Smoke Jensen, the Beginning

by William W. Johnstone

  The excited clerk ran out the door. “I heard it all! You were right, Mr. Smoke. Yes, sir. Right all the way.” He looked at Smoke. “Why, you’ve been wounded, sir.”

  A slug had nicked the young man on the cheek, another had punched a hole in the fleshy part of his left arm, high up. Both were minor wounds.

  Preacher had been grazed on the leg. He spat into the street. “Damn near swallowed my terbacky.”

  “I never saw a draw that fast,” a man spoke from the storefront. “It was a blur.”

  The sheriff and the deputy came out of the jail, walking down the bloody, dusty street. Both were carrying Greeners, double-barreled, twelve-gauge shotguns.

  “Right down the street,” the sheriff said, pointing, “is the doctor’s office. Get yourselves patched up and then get out of town. You have one hour.”

  “Sheriff, it was a fair fight,” the desk clerk said. “I seen it.”

  The sheriff never took his eyes off Smoke. “One hour,” he repeated.

  “We’ll be gone.” Smoke wiped a smear of blood from his cheek.

  Townspeople began hauling the bodies off. The local photographer set up his cumbersome equipment and began popping flash powder, sealing the gruesome scene for posterity. He also took a picture of Smoke.

  The editor of the paper walked up to stand by the sheriff. He watched the old man and the young gun hand walk down the street. He truly had seen it all. The old man had killed one man and wounded another. The young man had killed four. “What’s the young man’s name?”

  “His name is Smoke Jensen. But if you ask me, he’s the devil.”

  “Your pa would be pleased,” Preacher said as they rode out of town within the hour assigned by the sheriff. “Do you plan to get the other men he was looking for?”

  “Yes, I do. But I’m going after Shardeen first.”

  “Before you start out, I want you to come to Denver with me. I’ve got a fella there I’d like for you to meet.”

  “Somebody who can help me find Shardeen?”

  “You might say that,” Preacher replied, without being any more specific.

  It took them three days to get to Denver.

  Preacher led Smoke to a low-lying building made of white limestone. A United States flag flew from the flagpole out front, and as they started into the building, Smoke saw a sign chiseled above the doorway. UNITED STATES FEDERAL OFFICE BUILDING.

  “What are we going in here for?”

  “You’re askin’ questions again. Didn’t I tell you a long time ago that when words is goin’ outta your mouth, nothin’ can be comin’ in your ears? You learn quicker if you’re just quiet and pay attention,” Preacher said.

  Smoke smiled. “Have you always been such a cantankerous old fart?”

  “Pretty much,” Preacher said.

  Both men were wearing buckskins, and both were a little more gamey than the average citizen of Denver. When Swayne Hodge, the office clerk, looked up and saw the two men coming in, he became a little agitated. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, are you lost?”

  “Pilgrim, I been out here more ’n fifty years ’n I ain’t never been lost but one time. I cain’t say as I was all that lost then, since it didn’t take me more ’n a month to find my way back to the trail.”

  “But you do know that this is a federal office building, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t exactly figure it to be a house of ill repute,” Preacher said.

  “Oh, my,” Hodge said, clearly discomforted by the vulgarity.

  “Preacher! What are you doing here?” Another voice spoke openly and without reservation.

  “Excuse me, Marshal Holloway, do you actually know these, uh, gentlemen?” Hodge asked, stumbling over the word gentlemen.

  “I don’t know both of them,” the marshal said. “But I certainly know the older gentleman. Preacher, come into my office and introduce me to your young friend.”

  Hodge remained standing, watching with his mouth agape as Uriah B. Holloway, United States Marshal for the Colorado District, holding his commission by U.S. Senate confirmation since April 10, 1866, led the two unwashed men into his office.

  “Have a seat, men,” Marshal Holloway offered.

  “Thank ye, kindly, Uriah.” Preacher held his hand out toward Smoke. “This here is Smoke Jensen.”

  Holloway frowned. “Smoke? His name is Smoke?”

  “It’s as much Smoke as my name is Preacher.”

  The marshal chuckled. “All right, Preacher, I’ll go along with that. Smoke, it is good to meet you.”

  “Marshal,” Smoke replied, taking the lawman’s extended hand.

  “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “Have you ever heard of a man named Angus Shardeen?” Preacher asked.

  Holloway’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I’ve heard of him. What about him?”

  “First, let me ask what you know about him,” Preacher replied.

  “He has federal and state arrest warrants out on him,” Holloway replied. “He’s wanted for murder, robbery, arson, and probably half a dozen other things.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might be now?”

  Holloway shook his head. “I can’t say as I do. I do know, however, that he has some bad men with him.”

  “An army?” Smoke asked.

  “You might say that. Angus Shardeen was a colonel in the Union Army during the war . . . though there are some who dispute that. He was actually a Jayhawker, operating at the head of a gang of guerrillas, supposedly riding in support of Union troops. But his tactics were so brutal, and quite frankly, so self-enriching, that if he ever did actually hold a commission, it was probably withdrawn.

