Jensen when it came to gunplay. The thought of facing Jensen eyeball to eyeball and dragging iron had not even entered his mind. He did not think there was a man alive that could match Jensen’s speed and unbelievable accuracy with pistol or rifle. Few men were as strong as Jensen. And Bowers also knew that Smoke Jensen’s courage was matched by few, if any.
Bowers knew all the stories about the legendary gunfighter. He’d heard them for years, no matter where in the West he happened to be. He’d been raised by mountain men, killed his first man when no more than a towheaded boy. Had faced alone up to twenty men and emerged victorious. His exploits were known worldwide. Books had been written about him. Songs had been sung. Plays had been staged. But he didn’t know how much was true and how much was pure balderdash.
He suspected it was all true.
Club Bowers was unable to find his voice. He shoved back his chair and stood up, still staring open-mouthed at Smoke. He knew he should say something, but he didn’t know what. He shook his head and walked out of the dining room. At the archway he stopped and turned, looking back at Smoke Jensen. The man was rolling a cigarette while the waiter filled his cup with coffee.
“Incredible,” Club muttered.
Smoke slept well that night and awakened refreshed and ready to face the day. He dressed in jeans and a black-and-white checkered shirt. Since his identity was known and there was no need for any charade, he’d shaved off his mustache and strapped on both pistols, the left hand pistol worn high and butt-forward. Sally made his shirts for him, since store-bought shirts were usually too tight across the shoulders and too small for his massive arms. He usually carried four or five extra shirts. He made sure all the loops in his gunbelt were filled with ,44s and then checked his big-bladed Bowie knife. It was razor-sharp. He stepped out to meet the day.
After breakfast, he strolled over to Lawyer Dunham’s office, the townspeople giving him a wide berth as he walked, his spurs jingling.
Smoke pegged Dunham as a shyster immediately. And he suspected that Dunham knew he had, for the lawyer attempted no tricky legal maneuvering when Smoke told him to produce the will.
“Since Jenny is young,” Dunham said, “Miss Janey left everything to you until the girl comes of age. I . . ."
“Where is my sister buried?”
“Just outside of town, sir. It was a lovely funeral. The headstone has just been set in place. Quite an elaborate monument, I might add. The local minister and some of the good ladies of the town were, ah, upset at the inscription, but Miss Janey was quite clear as to what she wanted on the stone.”
Smoke stood up. The lawyer was obviously in awe at the bulk of the man. “You get all the papers in order. I’ll be back after I pay my respects to my sister.”
“Certainly, sir. I shall have them ready.”
At the livery, Jimmy was decked out in new duds and boots. A nice-looking boy. He’d even had his hair trimmed. “I got money left, Mister Smoke,” Jimmy said.
“Keep it. As long as I’m in town I’ll pay you to look after my horse.”
Smoke saddled up and rode to the windswept and lonely graveyard. Janey’s monument was the largest in the cemetery. He was amused at the inscription, and could see why the local, so-called “good ladies” might be offended at the words.
Carved deep in the expensive stone, under Janey’s name and date of life and death, were the words, I PLAYED LIFE TO THE HILT AND ENJOYED EVERY GODDAMN MINUTE OF IT.
“There never was any love lost between us, Sis,” Smoke spoke the words softly. “But I understand you raised a good girl. I’ll see to it that she makes out all right.”
He put his hat back on his head and walked out of the graveyard. A time-weathered old cowboy was waiting at the entrance to the cemetery.
“I’m Van Horn,” the man said. Smoke guessed him to be in his late sixties or early seventies.
Bowers knew all the stories about the legendary gunfighter. He’d heard them for years, no matter where in the West he happened to be. He’d been raised by mountain men, killed his first man when no more than a towheaded boy. Had faced alone up to twenty men and emerged victorious. His exploits were known worldwide. Books had been written about him. Songs had been sung. Plays had been staged. But he didn’t know how much was true and how much was pure balderdash.
He suspected it was all true.
Club Bowers was unable to find his voice. He shoved back his chair and stood up, still staring open-mouthed at Smoke. He knew he should say something, but he didn’t know what. He shook his head and walked out of the dining room. At the archway he stopped and turned, looking back at Smoke Jensen. The man was rolling a cigarette while the waiter filled his cup with coffee.
“Incredible,” Club muttered.
Smoke slept well that night and awakened refreshed and ready to face the day. He dressed in jeans and a black-and-white checkered shirt. Since his identity was known and there was no need for any charade, he’d shaved off his mustache and strapped on both pistols, the left hand pistol worn high and butt-forward. Sally made his shirts for him, since store-bought shirts were usually too tight across the shoulders and too small for his massive arms. He usually carried four or five extra shirts. He made sure all the loops in his gunbelt were filled with ,44s and then checked his big-bladed Bowie knife. It was razor-sharp. He stepped out to meet the day.
After breakfast, he strolled over to Lawyer Dunham’s office, the townspeople giving him a wide berth as he walked, his spurs jingling.
Smoke pegged Dunham as a shyster immediately. And he suspected that Dunham knew he had, for the lawyer attempted no tricky legal maneuvering when Smoke told him to produce the will.
“Since Jenny is young,” Dunham said, “Miss Janey left everything to you until the girl comes of age. I . . ."
“Where is my sister buried?”
“Just outside of town, sir. It was a lovely funeral. The headstone has just been set in place. Quite an elaborate monument, I might add. The local minister and some of the good ladies of the town were, ah, upset at the inscription, but Miss Janey was quite clear as to what she wanted on the stone.”
Smoke stood up. The lawyer was obviously in awe at the bulk of the man. “You get all the papers in order. I’ll be back after I pay my respects to my sister.”
“Certainly, sir. I shall have them ready.”
At the livery, Jimmy was decked out in new duds and boots. A nice-looking boy. He’d even had his hair trimmed. “I got money left, Mister Smoke,” Jimmy said.
“Keep it. As long as I’m in town I’ll pay you to look after my horse.”
Smoke saddled up and rode to the windswept and lonely graveyard. Janey’s monument was the largest in the cemetery. He was amused at the inscription, and could see why the local, so-called “good ladies” might be offended at the words.
Carved deep in the expensive stone, under Janey’s name and date of life and death, were the words, I PLAYED LIFE TO THE HILT AND ENJOYED EVERY GODDAMN MINUTE OF IT.
“There never was any love lost between us, Sis,” Smoke spoke the words softly. “But I understand you raised a good girl. I’ll see to it that she makes out all right.”
He put his hat back on his head and walked out of the graveyard. A time-weathered old cowboy was waiting at the entrance to the cemetery.
“I’m Van Horn,” the man said. Smoke guessed him to be in his late sixties or early seventies.
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