The outside din was softened somewhat, but still managed to push through the walls of the saloon.
“Big doings around the area,” Smoke said to no one in particular.
One of Tilden’s men laughed.
Smoke looked at the man; he knew him only as Red. Red fancied himself a gunhand. Smoke knew the man had killed a drunken Mexican some years back, and had ridden the hoot-owl trail on more than one occasion. But Smoke doubted the man was as fast with a gun as he imagined.
“Private joke?” Smoke asked.
“Yeah,” Red said. “And the joke is standin’ at the bar, drinkin’ a beer.”
Smoke smiled and looked at a rancher. “Must be talking about you, Jackson.”
Jackson flushed and shook his head. A Tilden man all the way, Jackson did all he could to stay out of the way of Tilden’s ire.
“Oh?” Smoke said, lifting his beer mug with his left hand. “Well, then. Maybe Red’s talking about you, Beaconfield.”
Another Tilden man who shook in his boots at the mere mention of Tilden’s name.
Beaconfield shook his head.
“I’m talkin’ to you, Two-Gun!” Red shouted at Smoke.
Left and right of Smoke, the bar area quickly cleared of men.
“You’d better be real sure, Red,” Smoke said softly, his words carrying through the silent saloon. “And very good.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean, nester?” Red almost yelled the question.
“It means, Red, that I didn’t come in here hunting trouble. But if it comes my way, I’ll handle it.”
“You got a big mouth, nester.”
“Back off, Matt!” a friendly rancher said hoarsely. “He’ll kill you!”
Smoke’s only reply was a small smile. It did not touch his eyes.
Smoke had slipped the hammer thong off his right-hand Colt before stepping into the saloon. He placed his beer mug on the bar and slowly turned to face Red.
Red stood up.
Smoke slipped the hammer thong off his left-hand gun. So confident were Red’s friends that they did not move from the table.
“I’m saying it now,” Smoke said. “And those of you still left alive when the smoke clears can take it back to Tilden. The Sugarloaf belongs to me. I’ll kill any Circle TF rider I find on my land. Your boss has made his boast that he’ll run me off my land. He’s said he’ll take my wife. Those words alone give me justification to kill him. But he won’t face me alone. He’ll send his riders to do the job. So if any of you have a mind to open the dance, let’s strike up the band, boys.”
Red jerked out his pistol. Smoke let him clear leather before he drew his right-hand Colt. He drew, cocked, and fired in one blindingly fast motion. The .44 slug hit Red square between his eyes and blew out the back of his head, the force of the .44 slug slamming the TF rider backward to land in a sprawl of dead, cooling meat some distance away from the table.
The other TF riders sat very still at the table, being very careful not to move their hands.
Smoke holstered his .44 in a move almost as fast as his draw. “Anybody else want to dance?”
No one did.
“Then I’ll finish my beer, and I’d appreciate it if I could do so in peace.”
No one had moved in the saloon. The bartender was so scared he looked like he wanted to wet his long handles.
“Pass me that bowl of eggs down here, will you, Beaconfield?” Smoke asked.
The rancher scooted the bowl of hard-boiled eggs down the bar. Smoke looked at the bartender. “Crack it and peel it for me.”
The bartender dropped one egg and made a mess out of the second before he got the third one right.
“A little salt and pepper on it, please,” Smoke requested.
Gas escaped from Red’s cooling body.
Smoke ate his egg and finished his beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and deliberately turned his back to the table of TF riders. “Any backshooters in the bunch?” he asked.
“First man reaches for a gun, I drop them,” a rancher friendly to Smoke said.
“Thanks, Mike,” Smoke said.
He walked to the batwing doors, his spurs jingling. A TF rider named Singer spoke, his voice stopping Smoke. “You could have backed off, Matt.”
“Not much backup in me, Singer.” Smoke turned around to once more face the crowded saloon.
“I reckon not,” Singer acknowledged. “But you got to know what this means.”
“All it means is I killed a loud-mouthed tinhorn. Your boss wants to make something else out of it, that’s his concern.”
“Man ought to have it on his marker who killed him.” Singer didn’t let up. “Matt your first or last name?”
“Neither one. The name is Jensen. Smoke Jensen.”
Singer’s jaw dropped so far down Smoke thought it might hit the card table. He turned around and pushed open the doors, walking across the street to his horse. As he swung into the saddle, he was thinking. Should get real interesting around No-Name…real quick.
4
As Smoke was riding out of the town, one of Tilden’s men, who had been in the bar around the card table, was fogging it toward the Circle TF, lathering a good horse to get the news to Tilden Franklin.
Tilden sat on his front porch and received the news of the gunfight, a look of pure disbelief on his face. “Matt killed Red? What’d he do, shoot him in the back?”
“Stand-up, face-to-face fight, boss,” the puncher said. “But Matt ain’t his real name. It’s Smoke Jensen.”
Tilden dropped his coffee cup, the cup shattering on the porch floor. “Smoke Jensen!” he finally managed to blurt out. “He’s got to be lyin’!”
The puncher shook his head. “You’d have to have been there, boss. Smoke is everything his rep says he is. I ain’t never seen nobody that fast in all my life.”
“Did he let Red clear leather before he drew?” Tilden’s voice was hoarse as he asked the question.
“Yessir.”
“Jensen,” Tilden whispered. “That’s one of his trademarks. Okay, Donnie. Thanks. You better cool down that horse of yours.”
The bowlegged cowboy swaggered off to see to his horse. Tilden leaned back in his porch chair, a sour sensation in his stomach and a bad taste in his mouth. Smoke Jensen…here! Crap!
What to do?
Tilden seemed to recall that there was a murder warrant out for Smoke Jensen, from years back. But that was way to hell and gone over to Walsenburg; and the men Smoke had killed had murdered his brother and stolen some Confederate gold back during the war.*
Anyway, Tilden suddenly remembered, that warrant had been dropped.
No doubt about it, Tilden mused, with Smoke Jensen owner of the Sugarloaf, it sure as hell changed things around some. Smoke Jensen was pure hell with a gun. Probably the best gun west of the Mississippi.
And that rankled Tilden too. For Tilden had always fancied himself a gunslick. He had never been bested in a gunfight. He wondered, as he sat on the porch. Was he better than Smoke Jensen?
Well, there was sure one way to find out.
Tilden rejected that idea almost as soon as it popped into his mind.
He did not reject it because of fear. The big man had no fear of Smoke. It was just that there were easier ways to accomplish what he had in mind. Tilden had never lost a fight. Never. Not a fistfight, not a gunfight. He didn’t believe any man could beat him with his fists, and damn few were better than Tilden with a short gun.
He called for his Mexican houseboy to come clean up the mess made by the broken cup and to bring him another cup of coffee.
The mess cleaned up, a fresh cup of steaming coffee at hand, Tilden looked out over just a part of his vast holdings. Some small voice, heretofore unheard or unnoticed, deep within him, told him that all this was enough. More than enough for one man. You’re a rich man it said. Stop while you’re ahead.