Yukon Golden, who had absolutely no reason at all to like Smoke Jensen, found the whole thing funny. Back in the bunkhouse, he said, “This deck is stacked, boys. I felt it when I first rode into town. This thing is windin’ down to be a bloody mess, I’m thinkin’.”
Bronco Ford cut hard eyes to the man. “You thinkin’ about haulin’ your ashes, Yukon?”
“No. I took the man’s money, so I’ll stay. But there ain’t gonna be no good end to this. You mark my words.”
“What do you mean?” Tex Mason asked.
“Well, I been hearin’ talk that Clint has plans on treein’ the town.”
“There ain’t nobody ever treed no Western town,” Weldon Ball said. “And there ain’t nobody ever gonna do it. That’s a fool’s game.”
Grub Carson said, “I seen it tried a time or two. Man, them townspeople shot them ol’ boys all to pieces. Most awfulest thing I ever seen.”
Slim King looked over at him. “Look what happened when Jesse James tried to rob that town over in Minnesota back a few years. They shore got their comeuppance there.”
“I ain’t attemptin’ to tree no whole town,” Austin Charles said, summing up the feelings of all the newly hired guns, “’Cause it can’t be done.” He finished rolling a cigarette and added, “And I agree with Yukon. I think this deck is stacked against us. It’s one thing goin’ in an’ runnin’ out nester trash or shootin’ sheepmen. Used to be no one give a damn about them. But times is changin’.”
The men in the bunkhouse had all fallen silent, listening to Austin.
“I ain’t sayin’ our day has come and gone,” Austin continued. “But it ain’t gonna be too many more years ’fore jobs like this one will be hard to come by. And when that day comes, we’re gonna have to start doin’ more thinkin’ and less shootin’.”
“What do you mean?” a hand asked.
“Plannin’ things out, is what I mean. This night ridin’ hell for leather and shootin’ everything that moves is damn near a thing of the past. As long as the jobs is like this one, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, we can get away with it. Telegraph wires is everywhere. And I seen a machine that lets people talk to one another from miles away. It’s scary.”
“You ain’t neither seen no machine like that!” a Circle 45 hand sneered at him.
Austin cut his eyes. “Don’t be callin’ me no liar, boy. I seen it. It’s called a telephone. Lots of cities has them.”
“I heard of ’em,” Cleon said. “How do they work?”
“I don’t know. Spooky, I say,” Austin replied. “We’re gettin’ away from what I was talkin’ about. Now let’s face facts, boys: we ain’t gonna whip Jensen with guns. Not unless we back-shoot him and that ain’t my style. We got to use our heads in this.”
“You ain’t runnin’ this show,” Fatso Ross reminded him. “Clint is. I don’t take orders from you; I take orders from Clint.”
“For a fact,” Austin said, taking no umbrage at the words. “For a fact.”
Smoke rode into town early in the morning. Most of the businesses were not yet open. He had awakened with a feeling that this day would be eventful; that this day would mark the turning point in this high country war. And Smoke had long ago learned to play his hunches. He had left the ranch before dawn, and his stomach was telling him he had missed breakfast. His eyes were busy, moving from side to side, but he could see nothing to give cause for alarm. He stabled his horse and entered the cafe. He was the only customer. Smoke ordered breakfast and a pot of coffee. He watched as Doc Garrett walked slowly up the boardwalk and stepped into the cafe. The man looked weary.
“Mind if I join you, Mr. Jensen?” the doctor inquired.
“The name is Smoke. Please sit down, Doctor You look like you’re about ready to fall down from exhaustion.”
The man smiled. “Twins, Smoke. It was a hard delivery. But mother and babies are doing fine. No trouble last night from Clint?”
“No. But there will be today.”
The doctor smiled as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “Can you predict the future, Smoke?”
“I play my hunches, Doctor. It’s something I learned from mountain men. We’re all born with that ability. You just have to work to develop it. It comes in very handy when danger is all around you.”
“And what kind of trouble will be coming your way this day, Smoke?”
“Guns,” he said softly. The sounds of hammering reached the cafe. The workmen were up early, repairing the rear of the new bank building.
The waitress took the doctor’s order as more people entered the cafe, their faces still lumpy from sleep. They wanted no conversation until they’d had their coffee. They nodded at Smoke and the doctor, and the nods were returned.
The blacksmith came in and ordered a huge stack of flapjacks. “The sheriff and his deputies rode out early this morning,” he told the waitress. “Seems like some fellers tried to rob the stage and they was headed this way. The news come in over the wires late last night.”
“Set up,” Smoke spoke very low. “Five will get you ten that one of Clint’s men jumped the wires and sent that message to suck Harris and his deputies out of town.”
“To attack this town?”
Smoke shook his head. “No. That would be very foolish. They’re coming after me.”
“You don’t think they might attack the Double D?”
Again, Smoke shook his head. “No. That’s coming. I’m certain of that. But not yet. Clint wants me out of this game first. And he wants people to see me go down. He thinks that will put the fear back in them. But he’s wrong.” He looked over at the smithy. “How far out of town did this attempted robbery take place?”
“Harris said they was goin’ as far as Slater’s Pass. That’s a pretty fair piece out. I ’spect they’ll be gone most of the day.”
Smoke thanked him as the waitress put his plate in front of him and Smoke concentrated on eating his breakfast. The doctor did not attempt to engage him in conversation while eating. Eating was serious business for many a Western man. Soon the doctor was busy working on his own food.
“Well, bless Pete,” a man said, looking up from his eggs. “Would you take a look at them two.”
Smoke looked up and saw them. He silently cussed. He didn’t know the two young men, but he was very familiar with the type. Young trouble-hunters out to make a reputation. They had heard he was in town, and here they came.
The smithy turned around, looked, and snorted. “Pearl-handled six-shooters, fancy rigs and boots. All decked out. Young toughs.”
Smoke ate his breakfast, poured another cup of coffee, and waited. He watched as the trouble-hunters stepped up onto the boardwalk across the street and asked a man something. The citizen pointed to the cafe and Smoke sighed. It was down to minutes now.
“Am I missing something here?” Doc Garrett asked, looking at the expression on Smoke’s face.
“A couple of young trouble-hunters heading this way. Probably looking for me.”
The doctor turned and looked at them. “Not more that twenty-one or two at the most.”
“But they’re wearing guns,” Smoke told him. “Out here, Doc, when you strap on a gun, that makes you a man.”
“How will you handle this?”
“That all depends on those two would-be gunslicks. Try to talk my way out of it if they’ll let me.”
The door opened and the young men swaggered in, trying to look tough. They managed to look pathetic. But Smoke had noticed they had taken the hammer thongs off their guns. The pair looked around the large room, their eyes settling on Smoke. Smoke was sipping his coffee and seemingly not paying any attention to them.
“You boys take a seat,” the waitress called from the kitchen. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Shake a leg there, baby,” one of them called. “You got the Shawnee Kid and Hawk Evans in here.”