“Did you see it?” Red asked.
“I saw the light.”
“How do you know it was the train’s light?”
“Because it was in the right place,” Burgess replied. “It’ll be here in about another ten minutes.”
“Remember,” Burgess cautioned. “Nobody does anything until after the train has taken on water. We’ll be needing that water ourselves.”
The men heard a distant whistle.
“I hear it,” Woodward said, excitedly.
“We all hear it,” McDill said.
“All right, let’s get down out of sight,” Red Coleman ordered.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The car passed over a rough section of track, then Smoke felt the train beginning to slow.
“We must be coming up on that water tank now,” Smoke said. He started pulling on his boots.
“Want me to go check with you?” Sally asked.
“No need for you to get out in the cold,” Smoke replied. “You stay inside here, warm and comfortable. I’m just going to walk up to the engine and back and look into all the cars. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Smoke pulled on his sheepskin coat. He saw his pistol belt hanging from a hook but started toward the door without it. He got as far as the door, then turned around and came back for his pistol. He had no idea why he thought he might need it in the middle of the night, but he just didn’t feel dressed without it.
Even above the venting steam and the snap and pop of cooling journals, Smoke could hear the sound of water rushing into the tank, and, in the moonlight, he saw the fireman standing up on the tender, directing the flow of water. Smoke continued to walk down the side of the train, in the shadows of the cattle cars. He could smell and sense the cattle that were packed in the cars and he couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for them. Crowded together as they were, they would be unable to rest for the two days of the journey. Also, they would have very little food and water to sustain them for the trip. They would be much better off when they got out on their own with plenty of room to move around, and plenty of grass to eat.
Despite the quarter-moon, Smoke couldn’t be seen as he walked along the side of the train, because he was so close to it that he was in the shadow of the cars. He had not detected any problems when he reached the first car, which was the next car behind the tender. There, he turned and started back, but stopped when he heard someone call out.
“Fireman! You, up on the tender! Get your hands up, and climb down here!”
“Who are you?” the fireman asked. “What are you doing here?”
A gun roared, its muzzle-flash lighting up the night. The fireman slapped his hand over the wound, staggered to the edge of the tender, then pitched forward off the car. He landed hard on his back and Smoke knew that even if the bullet wound hadn’t killed him, the fall did.
“Get up there! Get the engineer!” someone yelled from the darkness.
Smoke saw someone put his hand on the mounting ladder, then start to climb up into the engine cab.
“Hold it!” Smoke shouted.
“What the hell! Where did you come from?”
The man who yelled at Smoke fired his pistol at the same time he yelled. Smoke saw the muzzle-flash, and felt the puff of air as the bullet whizzed by his ear. Smoke returned fire and one shot was all it took to drop the man who had been shooting at him.
“Burgess! Burgess!” someone shouted from the dark.
“Burgess has been hit! What’ll we do now, Red?”
“Shoot ’im! Shoot ’im!”
At least three pistols began firing from the darkness and Smoke was able to return fire, shooting slightly above and to the right of the flame patterns. Two of the men went down, but the third disappeared. A moment later he heard the thunder of hoofbeats as the last would-be train robber galloped away.
Smoke ran down the berm and, bending over and keeping alert, started toward where he thought the two assailants would be. He found the first one lying on the rocks. His eyes were open and fixed, and a quick look confirmed that he was dead. Smoke heard a low groan from the sagebrush, and holding his pistol at the ready, moved to the sound.
“Where are you?” he called.
“Here,” a weak voice replied.
Seeing him then, Smoke realized at once that the man represented no danger. Returning his pistol to his holster, he hurried over to him.
“Who are you?” Smoke asked.
“The name is McDill. I’m gut-shot. Please help me, I’m gut-shot.”
Smoke dropped to a knee beside the man, but one look was all it took to tell him that the man was a goner.
“I’m afraid there’s not much I can do for you, McDill,” Smoke said.
“I’m dyin’, ain’t I?”
