“I’ll be right with you, sir,” a woman called from the back of the store.
“’Tis no hurry I’m in, ma’am. Take your time,” the customer replied.
Smoke glanced toward him and saw a man of average height and build, whose most distinguishing feature was his piercing hazel eyes. Unlike the denim trousers and cotton shirts worn by most Westerners, this man was wearing a blue suit, a white shirt covered by a red vest, and a black bowtie. As Smoke examined him more closely, he saw that the clothing was of the finest cut and most expensive material. The quality of the material and the cut of the suit, however, did nothing to deter the dust. His suit was covered with it. Smoke noticed that he was not wearing a pistol belt.
“Hello, friend,” the man said to Smoke. Smiling, he extended his hand. “Kennedy is the name. Warren Kennedy.”
“Smoke Jensen,” Smoke replied, accepting the proffered hand. He smiled. “How did you like the last half mile of your ride on the stagecoach?”
“Ha. And ’tis thinkin’ I am, that you would be talkin’ about the rapid descent down the road.”
“Yes.”
“And how would you be for knowin’ that I was on the coach?” Kennedy asked.
Smoke chuckled. “It’s not hard, Mr. Kennedy.”
With a laugh, Kennedy patted his hands against the jacket he was wearing. That action was answered by a cloud of dust. “No, I don’t suppose it would be hard to tell. As to the answer for your question, ’twas exciting, I’ll say that. But sure ’n what better way could I ask to arrive in what will be my new hometown?”
“Mr. Kennedy, I’m Emma Rafferty,” an attractive middle-aged woman said. “My husband and I own this store. Mule Gap is to be your new hometown?”
“Aye, for ’tis my intention to settle here.”
“Then let me be the first to welcome you. Now, what can I do for you?”
“I’ll be for buying a house as soon as I can, ’n I’ve made out a list of things I think I’ll be needin’.” He handed Emma a piece of paper. “I would like for to be making the purchases now, ’n payin’ you for them, but I’ll be wantin’ you to be for holding them for me till I have a house where I can put them.”
“We’ll be glad to do that for you, Mr. Kennedy. And for now you can just look around the store to see if there’s anything you may have forgotten,” Emma said.
“I thank you for your service, Mrs. Rafferty.” In accordance with Emma’s suggestion, Kennedy began drifting around the store.
A moment later, three men came into the store. All three men had hoods pulled down over their faces.
“This is a holdup!” one of the men shouted, then he pointed to Smoke. “That’s the son of a bitch that kilt my brother! Kill ’im!”
As soon the order was given, the man carrying a double-barreled shotgun swung it toward Smoke.
Smoke drew his own gun, but even as he was drawing, a shot rang out and the man wielding the scattergun went down.
Two more shots were fired, only one of them coming from Smoke’s pistol, and the remaining two men went down.
When Smoke looked around to see who had saved his life, he saw a smiling Warren Kennedy standing near one of the display tables. A thin wisp of gun smoke curled up from the barrel of a gun Kennedy was holding.
Because he wasn’t wearing a pistol belt, Smoke wondered where the gun had come from.
“Well, that was a bit of excitement, wasn’t it? ’Tis a foine welcome I received,” Kennedy said with a broad smile. He returned the pistol to a shoulder holster that had been hidden by his jacket, and the mystery of where the gun had come from was solved.
“Mister Kennedy, I’m glad you came around when you did,” Rafferty said. “You sure saved our bacon.”
“Yeah, I guess I could say that as well.” Smoke pulled the hoods from their faces.
“Do you know any of them, Mr. Jensen?” Rafferty asked.
“I’ve never actually seen this man,” Smoke said, standing over the one who had recognized him. “But from what he yelled out just before the shooting started, I would make a guess that this would be Gabe Briggs.”
“Briggs?” Rafferty said. “Yes, I remember the story from the newspaper. A man named Briggs was one of the ones who’d tried to hold up the stagecoach. You stopped the holdup, as I recall.”
