“Sorry about knockin’ you down like that, mister,” Cal said, stepping forward to offer his hand to help Waco back on his feet. “But that wasn’t very polite of you to grab the young lady like that.”
Scowling at Cal, Waco let him help him back to his feet. Then the scowl turned to an evil smile as he stared at Cal with his hand hanging loosely over his pistol.
“Draw, mister,” Waco said.
“Well, now, that’s going to be pretty hard to do, isn’t it?” Cal said. “I’m not wearing a gun.”
“Get yourself one,” Waco said. “Get one from your dumb-looking friend there.” He nodded toward Pearlie.
“I’m not carrying a gun either,” Pearlie said.
“What kind of coward doesn’t carry a gun?”
“This is a hotel ballroom, not a saloon. Gentlemen don’t come to places like this carrying a pistol,” another voice said.
Turning, Waco saw a man who was somewhat older than the two he was accosting.
“You’d do well to stay out of this, mister. You don’t have a stake in this.”
“Yes, I do. You see, those two men happen to be friends of mine.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“The name is Kirby.”
“Kirby, is it? Well, who invited you into this, Kirby?” Waco came down hard on the name Kirby, obviously amused by it.
“You might say I invited myself.” Moving his jacket to one side, he disclosed the fact that he was wearing a pistol.
“Ha!” Waco said. “I thought you said gentlemen don’t come to a place like this wearing a gun.”
“Well, see, that’s the problem,” Smoke said with an easy grin. “I guess I’m not quite the gentleman I should be. I’m sure my wife would like me to be a bit more gentlemanly at times. Right, Sally?”
“Right, Smoke,” Sally said. “Though even I will admit that this doesn’t seem to be one of those times. When you are dealing with riffraff like this, you can be as unruly as you want.”
“Smoke?” Waco asked. “Did she call you Smoke?” His face registered his confusion.
“Yes. Well, maybe I should explain. My name really is Kirby. Kirby Jensen. But most folks, my wife included, call me Smoke.”
“You’re Smoke Jensen?”
Smoke nodded, but he didn’t answer.
Waco licked his lips, then glanced over toward Manning. Manning was watching with interest, but it was very obvious that he was not going to take a hand in whatever was about to happen.
“Look,” Waco said, pointing to Smoke. “I told you. This here ain’t between us. This here is between me and this fella.”
Smoke shook his head slowly. “But as you can see, I’ve sort of stepped in here to make it my business,” Smoke said. “So, what’s your next move? Do you draw on me? Or do you take your stinking carcass out of here so decent people can continue to have a good time?”
Waco stood there for a long moment, trying to build up the courage to take the next step. Smoke followed the struggle in Waco’s eyes, saw when he almost reached the courage it would take to pull his gun. And he saw too when Waco lost whatever nerve he had built up. The anger, defiance, and courage drained away.
“Like I . . . uh . . . told you, this here ain’t your fight,” Waco said. Then, mustering as much defiance and maintaining as much dignity as he could, he turned to his friend.
“Come on, Manning. Let’s get out of here,” Waco said. “There ain’t nothin’ here but a bunch of cowards and fluffed-up dandies.”
The others at the dance watched in stunned silence as Waco and Manning left the ballroom of the hotel. A few, though not all of them, realized that they had just avoided seeing a deadly confrontation.
“Let’s get the music goin’ !” the caller shouted and, once again, the band began playing.
“That’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen,” Jane said, taking Cal’s arm in both her hands. She looked up at him with large, blue eyes that could melt butter.
“Smoke is pretty brave all right,” Cal said.
“No, silly, I’m not talking about Mr. Jensen,” Jane said. “I’m talking about you. You defended my honor, even though he was armed and you weren’t.”
“Yeah,” Pearlie agreed, smiling at his younger friend. “You did me proud.”
Cal beamed as he escorted Jane out onto the floor for the next dance.
Smoke and Sally stayed out of this one because the sheriff came over to talk to Smoke.
