This Violent Land (4 page)

Even as they began to gather around the three bodies in morbid curiosity, Sheriff Donovan came rushing in, gun drawn. He holstered his pistol and walked over to Smoke. “I'll be damned! You did this, Deputy?”

“I didn't have any choice. I explained the situation and tried to arrest them, but they weren't having any of it.”

“You should have seen it, Emerson,” the bartender said. “All three of 'em drew on this fella first, and he beat 'em all.”

“So, Paul, you'd be willin' to sign a statement that Deputy Jensen here was in the right when he shot these three men?”

“It's like he said, Emerson, the deputy didn't have no choice.”

“That's right, Sheriff,” one of the customers said. “Them other three drawed first. I'll sign any paper you want me to sign sayin' that very thing.”

“That won't be necessary,” Sheriff Donovan said. “Deputy Jensen was acting in the line of duty. That's all that's required. If you would, Paul, send someone to get Proffer down here to pick up the bodies. Tell him the county will pay for the burial.”

“Tyson, there's a free beer in it for you if you go,” the bartender said to the nearest customer.

Tyson smiled. “You just have that beer ready when I get back.”

“I
didn't think Morgan would take too kindly to being arrested, but I didn't figure he would take it this far,” Sheriff Donovan said when he and Smoke had returned to the sheriff's office.

“I'm sorry I had to do it. I would like to have brought them in for trial. There would be some satisfaction for the people who were cheated by these men,” Smoke said.

“Are you kidding? Don't be silly. There's nothing to be sorry about. As far as I'm concerned, you just saved the county the cost of a trial. And don't you worry about the people gettin' their land and cattle back. We'll put together an arbitration board that will do that very thing.”

“I was able to identify Morgan and Babcock. But who was the other man?” Smoke asked.

“That is, or rather that was, Lloyd Winters. He was another of Morgan's men, but I didn't know he was here in town or I would've told you about him, too. I guess the way it turned out, I didn't really have to warn you. You handled things pretty well on your own. I sure feel foolish now for questionin' you about your age and all.”

“No need to feel foolish about it, Sheriff. If we both wait long enough, I won't be young anymore.”

For a second, Sheriff Donovan looked at Smoke as if he didn't understand the response, then catching the joke, he laughed. “Yeah, I guess that's right, ain't it?”

“What about the rest of Morgan's men? There are more of them, aren't there?” Smoke asked.

“Yes, but with Morgan gone they'll be easy to round up. I expect one or two of them will even turn state's evidence. That will help us do right by all the people Morgan stole from.”

“Then you'd say my job here is finished?”

The sheriff nodded. “I would indeed.”

“Then I have a favor to ask of you,” Smoke said.

“Deputy, if it is something I can grant, I damn sure will do that.”

“I'm looking for three men. Wiley Potter, Muley Stratton, and Josh Richards. Have you ever heard of them?”

Sheriff Donovan frowned in thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I can't say that I have. Are they wanted men?”

“Well, they're certainly wanted by me,” Smoke said. “As to whether there are actually any dodgers out for them, I don't really know.”

“Why do you want them? That is, if you don't mind my askin'?”

“I don't mind at all. They killed my pa.”

Sheriff Donovan pursed his lips and then nodded. “That's a good enough reason to want them, all right.”

“If you ever hear anything about them, would you let me know? You can send word to Marshal Holloway. He knows I'm looking for them, and he'll get word to me.”

“Yes, of course I'll let you know.”

“Good. I'll be obliged to you.” Smoke reached out to shake the sheriff's hand. “I guess I'll be getting back to Denver now.”

“When you get back, please thank Marshal Holloway for sending you down when I asked for help, will you?”

“I'll be glad to,” Smoke said.

“Are you hungry?”

“Yeah, I thought I might get a bite to eat before I take the late train back. Do you have a recommendation?”

“I've got more than a recommendation. I've got an offer. Come on over to the City Pig with me and I'll buy your meal.”

“Sounds like a good offer to me,” Smoke replied with a smile.

* * *

As they were eating their dinner, Smoke and the sheriff carried on a conversation which began with no purpose but the pleasant passing of time.

“These men you're looking for,” Donovan said. “Were they in the war with you?”

“Not me. I was most always in Missouri or Kansas. These men were in Virginia. I know they were at a place called the Wilderness.”