“Yes,” Smoke said.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Coleman told us it would be easy. We would just take the ...” the man gasped, then died with a long, life-surrendering rattle.
“Smoke! Smoke, where are you?” It was Sally’s voice and there was a worried sound to it.
“I’m all right, Sally, I’m down here,” Smoke called back.
“I’ll come down,” Sally said.
“No need for you to do that. I’m coming up,” Smoke replied as he climbed back up the steep slope of the berm.
When he reached the top of the berm he saw that Sally was holding a pistol, and he knew it wasn’t a foolish show. Had she been needed, Sally would have acquitted herself well, because she could shoot as well any man, and much better than most.
By now the engineer had climbed down from the cab and stood looking down at the body of the fireman.
“Are you all right?” Smoke asked.
“Yes, sir, I’m fine,” the engineer said. “They didn’t have no business killin’ Jerry. All he was doin’ was puttin’ water into the tank.”
“If you can help me, we’ll put him up in the cab until we reach the next town,” Smoke said.
“Thanks. We’d better hurry though,” the engineer said. He took out his pocketwatch and looked at it. The next train is due within half an hour, we need to be out of the way.”
“Where’s the nearest sheriff?” Smoke asked.
“Las Animas. It’s about fifteen miles farther down the track,” the engineer said.
“We’ll tell the sheriff about the other three bodies out here. I expect he will want to come out and pick them up.”
“Ha!” the engineer said. “I wouldn’t doubt but what there’s a reward on these galoots, and it’ll be owed to you.”
“Does your friend have a family?” Smoke asked, indicating the fireman.
“Yes, sir,” the fireman said. “Jerry had him a wife and two kids. He was just tellin’ me about the kids talkin’ about Santa Claus and all.”
“If there is any reward, see to it that it goes to her.”
The engineer nodded. “Yes, sir, that’s mighty kind of you.”
Red Coleman had been riding hard since the bungled cattle robbery attempt. He slowed to a walk to give his horse a rest, then looked back over his shoulder. He had come at least two miles, maybe more, from the track and he was sure nobody was after him. He wasn’t sure who it was he had tangled with back there, but whoever it was was damn deadly with a pistol. And, as he recalled from the failed bank robbery, Smoke Jensen was deadly with a pistol, so it wouldn’t surprise him if it had been Smoke Jensen.
“All right, Mr. Smoke Jensen,” Coleman said aloud. “If I can’t take a fourth of your cows, I’ll figure out a way to take every damn one of them.”
Cimarron River, Indian Territory, November 17
Clay Ramsey and his party were camped on the north side of the Cimarron. They had passed through both the Choctaw and Creek nations without any difficulty, and now were in Osage territory. They had no cattle with them so had not experienced any tolls being collected. Clay had brought along three extra horses with him to give to the Indians if that became necessary, but so far he had
not had to part with any of them.
They were sitting around a campfire, having had a good supper of chili verde and tortillas. For dessert they had sopapillas with molasses.
“I tell you what,” Dusty said. “I been trailin’ man and boy for near forty years now, and I’ve never had trail food like this. Most of the time we have nothin’ but beans and chuck wagon chicken.”
“Chuck wagon chicken?” Maria repeated with a little chuckle.
“He means bacon, ma’am,” Mo said.
“Would you play the guitar for us, Señor Dusty?” Maria asked.
“Yes, ma’am, it would be my privilege,” Dusty said. He walked over to the hoodlum wagon and, moving aside some of the gear, pulled out his guitar. Returning to the campfire, he checked the tuning, then pausing for a moment, began to play. The lower strings provided a steady rhythmic beat while the higher strings, plucked by quick and nimble fingers, brought out the melody, like a fine, golden thread woven through a rich piece of tapestry.
Clay wrapped his arm around Maria and she leaned into him as the music lifted from the guitar, as if following the glowing red sparks that danced their way up on the column of heated air until they became lost among the stars.
“Where did you learn to play the guitar like that, Dusty?” Clay asked.