“Do you know that man?” the sheriff asked.
“No,” Smoke replied. “Should I?”
“Probably not. His name is Waco Jones. He’s very fast with a gun, and has killed at least seven men that I know of.”
“Why isn’t he in jail?”
“So far, every killing has been ruled as justifiable homicide,” the sheriff said. “Though on at least half of them, they say he goaded the other man into drawing first. Word is, he is trying to build a reputation.”
Smoke nodded. “I’ve run across his kind before, and I’m sure I’ll run across his kind again.”
“Be careful, Mr. Jensen,” the sheriff said. “I have a gut feeling about these things, and I’m pretty sure you’ll run across him again.”
“You think he wants to put my notch on his gun handle, do you?” Smoke asked.
The sheriff nodded. “I’d bet on it,” he said.
“Yeah. Well, I wouldn’t take you up on the bet,” Smoke said. “I think you might be right.”
“Smoke,” Sally said as the sheriff walked away.
“I know,” Smoke said. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“But I’m going to tell you anyway.” Sally said. “Please be careful.”
Just out of town, Three-Finger Manning and Waco Jones were riding through the night, their way lighted by a very bright, full moon.
Manning chuckled.
“What is it you are a’laughin’ at?”
“I ain’t laughin’ at nothing,” Manning said.
They rode on for a few moments longer, the silence broken only by the clopping of their horses’ hooves. Manning chuckled again.
“I asked you what it was you was a’laughin’ at,” Waco demanded, more angrily this time.
“I thought you was goin’ to show ever’ one how you was faster than Smoke Jensen.”
“I am faster!” Waco insisted.
“Uh-huh,” Manning said sarcastically. “I seen how much faster you was.” He laughed again.
“Tonight wasn’t the right time or place, is all,” Waco said.
“I’m sure it wasn’t.”
“I couldn’t of kilt him in there with all those witnesses. I mean, even if it had been a fair fight, you know half the folks there would say I drew first.”
“You’re probably right.” Manning chuckled again. “Course the thing is, if you had drawed down on him, you wouldn’t be needin’ to worry none about what any of the witnesses would’a said ’cause you’d be dead.”
Waco spurred his horse so that it leaped forward several feet; then he spun it around so he was facing Manning.
“All right, if you think I’m slow, maybe you’d like to try me. Unless you are afraid of me.”
“Oh, I’m not afraid of you,” Manning said.
“You ought to be.”
“I don’t think so. If anyone should be scared, it should be you.”
“Me? Scared of you? Now, why should I be scared of you?”
There was a metallic clicking sound in the night.
“What was that?” Waco asked.
Manning pulled his poncho to one side, revealing the fact that he was holding a double-barreled shotgun leveled toward Waco. “That clicking sound you heard was the reason you should be scared of me,” Manning said. “I’m fixin’ to blow your ass to hell and back.”
Manning raised the shotgun to his shoulder.
“No, hold it!” Waco shouted, holding his hands out in front of him. “Manning, wait! Look, I didn’t mean nothin’ by all that talk
of drawin’ against you.” Waco forced a weak laugh. “Can’t you take a joke? I was just funnin’ with you, is all.”
“I don’t like jokes, and I’m not funning,” Manning said, continuing to hold the shotgun on Waco, the twin barrels unwavering.
“Manning, please,” Waco said in a voice that, for the first time, showed Manning just how young Waco really was.
Sighing, Manning lowered the gun. “Look, kid, I’m a lot older’n you are,” he said. “And I’ve run across a lot of fast guns in my day, most all of ’em faster’n me. But I’m still alive. Do you want to know the reason I’m still alive?”
Waco nodded.
“The reason I’m still alive is I don’t play games. If I think someone is a threat to me, I kill ’em. I don’t face them in a fair fight ’cause I don’t care about getting myself some kind of a reputation. All I care about is staying alive, do you understand that?”
“Yes,” Waco replied, his voice still young and thin.