  “Since the end of the war, he has continued the guerrilla operations using many of the same men, only it is without regard to any cause, other than his own.”

  “Bein’ as you are a U.S. Marshal, would you have the authority to go after ’im, no matter where he is?” Preacher asked.

  Holloway nodded. “I would.”

  “And say there was somebody who was a Deputy U.S. Marshal, say it was someone that you appointed. Would that fella also be able to go after Shardeen, no matter where he might be?”

  “Yes, he would. Tell me, Preacher, why are you asking me all these questions? Do you know where Shardeen is?”

  “I don’t have ’ny idee where he is, but if you was to appoint Smoke as one of your deputies, he’ll find ’im for you.”

  Holloway looked over at Smoke. “Do you have an idea as to where Shardeen might be?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then what makes you think you’ll be able to find him, when I haven’t.”

  “Marshal, you bein’ the law for this whole territory, I would expect that you have a lot more things to do than just look for Angus Shardeen, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

  “I don’t and I intend to find him,” Smoke replied with grit.

  “And you want me to appoint you deputy so that you can?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No?” Holloway looked over at Preacher in surprise. “Look here, isn’t this what you just asked me to do?”

  “I mean no, sir, I don’t want you to appoint me deputy so I can find him,” Smoke said. “I intend to find ’im, whether I’m appointed as your deputy or not.”

  “You did hear me tell you that Shardeen was riding at the head of his own army, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, I heard you say that.”

  “Well, here’s the thing, Mr. Jensen. I don’t have funding for another deputy.”

  Preacher spoke up. “Look here, Uriah. Sometimes when you form a posse to go after someone, don’t you appoint them men in the posse as Deputy U.S. Marshals?”

  “Yes, I do. But I don’t pay them.”

  “You don’t have to pay me,” Smoke said.

  “Let me get this straight. You are willing to be an unpaid deputy in order to go out, single-handed, to find Angus Shardeen, even though you know there ar
e at least half a dozen with him?”

  Smoke nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “You will have to function alone. I don’t have enough men to assign anybody to one specific task.”

  “That’s all right.”

  Marshal Holloway looked over at Preacher again. “Preacher, you go along with this?”

  “I do.”

  “All right, Smoke Jensen, raise your right hand.”

  Smoke did as he was directed.

  “Now, repeat after me. I Smoke Jensen . . .”

  “I Smoke Jensen . . .” He continued with the oath as administered by Marshal Holloway. “Do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute all lawful precepts, directed to the Marshal of the United States for the District of Colorado, under the authority of the United States, and true returns make, in all things well and truly. And without malice or partiality, perform the duties of Deputy Marshal for the District of Colorado during my continuance in said office, so help me God.”

  That done, Holloway reached out to shake Smoke’s hand. “Congratulations, Smoke. You are now a Deputy U.S. Marshal. That gives you full authority to arrest any fugitive, anywhere within the borders of the United States. That includes all states and territories.” Holloway smiled. “But you won’t be paid.”

  “I understand.”

  “But even though you won’t be paid, you still intend to bring him in.”

  “No.”

  “I beg your pardon? I thought that was the whole reason for appointing you a Deputy U.S. Marshal.”

  “I won’t be bringing him in,” Smoke said cryptically.

  Shortly afterward, Smoke took his hunt for Angus Shardeen public. He had a letter printed in newspapers all over Kansas, Colorado, Idaho, and Wyoming.

  To the murderer and bandit, Angus Shardeen.

  You killed many women, children, and old men during the war. You have continued your murdering and killing since the war, having abandoned all pretense of patriotism, and are doing so for selfish reasons.

  During your murderous spree, one of the women you killed was my mother, Pearl Jensen. I watched you do this, then you clubbed me down and left me for dead. You should have checked me more closely Shardeen, for I was not dead, and now I am coming for you.

  I’m coming for you for my mother and for the families of all the innocents you have killed, and I am doing this, not for revenge, but for justice. That is because as an official Deputy United States Marshal, I have the power of the law on my side.

  SMOKE JENSEN.

  “Who in the hell does this arrogant deputy marshal think he is?” Shardeen demanded angrily, after he read the letter in the newspaper.

  “He tells us right there who he is,” Bartell said. “He is Smoke Jensen.”

  “Is that name supposed to mean anything to me?”

  “From what I’ve heard, he may be the fastest gun there is,” Bartell replied. “And they say he can shoot the eye out of a squirrel from a hundred yards away.”

  “They say? Who says?” Shardeen demanded.

  “People who have seen him shoot. He could give us trouble.”

  “How much trouble can he be if he is dead? I want him dead,” Shardeen said. “And I’m willing to pay well for it.”

  CHAPTER 17

  March 1870

  In the six months since Smoke had pinned on the star of Deputy U.S. Marshal, he had been wandering around, sometimes chasing a lead, sometimes going from town to town with no particular lead but merely “casting his net,” as Preacher described his travels. And like fishermen who cast their nets into to the sea, his net came up empty many more times than it provided results.

  Even as he rode on, he remembered what he’d learned two months ago in the small town of Sage Creek, Wyoming.