“For the South or the North?”

“For the South, I'm sorry to say.”

“I tell you what. As soon as we finish eating our dinner, there's someone I'd like you to meet. He was a colonel in the Confederate Army, and I know he was part of the Wilderness campaign. I've heard him speak of it. He might have some information that would be useful to you. If you want me to, I'll introduce you to him.”

“Yes, I would appreciate that very much.”

“His name is Colonel Garrison Boyle. He's a rather large man, doesn't get around much,” Sheriff Donovan said. “He can no longer sit a horse, so he spends all his time in his house. His wife takes care of him.”

After they had finished their meal, the two men walked through the twilight to a neatly kept house on one of Red Cliff's side streets. Donovan led Smoke onto the porch and rapped with a brass knocker mounted on the front door.

“Sheriff Donovan,” Mrs. Boyle said, greeting him with a friendly smile as she opened the door. She was a small, pleasant-looking woman with tightly curled dark hair turning gray. “It's always a pleasure to see you.”

“Is the colonel receiving today, Mrs. Boyle?”

“Oh, yes, he does enjoy company, and I'm sure he would especially enjoy talking to you and your guest. Please, do come in.”

“Thank you.” Donovan and Smoke took off their hats as they stepped inside. “We're not interrupting your supper, are we?”

“Not at all.”

Mrs. Boyle led them into the small house, into a room that had all the shades pulled so that it was in deep shadow, except for one flickering lamp. A hulking form sat in a chair situated just outside the circle of light.

“Colonel, Sheriff Donovan is here to see you.”

“Hello, Emerson,” a deep voice rumbled from the shadows. “Come closer.”

“How are you doing, Colonel?”

“I'm doing about as well as any three-hundred-and-fifty pound man can expect,” Colonel Boyle said. His face was as round as the moon, topped by strands of lank, fair hair.

As Smoke drew closer, he could see that three hundred and fifty pounds wasn't an exaggeration, unless, perhaps, the number was lower than the man's actual weight. He wondered how the chair could even support such weight, but a closer examination showed that the chair was well constructed, with extra bracing.

“Who's your friend, Emerson?”

“He's a deputy United States marshal, name of Smoke Jensen.”

“You're the man who took care of Morgan, Babcock, and Winters, aren't you?” Colonel Boyle asked.

“Lord, Colonel, how could you know that?” Sheriff Donovan asked. “It only happened a couple hours ago.”

“Word gets around, my boy. Word gets around.” Colonel Boyle patted his hand on the arm of the chair. “Even when you are chair bound as I am.”

“Colonel, Smoke was in the war on the same side as you, and he'd like to ask you some questions.”

Boyle chuckled. “Well, Emerson, you damn Yankee, now you are outnumbered by Rebels. How does that feel?”

“Intimidating,” Donovan replied with a little laugh.

“Good, good. Now you know how we felt for the entire war.” Boyle turned his attention to Smoke. “Who were you with, son?”

“I was with Briggs.”

“Gregg? General Gregg's Brigade? Yes, I knew it well.”

“No, sir, Briggs. Asa Briggs.”

The smile left Colonel Boyle's face. “Didn't he have an irregular unit with Quantrill?”

“We've been lumped in with Quantrill, but other than the fact that we were an irregular unit not attached to any major command, we were nothing like him.”

Colonel Boyle nodded his head. “That is good to know. Some of those irregulars—on both sides—were nothing but butchers.”

Smoke surely couldn't argue with that. “Colonel, I'm looking for three men who took part in the Wilderness Campaign.”

“On the Southern side?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you want with them?”

“I want to kill them,” Smoke answered frankly.

Colonel Boyle blinked. “Well, that was an honest answer. Unexpected, but honest. Son, let me tell you this. I fought in the Wilderness Campaign with a lot of good men. I don't know who you're looking for or why you're looking for them, but why should I turn over any Confederate soldier to the Yankees?” He held up his hand to forestall any protest from Smoke. “And before you tell me again that you fought for the South, you are now wearing the badge of a deputy U.S. marshal. That means you are working for the federal government, and that means you are a Yankee.”

“The men I'm looking for are Wiley Potter, Muley Stratton, and Josh Richards.”

