Smoke didn’t believe her. She was lying through her teeth, but damned if he knew why.
“This is a big spread, Mr. Burden. Where are your hands?”
“Don’t have none no more. Jud’s men run them off; killed a couple. They’re buried on that crest to the east.”
Smoke had seen the graveyard. More than two crosses there. “And Jud’s men cut your fence?”
“Yep.”
“Tell me about this Clint Perkins?”
“What is there to say?” Walt said. “Nobody ’ceptin’ Doreen has seen his face in fifteen years.”
“You two look alike,” Doreen said. “I can see where someone might think you were him.”
What to do? Smoke thought. All three of these people were lying to him. But why? What were they hiding? Walt and Alice Burden were too old for Clint Perkins to be their son. So that was out. So where was the connection? There had to be one.
“How’d you get here?” he asked Doreen.
“Runnin’ from Jud Vale,” she answered simply. “Walt and Alice took me and Micky in and let us stay.”
Why? Had they known Doreen that well? Had they been neighbors? What? Too many unanswered questions. It made Smoke uneasy. Very uneasy.
“You have any idea how many head of cattle you have?” Smoke asked the old man.
“Not no more. Jud and his gunhands been runnin’ ’em off for a year or more. The one herd they can’t get to without a lot of fuss is west of here, next to the Bear River.”
“How are you getting your food?”
The question seemed to make all three of them nervous. Walt finally said, “Friends slip food to us.”
Smoke nodded, not satisfied with the reply but sensing he wasn’t going to get much more out of the trio. Micky was outside, playing. Smoke figured the boy to be about eight years old.
“There is no point in my trying to restring the wire,” Smoke said. “Without hands to ride fence, Jud’s people would just cut it again come night.”
“True.”
“Do you have the money to pay hands, providing I could find some who’d work for you?”
“Oh, sure. I got money up in Montpelier. That’s a Mormon town. Jud ain’t gonna mess with them folks.”
Smoke knew that for an iron-clad fact. Mormons tended to stick together, and folks who thought they wouldn’t fight because they were so religious soon learned how wrong they were—providing they lived through it.
Wall was saying, “... You ain’t gonna find no one to work for me, anyways, Mr. Smoke. Jud’s got the folks around here buffaloed.”
“You let me think on that for a few hours. You just might be wrong.” He smiled. “However, the hands I get might not be the type you’re used to seeing.”
Smoke stowed his gear in the bunkhouse and fired up the old potbelly stove in the center of the room. Dagger was warm and content and chomping away on corn in a hay-filled stall in the big barn.
Smoke had noticed that at one time—not too long ago—the Box T had been a money-making spread. So why the sudden downfall? Was it just because Jud Vale wanted the land? Smoke didn’t believe that for a minute. There was more to it than that; a lot more.
Smoke hated bullies. If it were just a simple matter of Jud Vale’s greed, the problem could be easily solved—with a gun. Smoke wanted the whole story, though, before it came to that, if it came to that. And he sincerely hoped it would not. He, however, had a hunch that it would. Usually all loud-mouthed, pushy, bullying types could be handled without being killed, for bullies are cowards at heart. Give them a good beating and you’ve got their attention. But Smoke felt that Jud wouldn’t go down that easily. If Jensen stayed around, he would have to drag iron against Jud Vale.
He felt pretty sure he was going to stick around. Nothing like a good mystery to pique one’s interest.
Over supper, Smoke asked, “Lots of small farmers in this area, huh? ”
“Oh, yeah,” the old rancher said. “Most of them just barely hanging on. That’s another thing that got me in trouble. I never minded farmers like a lot of ranchers seem to. Never had any trouble with them. I used to help a lot of them time to time. A little money, food, clothing, what have you. Used to hire some of the kids during the summer to work on the spread.”
“Does Montpelier have a newspaper?”
“Sure.”
Smoke nodded. “I’m going to be gone for several days.” He noted the alarm that quickly sprang into the eyes of those around the table. “But I’ll be back,” he assured them. “And that’s a promise.”
“Jud Vale is a no-good,” the farmer said bluntly. “And I’ll say it to his face.”
“Chester ...” his wife warned.
“No, Mother,” the man in the patched overalls shook his head. “Time for backing down is over. Mr. Burden is a good man who’s hit on some hard times. We can’t just turn our backsides to him and forget all the times he’s helped us. ’Sides, we need hard cash desperate.”
“Ralph is only twelve years old,” she reminded him.
“And been doin’ a man’s work since he was nine. You seen how excited he is about Mr. Smoke’s offer. And you heard Mr. Smoke say he ain’t gonna put the plan into action unless the newspaper agrees to print the story and send it out to other papers.”
“Well ...” She shook her head. “I just don’t know, Chester.”
“Aw, Mom!” the boy finally spoke. “I can handle a gun good as the next feller!”
“No guns!” Smoke said it quickly and firmly. “If it comes to gunplay, I’ll handle that. Any boy who shows up with a gun doesn’t work.”
“Yes, sir!” Ralph said. “You’re the boss, Mr. Smoke, for sure.”
“You pass the word around to your friends and neighbors. And keep it inside the circle. We want this to be a total surprise to Jud Vale when we spring it.”
The farmer grinned and stuck out his hand. Smoke shook it. “You got it, Mr. Smoke.”
The editor of the newspaper chuckled and rocked back in his swivel chair. "I like it, Mr. Jensen. I really like it. Jud Vale doesn’t throw that big a loop around this town, but he’s made life pretty miserable for those in his area. I’ve been curious about just why he hates Walt Burden so. Of course I’ll print the story, and I’ll send it out to newspapers all over the state. We want to be sure those young boys are safe. And there is nothing like the power of the press to insure that. Hire your ... cowboys, Mr. Jensen, and put them to work. I’ll ride down and do a follow-up on the story in a few weeks, to keep interest alive."
“Damnedest bunch of cowboys I ever seen in all my born days,” Walt said, looking at the new hands.
“Looks like we better get to cooking, Doreen,” Alice said. “Some of those boys look like they haven’t had a decent meal in weeks.”
The youngest was ten and the oldest was fourteen. Of the boys, that is. In Montpelier, Smoke had rounded up three slightly older punchers. Dolittle, Harrison, and Cheyenne were in their sixties ... they claimed. Smoke suspected they might be a tad older than that. He didn’t know much about Dolittle and Harrison, except that they could sit a saddle and knew cows, but Cheyenne was quite another story. Smoke remembered Preacher spinning yams about a mountain man he knew by the name of Cheyenne O’Malley from back in the ’40s. Cheyenne was one of those born with the bark on, he didn’t have to grow into it; mean from