“What are we ’posed to do with the bodies?” a man asked Preacher.
“Bury ’em.”
“What’s that kid’s name?”
“Smoke.”
They camped deep in the big timber that night, beside a rushing mountain stream, with the earth for a bed and the stars for a canopy. Over a supper of fresh-caught trout, Preacher asked, “How do you feel, Smoke?”
The young man glanced at his friend, a puzzled look in his eyes. “Why — I feel just fine, Preacher. How come you asked that?”
“You just kilt two men back yonder, Smoke. In front of twelve-fifteen salty ol’ boys. And all they could do was a-gape at you with they mouths hangin’ open. Now I ain’t sayin’ Pike and his friend didn’t need killin’, ’cause they did. They was bullies and troublemakers and trash. Pike’s been in these mountains for years and he ain’t worth spit. But the point I’s makin’ is this: Right now the story is being told in that there camp; tomorry night it’ll be told ’round a dozen fires. This time next month, it’ll be stretched to where you kilt five men, and that’s where the salt gets spread on the cut.”
“You mean I’ll have a reputation?”
“Perzactly. And then ever’ two-bit kid who thinks he’s a gun-hand will be lookin’ for you, to make a name for hisself.”
“They’ll never do it from the front.”
“You that shore of yourself?”
“Yes, I am.”
Preacher laid down his plate and poured a cup of coffee. “Yep, I reckon you is, at that.”
Seven
The Man Called Smoke
It was obvious to even the most uninitiated in medicine that Gaultier did not have much time left on this earth — in his present form.
“Cancer,” he told them bluntly. “That’s what the doctors say — and I believe them. Waters here help the pain, but I’m not going to make it.” He looked at Smoke. “You have your father’s eyes. And word is out that you are very good — perhaps the best — with a handgun.”
“So I’m told,” Smoke said.
“Well, you’d better be,” the dying man said matter-of-factly. “Two of Pike’s friends rode in yesterday afternoon. One claims to be his brother. Seems they tracked you southeast, then cut around, out of the wilderness, and came in from the south. Thompson and Haywood.”
The young man remained calm. “I’m not worried about them. I’ll deal with them when they confront me. What about the men who killed my father?”
Gaultier grinned. “You are a cool one,
Smoke stepped out of Gaultier’s tent along the creek an hour before sunset. He walked down the rutted street, the sun at his back — the way he planned it. Thompson and Haywood were in the big tent at the end of the street, which served as saloon and cafe. Preacher had pointed them out earlier and asked if Smoke needed his help. Smoke said no. The refusal came as no surprise.
As he walked down the street, a man glanced up, spotted him, then hurried quickly inside.
Smoke felt no animosity toward the men in the tent saloon; no anger, no hatred. But they came here after him, so let the dance begin.
The word had swept through the makeshift town, and from behind cabin walls, trees, and boulders. The people watched as Smoke stopped about fifty feet from the tent.
“Haywood! Thompson! You want to see me? Then step out and see me.”
The two men pushed back the tent flap and stepped out, both of them angling to get a better look at the man they had tracked. “You the kid called Smoke?” one said.
“I am.” With instinct born into a natural fighter, Smoke knew this would be no contest. Both men carried their guns tucked behind wide leather belts; an awkward position from which to draw, for one must first pull the hand up, then over, grabbing the pistol, cocking it as it is pulled from behind the belt, then leveling it to fire. It is also a dandy way to shoot oneself in the belly or side.
“Pike was my brother,” the heavier and uglier of the pair said. “And Shorty was my pal.”
“You should choose your friends more carefully,” Smoke told him.
“They was just a-funnin’ with you,” Thompson said.
“You weren’t there. You don’t know what happened.”
“You callin’ me a liar?”
“If that is the way you want to take it.”
Thompson’s face colored with anger, his hand moving closer to the .44 in his belt. “You take that back or make your play.”
“There is no need for this,” Smoke said.
The second man began cursing Smoke as he stood tensely, almost awkwardly, legs spread wide, body bent at the waist. “You’re a damned thief. You stolt their gold and then kilt ’em.”
Smoke, who had spent hundreds of hours practicing his deadly skills, thought that they were doing everything wrong. These men weren’t gun-hands. He could smell the fear-sweat from the men.
“I don’t want to have to kill you,” Smoke said.
