The Jensen Brand

by William W. Johnstone

  * * *

  Sheriff Monte Carson was leaning against one of the posts holding up the awning over the boardwalk when he saw the wagon rolling down the street. Calvin Woods was at the reins, and another of the Sugarloaf hands was on the seat beside him.

  Monte straightened up from his casual stance as the wagon went right on past the general store. He had expected the Sugarloaf’s foreman to stop there and pick up supplies. As the wagon drew closer, though, Monte spotted several blanket-wrapped shapes in the back, and that brought a frown to his weathered face.

  Once an outlaw but for the past two decades a dedicated lawman, he was getting on in years. Before too much longer, he knew he was going to have to give some real thought to retiring as Big Rock’s peace officer. His draw, never as fast as his friend Smoke Jensen’s but pretty darned swift, had slowed down in recent months. Monte knew that age was catching up to him. It happened to everybody and was inevitable.

  But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

  He was still sheriff, and when somebody brought in a load of dead bodies—he was pretty sure that was what Cal had in the wagon—it was still his job to find out what in blazes had happened. He stepped down from the boardwalk and moved out into the street to intercept the wagon.

  As Monte raised a hand, Cal hauled back on the reins, brought the vehicle to a halt, and nodded. “Mornin’, Sheriff.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, that’s sort of a grim load you got there, Cal.”

  The Sugarloaf foreman shrugged and turned to jerk his head toward one of the shrouded shapes that was placed a little apart from the others. “That’s Sid MacDowell, one of our hands. I don’t have names for the others, but they’re all no-good rustlers.”

  Monte let out a low whistle. “Five of ’em, eh?”

  “Yeah, and one got away, damn it. But we came close to makin’ it a clean sweep.”

  “I take it they hit the Sugarloaf last night?”

  “Tried to,” Cal said. “I’m takin’ them down to the undertaker’s, but if you want to have a look at them, see if you recognize anybody from the reward dodgers you’ve got, I can uncover them.”

  Monte shook his head. “No, you go ahead. I’ll come down there and have a gander at them before they’re planted. In the old days, we would have strapped the carcasses onto planks and stood them up so the whole town could gawk at them, but I reckon Big Rock is too civilized for that now.”

  Cal grinned. “You sound like you think that’s a bad thing.”

  “You get to be my age, you start missin’ the old days, whether they were really all that good or not.” Monte stepped back so Cal could drive on.

  He would allow some time while the bodies were prepared and laid out in cheap pine coffins, then check them before the lids were nailed on. Simon Rone, who had taken over Big Rock’s undertaking business, knew to send a boy to fetch him before burying any outlaws.

  Monte was a bit surprised the slain Sugarloaf man wasn’t being laid to rest in the little cemetery out at the ranch. Maybe the fellow had kinfolks elsewhere, and Cal was going to have the body sent back to them. Monte put those thoughts out of his head for the moment. It was time for a second cup of coffee. He wondered sometimes how people ever lived before they started drinking coffee.

  As he ambled toward the café, he noticed a man walking toward him, and the instincts that had kept him alive through a lot of long, dangerous years warned him that the hombre intended to brace him. Monte’s eyes, still keen as ever even though his gun hand was slowing down, took in the man at a glance.

  Late twenties, more than likely, which was still young to Monte. Medium-sized, but he moved with a sort of wolflike grace. He wore denim trousers, a soft buckskin shirt with a drawstring neck but no fringe, and a light brown hat with a rounded crown. A fine layer of trail dust covered the outfit.

  A gun belt with a single holstered Colt attached to it was buckled around the stranger’s lean hips. He had a pleasant smile on his face, but a certain hardness in his eyes.

  The lawman recognized that look. He had seen it in Smoke’s eyes many times. The stranger wasn’t the sort to call attention to himself.

  The truly dangerous ones usually weren’t.

  The man raised his left hand in an innocuous gesture of greeting as his right hand remained close by the revolver on his hip. “Excuse me. You’re Sheriff Carson, aren’t you?”

  Monte pointed toward the badge pinned to his vest. “That’s what this tin star says. What can I do for you?”

