This Violent Land by William W. Johnstone Page A

doubt that he would exercise that authority absolutely, and if necessary, cruelly. She would never give him that power.
    She couldn’t help but wonder, though, what her life would be like if she could find a man who really did love her, and who she could love.
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    Denver, late January 1871
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    â€œHello, Miss Wilson,” Smoke said as he stepped into the United States Marshal’s office a few days later.
    â€œHello, Deputy,” Annie Wilson replied.
    â€œAnd how is the most beautiful girl in Denver?”
    Annie laughed. “Smoke Jensen, I’m almost old enough to be your mama. Well, maybe not quite, but certainly old enough to be your big sister. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
    â€œI’m older than you think I am.”
    â€œYou forget, I keep the records of all our deputies. I know exactly how old you are.”
    â€œAh, but that’s only in years. Surely experience counts for something, doesn’t it?”
    â€œYou may have a point there, Deputy. I’ve also seen a file of some of your . . . uh . . . exploits. Some people could live a hundred years and not experience the life you’ve already lived.”
    â€œMaybe. But it’s also true that some of the events in my life I would just as soon have not experienced. Is the marshal in?”
    â€œHe’s with the governor right now. It’ll be just a moment. There’s some issues of the Rocky Mountain News , if you care to look at them while you wait.”
    â€œThanks,” Smoke said, picking up a paper and taking a chair to read it. One story quickly caught his attention, even though it was a couple of months old.

    G ENTLEMAN B ANDIT S TRIKES
    Fifteen Hundred Dollars Taken
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    Nobody Hurt
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    â€œHe was just absolutely one of the nicest gentlemen one would ever hope to meet,” was the way Mrs. Ethel Joyce described the man who stopped a stagecoach in Pueblo County last week, relieving the driver and shotgun guard of the fifteen-hundred-dollar bank transfer the coach was carrying.
    According to the driver, the robber, who didn’t wear a mask, knew in advance not only that the coach was carrying a money shipment, but knew to the penny how much the shipment was.
    The coach was stopped by means of blocking the road with a log. And although the robber made reference to a partner, or perhaps partners, neither the driver, his guard, nor any of the stagecoach passengers saw anyone except the highwayman himself.
    It is not the purpose of this newspaper, dear readers, to bestow accolades upon a felon, but one cannot help but draw a comparison between the gentlemanly, almost courtly, manner in which the robber performed his illegal activities with the brutal and cowardly dynamite attack two weeks previous, in which five people, including a child and a young woman, were killed.
    At present there are no clues as to who may have perpetrated either of the two robberies.

    The door to Marshal Holloway’s office opened, and he and the territorial governor stepped out. Governor McCook had reached the rank of brigadier general during the war and still carried himself with a military bearing. He had a full mustache that curled down to either side of his mouth, but he didn’t have a beard.
    Holloway said, “Governor, this is my newest deputy, Kirby Jensen. Though he is better known as Smoke.”
    â€œSmoke, is it? Well, Smoke, Marshal Holloway has been saying good things about you. Keep up the good work.”
    â€œI’ll do my best, Governor,” Smoke replied as he dropped the newspaper back on the table where he had gotten it.
    â€œI’m glad to see that you’re back,” Marshal Holloway said to Smoke after the governor left. “I want to send you to the town of Running Creek.The sheriff there, Frank Tanner, has asked for help.”
    â€œWhat does he need?”
    â€œTo be honest with you, Smoke, I don’t know what he needs because he