This Violent Land Page 3

  “Yeah, we are. Big-time. The person behind it is a man by the name of Stan Morgan, though he goes by the moniker of Red. The rustling is so bad that a lot of ranchers are losing their spreads, and it just so happens that Morgan is the one benefiting from it. He’s buying up land and cattle at less than half of what they are worth. And the hell of it is, Morgan has half the people in this town believing he’s innocent. Why, just last year he was elected president of the Cattlemen’s Association.”

  “Do you know for a fact that he’s behind it?”

  Donovan opened the middle drawer of his desk. “I’ve got signed affidavits here from two men up in Grand County who confess to buying stolen cattle from Morgan.”

  “They confessed to it?”

  “They didn’t have much of a choice. The sheriff’s deputy up there posed as a dealer and caught them dead to rights.”

  “If you already have those confessions, why don’t you arrest Morgan?”

  “We have an election for sheriff coming up soon, and Morgan has already announced that he’s running against me. If I arrested him, too many people would think it’s just a matter of politics. But since Colorado is just a territory and not a state, you, as a deputy federal marshal, will have jurisdiction anywhere you go, whether he’s committed a violation of a federal statute or not.”

  “Yes, Marshal Holloway explained that to me. Do you have any idea where I might find the man?”

  “I saw him and Lucas going into the Ace High Saloon about half an hour ago. I’m sure he’s still there.”

  “Lucas?”

  “Lucas Babcock is his right-hand man,” Donovan explained. “He also does a lot of his dirty work. When somebody needs to be intimidated, Babcock is generally the one who gets sent to intimidate them.” The sheriff hesitated, then went on. “Listen, if Morgan resists arrest, don’t push him just yet. As long as I have you to press the federal charges, I can get a couple of my deputies, and we’ll help you make the arrest. What I’m saying is that Morgan is very good with a gun, and Babcock is even better. I wouldn’t want you to put yourself into an untenable situation.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Smoke replied, trying to keep a touch of wry humor out of his voice. He pulled the warrant from his pocket, then took a pen from the inkwell on Sheriff Donovan’s desk. “What were those names again? Their full names.”

  “Stanley Morgan and Lucas Babcock,” Donovan said.

  Smoke wrote them onto the blank space, then blew on the ink to dry it. He put the warrant in his pocket. “It might be a good idea for you to tell me what they look like.”

  Donovan chuckled. “Yeah, it might at that. They call Morgan Red for a reason. It’s not only his hair that’s red. He has the reddest skin I’ve ever seen. You can’t miss him. And Babcock has a handlebar mustache, as well as a purple scar that looks somethin’ like a fishhook under his left eye.”

  “What about the people in the saloon? Are they likely to take Morgan’s side?”

  “There will be a few who generally support him, I reckon, but they would mostly be honest people who just aren’t ready to believe that he’s a cattle thief. Like I said, he’s already announced that he’s going to run for sheriff. If it actually comes to a showdown between Morgan and the law, they’ll stay out of it. Paul Gordon, the bartender, is a good man, and you can count on him to keep the others honest.”

  “Thanks.” Smoke started to turn around and leave the office, then paused. “Oh, you might want to open a cell door. I wouldn’t want Morgan and Babcock to feel unwelcome when I bring them back.”

  As Smoke walked down the street from the sheriff’s office to the saloon, he could hear piano music spilling through the openings above and below the batwing doors.

  He stepped into the Ace High and moved quickly to the side and put his back against the wall, a procedure he used every time he entered a saloon. The place wasn’t full, but it did have more customers than he would have expected early in the evening.

  He studied the others in the saloon. Less than half of them were wearing guns, and less than half of those looked as if they really knew how to use them. From the descriptions Sheriff Donovan had provided, he recognized Morgan and Babcock at the far end of the bar. Unlike most of the men in the saloon, they were wearing their guns in a way that indicated they knew how to use them quite well.

  Loosening his pistol in his holster, Smoke walked halfway down the bar, then stopped. “Would you two gentlemen be Stanley Morgan and Lucas Babcock?” The words were loud and authoritative.

  Everyone in the saloon stopped talking and looked toward him. Those who were in position to see him from the front saw the star on his shirt. The two men standing at the bar between him and the men he had just called out to moved quickly to get out of the way.

  “Who wants to know?” Morgan asked as he turned his head to gaze without much real curiosity at the newcomer.

  “Mr. Morgan, I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Smoke Jensen.” Although his name was gaining some recognition, he wasn’t all that well-known. Since neither of them reacted to his name, he realized that neither had ever heard of him. That, he knew, was to his advantage.

  “What can I do for you, Deputy?” Morgan asked.

  “I have a warrant for your arrest, Morgan. And for you as well, Babcock. I stopped by Sheriff Donovan’s office before I came overhere and asked him to get a jail cell ready for you. He ought to have it waiting for you by now.”

  With that announcement, everyone in the saloon got up from the tables and moved out of the way, backing all the way up to the wall.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Smoke saw a reflection in the mirror behind the line of whiskey bottles. A man who hadn’t moved remained at the end of the bar behind Smoke, staring into his beer mug as if he had no interest in what was going on around him.

