Smoke Jensen, the Beginning

by William W. Johnstone

  If Smoke had not recognized him, Bartell may have had an insurmountable advantage. As it was, he did have the advantage of drawing first, and his many years on the outlaw trail had made him a formidable man with a gun. He got his pistol out first, and for a brief second Bartell actually thought he had won. He smiled as he brought his pistol up.

  It wasn’t until then that Smoke drew and fired. The bullet hit Bartell in the chest with the impact of a hammer blow, and he was slammed back against the bar before sliding down. He sat there, leaning back against the bar, his gun hand empty and the unfired gun on the floor beside him. He watched as Smoke approached him.

  “There ain’t nobody that fast.” Bartell coughed, a body-shaking cough.

  “Don’t die yet, Bartell. I want you to know why I killed you.”

  “I know you been alookin’ for us. I reckon it’s for the reward.”

  “It isn’t for the reward. It’s for Janey.”

  “Janey?” Bartell got a puzzled look on his face. “Are you crazy? I don’t know nobody named Janey.”

  “I didn’t say you knew her. But not knowing her didn’t stop you from raping her when you and Shardeen raided my farm during the war.”

  “I raped a lot of women durin’ the war. Some of ’em even liked it.”

  “She wasn’t a woman. She was just a girl.”

  “How do you know it was me that done it?”

  “Because I was there, and I saw you.”

  “You was there? You musta been just a kid then. How do you even know what you seen?”

  Smoke’s eyes glinted with retribution. “I know. Where is Angus Shardeen?”

  Bartell coughed again, another body-racking cough, bringing up blood. “You know what? I think I am goin’ to tell you where he’s at. Only I ain’t doin’ you no favors, ’cause if you find ’im, he’ll kill you.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Rattlesnake Canyon.” Bartell tried to laugh, but it turned into another blood-oozing cough. “Yeah, you go on out there . . . ’n after he kills you, me ’n you will be meetin’ again . . . ’cause I’m goin’ to be waitin’ for you in hell.”

  There was a rattling sound deep in Bartell’s throat, then his head fell to one side as his eyes, still open, glazed over.

  Smoke called out, “Anybody know where Rattlesnake Canyon is?”

  “It’s about twenty miles west of here,” one of the customers said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Jensen, if that’s really where he is, you might want to think twice ’bout goin’ out there,” the bartender said. “Shardeen has some bad men with ’im. You go out there alone, you’ll just be committin’ suicide.”

  “I thank you for your concern.” Smoke started toward the door.

  “You’re goin’ out there anyway, ain’t you?” the man who had spoken to him earlier asked. “You’re goin’ out there, knowin’ that in them rocks he may as well be in a fort, and knowin’ how many men he’s got with ’im.”

  Smoke stopped and turned around. “I’ve been after him for a long time. If he was on the moon, and there was some way I could get there, I would go after him.”

  “I know that area. Hell, if Shardeen is up there with his men, an army couldn’t get him out of there.”

  “I won’t be going with an army,” Smoke said. “It’ll just be me.”

  “All by yourself?”

  “Yes. The problem with an army is that many men can’t hide or keep quiet. Shardeen and his men would see an army comin’, and they would be able get ready for them. But one man travelin’ alone would more ’n likely be able slip around the rocks and through the crevices and such so as to be able to sneak up on them.”

  “Jensen, all I can say is, you got a lot more guts than you got brains.”

  Smoke left the saloon and went directly to the stable to get his horse.

  Heckemeyer came over to talk to him as he was throwing the saddle over Seven. “I heered what you was plannin’ on doin’. I mean, goin’ after Shardeen ’n all.”

  “You aren’t goin’ to try and talk me out of it, are you, Mr. Heckemeyer? Because it won’t do you any good. I’m goin’.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to try ’n talk you out of it. I just thought I might give you a little advice. When you get out there, they’s two trails that go to the top,” Heckemeyer said, speaking quietly. “You can stay mounted if you take the lower trail, but you’ll have to leave your horse somewhere if you take the upper trail. The upper trail is a lot steeper and harder, but that’s the one I’d take if I was you.”

