William W. Johnstone (10 page)

But Smoke had talked hard to the boy just before leaving. “Matt, I want you to realize that out here, once you strap a gun on, there are those who won’t give a damn how young you are. The only thing they’re going to see is that hogleg on your hip. If any of Jud Vale’s hired guns are at the post, they’re going to taunt you; try to pull you into a fight. And because the West is what it is, I won’t interfere unless they gang up on you.”

“I understand, Mr. Smoke,” the boy had replied solemnly.

“You won’t reconsider and stay at the ranch?”

“I reckon not, sir.”

“Very well.”

Smoke breathed a sigh of relief as they approached the post. Only a couple of horses were tied at the hitch rail, and he recognized them as beglonging to some area cattlemen, men whose holdings were so far to the west of Jud Vale’s spread that they really had little to fear from the man and his obsessions—so far.

Smoke felt that they might be able to pick up the supplies and get away safely. At least he hoped so. But he wasn’t going to put any money on it. Once again, doubts assailed him. He could have ordered Matt to stay behind at the ranch. But the boy had earned his money and had a right to spend it. Matt was not a slave to the Box T; he could come and go as he pleased.

Smoke swung down from the saddle and looped the reins around the hitchrail, Matt doing the same. Out of the corner of his eyes, Smoke watched the boy slip the hammer thong from his pistol. Cheyenne had drilled that into the boy’s head. With a sigh, Smoke stepped up onto the porch. He handed Leroy the supply list and told Matt to stay with his friend. Smoke turned away and stepped into the saloon for a cool beer.

The barkeep eyeballed him dubiously as he pushed open the batwings.

“You agin! My stars and garters.
I
was in the hopes you’d left the country!”

Smoke grinned at the man. “It’s me in the flesh. Pull me a cool one.”

Drawing the brew, the barkeep said, “Did my eyes deceive me or did I really see that four-eyed kid wearing a gun?”

“You saw it.”

The barkeep snorted in disgust. “Some of Jud Vale’s men is liable to take that thing off’n him and spank his butt with it!”

“I’d hate to be the one who tried it.” Smoke told the man.

“They might decide to do it in a bunch.”

“Then if that happens I reckon I’ll just have to step in.”

“Naturally,” the barkeep said mournfully. “And I just had new tables and benches built.”

Smoke sipped his beer and kept his eyes on the outside, as best he could through the dirty, dusty, and fly-specked window.

One of the two cattlemen broke the short silence. “Why don’t you just ride on outta here, Jensen? Jud Vale will settle down if you was to leave.”

“You really believe that?” Smoke had turned, his back to the plank that served as a bar.

“That’s what he told us,” the other cattleman said. He had noticed that the hammer thongs had been slipped from Smoke’s Colts.

Matt was sitting quietly on a bench in front of the store, minding his own business and sipping a bottle of sarsaparilla. Leroy was still inside the store, picking out the supplies from the list Alice and Doreen had given him. Smoke wished that Matt had stayed inside the store. He reflected sourly that people in Hell wished for ice water, for all the good it did them.

“Jud Vale is good decent man,” the cattleman said.
“He’s gonna bring changes to this area. Good changes. Progress and all that.”

Smoke smiled grimly. He wondered if these men really believed that or had Jud bought them off with more than just words?

“Yeah,” the other rancher said. “And if that little snip Doreen had any sense, she’d grab ahold of the offer Jud’s handed her. She could live like a queen in that big mansion of hisn.”

“She doesn’t love him.”

“Love!” the other said contemptuously. “Hell’s fire, man! What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Yeah,” his drinking buddy agreed. “Love ain’t got nothin’ to do with livin’ well. All a woman’s got to do is perform her wifely duties when the lantern is turned off and keep her mouth shut ’cept when she’s told to talk. And I’ll tell you something else, gunfighter: you best get shut of them snot-nosed squatters’ brats you hired to work on the Box T.”

His buddy gave him a dark look and the cattleman shut his mouth.

“Is that a threat or a warning?” Smoke asked.

“Tain’t no threat, gunfighter,” the man said, his mind quickly working through the murk the alcohol had caused, as he realized just who he was talking to. “Jist a fact, is all. Jist lak ’at four-eyed little turd rode in with you with a man’s iron strapped on. I’ve a good notion to go out there and take it away from him. But you’d stick up for him, wouldn’t you?”