“I spent some time at sea,” Dusty said. “Wasn’t much to do on board one of those ships, and there was a Spanish fella that could play the guitar. I talked him into teaching me, and I’ve been playin’ it ever since.”
“This is by a fella named Bach,” Dusty said. “Never learned the name of the piece though,” he added.
Dusty began playing and when he was finished Tom complimented him on it. “Beautiful,” he said. “And the piece you just played is called Prelude in D.”
“Damn, I’ll have to remember that,” Dusty said.
Dusty played a few more songs, then Clay and Maria crawled into the chuck wagon to go to bed. Dusty put away his guitar and threw out his bedroll close to the fire which, though the flames had died down, still retained much of its heat.
Mo and Dalton stayed up talking, long into the night.
“What was it like growing up in an orphanage?” Dalton asked.
“It wasn’t just any orphanage,” Mo said. “It was an orphanage run by nuns.”
“Did you like it?”
“I liked having a place to sleep and food to eat,” Mo said. “And I reckon I got more of an education than lots of folks do. But I wasn’t that keen on all the praying and Bible reading.” Mo chuckled. “I’ll bet I know the Bible better than most preachers.”
“Did you ever think of becoming a preacher?”
“Sister Mary Katherine wanted me to become a priest,” Mo said.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I like drinking, and I like women,” Mo said. “Also I never quite got a handle on that turn your other cheek thing. No thank you. I got turned out of the orphanage when I was sixteen, and I’ve been on my own ever since. And I like it that way.”
“Where did you learn to shoot like you do?”
“It was just something I wanted to do,” Mo said. “So I practiced a lot. Anybody can get good with practice.”
“I’ve been practicing too,” Dalton said. “But I’m not near as good as you are.”
“It’ll come,” Mo said. “Just keep practicing. It’ll come.”
“I’ve never been to Dodge City,” Dalton said. “They say it’s a wild town.”
“Oh, it’s wild all right,” Mo agreed. “But it’s the most fun town I’ve ever been in. I tell you what. When we get to Dodge, you stick with me. I’ll show you the town and we’ll have us a fine old time.”
“Mo?”
“Yeah?”
“You ever wonder who your Ma and Pa is?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Whoever they was, they didn’t care enough about me to keep me, so why should I worry any about them?”
“But don’t you ever wish you had a family?”
“I got a family,” Mo said. “Clay, Dusty, all the other hands at the ranch. Even you. You’re all the family I need.”
“I don’t have any brothers,” Dalton said. “You can be my brother.”
“I already am,” Mo said.
Dodge City, November 18
Dodge City had holding pens and feeder lots sufficient for 30,000 head of cattle, so Duff, Smoke, and the others had no difficulty in finding accommodations for their herd once they arrived. The last telegram Duff had received from Big Ben said that Clay Ramsey would meet him at the Dodge House.
Duff didn’t have to go to the Dodge House because, even as the four trains were off-loading the cattle, a man walked up to him. He had brown hair, a well-trimmed moustache, and blue eyes. About five feet ten, he was thin, but Duff knew better than to mistake his slender form for weakness.
“Would these cattle be bound for the Live Oaks Ranch in Texas?” the man asked.
“Aye, they would be,” Duff replied. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Duff MacCallister. You would be Clay Ramsey?”
Clay took Duff’s hand. “I am, yes, sir.”
Duff waved at Smoke, Matt, and Falcon. “I want you to meet the men who are with me. This is Smoke Jensen, Matt Jensen, and Falcon MacCallister.”
As Duff introduced the others, Clay’s eyes widened noticeably. “My God,” Clay said. “I never thought I would meet any one of you, and now, all three together? I have heard about you—I have read about you. This is quite an honor.”
“Don’t believe all you read, Mr. Ramsey,” Smoke said.
“If I can believe only one tenth of what I have read, I am still honored to meet such genuine American heroes,” Clay replied.
