sandy said to his father-in-law.

  “Not enough to worry about,” Garrard replied. He smiled. “Besides, having such an important proceeding here might just increase business in the long run.”

  A short time later, Preacher stuck his head in the front door. “There’s some dust comin’ south o’ town!” he called. “Could be the stagecoach.”

  They crowded onto the hotel porch and watched the vehicle come up the street flanked by Smoke and Halliday. The presence of the Indians and rumors of what was about to happen at the hotel had spread around town, and quite a crowd was gathering. The coach’s driver slowed his team to let the townspeople get out of the way. The leather-lunged old jehu bellowed fiery curses that caused women to put their hands protectively over the ears of their children.