This Violent Land Read online

  “Well, I’m afraid I don’t have a fancy name like yours. My name is—”

  “Draw!” The Concho Kid shouted, his hand already dipping toward his pistol as he shouted the challenge.

  His gun didn’t even clear leather before a pistol appeared in Clell’s hand, his draw so fast it was a blur. Clell fired once, the bullet hitting The Concho Kid in the middle of his chest.

  With an expression of surprise on his face, he took a step back, dropped his own gun, then slapped his hand over the wound. Blood streamed through his fingers. “How?” he asked with a pained expression on his face. “Who?”

  “Well now, Concho, that’s two different questions,” Clell replied. “Which one do you want me to answer?”

  It didn’t matter which one he answered. The Concho Kid had crumpled to the sawdust-covered floor and lay there dead.

  “What’s your name, mister?” the bartender asked, shocked at what he had just seen.

  “Dawson. Clell Dawson.” He put his pistol away.

  Again, there was a collective gasp from the saloon patrons, for Clell Dawson was a name known all through the West.

  “Damn,” the bartender said. “If The Kid had known that, he would have never drawn on you.”

  “Yeah, he would have. That boy had a need to prove himself stuck in his craw, and he would have drawn on me if I had been his own brother.” Finishing his beer, Clell nodded at the bartender, then left the saloon, walked next door, and checked in to the hotel.

  Bury

  “Janey, you shouldn’t have bought me this,” Sally said, looking at the dress spread out on the bed in her small house. “I mean, why would you do such a thing?”

  “Because you’re my friend, and when I saw this dress while I was in Denver, I just knew it would look so good on you. Your eyes are such a beautiful color, and this dress will make them stand out. Do try it on.”

  “I really shouldn’t. I mean, I’ve never given you anything. I feel like such a—”

  “Nonsense. You have given me something. You’ve given me your friendship. That’s something none of the other . . . ladies . . . of Bury have done.” Janey set the word ladies apart from the rest of the sentence as if questioning whether there really were any ladies in Bury.

  “And why shouldn’t I?” Sally said with a broad smile. “After all, you did save my life the first day I arrived in town.”

  “Yes,” Janey said, returning the smile. “I did, didn’t I?”

  “How was your trip to Denver? You were gone for two weeks.”

  “I very much enjoyed it. I got to see a play . . . Around the World in Eighty Days it was called . . . and oh, it was so delightful. And I saw a musical revue. I know you’re from the Northeast and you’re used to big cities, but for a Missouri girl like me, it was all just wonderful and fascinating. I bought so many beautiful things, not only for you, but for Flora and Emma, too, and all the other girls.”

  “You are a valuable friend to have, Janey, in more ways than one,” Sally said. “I will have to do something for you, someday.”

  “Like I told you, Sally, you’re my friend. You know who I am and what I am, but still, you’re my friend. You’ve already done a lot for me. Let’s go so I can give away the other things.”

  They walked down to the Pink House, where Janey presented her gifts to Flora and the others.

  “You really shouldn’t have spent so much of your money on us,” Flora protested.

  Janey laughed. “It wasn’t my money, it was Josh Richards’s money. I told him that if he wanted me to get some papers signed for him in Denver, it was going to cost him five hundred dollars.”

  “What papers did he want signed?” Flora asked.

  “They were deeds of transfer—probably illegal. They probably made him ten times as much money as I made him give me.”

  “Janey, why do you stay with him?” Flora wanted to know. “By your own admission, he is a crook. Someday someone is going to catch up with him.”

  “I’m sure they will, someday. But for now, I intend to ride that horse for as long as it has a saddle.”

  Flora laughed. “I like that, riding a horse for as long as it has a saddle.”

  “I have a gift, too,” Emma announced. “I made a blackberry cobbler.”

  Flora’s girls squealed with delight as she began cutting it up.

  “Oh, this is so good!” one of the girls said as she took a bite.