“Yes, Asa Briggs was the man’s name.” Smoke turned toward the well-dressed man who, having just arrived on the stagecoach, had also taken part in stopping this robbery. “Mr. Kennedy—”
“It’s Warren, please. I’d like to be for considering you the first new friend I’ve made in my new hometown.”
“Well, I have to say Mist . . . Warren . . . that saving my life is a way to get on my good side really fast.”
Kennedy laughed. “Aye, ’twould be a way of makin’ a new friend, I would think.”
“Warren, why don’t you come down to the saloon with me and let me buy you a drink? Mr. Rafferty, you can hold my groceries here until I come back for them, can’t you?”
“I sure can.”
“Thanks for the offer of a drink,” Kennedy said.
“’Twould be good to get a bit o’ the dust out of my mouth, I’m thinking.”
By the time they reached the saloon, word of the would-be robbery and shoot-out had already spread. Both men were greeted with accolades, and though Smoke had offered to buy Kennedy’s drinks, he wasn’t allowed to pay for them, as the saloon keeper said they were “on the house.”
The two men took a table in the back of the Silver Dollar Saloon.
“Those three robbers knew you,” Kennedy said.
“But when their hoods were removed, you said you didn’t know them.”
“No, I’d never seen any of them before.”
“Sure now, and ’tis not that rather odd? ’Twas knowin’ you they did, but you weren’t for knowin’ them.”
“Where are you from, Warren?”
“I’m from New York.”
Smoke smiled. “Well then, that explains it. I’ve been out here for quite a while now, and over the years I’ve made a few enemies. As a matter of fact I’ve made a lot of enemies . . . but I’m glad to say that I have made more friends than enemies.”
“Aye, ’n a new one today.”
“A new one today,” Smoke repeated, holding his glass of beer up to Kennedy’s Irish whiskey.
During the ensuing conversation Kennedy learned that Smoke owned a rather large ranch down in Colorado.
“What do you do, Warren? And what has brought you to a place like Mule Gap?”
“I’ve made my living for many years being involved in various business ventures,” Kennedy said. “Some have been profitable, some have been costly. I recently ran into some business difficulty in New York and decided it would be a good idea to leave the city ’n start somewhere else, so I decided to take what funds I had left and come West in search of new opportunity.” He laughed. “And the reason I chose Mule Gap was because I was intrigued by the name.”
Smoke laughed. “Are you telling me that you would invest in something because you like the name?”
“Aye,” Kennedy replied with a sheepish grin.
“Maybe that’s the mistake I made in New York . . . investing in something because of its name.”
“I think you’re pulling my leg a bit,” Smoke said.
“Perhaps just a bit,” Kennedy replied, his smile growing broader. “I have studied Mule Gap. I think it is bound to grow, and I intend to grow with it.”
“Well, I wish you luck, Warren,” Smoke said, once more lifting his drink in an informal toast. “Here’s mud in your eye.”
Warren made a toast of his own. “’N I’ll be replyin’ with an old Irish toast, taught to me by m’ sainted mither, may she rest in peace.” He held his glass up. “May we get what we want, may we get what we need, but may we never get what we deserve.”
With a chuckle, Smoke joined him in the drink.
* * *
Two months later, the
Mule Gap Ledger carried a story about Kennedy.
Warren Kennedy to Start Bank
Mule Gap to Become a Commercial City
Our readers will no doubt recognize Warren Kennedy, Mule Gap’s newest citizen, as a hero for stopping a robbery and saving the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert Rafferty. What many may not know is Mr. Kennedy’s entrepreneurial spirit. He has announced his intention to build a much-needed bank in our fair community and to that end has begun construction in the empty lot next to McGee’s Boot and Shoe store.
With the addition of a bank, Mule Gap will be able to take its rightful place among the more progressive cities and towns of Wyoming. All citizens of Mule Gap should be thankful that this fine man has chosen our community as his new home.
A full year passed before Smoke made another visit to Mule Gap. As he approached the little town from the south, he heard gunfire and, slapping his legs against Seven’s sides, pulled his pistol and proceeded toward the sound of shooting at a full gallop. He eased up, though, when he heard more shots fired, this time followed by shouts of excitement, not fear.
