William W. Johnstone (8 page)

He opened the door to the cafe and stepped in, the good smells of cooking making him realize how hungry he was. Rusty was already working on his first plate of bacon and eggs and fried potatoes—and the first of several pots of coffee.

The redhead pushed out a chair with his boot and Smoke sat down.

“Been several folks wonderin’ who you are,” the newly hired puncher said. “Most I heard come to the conclusion that you was a lawman of some sort.”

“I’ve worn a badge a time or two,” Smoke admitted, then called out his order to the counterman. He picked up his cup and allowed the waitress to fill it.

She met his eyes. “I seen you two or three years back,” she spoke the words softly. “You be careful in this town. It’s filled up with hired guns, all of them just bumin’ to kill you.”

“I appreciate that.”

She nodded and walked back into the kitchen.

Rusty’s freckled face screwed up with disgust. “Seems like ever’body knows who you are but me!”

Smoke sugared his coffee and stirred. “The name is Jensen.”

The redhead’s fork froze midway to his mouth. “
Smoke
Jensen?” he finally managed to say.

“That’s it. Now close your mouth before a bug decides to fly in there.”

Rusty filled his mouth with food and then closed it. “Boy, I sure know how to pick ’em,” he muttered. “I’m beginnin’ to wonder if a hundred a month is enough.”

“And found,” Smoke reminded him.

“Food ain’t too tasty with a bellyful of lead,” the puncher said mournfully. But there was a definite twinkle in his eyes.

“You didn’t sign a contract,” Smoke reminded him.
“Feel free to ride.”

“Naw! Hell, I’ll stick around. I ain’t never ridden with such highfalutin’ company before. Might be interestin’.”

“I’m not looking for trouble, Rusty. After we eat our meal, I plan on saddling up and riding out.”

“That must be why you walk around with them hammer thongs off your guns.”

Smoke grinned. “I just believe in being a very cautious man, that’s all.”

“Right. With your name, you damn well better be.”

The two men cleaned their plates, Rusty eating two plates of food without apology, then finished off another pot of coffee. Not as strong as they liked it, but it would do. Then they leaned back, rolled cigarettes, and lit up. The cafe was gradually filling with the lunch crowd, all of the diners giving the two men short and cautious looks as they took their seats.

Then the door opened and four hardcases stepped inside.

Bob Garner and Montana Slim were the only two that Smoke recognized. The other two were unknown to him. But Garner and Montana Slim were quite enough to face on a full stomach.

Or an empty belly for that matter.

Slim’s eyes widened as they settled on Smoke and recognition set in. Then he grinned, his hands close to the butts of his guns.

But the humor—if that’s what it was—did not reach his killer eyes.

“We done got the hotshot all bottled up, boys,” Slim announced, in a too-loud voice. “And some funny lookin’ pup with him.”

“This dog’s got teeth, partner,” Rusty told him. “An’ I ain’t been a pup in a long time.”

“Little puppy dog done got up on his hind legs, boys,” Garner said with a nasty grin. “I just might have to find
me a slick and whup his tail back between his legs. What’d you boys think about that?”

“I wouldn’t try it,” the redhead warned. His quietly spoken words had steel behind them. “You just might find that stick stickin’ out of a part of you that you didn’t figure on.”

Several of the men in the cafe laughed at that.

Several more men in the cafe softly pushed back their chairs and took their leave before the lead they knew was coming started flying.

And a stray bullet doesn’t give a damn who it hits.

“You got a fat mouth, red on the head,” Slim told Rusty.

“You wearin’ a gun, ugly face?” Rusty popped right back at him.

Slim’s face turned as red as Rusty’s hair. “In here or outside?” He challenged the soft-voiced but hard-talking puncher.

“It don’t make a damn to me.”

The counterman came up with a sawed-off shotgun, pointed right at Slim’s belly. “You hardcases ain’t gonna shoot up this place,” he informed them, earing back both hammers. “So this is my way of tellin’ you to take your guns and your big mouths and your quarrel out into the street. And I mean lak raht now!”

Slim nodded then looked at Smoke and Rusty. “We’ll meet you boys at the south edge of town. That is, if you’ve got the belly for it.”

“We’ll be there,” Smoke told him, finishing his cigarette and stubbing it out. “Watching our backs all the way.”

Bob Garner spun around, red from the neck up and his ugly face turning even uglier. “What the hell does that mean, Jensen?”

“It means, Garner, that I think you’re all a bunch of back-shooting cowards!”