  “My mother used to make blackberry cobbler,” Janey said. “My younger brother loved them. He could probably eat this whole thing by himself.”

  “Your brother? You’ve never mentioned that you had a brother,” Flora said.

  “Actually I have two of them. I think. I haven’t seen either one of them in a very long time, and I have no idea where either one of them are right now, or, to be honest, even if they are still alive.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, well, I’m not sure Kirby would want to see me, even if he is alive.” Janey recalled taking all the money when she left the farm. She hadn’t stolen the money, at least, not in her eyes. It was supposed to have been an investment. Garner had sworn to her that he would double, even triple the money, and it had been her intention to return the money to Kirby, with interest.

  But of course, that hadn’t happened.

  Denver

  “Smoke, didn’t you say when you were in Red Cliff that you met someone who told you the men you were looking for were in New Mexico?” Marshal Holloway asked.

  “He didn’t say that it was definite they were in New Mexico,” Smoke replied with a shrug. “He said he had heard that they might be down there.”

  “Then I’ve got another job lined up that might work out well for you. I had intended to send Doodle, but when I recalled what you told me about meeting that Confederate colonel, I decided to send you. I want you to go to Salcedo.That’s a little town on the Colorado and New Mexico border. After you take care of a little incident that happened there a couple days ago, you might want to take a look around to see if you can find those three men.”

  Smoke smiled. “I appreciate that, Marshal. Thanks for giving me the opportunity. What is the incident you want me to take care of?”

  “Well, it might a little more than just an incident. A few days ago a group of men broke a Mexican out of jail, then they lynched him.”

  Smoke frowned. “What about the local law?”

  Marshal Holloway shook his head. “Well, now, that might be a part of the problem, you see. The only thing they have for local law is a couple city marshals, and this morning I got a telegram from one of the local citizens by the name of Leroy Peyton.

  “It so happens that I know Peyton. He was a judge back in Kansas before he moved out here. He had to be careful with the way he worded the telegram, but he sort of suggests that Bradford and Cassidy might have been in on it. If Peyton believes that, I’d be willing to say there might be something to it.”

  Smoke had never heard of them. “Bradford and Cassidy?”

  “They’re the city marshals.”

  “What about the county sheriff?”

  “The county sheriff is more of a political position than anything else. Right now the sheriff is Roy Beck, but he’s well into his seventies. There’s no way he can handle this. That’s why I’m sending you.”

  Smoke nodded. “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Handle it any way you want, Smoke. Then, when it’s done, you can take some time off to go into New Mexico and look around.”

  “Thank you, Marshal. I appreciate that.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Salcedo, New Mexico Territory

  As Smoke rode near the town a week later, he didn’t have to stop and inquire as to whether or not a man had been recently lynched. The truth was profanely and arrogantly displayed just outside town. A man’s body was hanging from a high, horizontal limb of a large cottonwood tree.

  With winter only a month away, the weather was chilly, but despite tha
t, hanging from the tree limb for days had not been good for the corpse. The body was displaying considerable damage left by vultures. In addition, the face had been blackened by prolonged exposure and deterioration. A crudely lettered sign told the story.

  THIS MEXICAN

  Was hung for murder

  Leave his carcass here for the buzzards

  Smoke removed the marshal’s star from his shirt and dropped it into his pocket before he continued his ride into Salcedo. He passed through the main part of town without stopping, going all the way to the far end of the town into the Mexican section. He stopped in front of a building with the sign CARLOS BUSTAMANTE, MORTUORIO painted on it.

  Smoke didn’t actually speak Spanish, but he understood enough to know that the sign meant Bustamante was the undertaker for the Mexicans. Tying Seven off in front of the building, he stepped inside, where he was greeted by a man dressed all in black.

  “Sí, señor?”

  “You’re the undertaker?” Smoke asked.

  “Sí, for the Mexicanos, I am the undertaker,” Bustamante said. “The Americano undertaker is back up the street several blocks.”