  “I was hoping I could talk to you for a minute, maybe in your office.”

  “You have business with the law?”

  “You could say that.” The stranger lowered his left hand to his waist, slid his fingers behind his belt, and brought out something he concealed in his palm. He turned his hand just enough for Monte to catch a glimpse of a badge.

  “You’re a lawman?” Monte asked, pitching his voice quietly so that no one else could overhear.

  The stranger’s attitude made it plain he didn’t want his true identity spread around town. His answer was equally quiet. “Deputy U.S. marshal.”

  “Come on, then,” Monte said as he turned toward the sheriff’s office. He tried not to sigh. “There’ll be a pot of coffee on the stove. I warn you, though, it won’t be as good as what we could get at the café.”

  “As long as it’s coffee, that’s good enough for me. I started out from Denver early this morning.”

  The two men walked to the square stone building that housed the sheriff’s office and jail. The front office was empty, the two deputies who were on duty at the moment being out walking around town. Monte went over to the potbellied stove in the corner and took down two tin cups from the shelf on the side wall. Using a piece of leather to protect his hand from the heat, he picked up the pot and poured strong black brew into both cups.

  “You know who I am.” He handed one of the cups to the stranger. “Now, who are you besides somebody who packs a badge for Uncle Sam?”

  “My name is Brice Rogers,” the young man said. “I’m told you’ve got a rustling problem around here, and I’ve come to solve it.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Monte managed not to laugh in his fellow lawman’s face, but it wasn’t easy. “You have, have you?”

  “That’s right. We’ve had reports that cattlemen around here have been losing stock, and my boss, the chief marshal, wants it stopped.”

  “Since when is stealing cows a federal crime?”

  “When those ranchers have contracts to sell those cows to the army, as most of the ones located in this valley do. Anything that interferes with that puts the case under federal jurisdiction.”

  Monte blew out a breath. “Sounds like a pretty far reach to me.”

  “You can take that up with Chief Marshal Horton if you’d like.”

  Monte waved a hand dismissively. “No, there’s probably no need to go to that much trouble. Anyway, there’s a good chance Smoke Jensen has already solved that little rustling problem his ownself.”

  “Smoke Jensen? The notorious gunman?”

  “Smoke’s one of those ranchers you were just talking about. That gang of outlaws tried to hit his spread last night, but Smoke and his men were ready for them. Did you see me talking to that fella who brought the wagon into town?”

  Rogers nodded. “I noticed that, yes.”

  “That was Cal Woods, the foreman of Smoke’s ranch. The bodies of five dead rustlers were in the back of it.”

  “Jensen executed them?” Rogers asked with a frown. “Was it a lynching?”

  “Not hardly. There was a fight when the rustlers tried to drive off some stock. One of Smoke’s men was killed, too, but the Sugarloaf came out on top.”

  “That’s Jensen’s ranch? The Sugarloaf ?”

  “Yep. You see now why I said Smoke may have taken care of your problem for you?”

  Rogers didn’t look convinced. “How do you know there aren’t more rustlers?”

  “I
don’t,” Monte admitted with a shrug. “In fact, Cal told me that one of the bunch got away, although it’s likely he was wounded . . . no telling how bad.”

  “So the problem may not be over after all. My boss won’t like it if I come back without being sure. It looks like I’ll be sticking around here for a while, at least until I’m convinced that’s nothing else to interfere with those beef contracts.”

  “Suit yourself, Marshal. I appreciate you letting me know that you’re here, as well as what brings you to Big Rock.”

  Rogers took a sip of his coffee. He didn’t make a face at the taste, but he glanced down into the cup as if he’d never encountered anything quite like it before. “You know, now that I think about it, I seem to recall reading quite a few reports about outbreaks of trouble in these parts. Would that have something to do with Smoke Jensen?”

  “Smoke’s not the kind to start trouble,” Monte said. “But if it comes along, he can damn sure finish it in a hurry.”

  “He was a wanted man at one time, wasn’t he?”

  “So was I.” Monte’s tone was curt. “But that was a long time ago for both of us. I reckon if you care to go back to Denver and dig deeper, you’ll find that he’s done a lot of good for Colorado, including helping out the governor on occasion.”

