“Man over in Utah didn’t think so. I rattled my hocks shortly before the funeral.”
Now, there was two ways to take that. “Your funeral or his?”
“He was a tad quicker, but he missed.”
’Nuff said.
On the third night out, Beans finally said what he’d been mullin’ about all day. “Kirby ... there’s something about you that just don’t add up.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Now, to someone who just happened to glance over at you and ride on, you’d appear to be a drifter. Spend some time on the trail with you, and a body gets to thinkin’.”
Smoke stirred the beans and laid the bacon in the pan. He poured them both coffee and waited.
“You got coins in your pocket and greenbacks in your poke. That saddle don’t belong to no bum. That Winchester in your boot didn’t come cheap. And both them horses are wearin a brand like I ain’t never seen. Is that a circle double snake or what?”
“Circle Double-S.” As his spread had grown, Smoke had changed his brand. S for Smoke, S for Sally. It was registered with the brand commission.
“There ain’t no ‘S’ in Kirby.” Beans noted.
“Maybe my last name is Smith.”
“Ain’t but one ‘S’ there.”
“You do have a point.” Beans was only pointing out things that Smoke was already aware of. “How far into Montana are you planning on going?”
“Well,” Beans grinned, “I don’t know. Taggin’ along with you I found that the grub’s pretty good.”
“You’re aware of the impending range war in Montana?”
“There’s another thing that don’t ring true, Kirby. Sometimes you talk like a schoolteacher. Now I know that don’t necessarily mean nothin’ out here, but it do get folks to thinkin’. You know what I mean?”
Smoke nodded and turned the bacon.
“And them jeans of yours is wore slick on the right side, down low on the leg. You best get you some other britches or strap that hogleg back on.”
“You don’t miss much, do you, Beans?”
“My folks died with the fever when I was eight. I been on my own ever since. Goin’ on nineteen years. Startin’ out alone, that young, a body best get savvy quick.”
“My real name is Kirby, Beans.”
“All right.”
“You didn’t answer my question about whether you knew about the range war?”
“I heard of it, yeah. But I don’t hire my gun. Way I had it figured, with most of the hands fightin’, them rich ranchers is gonna need somebody just to look after the cattle.” He grinned. “That’s me!”
“I’d hate to see you get tied up in a range war, Beans,’cause sooner or later, you’re gonna have to take a stand and grab iron.”
“Yeah, I know. But I don’t never worry about bridges until I come to them. Ain’t that food about fitten to eat?”
They were lazy days, and the two men rode easy; no reason to push. Smoke was only a few years older than Beans—chronologically speaking; several lifetimes in experience—and the men became friends as they rode.
Spring had hit the high country, and the hills and valleys were blazing in God’s colors. The men entered Johnson County in the Wyoming Territory, rode into Buffalo, and decided to hunt up a hot bath; both were just a bit on the gamey side.
After a bath and a change of clothes, Smoke offered to buy the drinks. Beans, with a grin, pointed out the sign on the barroom walclass="underline" “Don’t forget to write your mother, boys. Whether you are worth it or not, she is thinking of you. Paper and inveelopes free. So is the picklled eggs. The whiskey ain t.”
“You got a ma, Kirby?”
“Beans, everybody has a mother!” Smoke grinned at the man.
“I mean ... is she still alive?” He flushed red.
“No. She died when I was just a kid, back in Missouri.”
“I thought I smelled a Missouri puke in here.” The voice came from behind them.
Smoke had not yet tasted his whiskey. He placed the shot glass back on the bar as the sounds of chairs being pushed back reached him. He turned slowly.
A bear of a man sat at a table. Even sitting down he was huge. Little piggy eyes. Mean eyes. Bully was invisibly stamped all over him. His face looked remarkably like a hog.
“You talking to me, Pig-Face?” Smoke asked.
Big Pig stood up and held open his coat. He was not wearing a gun. Smoke opened his jacket to show that he was not armed.
Beans stepped to one side.
“I think I’ll tear your head off,” Big Pig snorted.
Smoke leaned against the bar. “Why?”
The question seemed to confuse the bully. Which came as no surprise to Smoke. Most bullies could not be classified as being anywhere close to mental giants.
“For fun!” Big Pig said.
Then he charged Smoke, both big hands balled into fists that looked like hams. Smoke stepped to one side just at the last possible split second and Big Pig crashed into the bar. His bulk and momentum tore the rickety bar in half and sent Big Pig hurling against the counter. Whiskey bottles and beer mugs and shot glasses were splintered from the impact. The stench of raw whiskey and strong beer filled the smoky barroom.
Hollering obscenities and roaring like a grizzly with a sore paw, Big Pig lumbered and stumbled to his feet and swung a big fist that would’ve busted Smoke’s head wide open had it landed.
Smoke ducked under the punch and sidestepped. The force of Big Pig’s forward motion sent him staggering and slipping across the floor. Smoke picked up a chair and just as Big Pig turned around, Smoke splintered the wooden chair across his teeth.
Big Pig’s boots flew out from under him and he went crashing to the floor, blood spurting from smashed lips and cuts on his face. But Smoke saw that Pig was a hard man to keep down. Getting to his feet a second time, Pig came at a rush, wide open. Smoke had already figured out that the man was no skilled slugger, relying on his enormous strength and his ability to take punches that would have felled a normal man.
Smoke hit him flush on the beak with a straight-from-the-shoulder right. The nose busted and the blood flew. Big Pig snorted away the pain and blood and backhanded Smoke, knocking him against a wall. Smoke’s mouth filled with the copper taste of blood.
Yelling, falsely sensing that victory was his, Pig charged again. Smoke dropped to his knees and drove his right fist straight up into the V of Big Pig’s legs.
Pig howled in agony and dropped to the floor, both hands cupping his injured parts. Still on his knees, Smoke hit the man on the side of the jaw with everything he could put into the punch. This time, Big Pig toppled over, down, but still a hell of a long way from being out.
Spitting out blood, Smoke got to his feet and backed up, catching his breath, readying himself for the next round that he knew was coming.
Big Pig crawled to his feet, glaring at Smoke. But his eyes were filled with doubt. This had never happened to him. He had never lost a fight; not in his entire life.
Smoke suddenly jumped at the man, hitting him with both fists, further pulping the man’s lips and flattening his snout.
Pig swung and Smoke grabbed the thick wrist with both hands and turned and slung the man, spinning Big Pig across the room. Pig crashed into the wall and went right through it, sailing across the warped boardwalk and landing in a horse trough.
Smoke stepped through the splintered hole in the wall and walked to the trough. He grabbed Big Pig’s head and forced it down into the water, holding him there. Just as it appeared the man would drown, Smoke pulled the head out, pounded it with his fists, then grabbed the man by his hair and once more forced the head under water.
Finally, Big Pig’s struggling ceased. Smoke wearily hauled him out of the water and left him draped half in, half out of the trough. Big Pig was breathing, but that was about all.
Smoke sat down on the edge of the boardwalk and tried to catch his breath.
The boardwalk gradually filled with people, all of them staring in awe at Smoke. One man said, “Mister, I don’t know who you are, but I’d have bet my spread that you wouldn’t have lasted a minute against old Ring, let alone whip him.”