“Potter, Stratton, and Richards?” Boyle blew out an explosive breath. “Well, why didn't you say so? Those evil—” The colonel stopped in mid-sentence and squinted at Smoke. “Wait a minute. Jensen? Your last name is Jensen? Would you be any kin to Luke Jensen?”

“I would be. Luke Jensen was my brother.”

Colonel Boyle nodded. “Yes, I can see why you're after them. When those deserters stole all that Confederate gold, they shot Luke. Officially, he was reported dead, but we never found his body, so to be honest with you, I never knew whether he was killed or not. Do you know?”

“No, sir, I don't,” Smoke replied. “I've had no contact with Luke since he left for the war. But I do know that Stratton, Potter, and Richards killed my pa when he tracked them down after the war. And that's reason enough for me to go after them.”

“I wish I could help you, son, I really do. I heard once that they were in New Mexico, but I can't be too sure about that. I just know this. They stole a lot of gold, a lot of it . . . and somebody with that much money is going to spend enough that they're going to get themselves noticed. If you look for them long enough, you will find them.”

“That's funny,” Smoke said. “That's just what my pa said.”

 

 

 

One hundred and fifty miles east of Red Cliff, three men were standing in the middle of the road, just north of Rush Creek.

“You think three sticks of dynamite are enough, Pete?” Eddie asked.

“Yeah, three sticks are plenty.” The man was working with the dynamite.

“Well, let's get it buried and get the fuse laid. The coach is goin' to be here any minute.”

“Don't you be rushin' me now, Eddie.You don't want to be too careless when you're messing with dynamite, otherwise you could blow a hand off. You have to be slow and careful.”

“Can't you be quick and careful?”

“We're almost there. I've got the sticks buried; all I have to do now is run the detonating wire over to the plunger.”

“Hurry, I can hear the coach coming,” put in the third man, Merlin, speaking for the first time.

The three men hustled over to the side of the road, then lay down in the ditch. Pete had his hand on the plunger. “Just keep on comin',” he said as he watched for the stagecoach. “Yes, sir, just keep on comin'. I've got a big surprise all laid out for you.”

As the six-horse team of the Colorado Springs stage crossed Rush Creek, the hooves of the horses and the turning wheels churned the water, sending splashes into the air where, suspended for a second, they flashed in the late afternoon sun.

“Hyah! Hyah!” the driver shouted, popping the whip over the heads of the team.

Three people were inside—George Thomas, his wife Edith, and their seven-year-old son Billy.

“I do hope we get there before it's too late. I would hate to think that the hotel rooms are all rented and we wouldn't have a place to stay,” Edith said.

“We don't have to worry any about that,” George said, reassuring her. “Mr. Murphy informed me that he already had a hotel room reserved for us. We can stay there, at his expense, until we find a house of our own.”

“Oh, what a wonderful thing for him to do,” Edith said.

Every now and then, Billy would lean out the window and point his carved wooden pistol toward the rear of the coach. “Bang, bang, bang!”

“What are you shooting at, Billy?” George asked.

“There's a bunch of stagecoach robbers on horseback and they're trying to catch up with the coach. Bang, bang! I got one.”

“Just one? You shot twice,” George teased.

“Yes, but one of them I just hit in the shoulder. Bang! Click. Click. Oh, I'm out of bullets.”

“Already?”

“Haven't you been counting them, Papa? I've shot six times already, and my gun only holds six bullets.”

“You're right,” George said, nodding gravely. “I should have been counting them.”

“That's all right, Papa. You aren't a famous gunfighter like I am.”

“Oh, so you're a famous gunfighter, are you?”

“Yes, sir, I am. Why, I expect there are books written about me.”

George chuckled. “I expect there are, too.”

“Mama, will I be going to school in Eureka?” Billy asked, as he “reloaded” bullets into his six-shooter.

“Yes, of course you will, dear. We are moving there.”

“But I won't know anyone in that school. All my friends are in Sandborn.”

“You'll make new friends in Eureka.”

Billy started to pout. “I don't want any new friends. I like my old friends.”

“Oh, don't be silly. You'll like your new friends just as much,” Edith said with a smile.

“I wish we—”

At that precise moment, the coach was enveloped in a fiery blast as the three sticks of dynamite detonated underneath. The stagecoach blew apart in a brilliant burst of flame.