.

smiled and pointed at the dangling reins.

      Nick jerked up the reins hard and said, “Come on, you ugly son-of-a-jerk.”

      Buck bit him, clamping down with his big teeth. Nick screamed as the arm was lacerated and the blood flowed. Nick jerked out a pistol to shoot the horse and Buck butted him, knocking the man to the ground, the pistol sliding away in the mud. Nick grabbed up a heavy board and got to his feet. He reared back to strike Buck and Buck reared up and came down with both shod feet. One hoof made a terrible mess of Nick’s face and the other smashed a shoulder, the sound of the breaking bones clearly audible. Nick lay in the mud, badly hurt and unconscious.

      A man came running up, pushing through the gathering crowd. He wore a star on his chest.

      Smoke pointed to the bloody and broken Nick and said, “You’d better get your resident loudmouth to a doctor, deputy. He’s hurt pretty bad.”

      The deputy started to say something about the best thing to do would be to shoot the damn horse. But he bit back the words and closed his mouth. He didn’t like the look in this big stranger’s eyes. And to make matters worse, that damn big horse was looking at him, too, ears all laid back and walleyed mean. The deputy had seen a few killer horses in his time, and this was definitely one of them.

      Smoke petted Buck for a few seconds and then picked up the reins, starting inside the huge barn.

      “Where do you think you’re goin’?” the deputy called.

      “To stable my horse,” Smoke called over his shoulder. “You have any objection?” Before leaving town, Smoke had wired a friend of his, a judge down in Denver, and asked if his Deputy U.S. Marshal’s commission was still valid.

      “That was a lifetime appointment, Smoke. You think you might need that badge soon?” he’d asked him.

      “Maybe,” Smoke wired back.

      “You have the full weight of the United States Government behind you, my boy,” the judge had wired.

      “All the weight I need I carry on my hip,” Smoke closed the key.

      “By God, I might!” the deputy hollered, losing his temper. “I don’t like your attitude, mister.”

      Smoke dug in his saddlebags and pinned on the badge before stripping off saddle and bridle and pouring grain into a feed trough.

      “Did you hear me, damn it?” the deputy yelled, as the crowd outside the livery swelled, the small mob making no effort to assist the unconscious Nick Norman. “I said,” the deputy shouted, “do you hear me, you damn saddlebum?”

      Smoke hesitated for a moment, then took off the U.S. Marshal’s badge and put it in his pocket. Might be more fun without it, he thought.

      “Git out here and look at me!” the deputy shouted, now reenforced by two other badge-toting men.

      Smoke made sure his second gun was hidden by his coat and then he walked out of the gloom of the livery to face the three so-called lawmen.

      “All right,” Smoke said, as the mob of men and painted women fell silent. “I’m looking at you. But if I have to look at you for very long, I’ll lose my appetite.” He glanced at the other two. “And that includes you, too.”

      The three men looked at each other, not quite sure how to handle this situation. As deputies under Sheriff Bowers, they were accustomed to bullying their way around the area, and having people kowtow to them. But this stranger didn’t seem a bit impressed by their badges.

      They didn’t realize that Smoke immediately knew that the three of them combined wouldn’t make a pimple on a good lawman’s butt.

      “We’re deputies,” one of the three said.

      “Wonderful,” Smoke told them. “Go get a lost cat out of a tree.”

      Jimmy the stableboy could not hide his grin.

      One of the deputies noticed it and flushed. “I’ll slap that smirk offen your face, boy.”

      “You’ll do it when Hell freezes over,” Smoke told him.

      The deputy cut his eyes to the big stranger. “You don’t talk to me lak ’at, mister. I got me a notion to put you in jail.”

      “Why don’t you try?” Smoke said softly.

      “All right!” a voice shouted from behind the crowd. “Get out of the damn way and let me through.”

      The crowd parted and a big man stepped into the small clearing in front of the livery. He was about the same size as Smoke and did not appear to have an ounce of fat on him. He was clean-shaven and smelled of cologne. He wore a very ornate star pinned to his coat and at first glance appeared to be a man used to getting his own way. He wore two guns, low and tied down.

      “I’m Sheriff Bowers,” the man said, fixing his gaze on Smoke. “What’s going on here? What happened to Nick?”

      “Nick got rough with my horse,” Smoke told him. “My horse didn’t like him or the treatment and let him know about it. Then this loudmouth piece of crap wearing a badge showed up and I don’t like him. He threatened this boy here.” He pointed to Jimmy. “That tells me what type of sorry trash he is. So, Sheriff, if you own him, you’d better put a leash and a muzzle on him.” Smoke was feeling the old wildness settle on him. It was a cold sensation. He had felt the same emotion when he’d entered the old silver camp years back, hunting the men who had raped and killed his wife and killed his baby son. Smoke had left some fourteen-odd men dead in the streets.

      This trip had turned sour from the git-go and Smoke was feeling more and more of the old wildness fill him.

      Sheriff Bowers read the warning in Smoke’s eyes and took in the man’s boots and clothing. The boots were handmade and expensive. The coat was handmade to fit the man’s huge shoulders and arms. The .44 he wore at his side was old, but well-cared-for, and it had seen a lot of use. It was not fancy, and that spoke volumes to the sheriff.

      There was something about this big stranger that was unnerving to the sheriff. He did not like the sensation. “A few of you men carry Nick to the doctor’s office. The rest of you people break this up and go on about your business.”

      “That son-of-a-bitch called me trash,” the deputy in question said. “I’ll not stand for that.”

      “Shut up, Patton,” the sheriff said harshly. “Just close your mouth and keep it closed.” He turned his attentions back to Smoke. “You mind walking with me?”

      “Not at all, Sheriff,” Smoke said. “You object to my checking in at the hotel?”

      “Not a bit. We’ll talk on the way over there.”

      Patton stepped toward Jimmy. “I’ll take a buggy whip to you, boy. Teach you to sass me. I’ll strip the hide right offen your back.”

      Smoke hit the man, sudden and unexpectedly. The blow made an ugly smushing sound in the air. Patton’s boots flew out from under him and he landed on his back in the mud, his mouth leaking blood. He did not move.

      The sheriff, the deputies, and the crowd stood in shocked silence. Smoke looked at Jimmy. The boy’s clothing was patched and his shoes were held together by faith and rawhide. Smoke handed the boy two gold double eagles. Jimmy stood in open-mouthed shock.

      “You go get you some new clothes and boots, boy. Then come back here and take care of my horse. If any of these badge-wearing trash bothers you, you come get me. They won’t bother you again. All right?”

      Jimmy looked at the money in his hand. More money than he had ever seen. “Yes, sir!”

      “You come over to my store, Jimmy,” a merchant called. “I’ll fit you right up and treat you fair.”

      Smoke looked at the man. “You be damn sure you do just that.” He started walking toward the hotel.