  “What did you say?” Morgan asked, saying the words in a scoffing, laughing tone of voice. “Did you say that you asked that old fool of a sheriff to get a cell ready for us?”

  “That’s exactly what I said.”

  “Now, why would you want to go and do a damn fool thing like that?”

  Still standing in the same spot, Smoke answered. “Because, Morgan, I’m arresting you and your friend there for cattle rustling.”

  “Are you crazy, Deputy?” Morgan threw out his left hand in an annoyed gesture. “What makes you think I have anything to do with all the cattle rustling that’s been going on around here?”

  “You admit that there has been a lot of cattle rustling going on?”

  “Yeah, sure there has. I know about it because I’m the president of the cattlemen’s association, but I don’t have anything to do with it.”

  “From what I’ve heard, your organization is losing members, what with so many ranches being driven out of business by the rustling. I’ve also heard that you’re the one benefiting from their losses.”

  “Benefiting? I’m helping them. I’m buying them out when they have no place else to go.”

  “For pennies on the dollar,” Smoke pointed out.

  “They don’t have to sell unless they want to,” Morgan responded with a sneer.

  Smoke glanced again at the mirrored reflection of the man standing at the bar behind him. Still no movement, not even so much as a glance of curiosity.

  Babcock spoke up for the first time. “Didn’t you just say that you was a deputy United States marshal?” he asked in a rusty-sounding voice.

  “I did.”

  “Well, even if we was guilty, which I’m sure as hell not saying that we was. But even if we was, it wouldn’t be any of your concern. You’ve got no authority in Summit County.”

  “Sure I do. As a deputy United States marshal, I’ve got authority from New York to San Francisco.”

  “Only for federal cases. Since when is cattle rustling a federal offense, anyway?” Morgan asked.

  Smoke smiled as he explained the situation. “Morgan, this is a territory, not a state. I have authorization all over Colorado. I ca
n arrest you for stealing the United States mail or for spitting in the street.”

  Babcock grunted. “That’s a pretty lame charge, ain’t it, Deputy? Are you tellin’ us that the whole federal government is comin’ down on me an’ Mr. Morgan just for spittin’ in the street?”

  “No. I’m not telling you that the whole federal government is coming down on you, period.”

  “Well then, what are you tellin’ us?” Morgan demanded.

  “I’m telling you that I’m coming down on you.”

  “But you’re a deputy U.S. marshal,” Babcock protested.

  “That’s right.”

  “So that means that you do represent the whole federal government.”

  A broad smile spread across Smoke’s face. “Well now, if you’re going to put it that way, I suppose you could say that I do represent the whole federal government.”

  “I’m getting tired of all this palaver,” Morgan snapped. “This isn’t about spitting in the street, is it?”

  “No, it’s about stealing cattle,” Smoke repeated.

  “So you come out here from Denver, just to get involved in a local case?” Morgan asked.

  “It’s my job.”

  “Stickin’ your nose in somebody else’s business isn’t much of a job,” Morgan said.

  “Is that so? Well, right now it’s the only job I have, and the truth is, I sort of like it. I especially like it when I can put lowlife people like you in jail.”

  “Deputy, look out!” the bartender suddenly shouted.

  Even as the bartender shouted his warning, Smoke caught sight of movement in the mirror. Spinning around, he saw that the man who had been so studiously nursing his drink at the far end of the bar was pointing a gun at him.

  Smoke pulled his own gun, drawing and firing in the same fluid motion, doing it so quickly that the noise of his shot blended with his assailant’s shot. They sounded like one gun going off, even though the other man had fired a split second sooner. Smoke felt the bullet fly through the air next to his ear.

  “Look out! Babcock and Morgan have drawed on you!” someone else shouted.

  Smoke whirled back toward the two men. Remembering that Donovan had told him Babcock was the faster of the two, he took him first.

  Even with the gun already in his hand, Babcock was unable to get a shot off before Smoke fired. The bullet slammed into Babcock’s chest and threw him against the bar. He bounced off and pitched forward.

  In a quick, unbroken action, Smoke shot Morgan as the cattleman was squeezing the trigger. Like the shot of the first man who had tried to kill Smoke, Morgan’s bullet whizzed by harmlessly. Smoke, however, was deadly accurate, his bullet catching Morgan between the eyes. It bored through his brain and exploded out the back of his skull in a grisly pink spray. Morgan toppled backward on the sawdust-littered floor. His right arm flopped over onto Babcock’s body, the smoking gun still in his hand. Morgan’s eyes were open, but a third opening, a small, black hole right at the bridge of his nose, trickled out a small amount of blood. The floor beneath his head was already stained red with the blood that had gushed from the exit wound.

  The others in the saloon looked at Morgan’s body in shock. It had all happened so fast that for a moment, they could almost believe it hadn’t happened at all. Validation of the shooting was the drifting cloud of acrid smoke from the five shots that had been fired in less than a second.

  “Are they all dead?” someone asked in awe.

  “Yeah,” another man answered.

  “Huh. He got all three of ’em. I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that!”

  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.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “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.

  “A
re 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?”