  Rogers lifted his eyebrows. “You’re not telling me to get out of town, are you, Sheriff?”

  Monte shook his head. “No, just saying you shouldn’t jump to any conclusions about Smoke on account of stories that may have been told about him. I’ve never known a finer, more decent man in all my life. If my word’s not good enough for you—”

  Rogers raised a hand to stop him. “It’s plenty good enough for me. I’m just trying to get a handle on what’s going on around here. I’ll be around for a while. Marshal Horton didn’t put any time limit on this assignment. Actually, I think he’d like to have a man in this part of the state on a semipermanent basis. Times are changing, you know. Civilization has spread all across what used to be the frontier, and it’s up to us to make sure that it stays that way. The lawless elements aren’t going to go away quietly, though.”

  “No, I reckon you can count on that,” Monte agreed. “From the looks of the way you showed me your badge, I get the idea you don’t want it spread around town that you’re a lawman.”

  Rogers nodded. “Yes, I’d rather keep that quiet. I get better results if not everyone in the area knows who I am. I have a little pocket here on the back of my belt where I cache my badge and bona fides.”

  “Be happy to. If you need a hand with anything, let me know.”

  “I will, Sheriff.” Rogers lifted the cup in his hand. “I’d thank you for the coffee, but—”

  “Yeah, I know. Don’t worry about—” He stopped when the door opened.

  Phil Harrigan, one of his deputies, hurried in. “Sheriff, looks like trouble at the Brown Dirt Cowboy.”

  Monte bit back a groan. “Again? Blast it. If this keeps up, I may have to ask the town council to shut that place down. It was always a little wild, but since Emmett Brown died and his nephew took over, it’s gettin’ to be a damn nuisance!”

  “What’s the Brown Dirt Cowboy?” Rogers asked. “A saloon?”

  “Yeah. The second biggest one in town. And the roughest.”

  Harrigan nodded toward Rogers. “Who’s this?”

  “Brice Rogers,” Monte said. “He’s new in town. Just thought I’d have a word with him, let him know how we do things around here.”

  “You don’t have to worry, Sheriff,” Rogers said, playing along with Monte’s response. “I’m a peaceable man.”

  “I wish everybody was. See you around, Rogers.” Monte headed for the door with Harrigan following him. He asked over his shoulder, “What’s going on down there?”

  “The Gunderson brothers are at it again.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Monte said. “I should have known.”

  Arno and Ingborg—who went by the nickname Haystack—Gunderson were a pair of bachelor Swedish brothers who had a farm east of Big Rock, where the terrain was more suitable for growing crops. They were both big, blond, and heavy with muscles from hard work. Normally they were as peaceful as could be. Even when they lost their tempers, they never bothered anyone else . . . they just tried to beat each other to death.

  And it was usually over a woman. Not the same woman every time, just one in a succession of soiled doves who found themselves working at the Brown Dirt Cowboy.

  Whenever they started a ruckus, Monte had to arrest them to keep them from wrecking the place. They were so big and hardheaded, they could pound on each other for a long time without doing any real damage, but in the process, they fell over tables and chairs and busted them to pieces. Sometimes bottles flew and broke windows and mirrors. It could turn into a real mess in a hurry.

  “Who are they fighting over this time?” Monte asked as he and the deputy strode along the street toward the saloon.

  “That soiled dove called Cindy.”

  “I can’t keep up with them, the way Claude Brown runs them through there. Is she the one with the red hair and the big . . . uh—”

  “That’s her all right, Sheriff,” Harrigan said.

  “Well, I can see how she could get a man riled up.” Monte was happily married, but he wasn’t blind. “Especially fellas like those Gundersons, who spend so much time by themselves out on that farm, working so hard. When they do come into town, they like to have themselves a good time.”

  “Cindy can sure provide that.” Harrigan added hastily, “Uh, from what I’ve heard. I wouldn’t really know.”