“No,” Smoke surprised them both by stating. “Not as long as it stayed one on one. But I’d leave that boy alone if I was you.”

The cattleman muttered something that Smoke could not make out. His buddy said, “He ain’t gonna bother that boy, Jensen. That’s just whiskey talk.”

“Why did he say to get rid of the boys?”

“I don’t know,” the man said, then fell silent.

Smoke sipped his beer and ignored the drunk and near drunk cattlemen. He had thought all along that the age of the boys would make no difference to Jud Vale—when the man decided to make his move. In a way, he was glad the boys had taken to carrying guns.

He walked to the door that opened into the store, looking in. Leroy was still buying supplies. The boy caught his eye.

“It’s gonna be a few more minutes, Mr. Smoke. Miss Alice and Miss Doreen really gave me a long list.”

“Take your time, Leroy. I’ll have another beer.”

“Yes, sir.”

Smoke walked back to the bar and ordered a refill. “And pull it from a new barrel,” he told the barkeep. “That last one was flat.”

The barkeep grinned. “Cain’t blame a man for tryin’ to drain the barrel, now, can you?” He pulled a fresh brew. “This one’s on the house, Mr. Jensen.”

Smoke nodded his thanks and leaned against the plank. He had a bad feeling about this day. One he just could not shake. At the sounds of hard-ridden horses he knew his premonition was about to turn into reality.

Four Bar V riders came to a halt in an unnecessary cloud of dust, fogging everybody and everything in a brief dust storm. Smoke silently cursed as he recognized one of the riders as a man called Smith. Smith had a shallow-made reputation as a gunslinger; but Smoke knew there wasn’t much to the man. He was a bully who picked his fights, fists, and guns very carefully.

“Wal, lookie here!” Smith hollered, spotting Matt sitting on the bench, a disgusted look on his young face as he brushed the dust from his clothing. “Would you boys just take a look at that little piss-ant with the big iron strapped on!”

Smoke forced himself to stay put. He had warned Matt.
Warned him several times. Smoke would not interfere unless the Bar V riders tried something in a bunch. As long as it was one on one, with both parties armed, it was an unwritten code that the fight was fair. It was not always a fair code, but that was the way it was.

Leroy heard the commotion and went out the back door to the wagon, getting his Winchester and jacking a round in the chamber of the carbine, easing down the hammer. He reentered the store and moved to the open doorway, staying concealed from the Bar V riders.

He had been getting something extra for Miss Alice. Some candles. She was going to surprise Matthew with a birthday cake. Tomorrow was his birthday. His fourteenth.

If he lives through this, Leroy added that to his thoughts.

Then his thoughts turned grim as he gripped the Winchester. Matthew would live through it. One way or the other. It was time for everybody in this section of the state to stand up to Mr. Jud Vale. And if it had to begin right here and now? ... Well, let it come.

The Winchester he carried was a hand-me-down from somebody. His dad never said where he’d got it. It was a .44-40 that some owner had sawed the barrel off to make into a saddle gun. It was several inches shorter than the short .44 carbine. It kicked something fierce, but when that bullet hit, it packed a wallop, especially at short range.

Leroy had never shot a man before—and didn’t especially want to now, but if his friend Matt got into it with that trash from the Bar V ... well, there was a first time for everything. He wished he could have had his first time with a girl before having to kill a man. But if wishes were horses then nobody would have to walk, would they? He inched closer to the door and settled down, waiting.

“Yes, siree!” Smith said. “I think we ought to get us a bottle of whiskey and hold the little craphead down and
pour it in him. Since he’s totin’ a man’s gun, he ought to have hisself a man’s drink.”

Matt wisely ignored the bully’s comments. He had finished brushing himself off and then calmly wiped the neck of his soda pop bottle on his shirt sleeve and proceeded to take a big swig.

“Hey, piss-ant!” Smith hollered. “I’m talkin’ to you, pig farmer’s boy!”

“I’m not deaf,” Matthew said softly. “Do you eat bacon, mister?”

“Haw?”

“I said do you eat bacon?”

“Why ... hell, yes, I eat bacon. Don’t ever’body?”

“Where do you think it comes from—grown on trees?”

“Are you gettin’ sassy with me, punk?”

“No, sir,” Matthew replied respectfully. “I was just curious. If you enjoy eating bacon, why do you make fun of those people who raise the hogs?”

