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beside her.
    Five other people were already in the coach. A middle-aged woman sat on Sally’s other side. Across from them in the seat facing backward were a young couple and a fat, balding man who appeared to be some sort of traveling salesman. A young cowboy in his late teens perched on the bench in the middle of the coach with his saddle beside him. He reminded Smoke of Calvin Woods, one of his most trusted hands back on the Sugarloaf, the ranch Smoke owned in Colorado.
    The youngster, who had a shock of red hair trying to escape from under his hat and fall forward across his forehead, looked wide-eyed at Smoke and exclaimed, “Say, I know you, mister! I’ve seen your pictures in the illustrated papers. You’re Smoke Jensen!”
    Smoke smiled, nodded, and said, “That’s right.”
    â€œArley Hicks,” the cowboy said. He stuck out his hand. “It’s a pure-dee honor to meet you, sir.”
    Smoke clasped the young man’s hand and said, “Pleasure to meet you, too, Arley.”
    The other couple looked puzzled. From their clothes and general demeanor, Smoke pegged both of them as Easterners. It was likely they had never heard of him, which was just fine with him. The drummer recognized his name, though, when Arley blurted it out, and so did the middle-aged lady.
    The young husband said, “Are you supposed to be someone famous, sir? I’d like to know if we’re traveling with a celebrated personage.”
    â€œFamous?” Arley repeated before Smoke could answer. “Mister, this here is Smoke Jensen. He’s just the fastest, slickest gunhand there’s ever been.”
    The young woman frowned and said, “We’re traveling with a gunman? Isn’t that dangerous?”
    â€œDon’t worry, dear,” her husband told her. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
    â€œThere’s nothing to worry about,” Smoke said, “because there’s not going to be any trouble.” He inclined his head toward Sally. “This is my wife Sally. We’re just making a little Christmas trip, combining business with pleasure. Hope to spend a pleasant couple of days with you folks, that’s all.”
    â€œMy name is Donald Purcell,” the young man said stiffly. “My wife Mildred.”
    Mildred Purcell didn’t say anything, but her lips thinned in obvious disapproval.
    â€œI’m Herman Langston,” the salesman said. “Patent medicines is my line.”
    â€œAnd I’m Mrs. Genevieve Carter,” the middle-aged woman said. “Going to live with my sister in Kerrville.”
    Grinning, Arley said, “You can tell by lookin’ at me that I’m a cowboy. Got a ridin’ job lined up down close to Bandera. Mighty lucky, findin’ a place to sign on this time o’ year, and I know it. I was afraid I might pert near starve ’fore spring rolls around.” He looked at Donald Purcell. “You didn’t say what line of work you’re in, Mr. Purcell.”
    â€œThat’s right, I didn’t,” Purcell replied. His tone was a little curt. But he shrugged and went on, “I’m going to take a teaching position. The previous schoolmaster passed away unexpectedly.”
    â€œNow we all know each other,” Sally said, “and I’m sure we’ll get along splendidly.”
    Smoke wasn’t so certain of that, but time would tell.
    A minute later, the stagecoach shifted on the broad leather thoroughbraces that ran underneath it as the driver and guard climbed to the box. A whip cracked and the coach lurched into motion as the horses strained against their harness.
    The pilgrims were on their way.

C HAPTER S IX
    Palo Pinto Mountains
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    Major Patrick Macmillan raised his right hand in a signal for the cavalry patrol following him to halt. The soldiers reined in and so did the civilian riding beside Macmillan.
    Matt Jensen rested his hands on the