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. A big plate. I’m hungry.”
“Are you hard of hearin’?” a cowboy asked. “You was told to ride on.”
All in all, Smoke thought, this trip is turning out to be a disaster from the git-go. “Buddy, I don’t know what your problem is. But I do have a suggestion. Leave 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,