“Git outta here!” the counterman hollered. “Afore I
turn loose both of these barrels!”

The four hired guns and bounty hunters stomped out of the cafe. Smoke poured another cup of coffee and Rusty did the same. They sugared and stirred and sipped.

“How do we handle this?” Rusty asked, his voice low so that only Smoke could hear. “And what’s this about them bein’ back-shooters?”

“They’re not back-shooters. I just said that to make sure they wouldn’t try it. It’s a matter of pride for them now. Some of their own kind would shoot them if they tried to set up an ambush.”

They both looked up as the waitress set two thick slices of apple pie on the table before them.

“On the house, boys,” the counterman said. “I ain’t never had nobody as famous as Smoke Jensen come in my place afore.”

The men nodded their thanks and fell to eating the pie, chasing it down with gulps of coffee. Around them, men were beginning to place wagers on the outcome of the impending gunfight. Most of the bets went to Smoke and the red-headed cowboy with him.

Their pie and coffee finished, Smoke and Rusty pushed back their chairs, settled their hats on their heads, and stood up, hitching at their gun belts.

“Good luck, boys!” the waitress called, as they were stepping out the door and onto the boardwalk.

The street that had been bustling with people when Smoke entered the cafe was now barren of human life as the two men began their lonely walk toward the edge of town. The word had been quickly passed among the townspeople that, lead was about to fly.

A dog looked up from its midday doze and wagged its tail, its eyes seeming to say: you leave me alone and I’ll do the same for you.

They walked past the animal, their spurs softly jingling. They stayed in the shadows of the buildings
until coming to the very edge of town.

“I got a hunch that Slim and Bob will stay together,” Smoke said. “So we play it like that. I’ll take Montana Slim and Bob Garner. You handle the other two. I don’t know them; they might be fast as lightning.”

“I ain’t all that fast,” Rusty conceded. “But I don’t hardly ever miss.”

“That’s the main thing. Many so-called fast guns usually put the first bullet into the dirt. There they are, Rusty. I got a hunch they’ll want to jaw a little first; work up some courage. We’ll let them. You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

The men stepped off into the dirt of the street and began the short walk toward destiny.

The hired guns and bounty hunters had positioned themselves by a falling-down old bam, obviously one of the first structures to be built in the town. And it was just as obvious that the men had done so with a plan in mind. Smart, Smoke thought.

“After the first rounds are fired,” Smoke told Rusty. “Any left standing are going to dive for the protection of that old bam. You hit the ground behind that log pile and I’ll take the back of the building.” His words were spoken low, so only Rusty could hear.

But the hired guns could see his lips moving. “What the hell are you two whisperin’ about?” Montana called. “You workin’ up some sort of sneaky play?”

“Neither one of us need sneaky plays to deal with scum, like you,” Smoke called, his voice easily carrying the distance.

Montana Slim cursed them both, loud and long.

All four of the men Smoke and Rusty faced were wearing two six guns, low and tied down.

“Most men can’t use but one gun at a time. And some of them can’t use that one very well,” Smoke pointed out as the gunfighter and the cowboy continued their shortening the distance to death.

“And you ...?”

“I’m the exception,” Smoke said without a single note of bragging. He was simply telling the truth.

There was about fifty feet between them when Smoke halted the parade.

“All right, Montana,” Smoke called. “You made your brags back at the cafe. Now let’s see if you’ve got the sand to back it up.”

“Ten thousand on your head, Jensen!” Bob Garner called out. "We’ll live nice on that money."

“You have to collect it first, Gamer,” Smoke tossed that reminder out to him.

Garner’s laugh was full of confidence.

Ten thousand, Smoke mused. Surely it can’t go much higher than that.

But then, after a second’s thought, he changed his mind, realizing that perhaps there was no limit to Jud Vale’s obsessions with being king.

“Ten thousand!” Rusty muttered. “Man, I am choppin’ in-some high cotton, Smoke. Somebody is shore scared of you.”

Smoke did not reply, nor did his eyes leave Montana Slim. It was as he had thought, Slim and Garner were partners and were staying together. Rusty would have to deal with the two bounty hunters—if that’s what they were.

Smoke could hear faint rustlings on the boardwalks behind them. He knew that the crowds were gathering to watch the show. It was a dangerous sport for spectators, and many an onlooker had caught a stray bullet. But entertainment was scarce in western towns; many folks packed picnic lunches and would drive a wagon for a hundred miles, bringing the entire family to make an all-day event out of a public hanging.

