Not bothering to look up at the polite stranger sitting astride the bay gelding, he growled, “Stranger, can’t you see I’m busy? You want information, go ask someone that ain’t got anything better to do. Don’t bother me, dammit!”
Jim Smith’s black eyes tightened at the corners with anger as he watched the blacksmith shaping the horseshoe. The man was about his weight, but short and probably more powerful. After a moment of consideration, Smith dismounted and led his horse over to a tie rail. He tied the bay, then loosened his cinch, eyes locked on the unsuspecting blacksmith. Smith’s hat was pulled down low. He wore a blue scarf that rode up high around on his neck so that the angry, crimson-colored flesh that lined his jaw was concealed. His black hair was now very long and shaggy so that no one could see the unpleasant remains of his left ear. With the bandages gone and a thick smear of grime and mud to cover a few other fleshy discolorations, The Assassin didn’t attract all that much attention.
He still moved with the fluid grace of a big cat. His fingers, once nimble enough to handle a deck of cards with the skill of a professional dealer, were now covered with angry red scar tissue, but encased in soft doeskin gloves. Smith didn’t care because he could still handle a gun or a rifle far better than most.
Smith surveyed the town, idly considering how much of a lesson in civility he would need to administer to the blacksmith. Had the fellow been simply indifferent, his manners could have been excused. But instead, this man had been rude and unkind. He had also been insulting, and Smith could not tolerate such treatment. This blacksmith lacked any sensitivity and had no concept of the real meaning of physical pain. He’d probably never lost a wife and a child or known agonies of the mind. He was a brute begging for a hard lesson.
Smith strolled into the blacksmith’s shop. They were alone. No one would interfere. Still, as Smith watched the unsuspecting blacksmith, something inside demanded he give the man one last chance.
“I said that I’d ridden a very long way and that I really must find Hank Trabert. I used the word ‘please.’”
The blacksmith swung around, hammer clenched menacingly in his fist. “And I told you to go to hell! I got work to do here and-“
The blacksmith never finished his sentence because Smith seized his wrist with both hands and shoved the man’s hammer and fist into the fire. The blacksmith screamed and his eyes bugged out. He struggled in agony as the handle of his hammer and the flesh of his fingers seared and smoked.
“Ahhhh!”
Smith felt the fire heating the doeskin leather of his gloves. His lips drew back from his teeth and his scarred face pressed close to the blacksmith, who was trying to break free. Smith held the blacksmith’s hand a moment longer against the coals of the forge, and then released him when the wooden handle caught fire.
The blacksmith collapsed to his knees, his left hand holding his right wrist. His face was suddenly very pale and his entire body shook as he stared at his blistered fingers.
Smith squatted down beside the man, their faces just inches apart. When he spoke to the whimpering blacksmith, his voice was gentle, almost compassionate. “I once read that being burned to death is the most painful way of all to die. I believe that, and I expect that now you do too.”
“Get away from me!” the blacksmith screeched.
“You really are a very, very stupid man,” Smith said, taking a handful of the blacksmith’s hair and then slamming his face twice into the anvil, smashing cheekbones and nose to mushy pulp. The blacksmith momentarily lost consciousness.
Smith stood up and looked around. He saw a can of rust-colored water that the blacksmith used to cool the iron hot off his forge. Smith picked up the can and poured it over the unconscious man’s head until the blacksmith roused again.
Kneeling beside the whimpering man, whose face was now a mask of blood, Smith said, “Now, will you finally be kind enough to tell me where I can find Hank Trabert? Or … or do you need some more persuasion?”
The blacksmith’s eyes widened with terror. “No!” he cried, rolling away from the forge and scuttling up against a wall. “He lives about four miles east of town. There’s a big lightning-scorched pine by the side of the road. You’ll see a wagon track heading off the left. They got a little spread up against the cliffs.”
“How many folks are living there?”
“I don’t know. Just the old man and a couple of his sons. Hank is the oldest and meanest, but …”
“Thank you,” Smith said, rising to slap dust from his knees. “See how easy this all would have been if you’d only been courteous and polite at the beginning of our little conversation?”
The blacksmith managed to nod, but cried, “Mister, you’re crazy!”
“No,” Smith said, stepping back into the sunlight. “But have suffered deeply and believe everyone who is rude and coarse needs a good lesson in pain and humility.”
He smiled at the trembling figure. “I think you have learned something here. I think that you will be kinder and more helpful in the future to strangers. Won’t you?”
“Yes! But … but my hand! I can’t work like this!”
“You’ll find a way,” Smith promised. “Believe me, the human spirit has amazing power and you will find a way.
The Assassin strolled back over to his horse and looked around. Leadville had grown since he’d last ridden through about five years ago. Clearly, the mining town was prospering. Why, they’d even built that magnificent structure called the Tabor Opera House just across the street! Perhaps when his mission was all over and every last member of the Marble Gang was dead, he would return to Leadville.
Jim Smith untied his horse. Looking up and down the street, he was about to mount and ride east as a tough-looking young cowboy rode up beside him to dismount and tie his own bay gelding.
“Good afternoon,” The Assassin said pleasantly. “Nice day, isn’t it?”
The cowboy started to walk past without comment, but The Assassin’s fist snaked out to seize his right forearm. Leaning in close so that their eyes were separated by mere inches, The Assassin said, “I said good afternoon. Now, you need to say something like, ‘Yes it is, and have a nice day,’”
The cowboy attempted to pull free, but The Assassin held him as if he were locked in a vise. The cowboy felt cold fear flood through his guts as he gazed into a pair of cold, dead eyes. There was also something very terrifying about this man’s face. The cowboy gulped and managed to say, “Yes, sir, it sure is! And I wish you a nice day!”
“Excellent!” Smith said, breaking into a painful smile and releasing the cowboy. He then mounted his horse and rode away, pleased that he did not have to administer a second painful but important lesson in good manners.
Jim Smith had no difficulty finding the lightning-scorched pine and the road leading up to the Trabert place. It wasn’t much of a place really, just an old cabin, a small, sod-covered barn and root cellar, and some busted-up wagons littering the yard. The only things of value were the four horses in the rickety pole corral and a spooky old milk cow tethered to a long rope—and she’d be worthless except to the Indians for butchering.
“Hello the cabin!” Smith called as he approached to within a hundred yards.
“Who goes there!” an old man shouted, emerging with a shotgun cradled across the crook of his left arm.
“I’m a friend of Hank’s!”
“Who you be?”
“Smith! James Smith. Hank and I rode with the Marble brothers. Have you seen them lately?”
“Nope. Ride on up, stranger.”
Smith rode up to the cabin, eyes shifting around to see if the old man was alone or if there was someone covering him from inside the cabin.