Blood Of The Mountain Man. William W. Johnstone

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СКАЧАТЬ in the direct line of fire. He knew that if Bonner was dumb enough to draw — or attempt to draw — he’d never get a shot off. The faro dealer figured he was in the safest spot in the saloon.

      “Before you what?” Jake’s words were almost a scream.

      Smoke was getting angry, but his was never a hot anger. It was a cold fury. “Are you deaf as well as stupid?” He knew he was pushing, but punks infuriated Smoke. Especially one who walked around making the claim that he’d killed him.

      Jake walked closer, and Smoke knew then that Bonner was no gunfighter. No gunfighter wanted action this close up. The odds were too great that both men would take lead.

      “You’re a dead man, mister,” Jake hissed the words.

      “No,” Smoke said slowly. “But you’re sure a hurt one.” He backhanded Jake with a hard right that knocked the man spinning. Jake fell against a table, the table collapsed, and Jake landed on his butt on the floor in a state of confusion.

      Things weren’t supposed to work out this way. Every time he’d try to get up, the big stranger would knock him back down. Jake felt his lips pulp and knew he’d lost a couple of teeth. The big man hauled back a huge fist and busted Jake right on the nose. Jake screamed in pain as his beak busted and the blood poured. In a fog of hurt, Jake felt himself being jerked to his feet and hurled through the air. He crashed against a wall and the air left him.

      When Jake could catch his breath, he reached for his guns, but his holsters were empty. He blinked a couple of times and saw his guns, on the bar, in front of the big stranger. The stranger was calmly sipping at his whiskey.

      Smoke unloaded the matched .45s and lined up the cartridges on the bar. “Children shouldn’t play with guns,” he said. “You might hurt yourself, Booper.”

      “The name is Bonner,” Jake gasped.

      Smoke nodded gravely and finished his drink. “You all through trying to play tough boy, Bone-head?”

      Jake struggled to his feet and stood swaying for a moment. Then, with a curse, he reached behind him and jerked out a knife.

      “I really wish you hadn’t done that,” Smoke said.

      “Jake!” the faro dealer shouted. “Don’t do it, boy. You don’t know who you’re messin’ with.”

      Jake sneered at the dealer. Smoke stood facing the bar, both hands on the polished mahogany.

      “I’m gonna gut you like a fish, mister,” Jake panted, the blood dripping down from his busted nose and smashed lips.

      The batwings flipped open and a man wearing a star stood there. “Put it down, Jake,” he ordered. “Do it now, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

      Jake slowly lowered the knife. The Marshal walked around to face the young would-be tough. “What the hell ran over you, Jake? A beer wagon?”

      Jake refused to answer.

      “Put the knife up, Jake. Right now.”

      Jake sheathed the big blade and with something that sounded like a sob, abruptly turned and lurched from the saloon.

      “These are his guns, Marshal,” Smoke said. “I took the precaution of unloading them.”

      The marshal walked up to Smoke and the counterman placed a cup of coffee in front of him. “Jake’s a pretty salty type, mister. Not many men around here would have tried to disarm him.”

      “He’s a two-bit loudmouth,” Smoke replied. “Nothing more.”

      “You got a name?”

      “Doesn’t everybody?” Smoke turned and walked out of the bar and into the dining area. He was seated and a menu was placed in front of him.

      The marshal was irritated and his face showed it. He turned to follow Smoke and the faro dealer said, “Leave him alone, Jeff. He’s a good, decent man who was pushed, that’s all. Believe me when I say that is the last man in the world you want to crowd.”

      “You know him, Sparks?”

      “I’ve seen him a time or two, yes. He just wants to have a meal and a good night’s sleep, that’s all.”

      Jeff thought for a moment, and then nodded. “All right, I’ll take your word for it. But you know Jake’s not gonna stand for this.”

      “His funeral, Marshal.”

      “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

      Smoke ate his meal and had coffee, then stepped out onto the porch for a cigarette and a breath of night air. He had not forgotten Jake Bonner. That would have been a very unwise thing to do. For the Jakes of this world, once humiliated, would never forgive or forget, and Smoke was careful of his back.

      He looked across the street and saw the marshal sitting on the boardwalk, watching him.

      The marshal knows Jake isn’t going to forget what happened in the saloon, he thought. And he’s thinking Jake just might decide to do something tonight.

      Smoke sat down in a chair that was shrouded in darkness and finished his cigarette. He was tired, but not sleepy. He knew he should go on up to his room and lie down, but he didn’t want to do that. He was more irritated than restless. He would have liked to walk the main street of the town. But to do that would only bring him trouble. Hell, he thought, sitting here will probably bring me trouble.

      In my own way, I am a prisoner.

      Come on, Jake, he reasoned, his thoughts suddenly savage. Come on. If you’re going to do something foolish, do it now and get it over with.

      The marshal stood up and walked to his office. He stood for a moment in the open door, then stepped inside and closed it behind him.

      I’m a stranger here, Smoke thought. I’d better have witnesses.

      He stood up and walked through the hotel lobby to the bar, a tall, well-dressed man in a tailored suit. In the saloon, he ordered coffee and stood by the bar, waiting for it to cool. The place was doing a brisk business. But when Smoke elected to stand at the bar, the long bar cleared, the men choosing tables instead.

      That amused Smoke, in a sour sort of way. He was conscious of the faro dealer watching him. I’ve seen that man somewhere down the line, Smoke thought.

      The batwings pushed open and Jake Bonner stood there, his bruised face swollen now. He’d found him more guns and his holsters were full.

      “I’m callin’ your hand, mister,” Jake said, his voice husky with emotion. “Now turn around and face me.”

      Smoke turned, brushing back his coat as he did. “Go home, Jake Bonner. There is no need for this.”

      “Do what he says, Jake,” the faro dealer called. “He’s giving you a chance to live. Take it.”

      “Shut up, gambler!” Jake yelled. “This ain’t none of your affair. I’m the man who killed Smoke Jensen. No two-bit stranger does to me what СКАЧАТЬ