  Smoke nodded as he tightened the cinch strap.

  “Thing is . . . if you take the lower trail, you can be seen for a long way before you get there. You take the upper trail, you’ll be on top long afore anyone has any idee that you’re there.”

  “Thanks.” Smoke handed Heckemeyer two dollar bills. “Give one of these to Wes. You keep the other one.”

  “Thank you,” Heckemeyer said with a smile.

  Smoke swung into the saddle, and with a nod, rode out through the open doors at the front of the stable.

  Wes walked over then. “He won’t be comin’ back, will he?”

  Heckemeyer gave Wes one of the two dollar bills. “More ’n likely, he won’t even live to see the sun go down. ’N that’s too bad. The world could use more men like him.”

  “He ain’t goin’ to get kilt,” Wes said.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I just know.”

  Rattlesnake Canyon was unique in that it had so many perfectly formed arches that it almost looked as if they were man-made, rather than a work of nature. The interior was so well concealed by rocks and ridgelines that its entrance couldn’t be seen unless someone was specifically looking for it. Inside the canyon was a source of water, which made it an ideal place for an outlaw encampment.

  After Smoke dismounted, he let Seven go, but not ground tethered. He was free to graze and water. Remembering what Heckemeyer had told him about the two trails, Smoke took the upper one, staying close to the wall, and taking advantage of the many rocks and protrusions. He passed through apertures when possible, rather than going around or over the long fingers. The climb up to the top of the promontory was easy enough at first with an inclining ledge that allowed him to walk upright. The higher he got, the more narrow the ledge became until finally the only way he could stay on the ledge was by holding on to whatever rocks and protrusions he could grab. Then the ledge disappeared altogether, and at the very end of the climb, he had to go straight up, finding footholds and handholds where he could. Finally he reached the top.

  From a concealed position, he saw several men sitting around a campfire about two hundred yards away. They were drinking coffee as casually as if they were in a downtown café, showing no concern about anyone approaching them, and why should they? There were five of them, and they were well fortified. Also, as Heckemeyer had promised, Smoke’s approach had been totally unnoticed.

  Smoke could see the men, but he couldn’t approach them directly. Boulders and draws would provide them cover in any gunfight, but the two hundred yards between him and them were wide open, with very few positions along the way where he might be able to take cover.

  Lying on his stomach, Smoke used a looking glass to peruse the campsite. He was able to pick out Shardeen, the prominent scar on his face making him easy to spot. Smoke counted six more men and . . . no. As he studied the faces, he realized there were only five more men. The sixth person was a woman.

  At first, he thought she was one of them, then he saw that her arms and legs were bound. Whoever the woman was, she was their prisoner!

  Smoke gave some consideration to just shooting Shardeen. After all, the Jayhawker was the one he wanted. If he killed him, he could just leave the others behind, then go after Potter, Stratton, and Richards—the men his pa had been after.

  Smoke put the looking glass in his pocket and jacked a round into the Henry, then aimed at Shardeen. His finger rested on t
he trigger, but he didn’t shoot. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t just shoot Shardeen and leave. He couldn’t leave the woman at the mercy of the others. He was sure they would kill her.

  With a sigh of frustration, Smoke kept the Henry cocked, then stood up and walked toward the encampment. For the first twenty-five yards or so, nobody noticed him. Nobody expected anyone to just walk in on them.

  “When in the hell is Bartell comin’ back? He’s s’posed to bring me a bottle of whiskey,” one of the men complained.

  Smoke recognized him as Tim Shardeen, the man he and his father had encountered a few years ago, when they first started West.

  “Hell, Tim. More ’n likely he’s took your money and bought hisself a woman,” one of the others replied, and they all laughed.

  “He better not have done that.”

  “Bartell’s not coming back,” Smoke said, his voice startling those gathered around the campfire.

  “What the hell?” Tim shouted. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m the man who killed Bartell.”

