Blood Of The Mountain Man. William W. Johnstone

Smoke.

      Smoke carefully bathed and shaved, and dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and black string tie. He belted his gun around him and tied it down, slipping the hammer thong free of the hammer. It was something he did from habit, like breathing.

      The large hotel, fairly fancy for the time, had a separate bar and dining room, connected by a door that was guarded on the saloon side by a man who looked like he ate wagons for lunch. Smoke entered the bar and ordered a whiskey. Not much of a drinking man, he did occasionally enjoy a drink before dinner, sometimes a brandy after dinner, and a beer after a hard day’s ride.

      Saloons were a meeting place, where a man — women were not yet allowed — could find out road conditions, trouble spots where highwaymen lurked, the best place to buy horses or cattle, what range was closed, and where good water could be found. Smoke leaned against the bar, sipped his whiskey, and listened.

      “I heard Smoke Jensen got killed down in Mexico,” a man said. “Gunfighter name of Jake Bonner got him.”

      Smoke hid his smile.

      “What’d he do, back-shoot him?”

      “Outdrew him.”

      Smoke tuned them out. Jake Bonner was a two-bit punk who had been making brags for several years that if he ever came upon Smoke Jensen, he was going to kill him.

      “Bonner’s in town.” That remark brought Smoke back to paying attention to the gabby citizens.

      “And he’s sayin’ he killed Jensen?”

      “He’s talkin’ big about it.”

      “Well, by God. I knew he’d been gone for several months. I heard he hired out his gun. Say, now, this is news.”

      “Says he’s got proof. Says he’s got Jensen’s boots, just jerked off his dead body. Fancy, engraved boots. Got the initials SJ right on the front of each one.”

      “You don’t say?”

      By this time, twenty men had gathered around and were listening to the bull-tossing.

      “Say, stranger.”

      Smoke realized the citizen was talking to him, and he turned slightly. “Yes?”

      “Didn’t you come in on the 4:18 train?”

      “That’s right.”

      “Thought so. Did you hear anything about Jake Bonner killing Smoke Jensen?”

      “No. I haven’t heard anything about that.”

      “Funny. Seems like the news would be all over.”

      “If it’s true,” Smoke replied, sipping a bit of whiskey.

      “Mister, you’re a big’un, but I’d not call Jake Bonner a liar if I was you. Jake’s a bad one.”

      “Every town has one.”

      “Not as bad as Jake. The man’s cat-quick with a gun. Why, he’s got five notches carved in his gun handle.”

      “Tinhorn trick,” Smoke said.

      “You callin’ me a tinhorn?” the voice came from the boardwalk batwings to the saloon.

      Smoke turned slowly. The man facing him from about thirty feet away was young, no more than twenty-two or -three. He wore two guns, pearl-handled, in a fancy rig. His coat was swept back, his hands by his side.

      “Anybody who carves notches in his gun-handles is a tinhorn,” Smoke said, placing his shot glass on the bar. “If that fits you, wear it.”

      “I’m Jake Bonner. The man who killed Smoke Jensen. And you’ll take back that remark, mister. Or you’ll drag iron.”

      “What if I decide to do neither?”

      “Then you’re a yeller dog.”

      “I’ve known some nice dogs in my time. As a matter of fact, I’ve known a lot more nice dogs than nice humans.”

      Back in a corner of the big room, a faro dealer sat with a smile on his lips. Of all the men in the room, he alone knew who the big man in the black suit was. He’d seen him several times, once in action. And he knew that if Jake Bonner didn’t close his mouth and do it real quick, he was either dead on the floor or stomped into a cripple.

      Jake walked closer to the bar, his fancy spurs jingling. “Mister, I think you’re a liar and a coward. What do you have to say about that?”

      “I think you’d better go home before I decide to change your diapers.”

      The bar cleared, the men leaving as of one mind. Only the faro dealer remained in the direct line of fire. He knew that if Bonner was dumb enough to draw — or attempt to draw — he’d never get a shot off. The faro dealer figured he was in the safest spot in the saloon.

      “Before you what?” Jake’s words were almost a scream.

      Smoke was getting angry, but his was never a hot anger. It was a cold fury. “Are you deaf as well as stupid?” He knew he was pushing, but punks infuriated Smoke. Especially one who walked around making the claim that he’d killed him.

      Jake walked closer, and Smoke knew then that Bonner was no gunfighter. No gunfighter wanted action this close up. The odds were too great that both men would take lead.

      “You’re a dead man, mister,” Jake hissed the words.

      “No,” Smoke said slowly. “But you’re sure a hurt one.” He backhanded Jake with a hard right that knocked the man spinning. Jake fell against a table, the table collapsed, and Jake landed on his butt on the floor in a state of confusion.

      Things weren’t supposed to work out this way. Every time he’d try to get up, the big stranger would knock him back down. Jake felt his lips pulp and knew he’d lost a couple of teeth. The big man hauled back a huge fist and busted Jake right on the nose. Jake screamed in pain as his beak busted and the blood poured. In a fog of hurt, Jake felt himself being jerked to his feet and hurled through the air. He crashed against a wall and the air left him.

      When Jake could catch his breath, he reached for his guns, but his holsters were empty. He blinked a couple of times and saw his guns, on the bar, in front of the big stranger. The stranger was calmly sipping at his whiskey.

      Smoke unloaded the matched .45s and lined up the cartridges on the bar. “Children shouldn’t play with guns,” he said. “You might hurt yourself, Booper.”

      “The name is Bonner,” Jake gasped.

      Smoke nodded gravely and finished his drink. “You all through trying to play tough boy, Bone-head?”

      Jake struggled to his feet and stood swaying for a moment. Then, with a curse, he reached behind him and jerked out a knife.

      “I really wish you hadn’t done that,” Smoke said.

      “Jake!” the faro dealer shouted. “Don’t do it, boy. You don’t know who you’re messin’ with.”

      Jake sneered at the dealer. Smoke stood facing the bar, both hands on the polished mahogany.

      “I’m gonna gut you like a fish, mister,” Jake panted, the blood dripping down from his busted nose and smashed lips.

      The batwings flipped open and a man wearing a star stood there. “Put it down, Jake,” he ordered. “Do it now, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

      Jake slowly lowered the knife. The Marshal walked around to face the young would-be tough. “What the hell ran over you, Jake? A beer wagon?”

      Jake refused to answer.

      “Put the knife up, Jake. Right now.”

      Jake sheathed the big blade and with something that sounded like a sob, abruptly turned and lurched from the saloon.

      “These