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 looked confused and stood a step back, bumping into a table. Smoke kept walking toward him.
“Are you crazy?” Shorty said, a shrill sound to his words. “Hold up, man.”
Smoke kept walking.
The others in the room wondered what in hell Jensen was up to.
Smoke walked right up to Shorty and jerked his six-shooter from leather. He tossed the gun to a puncher seated at a table. The puncher caught the .45 and held it like he was holding a lighted stick of dynamite.
“Sit down, Shorty,” Smoke said. “And I’ll buy you a drink. The trouble is over.”
Shorty sat, then looked up at the man. “That took guts, Mister Jensen. I acted the fool.”
“We all do from time to time. You sure don’t hold a corner on the market.”
Smoke walked the room, introducing himself and shaking hands with all the men. Whatever friction might have been between the punchers had vanished. The men had gotten Dixie to his boots and the man wobbled over to the table and sat down. Turned out his jaw wasn’t broken, but it damn sure was badly bent.
“I had a mule kick me one time wasn’t that hard,” Dixie mush-mouthed.
The ranchers sent their men back to home range and they sat and had coffee with Smoke.
“So Jake Bonner finally got himself six feet,” Three Star said. “It’s overdue.”
Lazy J said, “You lookin’ for land up this way, Smoke?”
“No. I’m heading for a place called Red Light. Can you tell me anything