  One of the other men, responding more quickly to the unexpected intrusion, pulled his pistol and fired. Smoke fired back, never lifting the rifle higher than his waist. The man with the pistol went down.

  Smoke fired two more times, killing two others. The remaining three men ran behind cover, leaving only the woman exposed.

  In the open as he was, Smoke was at a disadvantage. He ran quickly to a small rock that did little to provide cover for him. They began shooting at him, the bullets hitting the rocky ground all around him, whining as they ricocheted away.

  A puff of gun smoke hung just over one of the distant boulders, indicating that someone was behind it. Smoke aimed at the corner of the boulder and waited.

  A few seconds later, a man’s head rose up, just far enough for the man to see where to shoot.

  It was all the opening Smoke needed. He squeezed the trigger and watched a little spray of blood and brain detritus fly out from the bullet wound in the outlaw’s head.

  The shooting stilled. A long period of silence was finally broken by a man’s shout. “Shardeen? Shardeen, you yellow belly! Don’t you leave me here all alone!”

  Was Shardeen really leaving? Or was it merely a ploy? Smoke wondered.

  “Shardeen! Come back here, you low-assed chicken!”

  After that last shout, Smoke heard the clatter of horseshoes on the rocky surface as a horse galloped away.

  The man shouted more obscenities, the tone of his voice betraying his anger and fear.

  “Mister, it looks like you’ve been deserted. There’s only one of you left,” Smoke called out from behind his scant rock.

  “Who the hell are you?” the disembodied voice shouted.

  “My name is Smoke Jensen. Who are you?”

  “The name is Hanks.”

  “Hanks? That name doesn’t mean anything to me. I didn’t come for you, Hanks. I came for Shardeen.”

  “Yeah, well, you mighta come for Shardeen, but you have near ’bout kilt all of us.”

  “Come on out into the open, and let me see you,” Smoke invited. “I think we can palaver a little, then both of us go on our way.”

  “I ain’t acomin’ out lessen you do.”

  “We can come out at the same time.”

  Hanks tried a bit of negotiating. “You said you didn’t come for me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then why don’t you just ride away?”

  “I’m not leavin’ the woman here.”

  “Why not? She ain’t nothin’ to you.”

  “I’m not leavin’ her here,” Smoke said again a bit stronger. “Now, if you want this to end, put your gun in your holster and come on out.”

  “I’ll come out, but I ain’t puttin’ my gun away.”

  “All right. Come on. As long you aren’t shooting.”

  “You said we’d come out at the same time,” Hanks replied.

  “I’ll count to three.”

  Smoke counted. At three, he stepped cautiously out into the open.

  A small man with a narrow face and a hook nose came out from behind the boulder across from Smoke, gun in hand, though the gun was pointing down.

  Smoke stood up and walked toward him, still holding the rifle. “Do you have any idea where Shardeen might have gone?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “Why shouldn’t you? He ran off, didn’t he? You don’t owe him anything.”

  Hanks was obstinate. “I don’t owe you nothin’ neither.”

  Smoke walked backwards to the woman, keeping his eyes on the outlaw.

  Although out in the open during the entire exchange of gunfire, she hadn’t been hit, but her eyes were wide open with fear. So far, she had not uttered a sound.

  “Let me get you untied. Then we’ll get you back home.” Smoke put the rifle down and leaned over to untie the woman.

  “Look out!” she shouted suddenly.

  In one motion, Smoke drew and fired at Hanks, who was raising his pistol and thumbing back the hammer.

  With a bullet in his chest, he stumbled back with a look of shock and pain on his face. He dropped his gun, then slapped both hands over the wound. “How did you—?” was as far as he got before tumbling over, dead.

  “Chugwater, Wyoming,” the woman said as Smoke untied her.

  “That’s where you live?”

  “No. That’s where Shardeen will be going.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He has a woman there. Lulu Barton.”

  “You know this woman?”

  “She’s my sister.”

