Law Of The Mountain Man. William W. Johnstone

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      5

      Smoke’s left-hand Colt roared and bucked as his cross-draw flashed.

      The slugs hit Gus in the chest and belly, doubling him over. He stumbled back and grabbed onto a table’s edge for support. He finally managed to drag iron just as Smoke fired again, the .44 slug slamming into his chest. The light began to fade around him as the men in the barroom took on a ghostly appearance, drifting into double images as the sounds of the pale rider grew louder in his ears.

      Gus looked down at his hands. What had happened to his guns? His hands were empty. But he had drawn them. He was sure of that.

      Gus sat down heavily in a chair and the legs broke under the sudden weight, spilling him to the floor. The last thing he would hear was the sounds of the pale rider’s horse galloping closer. And finally, the feel of that cold and bony hand reaching down to touch his shoulder.

      “Did anybody even see Jensen draw?” the drummer asked, his voice filled with awe. “Jesus God, I didn’t.”

      The young man whom Cheyenne had bopped on the noggin with the barrel of his Colt finally sat up and moaned, both hands to his head. “What happened?” he asked.

      “Gus finally saw the critter,” Blackjack told him.

      The young man looked up into the cold eyes of Smoke Jensen. Right then, and unfortunately for him, only for a very brief moment, did the old homeplace farm back in Minnesota pull at him slightly.

      The young man who had just recently taken to calling himself the Pecos Kid pushed those thoughts out of his head and began to think about how he could kill Smoke Jensen. Yeah ... the man who killed Smoke Jensen would be famous all over the world. He’d have fame and money and all the women anybody could ever want. So he very wrongly thought.

      Smoke stared down at him from the bar. His words momentarily chilled the Pecos Kid. “Put it out of your head, kid. Don’t even think about it.”

      Smoke turned and Walt and Cheyenne followed him out of the bar and into the general store.

      When Smoke was well out of earshot, Pecos said, “I bet I could take him.”

      Blackjack just shook his head in disgust.

      It appeared that the bitterly cold and long winter had finally given way to spring as the warming winds began to blow. The syringa began to bloom, as did the balsam and lupine, and the marsh marigold and blue columbine lent their hues and fragrances to the cacophony of color. Harrison had ridden to the store by the lake and came back with bad news.

      “That Clint Perkins done struck agin, Mr. Walt. This time he killed a man over on the Little Malad. Some big landowner over thataway.”

      Walt kicked at a rock and cussed.

      “And that ain’t all. Jud Vale—had to be him—done upped the ante on Smoke’s head. Five thousand dollars to the man who kills him.”

      Smoke had walked up, listening. The news came as no surprise to him.

      Walt looked at him. “Jud knows that with you out of the picture this whole operation would fold. Me and Cheyenne and Dolittle and Harrison could hold on for a time, but not for long. Maybe it’s time for me to sell out and move on; take Doreen and Mickey with me and the old woman and just get gone.”

      “Is that what you want to do, Walt?”

      “Hell, no!” There was considerable heat in the man’s voice.

      “Then don’t. But here’s what we can do: round up the rest of your herds and sell off the older stuff. That would take some strain off the range. We could use the boys to drive them to the railhead at Preston. Me and Cheyenne would stay here on the place with you to make sure Jud’s men don’t burn the house down.”

      Walt thought for a moment, then nodded his head. “All right, let’s do ’er.”

      Leaving Cheyenne in charge of the roundup, Smoke saddled up and headed for the nearest telegraph office to find a buyer for the cattle. He did not take the normally traveled roads or trails, but instead cut across country, blazing his own trail.

      Smoke wasn’t worried about the men Jud Vale had hired. Most of them were stand-up, look-you-in-eye gunfighters. They had a reputation to defend or to build, and back-shooters they were not. It was the bounty hunters that Smoke knew would be coming in who worried him.

      That scum had no scruples or morals or anything that even remotely resembled those attributes.

      And they would be coming in once that five thousand dollar ante on his head was spread about the country; that would not take long to accomplish.

      He made the ride to the wire office with no trouble, and sent wires out until he found a buyer who knew him and was interested in the cattle. He made arrangements over the wires to meet the shipment at the railhead with a bankdraft.

      He walked over to the hotel and checked in, then got himself a bath and a shave and changed clothes while his range clothing was being washed, dried, and ironed. Then he headed for a cafe for a meal.

      Smoke was a handsome, striking-looking man, tall and muscular, and he turned many a female head as he strode up the boardwalk, spurs jingling. And he caused many a man to step back as he passed, for even though Smoke did not know it, and would have scoffed at it if someone had told him so, there was clear and present danger in those cold brown eyes. And by the way he wore his guns, there was no denying that he was very comfortable with those Colts, and knew how to use them. And more importantly, would use them.

      He had changed into dark pin-stripe trousers over his polished boots, a white shirt with black siring tie, and a leather vest.

      He decided to have a beer before he ate his lunch and pushed open the batwings of the saloon, stepping inside.

      The bounty hunters and the gunfighter locked eyes.

      John Wills, Dave Bennett, Shorty Watson, and Lefty Cassett were sharing a bottle and playing poker.

      Smoke told the barkeep he wanted a beer and walked over to their table, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “Deal me in, boys.”

      “You got a lot of brass on your butt, Jensen,” Lefty told him. “Who the hell invited you?”

      “You’re hurting my feelings, Lefty. Makes me think I smell bad. And to think I just spent good money to have a bath and a shave.”

      “Very funny, Smoke,” Wills said. “Notice how we’re all laughing.”

      “I can see that. You boys gonna deal me in or not?”

      “Closed game, Jensen,” Shorty told him. “Just like you’re gonna be soon. Closed. Like in a box.”

      They thought that was funny. Hysterically so. Smoke smiled with their laughter. They stopped laughing when they heard the almost inaudible click of a hammer being earred back.

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