Blood Of The Mountain Man. William W. Johnstone

me the hell alone and stick to your own knittin’!”

      The cowboys, obviously working on opposite sides of the fence, and probably arguing over range or strayed beef or water rights, looked at one another and silently decided to band together against this stranger who it appeared was not taking either side very seriously.

      The bartender shoved a plate of food at the tall stranger and Smoke stood at the bar and went to eating, ignoring the cowboys.

      “Well, if that don’t beat all!” one said. “Just turns his back to us and starts feedin’ his face.”

      “Fill the order,” Smoke told the man behind the bar.

      The man sighed.

      “You fill that order, Smith,” a puncher said, “and you’ll get no more business from the Lazy J.”

      “And none from the Three Star,” the other side warned.

      “Fill the order,” Smoke told him.

      “Man,” the bartender said. “You have put me in one hell of a bind. You know that?”

      “It’s a free country,” Smoke told him. “If you don’t want to sell me the goods, then do so of your own choosing. Not because of threats from this bunch of saddlebums.”

      “Saddlebums!” one of the men shouted.

      Another walked to the bar and leaned against it, staring hard at Smoke. He took a closer look at the man nonchalantly eating his meal. Feller sure was big. He looked at the man’s wrists. Bigger than most men’s forearms. But he figured the six of them could handle him without much trouble.

      “Mister, I think we’ll just clean your clock.”

      Smoke turned and hit him with a left that seemed to come out of nowhere. The impact sounded like a melon hit with the flat side of an ax. The man’s boots flew out from under him and he was slammed to the floor, flat on his back. He did not move.

      “Now leave me the hell alone and let me finish my meal,” Smoke said, without looking at the remaining five.

      They looked back at him, then at the motionless puncher on the floor. One side of the man’s face was rapidly swelling and they knew his jaw was broken.

      One punch. One broken jaw. No one among them seemed especially eager to step up to the bar.

      “Close your mouth and fill my order,” Smoke told the man behind the bar.

      “Yes, sir,” the man said softly.

      “You as good with that gun as you are with your fists, mister?” a cowboy from the Lazy J asked.

      “Better,” Smoke told him.

      “You just might have to prove it,” he said.

      “Then that makes you short of sense,” Smoke replied. “I’m passing through, nothing more. You boys are on the prod, not me. You pushed me, not the other way around. Think about it.”

      The man on the floor still had not moved, except for his swelling jaw.

      “You got a name?”

      Smoke put down his fork and turned, facing the five. It was then that several of them noticed the hammer thong had been slipped from the big stranger’s six-gun. No one had seen him do it, so that meant it was done when his boots left the stirrups and hit the ground. All of them noticed that he was facing five-to-one odds and showing no fear, no excitement, nothing except dead calm.

      “Smoke Jensen.”

      The bartender slowly sank to the floor, behind a beer barrel. Somewhere within the confines of the trading post, a clock ticked loudly.

      Of the five punchers, one found his voice. “Feller down the way claims to have killed Jensen in Mexico.”

      “He lied. Jake Bonner is dead. I killed him night before last. I didn’t want to. But he crowded me. Just like you’re doing.”

      “I ain’t crowdin’ you,” a Three Star rider said. “I’m sittin’ down and stayin’ out of this.”

      “Me, too,” a Lazy J man said.

      “That makes three of us,” another one said.

      The men moved out of the line of fire and sat down and very carefully put their hands on the rough tabletop. It was by no means an act of cowardice. It was just showing exceptionally good sense.

      “Sit down, Luke,” one of the three said. “You, too, Shorty. This is stupid. The man ain’t done us no harm. I’m big enough to admit we was out of line and pushy.”

      “I ain’t takin’ water from no killer,” Luke said stubbornly.

      “Me, neither,” Shorty said. “And I ain’t real sure this is Smoke Jensen. I think he’s a tinhorn.”

      “I’ll turn around and finish my meal,” Smoke offered an honorable way out of a bad situation. “You boys sit down and have a beer on me. How about that?”

      “I say you go right straight to hell,” Shorty said, his voice thick.

      “It won’t be me who takes that trip today, boys,” Smoke told them. “Think about it.”

      “You can’t take both of us,” Luke bragged.

      “Yes, I can,” Smoke said quietly and surely. “But I don’t want to.”

      “Now I know he ain’t Smoke Jensen,” Shorty said. “He’s yeller.”

      The front door opened and two men stepped in. Both quickly sized up the situation.

      “Shorty,” one said. “Sit down.”

      “Luke,” the second man said. “You do the same. Right now.”

      “This tinhorn braced me, Boss,” Luke said.

      “No, he didn’t,” one of the men seated said. “We all started this. Dixie there,” he looked at the man on the floor, “he stuck his face in the stranger’s and got stretched out with one punch.”

      “This hombre says he’s Smoke Jensen, Boss,” Shorty said.

      The men, obviously the owners of the Lazy J and the Three Star, stepped between Smoke and the two riders. One faced the punchers, the other faced Smoke.

      “Is that right?” Smoke was asked.

      “That’s right. I came in here for a meal and supplies. Nothing more. And I’ll ride if given the chance. But no more mouth from your boys.”

      “We pay the men for work. What they do or say on their own time is their business.”

      “Then I hope you have room in your cemetery for two more.” Smoke was blunt.

      The bartender had stood up. “Jensen’s tellin’ the truth. He didn’t do nothin’ ’cept come in here and ask for supplies.”

      “I think you better ride,” the rancher facing Smoke said.

      “Is that an order?”

      The rancher’s smile was thin. “Just a suggestion, Mister Jensen.”

      Smoke nodded his head. “Sack up my supplies,” he told the man behind the bar. “And total up my bill. I’ll be moving along.”

      “Just like I said,” Shorty popped off. “Yeller.”

      The ranchers stepped out of the way. That was the final straw and they both knew it. No man would stand for that.

      Luke sat down.

      Smoke looked at Shorty. The man was scared and sweating. He had worked himself into a corner and didn’t know how to get out of it. Shorty was probably a pretty decent sort; it was not a crime to be young. Smoke took a chance and took a step toward the puncher.

      Shorty