to the bunch that call themselves my enemy, it’s always good to know his name.”
“Smoke Jensen, let’s just see how good you really are with a gun! I’m callin’ you out, you son of a bitch!”
The loud shout and angry challenge got the attention of everyone in the saloon, and all talking stopped in mid conversation as the other patrons looked up to see what was going on.
Looking toward the sound of the voice, Smoke saw Lucas Keno standing just inside the door. There was an expression of rage and hatred on the cowboy’s face, and he was holding a pistol leveled at Smoke.
“What are you doing, Keno?” Smoke asked.
“Cal and Pearlie have both told me that you are the best with a pistol they ever saw. So, I was just wonderin’ how good you really are. Because, you see, I’m pretty good myself. And what I thought is, we’d just see which one of us is the best in a fair fight.”
“It’s hardly a fair fight when you are already holding a gun in your hand,” Longmont said.
Keno smiled, an evil, mirthless smile.
“Well, now, you see, the way I look it, that’s what is going to make it a fair fight,” he said. “I figure if you really are as good as ole’ Cal and Pearlie say you are, then I might just need me an advantage.”
“That’s quite an advantage, Keno,” Sheriff Carson said. “In fact, it is so much an advantage that if, by some wild chance, you would happen to kill Smoke or anyone else in here, it would be considered murder in the first degree. We hang people for that in this state.”
“Yeah, I reckon it is a big advantage, ain’t it?” Keno replied, his smile growing larger. “I tell you what I’ll do for you, Jensen. I’ll give you a chance to stand up and face me. And I won’t shoot until I see you start to pull your gun.”
Smoke smiled, and his smile was broad and genuine.
“What are you smiling at, you son of a bitch? Don’t you understand what’s goin’ on here?”
Now Sheriff Carson and Longmont were smiling as well.
“Have you all gone crazy?” Keno asked, his voice rising in pitch as his frustration and anger intensified. Smoke was showing no fear, and that wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. “I’m the one that’s holdin’ the gun here. Or ain’t you people noticed that?”
“Oh we’ve noticed all right,” Smoke said. “Drop the gun, Keno. Drop the gun and you might live.”
“What are you talking about?” Keno asked, still confused by the strange reaction. “Why would I do a foolish thing like that?” Keno asked.
“Because if you don’t drop your gun right now, I will be forced to put a .32-caliber ball in your head,” a woman’s calm and well-modulated voice said.
Sally’s words were augmented by the deadly double click of the cylinder being engaged as the hammer was being pulled back by her thumb.
“Hi, Sally,” Smoke said easily. “Do you want a beer?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Sally replied. “Louis, tell Andrew to draw one for me while I shoot Mr. Keno in the back of his head for not dropping his pistol when I told him to.”
“No! No!” Keno said. “I’m dropping it, I’m dropping it. Don’t shoot!” He opened his hand and the pistol fell to the floor with a loud thump.
“Damn,” Sheriff Carson said. “I walked all the way down here. Now I have to put Keno in jail before I can even have a beer.”
“Darlin’, pick up Keno’s gun and bring it to me,” Smoke said.
Stepping around Keno, Sally reached down to pick up his pistol; then she took it over to the table. The wooden pistol grip was still shattered from the impact of the bullet when Smoke had shot it a few days earlier. Smoke held it out toward Keno.
“Damn, you haven’t gotten that fixed yet?” he asked. “I thought you were supposed to be so all-fired good with a gun. Nobody who is good with a gun would let one stay in such a bad condition as this.”
Smoke removed the cylinder and slipped it into his pocket. Then, using his pocketknife, he extracted the firing pin. After that, he walked over and dropped the gun into a half-full spittoon.
“No need to put him in jail, Sheriff, he didn’t actually do anything,” Smoke said, handing the empty cylinder to Carson. “Suppose you hold on to this for a couple of days.”
“All right,” Carson said, taking the cylinder from Smoke.
“You don’t have to be doin’ me no damn favors,” Keno said.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Keno, I’m not doing you any favors,” Smoke said. “I’m just telling you straight out to get out of my sight and stay out of my sight. Because next time I see you, I’ll kill you.”
Smoke delivered the words in an even, calm, and cool voice. That had the effect of making the threat much more frightening and believable than if he had spoken the words in anger.
Keno stood in the door for a moment longer, as if trying to digest the words.
“What?” Keno said. “Sheriff, did you hear that? This man just threatened to kill me.”
“Yes, I heard the man,” Sheriff Carson said. He made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Get out of here, now, before I kill you myself.”
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere without my pistol.”
Carson pointed to the spittoon where Smoke had deposited Keno’s pistol.
“There it is,” Sheriff Carson said. “Fish it out, and it’s yours.”
Keno walked over to the spittoon, looked down into it, hesitated for a moment, then, making a face of disgust and revulsion, stuck his hand down into the little brass pot. A few seconds later, he pulled his pistol without the cylinder out, and with it, and his hand, dripping a brown, slimy oozing liquid, walked quickly out of the saloon.
Keno was chased from the saloon by the laughter of nearly a dozen customers.
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