“Smoke Jensen.”
Twain’s horse chose that moment to dump a pile of road apples in the dirt. From the look on Twain’s face, he felt like doing the same thing in his saddle. He opened and closed his mouth about a half dozen times.
His friends relaxed in their saddles, making very sure both hands were clearly visible and kept well away from their guns.
“You keep on this road,” Smoke told them. “Gibson’s about four miles.”
“Ah ... uh ... yes, sir!” Twain finally got the words out. “I ... uh ... we are sure obliged.”
“You got any sense, boy, you won’t stop. You’ll just keep on ridin’ until you come to Wyoming. But I figure that anybody who cuts kill-notches in the butt of their gun don’t have much sense. Who you aimin’ to ride for, boy? ”
“Ah ... the D-H spread.”
Smoke sat his saddle and stared at the quartet. He stared at them so long they all four began to sweat.
“Is ... ah ... something the matter, Mister Smoke?” Twain asked.
“The rest of your buddies got names, Twain?”
“Ah ... this here is Hector. That’s Rod, and that’s Murray.”
“Be sure and tell that to the barber when you get to town.”
“The ... barber?” Hector asked.
“Yeah. He doubles as the undertaker.” Smoke turned his back on the young gunhands and rode on toward town.
Ten
Among the many horses tied to the hitchrails, on both sides of the street, the first to catch Smoke’s eyes was Bob’s paint, tied up in front of Hans’s cafe. Smoke looped his reins and went in for some coffee and pie. He wondered why so much activity and then remembered it was Saturday. Parnell sat with Bob at a table. They were in such heated discussion neither noticed as Smoke walked up to their table. They lifted their eyes as he pulled back a chair and sat down.
“Perhaps you can talk some sense into this young man’s head, Mister Jensen,” Parnell pleaded. “He is going to call out these Rose and Cliff individuals.”
Smoke ordered apple pie and coffee and then said, “His right, Parnell. I’d do the same was I standing in his boots.”
Parnell was aghast. His mouth dropped open and he shook his head. “But he’s just a boy! I cannot for the life of me understand why you didn’t call the authorities after the murder!”
“Because the law is a hundred miles away, Parnell. And out here, a man handles his own problems without runnin’ whining to the law.”
“I find it positively barbaric!”
Smoke ate some apple pie and sipped his coffee. Then he surprised the schoolteacher by saying, “Yes, it is barbaric, Parnell. But it’s quick. Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of lawyers out here before you know it, and they’ll be messin’ things up and writin’ contracts so’s that only another lawyer can read them. That’ll be good for people like you ... not so good for the rest of us. You haven’t learned in the time you’ve been here that out here, a man’s word is his bond. If he tells you he’s sellin’ you five hundred head of cattle, there will be five hundred head of cattle, or he’ll make good any missing. Call a man a liar out here, Parnell, and it’s a shootin’ offense. Honorable men live by their word. If they’re not honorable, they don’t last. They either leave, or get buried. Lawyers, Parnell, will only succeed in screwing that all up.” He looked at Bob. “You nervous, Bob?”
“Yes, sir. Some. But I figure I’ll calm down soon as I face him.”
“As soon as we face them, Bob,” Smoke corrected. “Yes, you’ll calm down. Ever killed a man, Bob?”
“No, sir.”
Smoke finished his pie, wiped his mouth with the napkin, and waved for Olga to refill his cup. He sugared and stirred and sipped. “A man gets real calm inside, Bob. It’s the strangest thing. You can hear a fly buzz a hundred yards off. And you can see everything so clearly. And the quiet is so much so it’s scary. Dogs can be barking, cats fighting, but you won’t hear anything except the boots of the man you’re facing walking toward you.”
“How old was you when you killed your first man, Smoke?” Bob asked.
“Fifteen, I think. Maybe fourteen. I don’t remember.”
“That must have been a terribly traumatic time for you,” Parnell said.
“Nope. I just reloaded’er up and went on. Me and Preacher. I killed some Indians before that ... in Kansas I think it was. Pa was still alive then. They attacked us,” he added. “I always got along with the Indians for the most part. Lived with them for a while. Me and Preacher. That was after Pa died. Drink your coffee, Bob. It’s about time.”
Smoke noticed the young man’s hands were calm as he lifted the cup to his mouth, sipped, and replaced the cup in the saucer.
Parnell looked at the men, his eyes drifting back and forth. He had heard from his sister and from the old gunfighters at the ranch that Smoke was a devoted family man: totally faithful to his wife and a loving father. A marvelous friend. Yet for all of those attributes, the man was sitting here talking about killing with less emotion than he exhibited when ordering a piece of pie.
Parnell watched with a curious mixture of fascination and revulsion as Smoke took his guns from leather, one at a time, and carefully checked the action, using the napkin to wipe them free of any dust that might have accumulated during his ride to town. He loaded up the usually empty chamber under the hammer.
Bob checked his Remington .44 and then pulled a short-barreled revolver out of his waistband and checked that, loading both guns full. He cut his eyes to Smoke. “Insurance,” he said.
“Never hurts.” Smoke pushed back his chair and stood up. “You know these people, Bob?”
“They been pointed out to me.” He stood up.
“Their buddies are sure to join them. We’re probably not going to have much time for plan-making. At the first twitch, we start shooting. Take the ones to your left. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s go.”
Both men had noticed, out of the corners of their eyes, the horses lining both sides of the wide dusty street being cleared from the line of fire.
They stepped out of the cafe and stood for a moment on the boardwalk, hats pulled down low, letting their eyes adjust to the bright sunlight.
“Your play,” Smoke said. “You call it.”
“Rose!” Bob yelled. “Cliff! And any others who tortured and dragged Hatfield. Let’s see if you got the backbone to face someone gun to gun.”
Rose looked out the window of the Hangout. “Hell, it’s that damn kid.”
“And Smoke Jensen,” he was reminded.
“Let’s shoot ’em from here,” Cliff suggested.
“No!” Lanny Ball stepped in. “They’re callin’ you out fair and square. If you ain’t got the stomach for it, use the back door and cut and run ... and don’t never show your faces around here agin. I’ve killed a lot of men, and I’ve rode the owlhoot trail with a posse at my back. But I ain’t never tortured nobody while they was trussed up like a hog. I may not be much, but I ain’t no coward.”
Only a few of the other gunhawks in the large saloon murmured their agreement, but those few were the best-known and most feared of their kind. It was enough to bring the sweat out on the faces of Cliff and Rose and the two others who had taken part in the dragging and torture of Hatfield.
When open warfare was finally called by Hanks, Lanny and the few other who still possessed a modicum of honor would back-shoot and snipe at any known enemy ... that was the way of war. But when a man called you out to face him, you faced him, eyeball to eyeball.
With a low curse, Rose checked his guns and stepped out through the batwings, Cliff and the others behind him. It was straight-up noon, the sun a hot bubbling ball overhead. There were no shadows of advantage for either side.
Smoke and Bob had drifted down the boardwalk and now stood in the middle of the street, about ten feet apart, waiting.