“Good, I’m glad you do. Because I’m tellin’ you right here and right now, if you plan to keep on playing this game with me, then I’m going to shoot you, and I guarantee you, I will kill you.”
“You don’t want to do that,” Waco said. “I mean, it’s like Major Brandt said, we’re all on the same side.”
“Then no more talk about how fast you are,” Manning said. “Otherwise, whether you’re sleepin’, eatin’, or shittin’, you’re goin’ to have to be lookin’ over your shoulder. Do you get my meanin’?”
“Yeah,” Waco said. “Now, put the scattergun away.”
“Thank you, but I’ll just keep it handy for the rest of our ride back.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
When Richard King started back home on the following day, his entourage drew quite a bit of attention. He, Kleberg, Smoke, Cal, and Pearlie were on horseback. Henrietta, Alice, and Sally were in a Concord coach. In sturdiness and construction, it was the same kind used on the commercial stagecoach lines, though this one had been built with deep-cushioned leather seats and tapestry on the floors and walls. The doors of the coach had glass windows that could be rolled up or down. The exterior glistened with several coats of burgundy lacquer. King’s personal brand, the “running W,” was gold-embossed on either door. Pulled by six horses, the coach had a driver and an armed guard.
Sally’s horse was tied on behind the coach.
Three wagons, carrying luggage and purchases, followed the coach. Two men were in each wagon, and four more rode on horses behind the wagons. The entourage stretched out for a city block.
The editor of the newspaper took a photo of them just before they left, then hurried back to develop it so he could have a woodcut artist reproduce the photograph so that he could run the picture in a future issue.
Sue and Jane came down to see them off and Pearlie and Cal, seeing the two girls in the crowd, rode over to speak with them.
“We certainly had a nice time dancing with you two boys,” Jane said.
“Will you be coming back for the dance next month?” Sue asked.
“I don’t know,” Pearlie answered. “More’n likely, we won’t be back. But we had a good time too, didn’t we, Cal?”
“We sure did,” Cal said. He looked directly at Jane. “I think you’re about the prettiest girl I ever danced with.”
“Oh, my,” Jane said, turning her head in embarrassment. “I’m sure that isn’t the case, but it is certainly sweet of you to say so.”
“All right!” King shouted then, standing in his stirrups and looking back along the train. “Let’s head ’em out!”
The drivers whistled and snapped their whips then, and the train started out with a clopping of hooves and the rolling of wheels. Children and dogs ran down the street alongside them for a short distance, the children laughing and shouting and the dogs barking. Finally they reached the edge of town, then started west along Rogers Road.
As they rode along the road, bound for the Santa Gertrudis Ranch, King pointed out all the points of interest. Meanwhile, back in the coach, Sally painted a smile on her face and listened to the conversation and gossip of Henrietta and her daughter. From time to time Sally would gaze wistfully through the window to catch a view of Smoke, or Pearlie, or one of the others on horseback, and wish that she could just say good-bye to the ladies in the coach and join them.
When they reached the little town of San Diego, they left the public road, and started south on a road that was built, owned, and maintained by the Santa Gertrudis Ranch.
“Where have you two been?” Brandt asked when Manning and Waco walked into the Gato Rojo Saloon in Concepcion the next day.
“We was in Corpus Christi with Preston,” Manning said. “Listen, your man Pugh got hisself kilt. I don’t know where Preston got off to but . . .” Manning stopped in mid-sentence when he saw Preston leaning back against the bar, watching him. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked.
“You two was passed out drunk, Pugh was dead, and I didn’t see no need in hanging around any longer,” Preston answered.
“Yeah, well, maybe if you had stayed longer you would know who kilt Pugh,” Waco said. He turned to Brandt. “It was—”
“Smoke Jensen,” Brandt said, interrupting him.
“Oh.”
“That’s why I came back early,” Preston said. “I figured Major Brandt needed to know about Jensen.”
“Well, I figured he might be interested, but I don’t know as he needs to know,” Manning said.