  “I’m askin’ about a Mexican.” Smoke’s voice was grim as he went on. “He’s hanging from a tree just outside of town.”

  “Sí, that is Juan Montoya, Dios sea con él,” Bustamante said with a sigh as he crossed himself. “He was hanged because they say he killed an Americano puta. But he did not kill her.”

  “How do you know he didn’t kill her?”

  “Señora Echeverria works at the casa de putas as a maid. She saw Señor Quinncannon coming from the room of Señorita Fannie. He had blood on his hands, and when Señora Echeverria went into the room, Señorita Fannie . . . ah, she was dead.”

  “Why didn’t Señora Echeverria go to the law?”

  “She did, señor. She told Marshal Bradford and Marshal Cassidy what she had seen, but they did not believe her. And then, Señor Quinncannon and some others said that Montoya was the one who murdered the puta.”

  “Why would they choose Montoya?”

  “He worked in the casa as a cook. But he was not even there, then. He was home. His neighbors saw him.When Señor Quinncannon and the others came for Montoya, the neighbors told them that he had been at home all night, but they would not listen.” Bustamante shook his head solemnly. “Instead, they took him out of town and hung him from a cottonwood tree.”

  “Señor Bustamante, I don’t understand. If you’re the undertaker for your people, why do you let the corpse of Juan Montoya hang from a tree for many days?”

  “Señor, perhaps you did not see the sign. The sign said that Juan Montoya, may he rest in peace, must be left hanging there.”

  “You say may he rest in peace. But it doesn’t seem to me that he can rest in peace with the buzzards picking at him. I want you to go get him, bring him in, and bury him.”

  “Señor, I am afraid of Quinncannon. He is a muy malo hombre.”

  Smoke nodded. “All right, I suppose I can understand that. Do you have a wagon and a horse to pull it?”

  “I have a wagon and a mule.”

  “Hitch the mule to the wagon. I’ll go cut Montoya down and bring him to you.”

  Bustamante’s eyes widened. “If you do that, you will be killed, señor.”

  “You let me worry about that.”

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, Smoke came back into town a second time. He was driving the undertaker’s wagon, and in the back of the vehicle, conspicuously visible, was the vulture-picked and deteriorating body of Juan Montoya.

  “Look,” he heard someone exclaim. “Ain’t that Montoya’s body in the back of that wagon?”

  “That’s the Mex undertaker’s wagon, ain’t it?” another man asked.

  “I don’t know, but that sure ain’t no Mex drivin’ the wagon.”

  “Mister?” the first man called out to Smoke. “Can’t you read? Quinncannon said that Mexican’s body was s’posed to stay out yonder where it was danglin’ from a tree limb.”

  Smoke kept the wagon moving steadily, paying no attention to any of the shouts directed toward him.

  “What the hell? Do you think maybe that fella is deaf?”

  Several more in the Anglo section of town turned out along both sides of the street, most of them staring in fearful curiosity. They believed they might see the young driver shot at any moment. None of them followed him.

  His passage was also watched by the Mexican citizenry once he entered their part of town, but none were hostile, and many crossed themselves as the wagon went by.

  Smoke stopped the wagon in front of the Mexican mortuary and jumped down as the undertaker exited the building. “Here he is, Señor Bustamante. Do I need to pay you anything to bury his body?”

  “No, Señor. The people will pay to bury him. Gracias. I fear now, for your life, but gracias.”

  Smoke nodded, turned, and remounted Seven. He rode back into town, stopping in front of what appeared to be the only saloon in Salcedo. He entered it as he entered all saloons, by stepping in and quickly pressing his back against the wall until he had made a thorough observation of everyone present.

  “Hey, you!” someone called to Smoke. “Are you the man who cut down that Mex body, and brung him into town?” The questioner had close-set eyes, a beak-like nose, and a projecting chin so turned up it looked like his nose and chin might actually touch.

  “I am.” Smoke’s response to the challenging question was calm, as if he were blissfully unaware of the hostile nature in the tone of the questioner’s voice. He turned to the bartender. “I’d like a beer, please.”