“Yahoo!” someone shouted, and again there were gunshots. “Yahoo!”
As Smoke came into town he saw that many of the buildings of the town were festooned with colorful streamers. He saw, also, that at least three of the businesses he had known before were now partnerships. The grocery store was now Rafferty and Kennedy. The boot store was sporting the sign MCGEE AND KENNEDY, and Warren Kennedy had built a new saloon to compete with the Silver Dollar.
Smoke saw, then, the source of the shouting and gunshots, for a rider was galloping down the middle of First Street, shooting into the air, and yelling at the top of his voice.
“Yahoo! Three cheers for his honor the mayor, Warren Kennedy! Yahoo!”
Smoke dismounted in front of Kennedy’s Saloon, and looped the reins around the hitching rail, knowing full well that Seven would make no effort to leave even if he had just dropped the reins on the ground in front of the horse.
When he stepped into the saloon it was crowded with cheering men and laughing bar girls. A sign was stretched out across the wall behind the bar. TO CELEBRATE HIS ELECTION, DRINKS ARE ON THE HOUSE TODAY!
“I remember you,” Warren Kennedy called. “’N I know you to be Smoke Jensen if memory serves.”
“Smoke Jensen it is. You have a good memory.”
“Well, Smoke Jensen, ’n would you be for havin’ a drink with the new mayor of Mule Gap?”
Smoke smiled and walked over to take Kennedy’s extended hand. “I’d be glad to have a drink with you. And, congratulations, Mayor. I knew you were an ambitious fellow, but I never thought you would get involved with politics.”
“Believe me, ’twas never my intention,” Kennedy said. “But the damndest thing . . . people kept after me and kept after me to run until I felt it wouldn’t be fair to just keep saying no all the time. So, I broke down and said aye, and now here I am . . . the new mayor.”
“I wish you luck.”
“I’ve already been lucky. I ran against Gil Rafferty, and, as you know, he is as fine a man as you would hope to meet. Gil and I are business partners now.”
“Yes, I saw the sign on his store.”
“Even though many were asking me to run, ’tis surprised I am that I, being a citizen of Mule Gap for barely over a year, would have prevailed over someone like m’ friend Gil Rafferty, who has been here for as long as the town has been in existence. But tell me, Smoke, what brings you to town?”
“Your bank,” Smoke said. “I do a lot of business in Wyoming, so I thought it might be a good idea to have a local account.”
“Well, I’ll be very happy to have your business. After we have a drink together, come on down to the bank and I’ll personally open your account.”
Half an hour later, Smoke was sitting across the desk from Kennedy. “Warren, looking around town, I can’t help but notice that you have expanded your business interests considerably beyond just banking.”
“That’s true,” he said. “As Mule Gap began to grow, many of the businessmen and -women wanted their businesses to expand with it. They came to me for investment money, and if it seemed propitious for me to do so, I made the investment.” Kennedy chuckled. “It seems that I now own almost half the town. That wasn’t my intention. My intention was just to help the town grow. But, as they say, good things come from good deeds.”
“Yes,” Smoke said. “You came to Mule Gap to do good, and you have done very well.”
Kennedy laughed out loud. “That is one way of putting it, my friend. But don’t be fooled by what you see.”
“Not sure I understand.”
“I’ve made loans, ’n I’ve made investments to the degree that I’ve found myself overextended. I think the investments have been wise, ’n I think there is a great future in Mule Gap. But I’ll have to be limiting any future investments until I’m able to accumulate a little more money.”
“Warren, are you . . . ?” Smoke started to ask, but Kennedy held out his hand to interrupt the question.
“Smoke, if it was a loan of money you were about to offer, I thank you for that. But I’ll not be for needing a loan. I’ve recently gone into a business venture with some new acquaintances, ’n ’tis thinking I am that it is one that will be very lucrative. And there is no competition in the endeavor.”
“Oh? What is it?”
