she owned in town is a whorehouse?”
Sally narrowed her eyes. “If that is the case, Mister Jensen, you are in a world of trouble.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Two
Smoke Jensen was a known gunfighter, though not by choice. Dozens of books — penny dreadfuls — had been written about him, ninety-nine percent of them pure crap and nonsense. Songs had been sung about him, and at least one play was still being performed about the life and times of Smoke Jensen. Smoke had read some of the books, or as much of them as he could stand, and he usually used them afterward to light fires in the stove or fireplace. The songs were terrible and the play was worse. But for all his fame and notoriety, relatively few people knew what he looked like. He seldom left his horse ranch, called the Sugarloaf, in the mountains of Colorado, and when he did venture out, it usually was not for long. So many would-be toughs and gunslingers had taken to wearing their guns as Smoke wore his, that trademark was no longer a giveaway.
Smoke rarely buckled on two guns anymore, doing so only when he knew he was riding into trouble. He was content to wear one gun, right side, low and tied down.
He was a ruggedly handsome man, but not in the pretty-boy way. His face was strong, his jaw firm, and his eyes cold as winter-locked fjords. He loved children and animals, and attended church on a regular basis, even though the preacher at the town of Big Rock, Colorado, knew Smoke would never pay much attention to the New Testament, since he was strictly an Old Testament man.
He raised appaloosas on his ranch, running only a few head of cattle now.
His wife, Sally, was of the New England Rey-noldses, and enormously wealthy. She was a strong-willed woman, not one to mince words and certainly not someone to ride over. Sally was a strong supporter of women’s rights, was very outspoken on the subject, and would not back down from a grizzly. She had strapped on pistol and picked up rifle and sent more than one thug to Hell in her time. She was also a loving mother and a faithful companion to her husband and a sweet person … just as long as you didn’t mess with her man.
Smoke rode to the rails and boarded the train. At rail’s end, he signed the hotel registry as K. Jensen and no one paid any special attention to him, except for the men commenting on his size and the ladies on how handsome and how well mannered he was.
Smoke had stabled Buck, curried him, and told the boy to grain him and not mess with him. It was doubtful Buck would hurt a child; he never had, but one never knew. The horse was a killer, and he bonded only with Smoke.
Smoke carefully bathed and shaved, and dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and black string tie. He belted his gun around him and tied it down, slipping the hammer thong free of the hammer. It was something he did from habit, like breathing.
The large hotel, fairly fancy for the time, had a separate bar and dining room, connected by a door that was guarded on the saloon side by a man who looked like he ate wagons for lunch. Smoke entered the bar and ordered a whiskey. Not much of a drinking man, he did occasionally enjoy a drink before dinner, sometimes a brandy after dinner, and a beer after a hard day’s ride.
Saloons were a meeting place, where a man — women were not yet allowed — could find out road conditions, trouble spots where highwaymen lurked, the best place to buy horses or cattle, what range was closed, and where good water could be found. Smoke leaned against the bar, sipped his whiskey, and listened.
“I heard Smoke Jensen got killed down in Mexico,” a man said. “Gunfighter name of Jake Bonner got him.”
Smoke hid his smile.
“What’d he do, back-shoot him?”
“Outdrew him.”
Smoke tuned them out. Jake Bonner was a two-bit punk who had been making brags for several years that if he ever came upon Smoke Jensen, he was going to kill him.
“Bonner’s in town.” That remark brought Smoke back to paying attention to the gabby citizens.
“And he’s sayin’ he killed Jensen?”
“He’s talkin’ big about it.”
“Well, by God. I knew he’d been gone for several months. I heard he hired out his gun. Say, now, this is news.”
“Says he’s got proof. Says he’s got Jensen’s boots, just jerked off his dead body. Fancy, engraved boots. Got the initials SJ right on the front of each one.”
“You don’t say?”
By this time, twenty men had gathered around and were listening to the bull-tossing.
“Say, stranger.”
Smoke realized the citizen was talking to him, and he turned slightly. “Yes?”
“Didn’t you come in on the 4:18 train?”
“That’s right.”
“Thought so. Did you hear anything about Jake Bonner killing Smoke Jensen?”
“No. I haven’t heard anything about that.”
“Funny. Seems like the news would be all over.”
“If it’s true,” Smoke replied, sipping a bit of whiskey.
“Mister, you’re a big’un, but I’d not call Jake Bonner a liar if I was you. Jake’s a bad one.”
“Every town has one.”
“Not as bad as Jake. The man’s cat-quick with a gun. Why, he’s got five notches carved in his gun handle.”
“Tinhorn trick,” Smoke said.
“You callin’ me a tinhorn?” the voice came from the boardwalk batwings to the saloon.
Smoke turned slowly. The man facing him from about thirty feet away was young, no more than twenty-two or -three. He wore two guns, pearl-handled, in a fancy rig. His coat was swept back, his hands by his side.
“Anybody who carves notches in his gun-handles is a tinhorn,” Smoke said, placing his shot glass on the bar. “If that fits you, wear it.”
“I’m Jake Bonner. The man who killed Smoke Jensen. And you’ll take back that remark, mister. Or you’ll drag iron.”
“What if I decide to do neither?”
“Then you’re a yeller dog.”
“I’ve known some nice dogs in my time. As a matter of fact, I’ve known a lot more nice dogs than nice humans.”
Back in a corner of the big room, a faro dealer sat with a smile on his lips. Of all the men in the room, he alone knew who the big man in the black suit was. He’d seen him several times, once in action. And he knew that if Jake Bonner didn’t close his mouth and do it real quick, he was either dead on the floor or stomped into a cripple.
Jake walked closer to the bar, his fancy spurs jingling. “Mister, I think you’re a liar and a coward. What do you have to say about that?”
“I