  As Monte stepped up onto the boardwalk in front of the saloon, a crash came from inside, followed by a scream. He picked up his pace, slapping the batwings aside as he plunged through the entrance. Two massive figures were lying on the floor amid the wreckage of a table as they kicked and gouged and punched at each other. A lushly built redhead in a short, spangled dress stood not too far away, her hands pressed to her mouth. She was trying to look horrified by the violence, but her eyes watched the battle with avid interest.

  The saloon’s other patrons had abandoned their tables and drawn back around the walls to give the combatants plenty of room. Some of them were casually fondling the scandalously clad serving girls who stood with them.

  Claude Brown, the current owner of the establishment and the nephew of the man who had started it, stood behind the bar. A florid-faced man in a collarless shirt, he had a bungstarter in his hand, as did the bartender in a grimy apron standing next to him. Monte figured that if either of the Gundersons had come close enough, Brown or the bartender would have leaned over the hardwood and walloped him. Neither of the Swedes had strayed into that danger zone, however.

  Spotting Monte, Brown said, “Thank God you’re here, Sheriff! You’ve got to put a stop to this!”

  “I intend to.” Monte drew his gun as the brothers rolled close enough that they were almost under his feet. He leaned over and shouted, “Hey! Arno! Haystack! That’s enough!”

  They ignored him, got sausagelike fingers around each other’s necks and started squeezing. Both faces under disheveled blond hair began to turn red.

  Monte thought about clouting them with his Colt, but he knew it might do more damage to the gun than to their heads. He jammed the revolver back into its holster and called to Brown, “Gimme that bungstarter!”

  Brown tossed the mallet to Monte, who caught it and then stood there watching for an opening to use it. He told the deputy, “Phil, get the other bungstarter.”

  Harrigan hurried over to the bar. Arno and Haystack suddenly lurched up from the floor and crashed into the sheriff’s legs, knocking Monte down. It was an accident. They hadn’t even noticed him standing there, as intent on choking each other to death as they seemed to be. But whether it was deliberate or not, he found himself on the sawdust-littered floor, trapped between what seemed like two wild bulls.

  Monte swung the bungstarter at a slablike Swedish jaw b
ut missed. The Gundersons rolled on top of him as they continued to struggle, and upwards of four hundred pounds pinned him to the floor. He couldn’t breathe, and he didn’t have enough air to shout for help.

  A shot blasted. The brothers broke apart and rolled off him. That was a huge relief. He could drag breath into his lungs again, but he hoped Phil Harrigan hadn’t shot one of them. They might be a couple crazy Scandihoovians, but they weren’t outlaws.

  Monte looked up. Brice Rogers stood there, gun in hand. A tendril of smoke curled from the revolver’s muzzle.

  Yelping in outrage, Claude Brown said, “Sheriff, that stranger just shot a hole in my ceiling!”

  “I . . . I almost did the same thing . . . myself,” Monte said as he sat up, still gasping for air. “Reckon I . . . should have . . . instead of trying to pound some sense . . . into these two.”

  “You bane all right, Sheriff ?” one of the Gundersons asked. Blood leaked from his swollen nose. The other one’s mouth was bloody.

  “I’m fine,” Monte snapped. “Give me a hand, Phil.”

  Harrigan helped Monte to his feet. “Sorry, Sheriff. I was tryin’ to figure out what to do when this fella barged in and let off that shot.”

  “And it’s a good thing he did. Those two oxes might’ve crushed every bone in my body if they’d rolled around on me for a while.” Monte looked at Rogers. “I’m obliged to you, mister.”

  Coolly, Rogers returned his Colt to its holster. “Seemed like somebody needed to break it up. That seemed like the quickest way of doing it.”

  Claude Brown leaned both hands on the bar. “Damn it, somebody has to pay for fixin’ that hole in my ceiling.”

  “The damage will come out of Arno and Haystack’s pockets.” Monte glared at Cindy. “Were you the cause of this, young woman?”

  “I didn’t mean anything, Sheriff. I just sat on Arno’s lap . . . or was it Haystack’s? . . . and then they started arguing—”

  “All right.” Monte suspected she had been trying to stir up the Gundersons enough to get both of them to pay for her favors, but it didn’t really matter.

  A soiled dove was never going to take the blame for anything.