Smith—no mental giant anyway one wanted to view it—wore a look of bewilderment on his face. “I don’t think I lak you very much, four-eyes. As a matter of fact, I
know
I don’t lak you.”

“That’s a shame. I have nothing against you, mister.”

“Let’s take his pants down and make him ride back home buck-assed nekkid!” another Bar V hand suggested.

The four men all agreed that would be a great idea. They made some crude remarks about what they might find when they shucked Matt’s jeans. And what they might do if one of them could find a corncob.

“No way,” Smoke muttered, as he stepped away from the bar.

The two cattlemen suddenly looked very sorry, sober, and sick.

The barkeep shook his head in disgust at the Bar V hand’s suggestion.

Leroy earred back the hammer on the .44-.40.

Matt set his soda pop bottle on the bench and stood up, his right hand hanging by his side.

“Well, now!” Smith said, surprise in his voice. “The little piggy’s done gone and thought hisself to be all growed up.”

“I’ll get the corncob, Smith,” a Bar V hand said.

“You’ll get a bullet,” Matt told him, his quiet words stopping the man and turning him around.

“You threatenin’ me, pig-boy?” the hand challenged.

“Aren’t you threatening me?” Matt countered.

Leroy stepped to a dusty window and pulled the Winchester to his shoulder, sighting in one of the V hands.

Smoke moved closer to the batwings.

“Why, you little turd-faced punk!” the Bar V hand hissed at the boy. “I think I’ll just kill you!”

“You have it to do,” Matt said softly.

The Bar V riders spread out, all of them grinning, seconds away from a killing.

Smoke pushed open the batwings and stepped out onto the porch. “I’ll take these two so-called gunslicks on the right, Matthew.”

“And I’ve got that ugly, skinny, bow-legged one on the far left in rifle sights!” Leroy called from inside the store.

“I guess that leaves you and me, doesn’t it?” Matt told Smith.

The Bar V riders looked sick at the appearance of Smoke Jensen. This was not something they had counted on.

“You got no call to interfere in this, Jensen!” Smith hollered. “This ain’t none of your concern.”

“It is when four of you gang up on one boy, you sorry piece of buffalo droppings.” Smoke then proceeded to hang a cussing on the Bar V riders, and having been jerked up, so to speak, by the old mountain man, Preacher, Smoke could let the cuss words fly when he had a mind to. And today was one of those days.

The riders took it for a time, and then pride got the best of them.

“I’ve had it, Jensen!” one yelled at him. “You don’t cuss me like some saddle bum!”

“Then make your play, damn you!” Smoke lost his temper and started to push.

The puncher held his hands away from his side. “No way, Jensen. I ain’t no match for you with guns. But I’ll tear your damned head off with my fists if you’ve got the belly for it.”

“I’ll take you up on that, partner. Whatever your name is.”

“Larry Noonan.”

“Oh, yeah!” Smoke said, his voice filled with scorn. “I know enough about you to know you’re a yellow little two-bit punk. You killed an unarmed sheepherder. Shot him in the back, so I recall reading on the dodger.”

Noonan flushed but did not deny the damning charges.

“I still got something to settle with this loud-mouthed, sassy pig-farmer’s kid!” Smith said. “You gonna interfere with that, Jensen?”

“No. I’m as aware as you concerning a fair shoot out between two armed men. In this case a man and a boy. But I’ll kill any of your buddies who try to step in.”

“You ready, punk?” Smith sneered at the boy.

Matt had stepped to the edge of the porch. Smoke glanced at him. There was no fear to be seen about the boy. His face was impassive and his hands were steady. He stared at Smith through his thick spectacles.

“Too bad, boy,” Smith tried to rattle Matt. “You got about ten seconds left to live.”

“I have a whole lifetime ahead of me, Mr. Smith. Let’s just say this is payback time for you.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t you remember that time you and those other hooligans rode your horses over my mother’s garden? Ruined it. We didn’t eat very good that winter, Mr. Smith. It was too late to replant. I remember it very well.”

“You gonna bawl about it, kid?” Smith sneered at him.

“No, sir. But I am going to kill you.”

Smith stared at the boy while something crawled slowly across his face. He wanted to brush away the invisible
sensation, for he knew what it was. Fear.

“My baby sister died that winter, Mr. Smith. I won’t say it was all because of what you done, even though you did kill our milk cow. She needed milk bad. You had a hand in her dying.”