“How is Big Ben doing?” Smoke asked. “It’s been several years since I’ve seen him.”
“Still big,” Clay said, “somewhat ornery, and still honest.”
“Honesty is accolade enough for anyone,” Smoke said.
Clay glanced toward the holding pen, which was filling with the introduction of the cattle. “So it’s true, Black Angus really don’t have horns,” he said.
“Nothing to write home about,” Smoke said. “Certainly nothing like the magnificent rack Longhorns have.”
“They look a lot bigger.”
“They are. They’ll weigh in anywhere from two to five hundred pounds more than a Longhorn,” Smoke said.
“How soon can we start south with them?” he asked.
“We discussed that,” Smoke said. “And seeing as these are about to become your beeves, and seeing as you know the area, I reckon that makes you the trail boss. So I figure when we start south is up to you.”
“I appreciate the confidence,” Clay said. “All right, if I’m to be the trail boss, I would like to start back tomorrow. That is, if you think you and the cows are up to it. If possible, I would like to get back to Live Oaks before Christmas.”
“Yes,” Duff said. “I believe Big Ben said something about inviting us to a Christmas celebration.”
“I’m sure he did. Big Ben has always done Christmas up big. I think you will have a good time.”
“We’ll be looking forward to it,” Matt said.
“Oh, by the way, I should tell you that my wife, Maria, is with us. She signed on to cook for us. I hope you don’t have some superstition or something about having a woman on a trail drive.”
“I’d be in a fine pickle if I did,” Smoke said. “My wife, Sally, is with us.”
Clay smiled, broadly. “Really? Why, that’s wonderful. Maria will enjoy having another woman along.”
“I believe Mr. Conyers said you would have some other drovers with you,” Smoke said. “Is that true?”
“Yes, I have four men with me, in addition to my wife.”
“Good,” Smoke said. “Your four drovers, plus you, make five. We four, plus Sally, make five, so that gives us ten drovers, plus your wife as a cook. I don’t think we will have any problem i
n moving this herd down to Texas. Where would be the best place to take supper, do you think?”
“I imagine it would be the Dodge House,” Clay replied.
“Well then, how about you and your men join us for dinner tonight?” Smoke suggested.
“Maria and I would be glad to join you,” Clay said. “And I suspect one of my men, an older fella named Dusty, would join us as well. We can invite Tom, Mo, and Dalton, but they have already stated their intention to take in the town.”
“Smoke, if you don’t mind,” Matt said. “I think I’d like to look those fellas up and see the town with them.”
“Don’t mind at all,” Smoke replied.
“I tell you what, Matt,” Clay said. “If you’ll come with me now, I’ll introduce you to them. It will keep you from having to look them up on your own.”
“Thanks,” Matt said. “I would appreciate that.”
With the chuck and hoodlum wagons parked at the wagon park and the horses stabled, the Live Oaks outfit had checked in at the Dodge House. Tom took a room with Dusty, while Mo and Dalton shared another room. Dusty was up in the room taking a nap for, as he said, “When you are cow-boyin’, you never pass up a chance to get some sleep.”
But Tom decided that he wanted to “see the town” with Mo and Dalton, so he was waiting in the lobby for them to come down. As he was waiting, he picked up a copy of the Dodge City Times and began to peruse it while waiting for his two young friends to join him.
He was immediately drawn to a story at the top of the page, in the second column from the left.
A SHOOTING INCIDENT.
Last Monday afternoon, one of those little episodes which serve to vary the monotony of frontier existence occurred at the Lucky Chance Saloon. Bob Shaw, the man who started the amusement, accused Frank Lovejoy of having acquired three aces in a game of poker by means other than the luck of the draw. Mr. Lovejoy, our readers will remember, recently dispatched two soldiers from Fort Dodge when they leveled the same accusation. In the case of the shooting of the soldiers, Mr. Lovejoy accorded the soldiers the opportunity to withdraw their pistols from their holsters before opening the ball, the engagement ending in the death of both soldiers.
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