“I’m tired of all this jawing, Slim,” Smoke told him. “And I really don’t want a killing. Why don’t you boys just
get on your horses and ride out of here?”

There was something unnerving about Smoke, something that shook even a hardened gunfighter like Montana Slim. He was just so damned sure of himself. Maybe he ought to be, Montana admitted silently. He’s put more than a hundred men in the ground and there he stands, lookin’ at me.

But Montana Slim knew he had backed himself into a corner with only two ways out: either walk away victorious, or be propped up in front of the undertaking parlor on a board for all the folks to see.

“And I’m just damn tarred of your mouth, Jensen,” Montana yelled. “Grab iron!” His hands flashed to his guns.

Montana thought he heard Smoke say, “All right, Slim.” Then he felt twin hammer-blows slam into his chest as his knees began to buckle. Out of the corner of his eyes, the light fading fast, he saw Bob Garner run into the old barn. Montana Slim, the veteran and victor of half a hundred gunfights, lifted his hands and looked at them.

They were empty! Jensen had been so fast he hadn’t even grabbed iron. But that was ... impossible! That thought was his last as he pitched forward into the dust, dead.

Rusty had taken his time and placed his shots well. One bounty hunter was down on his belly, his blood staining the dirt from two bullet holes in his belly, and the other so-called gunfighter was holding up his one good arm in surrender; his other arm, his shooting arm, was broken at the elbow and hanging at a very queer angle.

Smoke was off and running between the old barn and another building which looked to be in just as bad a shape as the barn. He quickly reloaded as he ran.

A bullet whammed into a corral post and Smoke dropped to his belly, scooting behind an old watering trough. He caught a glimpse of a red and white checkered shirt and snapped off a shot. He didn’t think he hit
Garner, but the slug came close enough to bring a yelp of surprise from the man.

Smoke triggered off five more rounds then holstered that Colt, drawing his left-hand pistol just as Gamer ran briefly into view.

Smoke dusted him from side to side, spinning the man around and holding him there long enough for Smoke to take careful aim and put another slug into the man’schest. Bob Garner went down slowly and didn’t get up.

It was over.

For this go-around anyway.

Smoke reloaded both guns and walked over to where he’d seen Garner fall. The gunny was lying on his back, very close to death.

It was not a pretty sight. Of course, Garner hadn’t been very pretty to start with.

Smoke squatted down beside the man. There was not much life left in him.

And much of what life remained was spent in cussing Smoke.

Smoke waited until the dying man coughed up blood and tried to catch his breath.

“Anybody you want me to write, Bob?”

A funny look came into the gunfighter’s eyes. He shook his head. “Best ... if the wife ... just don’t never see me agin. I ain’t... been much of a husband or ... father.”

“Any money you got you want me to send them?”

“Spent it last ... night on the ... whoors.”

Rusty walked up and stood listening.

“I’ll swap your guns for a buryin’, Bob,” Smoke assured him.

“Right kind ... of you. See you ... boys in Hell!” Bob Garner closed his eyes and died.

Rusty was quiet as they rode out of Malad City that
afternoon. The dead gunman had, for the moment, taken the fight out of those remaining in the town. They stood on the boardwalk and watched Smoke and Rusty clear town. Most would continue on toward the Bar V. But there were some, mostly older and wiser, who would elect to seek another trouble spot where they could ply their deadly trade. It was not that they were cowards, far from it. They simply knew Smoke Jensen’s reputation and their own capabilities and limitations.

“Mean right up to the end,” Rusty finally broke his silence.

“What are you talking about?”

“Garner. What makes a man like that, Smoke?”

“Some folks back East and in the cities are claiming it comes from bad rearing.”

“Huh!” Rusty summed up his opinion of that. "I ain’t disputin’ your word, Smoke, but I just don’t believe in that at all. I been on my own for years. And my pa was a mighty mean man. He liked to whup up us boys and girls. Didn’t make no difference to him. My older sister run off when I was just a little shaver. I heard she was doin’ good out in California. My other brother died from a beatin’ Pa give him. Hell, Pa knocked me unconscious with his fists or with a chunk of stovewood more’un once. And I ain’t never stole nothin’ in my life, or rode the hootowl trail or done nothin’ much that was ag’in the law. And nobody could have had a worser home life than me. So them folks that think what you just said don’t know a pot of beans from a pile of cow droppin’s.”