“You don’t think he would need to know that Jensen has come down here to help King?”
Manning looked shocked. “Smoke Jensen has come down to ride for Richard King?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe it. Why would he do something like that? You must be wrong.”
“I heard it with my own ears,” Preston said.
“Good,” Waco said. “That’ll give me another chance at him. And this time, there won’t be a lot of his friends around him. It’ll just be the two of us.”
Preston and Brandt looked at Waco, who had a confused expression on his face.
“What the hell are you talking about—this time it will be just the two of you?” Brandt asked.
“Me ’n Smoke Jensen nearly had us a fight,” Waco said. “Only things wasn’t quite right, so I didn’t draw on him.”
“Is he tellin’ the truth?” Brandt asked.
Manning chuckled. “Yeah, just like he said, him ’n Jensen nearly squared off.”
“He didn’t seem to want to fight,” Waco said. “And we was standing in the middle of all his people, so I didn’t push him that much.”
“You don’t say. Well, it’s lucky for you that you didn’t push him,” Preston said. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be standing here right now.”
“Yeah?” Waco said. “The time will come. You’ll see.”
One of Brandt’s men came into the saloon then. He stood just inside the door, beating himself with his hat, raising a cloud of dust as he did so.
“What the hell are you doin’, Arnie?” someone called. “Go outside to dust yourself off.”
“That’s all right,” Brandt said. “Come on over.”
Arnie walked over to the table where Brandt and Stone were sitting. He was no longer brushing himself off, but he was leaving little puffs of dust in the air as he walked.
“What did you see?”
“There’s maybe three or four hundred head down in the south range, several miles away from anyone else,” Arnie said. “I think they’re gettin’ ready to push them on up north to join with the herd they’ll be takin’ on the drive to Kansas.”
Brandt smiled. “Good, good. Good work. Get yourself a beer, on me, then get ready to go back.”
The expression on Arnie’s face indicated that he clearly did not expect to have to go back. He had ridden twenty miles today and he was tired.
“All right,” he said. “Thanks for the beer.”
“Sergeant, call assemb
ly,” Brandt ordered.
“Yes, sir, Major,” Stone replied in an official tone.
In an area that Captain King called the Vetadero Meadows, one of his cowboys, Juan Arino, saw some riders moving several cattle to the south. Thinking that Ramon might have sent some men to help with the roundup, he sighed and shook his head. Whoever they were, they were undoing the work that Juan and his friends had spent the last few days doing. The cattle were supposed to be driven north, not south. What was wrong with these people?
Juan started riding toward them to see who they were, and to tell them that they were making a mistake.
He called out to them.
“Amigos. Usted está cometiendo un error. Usted debe ir con los ganado vacuno al norte!”
He yelled as loudly as he could, but his voice sounded thin in the hot wind that was blowing across the prairie. He urged his horse into a faster lope.
As he drew closer to the riders, he realized that he did not recognize any of them. These weren’t Santa Gertrudis riders. Who were they, and what were they doing here on Captain King’s land? Suddenly Juan had a bad feeling about this, and pulled his horse to a halt.
These men weren’t making a mistake. They knew exactly what they were doing. They were rustling cattle!
Juan didn’t know whether to stay and watch for a while longer, to see if he could determine where they were going with the cattle . . . or if he should get back to the others and tell them what was happening.
The decision was taken away from him when he heard the angry buzz of a bullet frying past his ear. Looking around, he saw a man, on a horse, holding a rifle to his shoulder. A white puff of smoke billowed from the end of the rifle and he watched, almost as if detached, as the shooter rocked back in his saddle from the recoil of the rifle, all in perfect silence.
“Uhnh!” he gasped as he felt the bullet go deep into his chest. It wasn’t until then, as he was already tumbling from his horse, that he heard the sound of the rifle.
“Son of a bitch,” Preston said, laughing, as he slid his rifle back into the saddle sheath. “Did you folks see that shot? Hell, it had to be five hundred yards at least.”
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