  Sally Reynolds’ first day in Bury, Idaho, was nearly her last. Nobody had met her at the train, so leaving her luggage at the depot to be picked up later, she started down the boardwalk toward the address that was on the acceptance letter she held in her hand.

  Suddenly, she heard and felt the concussion of something whizzing by her very fast. Concurrent with her hearing the report of a gunshot, a bullet crashed through one of the square panes of the big glass window next to her. Actually, it was two gunshots, one right on top of the other. She turned and looked out into the street. Two men faced each other with smoking guns in their hands. She stared at them in shock for a moment, then one of the two men fell to the dirt.

  “Miss!” A very attractive and expensively dressed woman called out to her. “Get in here, off the street! Quickly!”

  Sally didn’t need a second invitation to hurry into the building, which turned out to be a dress shop.

  “There’s likely to be more shooting. Clay, the man who was just shot, has a brother,” the pretty woman said. “I expect Jeb will be coming out into the street shortly, wanting revenge.”

  “Heavens,” Sally said. “Does this sort of thing go on often?”

  “Fairly often.”

  True to the pretty lady’s prediction a second man walked into the street, firing his pistol. The two men continued to shoot at each other until the second man, Sally assumed it was Jeb, went down. The first man put his gun back in the holster, then started toward a nearby saloon as several others rushed forward to congratulate him.

  “It’s over now,” the pretty lady said.

  “I must say, this was quite a dramatic welcome to Bury,” Sally said.

  “Just arrived?”

  “Yes, by train a few minutes ago.”

  “Have you come to work at the Pink House?”

  “The Pink House?”

  The woman nodded. “For Miss Flora.”

  Sally shook her head. “I don’t know who Miss Flora is.” She smiled. “My name is Sally Reynolds, and I’m the new schoolteacher.”

  “A schoolteacher, are you? Well, Miss Reynolds, it’s good to meet you. I’m Janey Garner.” Janey remembered Miss Margrabe, and gave a passing wonder as to where she might be.

  “Do you work at the Pink House? Whatever that is.”

  “No, I’m a business manager for PSR,” Janey replied.<
br />
  “PSR?”

  “It’s a ranch, the Potter, Stratton, and Richards. Only it’s not just a ranch, it’s a huge ranch.”

  “A lady ranch manager? That’s most impressive. You must be as intelligent as you are beautiful.”

  Janey laughed and extended her hand. “Sally, I think you and I are going to wind up being very good friends.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Smoke had been riding for more than six hours. Behind him, the darker color of hoof-churned earth stood out against the lighter, sunbaked ground. Before him, the desert stretched out in motionless waves, one right after another. As each wave was crested, another was exposed, and beyond that another still.

  The only sounds were the jangle of the horse’s bit and harness, the squeaking leather as he shifted his weight upon the saddle, and the dull thud of hoofbeats.

  He had filled the canteen before he left Rattlesnake Canyon, but that was more than forty miles ago and he had come across no other water since then.

  His tongue was swollen with thirst and the canteen was already down by a third, but he was allowing himself no more than one swallow of water per hour. He was also rationing the water for Seven by taking two mouthfuls, then spitting the water into his hat and holding the hat up for Seven to drink.

  “I’m sorry, boy. This is all we have,” he apologized, feeling sorry for the horse. “I tell you what. I won’t be riding you, anymore. We’ll both walk the rest of the way,” he promised.

  Smoke had no idea how much farther he would have to go, but he was determined not to burden Seven any longer.

  Just before dark, a scattering of adobe buildings rose from the desert floor, wavering in the shimmering heat waves. The buildings so matched the desert in color and texture that Smoke wasn’t even sure the town was there. Gathering what strength he had remaining, he started toward it. He had no other choice. If it was real, he and Seven would live. If it was a mirage, they would probably die.

  It took at least another hour to reach the town, but within thirty minutes he knew that the town was real. “It’s real, Seven!” Smoke exclaimed, his voice hoarse from thirst. “It’s a real town! A real town with water!”