  A bartender nervously handed him a piece of paper. “I don’t know if you know anything about this, and I want you to know I ain’t havin’ nothin’ to do with it. By that, I mean I ain’t handin’ these things out to nobody, even though somebody give me near a hunnert of ’em ’n tole me to pass ’em out to any cowboy who might want to make a little money.

  “What is it?” Smoke asked, wondering what the mysterious piece of paper might be. He opened it to read.

  Five Hundred Dollars

  Will Be Paid By

  Angus Shardeen

  To Anyone Who Kills

  Smoke Jensen

  Smoke chuckled.

  “If you don’t mind my sayin’ so, Mr. Jensen, that seems like an odd reaction from someone seein’ his name on a flyer that’s offerin’ five hunnert dollars for his bein’ kilt.”

  “I suppose so. But to me it means that I’ve finally got his attention. And it isn’t as if these are something that’s been put out by the law.” Smoke folded the paper over.

  “Yeah, but to an awful lot of bounty hunters it don’t make no difference who is payin’ the reward, long as there is one,” the bartender said.

  Smoke nodded. “I guess you have a point there.”

  Smoke stopped on a ridge just above the road leading into the town of Commerce, Idaho. The cold gray sky was spitting snow, though it wasn’t falling heavily. He tried to take a drink of water from his canteen, but it was frozen. He wasn’t thirsty enough to start a fire to melt it.

  He watched a stagecoach a few minutes as it started down from the pass, making its way into the town. Then, corking the canteen, he put it away, hunkered down inside his buffalo coat, slapped his legs against the side of his horse, and sloped down the long ridge. Although he was actually farther away from town than the coach, he would beat it there because he was going by a more direct route.

  He stopped beside a small sign just on the edge of town.

  COMMERCE

  POPULATION 125

  A Growing Community

  The weathered board and faded letters indicated that it had been there for some time, most likely erected when optimism for the town’s future was still prevalent. Smoke doubted there were that many residents in the town, and he was positive the town had no future.

  He continued on into town, checking the corners and rooftops of buildings, doorways, and kiosks . . . any place that might provide concealment for a would-be shooter. His pa had taught him to be cautious. Preacher had suggested that the better he became known, the more cautious he should be. The actual procedure as to when, where, and how to look out for snipers and those who would ambush him was something he had developed by experience and common sense.

  A moment later, he pulled up in front of the saloon, dismounted, and made a cautious entrance inside. Taking off his hat, he brushed away the snow, then removed his heavy coat and hung it on a stop that protruded from the wall.

  He examined the saloon for a moment. Two pot-bellied stoves blazed away with such intensity that they were gleaming red. The heat was disproportional with an area that was too hot close to the stoves . . . and too cold far away, but with a wide comfort zone in between. Most of the bar was within that comfort zone, and Smoke stepped up to it.

  “What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.

  “A beer and maybe a little information,” Smoke replied.

  “The beer I can supply. Not sure about the information, but you can try.”

  Smoke waited until the beer mug was put in front of him before he asked, “Does the name Angus Shardeen mean anything to you?”

  “I know who he is. I expect just about ever’one in the West knows who he is.”

  “But do you know where he is?”

  “I don’t have any idea where he is, ’n I’m not sure I’d tell you where if I knew.”

  “Why not?”

  “If you’re plannin’ on joinin’ up with him, far as I’m concerned, he has enough dregs with him already. And anyone who is plannin’ on joinin’ up with him is a lowlife.”

  “And if I’m not plannin’ on joinin’ him?”

  “Then I got two reasons not to tell you nothin’. Number one, I don’t want to give you information that could get you kilt. And number
two, I don’t want it gettin’ back to Shardeen that I’m tellin’ folks how to find him.”

  At the opposite end of the bar stood a man wearing a slouch hat above a weather-lined face. Hanging low in a quick-draw holster on the right side of a bullet-studded belt was a silver-plated Colt .44, its grip inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

  He had been listening to the conversation and watching Smoke in the mirror. When he’d heard enough, he tossed his drink down and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Then he turned to look at Smoke. “Hey, you.”

  Smoke did not turn.

  “I’m talkin’ to you, boy.”

  Smoke looked at him and raised his beer in salute. “Good afternoon.” He knew from the tone of the man’s voice that it wasn’t going to be a simple exchange of pleasantries.

  “You’re lookin’ for Angus Shardeen, are you?”

  “I am.”

  “And would your name be Smoke Jensen?”

  “I am.”

  “You do know, don’t you, Mr. Smoke Jensen, Mr. famous. . . gunfighter”—he set the last word apart from the rest of the sentence and said it with a sneer—“that there’s reward money out for you.”

  “How would you know that?” Smoke asked.

  “I know that because I’m a bounty hunter, ’n it’s my business to know.”

  “Well, I hate to disappoint you, Bounty Hunter,” Smoke said. “But you don’t want me. That dodger isn’t official. I’m not wanted by the law.”

  The bounty hunter laughed a harsh and dismissive laugh. “Hell, mister, that don’t matter none to me. A reward is a reward, ’n I don’t really give a damn who pays it.”