  “Didn’t you see my sign saying to leave that Mex hangin’ there?”

  “You must be Mr. Quinncannon,” Smoke said, extending his hand.

  Quincannon ignored the hand but smiled briefly, surprised but obviously pleased to be recognized. “Heard of me, have you?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Well, if you’ve heard of me, you should damn well know better than to cut that body down. You can read, can’t you? ’Cause if you can read, you shoulda been able to read the sign I posted. The sign that warned anyone against doin’ that.”

  “So you admit to posting the sign. Are you also the one who lynched him?”

  “You’re damn right I am,” Quinncannon said.

  Smoke kept up the calm demeanor. “The sign said you lynched him because he was a murderer. Who did he murder?”

  “He murdered a harlot,” Quinncannon replied.

  “Would the woman you say he murdered be named Fannie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do you know he murdered her?”

  “How do I know? ’Cause he worked there . . . in the house where she worked. I think he must have asked her to be with him, but she wouldn’t do it, ’cause of him bein’ Mex an’ all. So when she turned him down, he killed her.”

  “So you decided to kill Montoya yourself, is that it?” Smoke asked.

  “You’re damn right I—” Quinncannon stopped abruptly mid-sentence when he saw Smoke take the badge from his pocket and pin it onto his shirt. After that second of surprise, he demanded, “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

  “My name is Smoke Jensen, Quinncannon, and I’m a deputy U.S. marshal. You know what I think? I think you killed Fannie, and to cover it up, you accused Montoya, then you lynched him. I’m going to put you in jail for the murder of both of them. I expect you will stay there for about three days.”

  “Three days,” Quinncannon snorted. “And what’s going to happen in three days?”

  “There’ll be another hanging,” Smoke replied. “Only it’s going to be legal.”

  “Who do you think you’re kidding?” Quinncannon asked. “You ain’t goin’ to be able to put together a jury in this town that will hang me for what I done. Hell, half of ’em was out there, eggin’ me on!”

  “Then I’ll take you back to Denver with me. Either way, you’re going to ha
ng.”

  “The hell I am!” Quinncannon shouted. He clawed at his gun, even as he yelled his defiance.

  Smoke drew faster than the eye could follow. His Colt roared before Quinncannon even cleared his holster. Smoke’s bullet crashed into Quinncannon’s heart, killing him so quickly that he was dead before he hit the floor.

  “Drop your gun, mister!” a loud voice called.

  Looking into the mirror, Smoke saw two men. Both were wearing stars and both were holding shotguns pointed at him. He turned toward them. Bradford and Cassidy, he thought.

  “You can lower your guns,” Smoke told them. “I’m a deputy United States marshal. I came here to arrest Quinncannon for murder.”

  “Yeah?” one of the men said in a harsh, angry voice. “Well, you didn’t arrest him, did you? You shot him. Not even a United States marshal can shoot a man down in cold blood.”

  “I didn’t shoot him in cold blood. He drew on me.”

  “What do you mean, he drew on you? Look at him. His gun is still in the holster.”

  What the city marshal said was true. Quinncannon had started his draw, but Smoke was so fast that he drew and shot before Quinncannon could even clear leather. As a result, the pistol dropped straight back down into the holster.

  “Unbuckle your gun belt and let it fall to the floor,” one of them said.

  Smoke looked directly at the speaker. “Which one are you? Bradford or Cassidy?”

  “I’m Cassidy.”

  “Tell me, Cassidy, where were you two officers of the law when Quinncannon lynched Montoya?”

  “We was right there watchin’ him do it,” Bradford put in. “Far as I’m concerned he just saved the county the cost of a legal hangin’. He was right. Montoya was the one that kilt the girl.”

  Smoke kept up his questioning. “Isn’t it true that an eyewitness came to you two and told you that she had seen Quinncannon coming from Fannie’s room with blood on his hands? And when she went into the room, she found Fannie dead?”