Kennedy held up his finger and wagged it back and forth gently. “Please don’t ask me to tell you. Bein’ Irish, as I am, I have many superstitions, ’n I fear that if I tell too many people of my plans, it’ll bring me bad luck.”
Smoke chuckled. “Far be it from me to want to bring you bad luck. So . . . if it isn’t bad luck to wish you good luck, I’ll do just that.”
“I’ll take yer good wishes, ’n then some,” Kennedy replied.
CHAPTER FOUR
Stinking Water, Wyoming
The man dressed all in black dismounted in front of the Nippy Jones Saloon. Before he reached the step, he was confronted by a big man with a prominent scar on his face. The man was holding a pistol.
“Where do you think you’re agoin’?” the scar-faced man asked.
“Not that it is any of your business, sir, but it is my intention to drink a beer, have dinner, then get a hotel room so I can spend the night.”
“You’re the one they call The Professor, ain’t you? I’ve heard of you. Always dressed in black, they say.”
“My name is Frank Bodine.”
“But you’re called The Professor?”
“Actually, I would be more properly called Professor Bodine, but yes, there are some who call me The Professor.”
“Well, you ain’t comin’ in here, Professor.”
“And just why wouldn’t I be entering that establishment?”
“Because I said you ain’t.”
“Tell me, sir, do you have any particular grievance with me? I am unaware of our paths ever having crossed in the past.”
“I’ve heard of you.”
“Evidently you have, as a moment ago you used the sobriquet that is so often attached to me.”
“I done what?” the scar-faced man replied.
“You have heard of me,” The Professor said.
“Yeah, that’s what I said. I’ve heard of you,” Scarface repeated.
“Merely having heard of me, does not, in itself, give you a reason to behave in such a contemptible fashion,” The Professor said. “Now, please, sir, if you would, step aside.”
Scarface shook his head. “Uh-uh. Come this time tomorrow, ever’one is goin’ to know that The Professor has been kilt, ’n they’re goin’ to know who done it.”
“I think you are making a big mistake, sir. Now, I’m going to ask you very politely to step aside and allow me to enter this saloon so that I can have myself dinner and a beer.”
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, you fancy-talkin’ son of a bitch!” Scarface made his move, bringing the pistol up as qu
ickly as a striking rattlesnake.
Even though Scarface had the advantage, the reaction of The Professor was not what he thought it would be. Instead of seeing fear in his eyes, Scarface saw complete confidence. Even worse, Scarface saw the faintest suggestion of a smile on The Professor’s face.
Scarface was very good with a gun, and in most of his encounters, he had the advantage because his very reputation instilled fear in his adversaries. But there was no fear in the face of the man facing him, and it was Scarface who suddenly felt fear.
He wasn’t frightened for very long. The Professor’s draw was smooth and instantaneous, and his practiced thumb came back on the hammer in one fluid motion. He put the slightest pressure on the hair trigger of his Colt, causing a blossom of flame, followed by a booming thunderclap as the gun jumped in his hand.
Scarface tried to shoot the pistol he was holding, but the .44 slug from The Professor’s pistol caught him in the middle of his chest. He dropped his own pistol unfired, then staggered backwards, crashing through the batwing doors and backpedaling into a table before coming down onto it with a crash that turned the table into firewood. He landed flat on his back on the floor, his mouth open and a little sliver of blood oozing down his chin. His body was still jerking a bit, but his eyes were open and unseeing. He was already dead, the muscles continuing to respond as if waiting for signals that could no longer be sent.
The Professor holstered his pistol then pushed through the batwing doors, following the lawman’s body inside. Without so much as a second glance at the man he had just killed, he stepped calmly up to the bar. “Beer,” he said, aware that everyone in the saloon was shifting their gaze from the lawman’s body to the man dressed in black standing at the bar. Most had been caught by surprise at the sudden turn of events. They stood there, staring awestruck at the lawman lying in the V of the broken table.
“Mister, do you know who you just shot?” one of the men in the saloon asked.
“I’m afraid we didn’t have time to get acquainted,” The Professor replied.
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