Blood Of The Mountain Man. William W. Johnstone

      “He’s a two-bit loudmouth,” Smoke replied. “Nothing more.”

      “You got a name?”

      “Doesn’t everybody?” Smoke turned and walked out of the bar and into the dining area. He was seated and a menu was placed in front of him.

      The marshal was irritated and his face showed it. He turned to follow Smoke and the faro dealer said, “Leave him alone, Jeff. He’s a good, decent man who was pushed, that’s all. Believe me when I say that is the last man in the world you want to crowd.”

      “You know him, Sparks?”

      “I’ve seen him a time or two, yes. He just wants to have a meal and a good night’s sleep, that’s all.”

      Jeff thought for a moment, and then nodded. “All right, I’ll take your word for it. But you know Jake’s not gonna stand for this.”

      “His funeral, Marshal.”

      “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

      Smoke ate his meal and had coffee, then stepped out onto the porch for a cigarette and a breath of night air. He had not forgotten Jake Bonner. That would have been a very unwise thing to do. For the Jakes of this world, once humiliated, would never forgive or forget, and Smoke was careful of his back.

      He looked across the street and saw the marshal sitting on the boardwalk, watching him.

      The marshal knows Jake isn’t going to forget what happened in the saloon, he thought. And he’s thinking Jake just might decide to do something tonight.

      Smoke sat down in a chair that was shrouded in darkness and finished his cigarette. He was tired, but not sleepy. He knew he should go on up to his room and lie down, but he didn’t want to do that. He was more irritated than restless. He would have liked to walk the main street of the town. But to do that would only bring him trouble. Hell, he thought, sitting here will probably bring me trouble.

      In my own way, I am a prisoner.

      Come on, Jake, he reasoned, his thoughts suddenly savage. Come on. If you’re going to do something foolish, do it now and get it over with.

      The marshal stood up and walked to his office. He stood for a moment in the open door, then stepped inside and closed it behind him.

      I’m a stranger here, Smoke thought. I’d better have witnesses.

      He stood up and walked through the hotel lobby to the bar, a tall, well-dressed man in a tailored suit. In the saloon, he ordered coffee and stood by the bar, waiting for it to cool. The place was doing a brisk business. But when Smoke elected to stand at the bar, the long bar cleared, the men choosing tables instead.

      That amused Smoke, in a sour sort of way. He was conscious of the faro dealer watching him. I’ve seen that man somewhere down the line, Smoke thought.

      The batwings pushed open and Jake Bonner stood there, his bruised face swollen now. He’d found him more guns and his holsters were full.

      “I’m callin’ your hand, mister,” Jake said, his voice husky with emotion. “Now turn around and face me.”

      Smoke turned, brushing back his coat as he did. “Go home, Jake Bonner. There is no need for this.”

      “Do what he says, Jake,” the faro dealer called. “He’s giving you a chance to live. Take it.”

      “Shut up, gambler!” Jake yelled. “This ain’t none of your affair. I’m the man who killed Smoke Jensen. No two-bit stranger does to me what this one done.”

      “You didn’t kill Smoke Jensen, Jake,” the dealer said. “Smoke Jensen is standing in front of you.”

      The saloon became as hushed as a church. Jake’s face drained of blood and he stood pale and shaken.

      “Go home, Jake,” Smoke told him. “Go home and live. Don’t crowd me.”

      “Draw, damn you!” Jake screamed, and grabbed iron.

      Smoke’s draw was perfection, deadly beauty. As Jake’s hands closed around the butts of his guns, he felt a hammer blow in the center of his chest. He stumbled backward and fell against the wall, then slowly slid down to sit on the floor. His guns were still in leather.

      “No,” he said. “This ain’t … this ain’t right. This ain’t the way it’s suppose’ to be.”

      “But it is,” the faro dealer said.

      “You go to hell!” Jake Bonner screamed.

      It was the last thing he said.

      Smoke holstered his gun and stood by the bar. He picked up his coffee cup with his left hand and took a sip. Just right.

      “Jesus God!” a man breathed. “I seen it but I don’t believe it. It was a blur. Hell, it wasn’t even that!”

      The marshal stepped in, gun drawn. He looked at Jake, then at Smoke, and holstered his .45. “I knew it was going to happen,” he said. “I thought about lockin’ Jake up until mornin’. Now I wish I had.”

      “Jake called him and drew first,” a man said. “Or tried to. That’s Smoke Jensen, Marshal.”

      “The poor dumb fool,” the marshal said. “Not you,” he was quick to add, looking at Smoke.

      “You have any questions for me?” Smoke asked.

      “Only one. When are you leavin’ town?”

      “First thing in the morning.”

      “Good. Somebody get the undertaker and get Jake fitted for a box.” The marshal looked at Smoke. There were things he wanted to say, but he was wise enough not to say them. It wasn’t that he blamed Smoke, for he was sure that Smoke had been pushed into the fight. “Good night, Mister Jensen,” was all he had to say.

      Smoke nodded and left the room.

      He was gone before dawn the next morning.

      Three

      Smoke had a long ride ahead of him, but it was one he was looking forward to. He had wanted to provision up at the town that was now miles behind him, but felt it best to move on. There might be more like Jake Bonner in town.

      He shot a rabbit and had that for lunch, then caught several fish and had them for his dinner. The next day he rode up to an old trading post and after looking it over from a distance, decided to provision there. He stepped inside and knew immediately he had walked into some sort of disagreement. There were six men besides the owner in the dark and smoky room that served as a bar — cowboys, from the look of them. Three stood facing three, and their faces were dark with anger. The owner or manager or whatever the hell he was stood behind the rough plank bar.

      “Beans and bacon and flour and coffee,” Smoke said, walking up to the bar.

      “Mister, this ain’t a real good time for doin’ no grocery shoppin’,” the man told him.

      “It’s as good a time as any,” Smoke replied. “Fill the order.”

      “I reckon Dupree hired you, too, mister,” a cowboy said to Smoke.

      Smoke looked at him. “Nobody hired me to do anything. And I never heard of any Dupree. Just passin’ through is all. You boys carry on with your business and let me do mine.” His gaze returned to the man behind the bar. “And toss in a box of .44s while you’re at it.”

      One of the cowboys had looked out the window at Smoke’s horse. “I never seen that brand before.”

      “Now you have,” Smoke replied. “A can of peaches, too,” he added to his order. “You have any food cooked?”

      “Beans and beef,” the man said. “Mister, ride on. This ain’t no time for …”

      “Dish me up a plate of it.