Law Of The Mountain Man. William W. Johnstone

neighbor?” the barkeep asked.

      “Beer.” The farmer took a position at the end of the bar, near the curve of the planks, so if matters deteriorated into gunplay, he could hit the floor and be out of the line of fire.

      Smoke was a cattleman, so he could understand, at least to some degree, why ranchers disliked farmers. But Smoke Jensen was living proof that rancher and farmer could live side by side and be friends. And he knew that not all of the blame for the hard feelings could be laid at the doorstep of the ranchers. Some farmers flatly refused to work with the ranchers, fencing off the best water; homesteading in lineshacks that the ranchers had built and maintained; and sometimes rustling cattle, not always for food to feed hungry families. Sometimes just to aggravate the rancher.

      The bartender had moved to the end of the bar, just as far away from Smoke Jensen as he could get.

      Smoke sipped his beer and waited for the gunplay that he knew was just around the corner, lurking in those invisible shadows that drifted around and clung to those who lived by the gun.

      “There ain’t much to that pig slop, Burt,” Sam Teller said. “Hell, he ain’t even packin’ no gun.”

      Burt. Smoke searched his memory. Could be Burt Rolly. Smoke had heard of him. A gun fighter of very limited ability, so he’d been told. Usually a back-shooter.

      “You’re a long ways from home, Jensen,” Sam said. “I figured you was still in Colorado, hidin’ under your wife’s dresstail.”

      “You figured wrong on a lot of counts, Sam,” Smoke told him. “But then, the way I hear it, you never were very bright.”

      “Huh?”

      “I said you were stupid, Sam. Dumb. Ignorant. Slow. Mentally deficient. Am I making myself clear now?”

      The farmer moved further away from Smoke and if the barkeep pressed any harder against the rear wall he was going to collapse the entire end of the store.

      “I don’t think I like you very much, Jensen,” Sam said, finally realizing he was being insulted.

      “I don’t like you at all, Sam. And I’m not real thrilled with those half-wits with you.”

      Burt pushed back his chair and stood up, his hands at his sides. “You take that back, Jensen! I ain’t no half-wit.”

      Smoke smiled at him. “You’re right, Burt. You’re not a half-wit.”

      Burt relaxed.

      “You’re all the way a fool,” Smoke finished. “The best thing you boys could do is pay for your drinks and ride out of this area of Idaho. Forget about Jud Vale and Walt Burden. And for damn sure, forget about trying to brace me.”

      The third man at the table slowly stood up and walked to another table. He sat down and placed both hands on the table.

      Smoke recognized him. “Smart move, Jackson.”

      “The timin’ ain’t right, Smoke,” the gunhand said “Man, you’re walkin’ around with your tail up in the air, huntin’ trouble. That ain’t like you. What’s got you on the prod?”

      “I don’t like Jud Vale.” Smoke spoke to the man without taking his eyes off of Sam and Burt.

      “Hell, I don’t like him either! But he’s payin’ top wages for fightin’ men.”

      Smoke laughed. “To fight an old man and an old woman? To fight a young woman and her eight-year-old kid? For that, Jud Vale hires two dozen gunnies? He must be a mighty skittish man.”

      “They’s a lot more to this than that, Smoke.”

      “I figure so myself. One of these days somebody’s going to tell me the whole story.”

      “I’m tired of all this jibber-jabber!” Burt shouted, just about scaring the pee out of the barkeep. “I’m a-gonna kill you, Jensen!”

      Smoke stood tall and straight, facing the two men standing by the table. “No, you’re not, Burt. All you’re going to do is get buried. Think about it, man. I’ve faced more than a hundred gunhands, most of them better than you. They’re all dead, Burt. Every last one of them. Pike and Shorty. Haywood and Ackerman and Kid Austin. Canning and Poker and Grisson. Clark and Evans. Felter and Lefty and Nevada Sam. Big Jack and Phillips and Carson. Russell and Joiner and Jeff Siddons. Jerry and Skinny Davis and Cross. You want more names, Burt? All right. Simpson and Martin and Reese. Turkel and Brown and Williams and Rogers. Fenerty and Stratton and Potter and Richards. And a half hundred more whose names I can’t recall or never even knew. They’re all dead and rotting in the ground. But I’m still here.”

      “Listen to him, boys,” Jackson spoke the words softly. “I’m tellin’ you, the timin’ ain’t right just yet. Back off.”

      “You could buy in!” Sam said hoarsely.

      “Not just yet.”

      “Then you jist yellow!”

      “No. But I’ll be alive,” Jackson told him.

      The farmer was on the floor, belly down. The barkeep had slipped down to his knees and was peering around a keg of beer.

      “Make your play, damn you, Jensen!” Sam yelled.

      “Your deal,” Smoke replied. “Bet or fold.”

      Sam and Burt grabbed for iron. Smoke’s guns roared and belched fire and death. Sam stumbled back against the wall, his gun still in leather. Burt was plugged twice in the belly. He fell down on the floor and began squalling as the intense pain reached him. Sam cursed Smoke and managed to clear leather and level the pistol. Smoke shot him in the head. Burt tried to lift his pistol. He managed to cock it and fire, shooting himself in the foot, the slug tearing off his big toe. He dropped his gun to the floor and started yelling in pain.

      Smoke glanced at Jackson. The man’s hands were still on the tabletop, palms down.

      “Holy Hell!” the barkeep hollered.

      The farmer was praying to the Almighty.

      “Can’t say I didn’t warn ’em,” Jackson broke the silence.

      “For a fact,” Smoke replied, punching out empty brass and reloading. “Is there a bounty on my head, Jackson?"

      “Thousand dollars.”

      “I don’t have to ask who put it there.”

      “I ’spect you know.”

      “I imagine the bounty is gong to go up on me after this.”

      “It wouldn’t surprise me none.”

      “What about them?” Smoke jerked his head at the dead and dying gunslicks.

      “Don’t ask me, Smoke. Hell, I didn’t take ’em.to raise!”

      “I’ll bury ’em iffen I can have what’s in they pockets!” the barkeep said.

      “Suits me,” Smoke told him. He picked up his beer mug and drained it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He set the mug back on the plank. “Fill it up, barkeep.”

      “Git it yourself! It’s on the house. I ain’t movin’ ’til I know all the lead’s through flyin’!”

      Smoke walked around the bar just as the farmer was getting up off the floor. He looked at him. “You want another beer?”

      “Hell, no!” The farmer hit the air and didn’t look back.

      “I’m gonna stand up now, Smoke,” Jackson said.

      “Go right ahead.”

      “Then I’m gonna walk out the door and get my horse and go.” “See you around, Jackson.”

      “Maybe. I ain’t made up my mind about this job. You showin’ up sorta tipped the