When the men entered the dining room, conversation ceased and all eyes were on them as they walked to their table, led by a very nervous waiter. With their spurs jingling and their guns tied down low, all three managed to look as out of place as a saddle on a tiger.
The three of them ignored several comments from some so-called “gentlemen”—comments that might have led to a fight anywhere west of the Mississippi—and were seated without incident.
Louis frowned at the rather skimpy selections on the menu, sighed, and decided to order a steak. The others did the same.
“Sorry we don’t have no buffalo here for you range-riders,” a man blurted from the table next to them. His friend laughed, and the women with them, hennaed and painted up and half drunk, also thought fat boy’s comments to be hysterically amusing.
Louis ignored the man, as did Smoke and York. “A drink before ordering, gentlemen?” a waiter magically appeared.
“I’m sure they’ll want rye, George,” the fat boy blurted. “That’s what I read that all cowboys drink. Before they take their semi-yearly bath, that is.”
His table erupted with laughter.
“I could move you to another table, gentlemen,” the waiter suggested. “That”—he cut his eyes to the man seated with fat boy and the woman—“is Bull Everton.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to us?” Smoke asked.
“He’s quite the bully,” the waiter whispered, leaning close. “He’s never been whipped.”
“That he’s admitted,” Louis commented dryly. “If he can’t fight any better than he can choose women, he must have never fought a man.”
Smoke and York both laughed at that.
“We’ll have Scotch,” Louis ordered.
“Yes, sir,” The waiter was glad to get away from the scene of what he presumed would soon be disaster for the western men.
“You take them damn guns off,” the voice rumbled to the men, “and I’ll show you what a real man can do.”
Smoke lifted his eyes to the source of the voice. Bull Everton. He surveyed the man. Even sitting, Smoke could see that the man was massive, with heavy shoulders and huge wrists and hands. But that old wildness sprang up within Smoke. Smoke had never liked a bully. He smiled at the scowling hulk.
“I’ll take them off anytime you’re ready, donkey-face,” he threw down the challenge and insult.
Bull stood up and he was big. “How about right now, cowboy? Outside.”
“Suits me, tub-butt.” Smoke stood up and unbuckled and utied, handing his guns to a waiter.
The waiter looked as though he’d just been handed a pair of rattlesnakes.
“Where is this brief contest to take place?” Louis asked Bull.
“Brief, is right,” Bull laughed. “Out back of the hotel will do.”
“After you,” Smoke told him.
When the back door closed and Bull turned around, Smoke hit him flush in the mouth with a hard right and followed that with a vicious left to the wind. Before Bull could gather his senses, Smoke had hit him two more times, once to the nose and another hook to the body.
With blood dripping from his lips and nose, Bull hollered and charged. Smoke tripped him and hit him once on the way down, then kicked him in the stomach while he was down.
Smoke was only dimly aware of the small crowd that had gathered, several of the spectators dressed in the blue uniform of police officers. He did not hear one of the cops say to Louis, “I’ve been waiting to see Everton get his due for a long time, boys. Don’t worry. There will be no interference from us.”
Smoke backed up and allowed Bull to crawl to his feet. There was a light of fury and panic in the man’s eyes.
Bull lifted his hands in the classic boxer’s stance: left fist held almost straight out, right fist close to his jaw.
Smoke whirled and kicked the bully on his knee. Bull screamed in pain and Smoke hit him a combination of blows, to the belly, the face, the kidneys. Smoke trip-hammered his fists, brutalizing the bigger man, knocking him down, hauling him back up, and knocking him down again.
Bull grabbed Smoke’s knees and brought him down to the dirt of the alley. Pulling one leg free, Smoke savagely kicked the bully in the face. Teeth flew, glistening in the night.
Smoke pulled Bull to his feet and leaned him up against the rear wall, then went to work on the man’s belly and sides. Only after he had felt and heard several ribs break did he let the man fall unconscious to the ground.
“Drag Bull to the paddy wagon, boys,” the cop in charge ordered. “We’ll take him to the hospital. I can tell by looking that his jaw is broken, and I’ll wager half a dozen ribs are broken as well.” He looked at Smoke. “You don’t even look angry, young man.”
“I’m not,” Smoke told him.
“Lord suffer us all!” the officer said. “What would you have done had you been angry?”
“Killed him.”
“I’d not like to get on the wrong side of the road with you, young man. But I would like to know your name.”
“Smoke Jensen.”
The crowd gasped and the cop smiled grimly. “Are you as good with your guns as you are with your dukes, me boy?”
“Better.”
Louis handed Smoke a towel and held his coat while his friend wiped his face and hands. York had stood to one side, his coat brushed back, freeing the butts of his .44s.
And the cops had noticed that, too.
The cop looked at all three of the men. “You boys are here for a reason. I’m not asking why, for you’re officers of the law, and federal officers at that. But I’d not like to see any trouble in this town.”
“There won’t be,” Smoke said, raising up from a rain barrel where he had washed his face and hands. “We’ll be leaving at first light.”
“You wouldn’t mind if I stopped by the stable to see you off, would you now?”
“Not a bit,” Smoke said, smiling.
The waiter stuck his head out the back door. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’ve freshened your drinks. The management has instructed me to tell you that your dinners are on the house this evening.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Smoke told him. “I assure you, we have ample funds.”
The waiter smiled. “Gentlemen, Bull Everton will not be returning to this establishment for quite some time, thanks to you. And,” he grinned hugely, “if it isn’t worth a free meal to get rid of a big pain in the ass, nothing is!”
19
The men were in the saddle and moving out before first light; they would take their breakfast at the first inn they came to once outside of Springfield. It was cold in the darkness before dawn, with more than a hint of fall in the air, and it was going to be a beautiful day for traveling.
The road followed the Connecticut River. The men stayed on the east side of the river, knowing they would have to veer off toward the northeast once inside New Hampshire.
All were taken in by the beauty of the state. Although the leaves were turning as fall approached, the lushness of nature was a beautiful thing to see. As they traveled, the road was bordered by red spruce, red oak, white pine, sugar maple, yellow birch, and white birch.
“It’s shore purty,” York observed, his eyes taking in the stone fences that surrounded the neat fields and farms. “I can’t rightly describe the way I feel about this place. It’s, well—” He paused and shook his head.
“Civilized,” Louis finished it.
“I reckon that’s it, Louis. The only gun I’ve seen all day is the ones we’re totin’. Gives me sort of a funny feelin’.”
“Bear in mind,” Louis sobered them all, “that all that will change with the arrival of Davidson and his thugs.”
By mid-afternoon, the schools out for the day, boys and girls began to appear by the fences and roadways, staring in mute fascination as the cowboys rode slowly by. Smoke and Louis and York all smiled and waved at the young people, and just to give the kids something to talk about and remember, they swept back their jackets, exposing the butts of their guns for the kids’ wide eyes.