They elected to have their supper in the hotel’s dining room to further avoid any trouble. As had been their custom, they wore their guns, and to hell with local laws. None of them knew when they might run into Davidson or Dagget or their ilk.
Louis had bought York a couple of suits in St. Louis, and Smoke had brought a suit with him. Longmont was never without a proper change of clothes; if he didn’t have one handy, he would buy one.
When the men entered the dining room, conversation ceased and all eyes were on them as they walked to their table, led by a very nervous waiter. With their spurs jingling and their guns tied down low, all three managed to look as out of place as a saddle on a tiger.
The three of them ignored several comments from some so-called “gentlemen”—comments that might have led to a fight anywhere west of the Mississippi—and were seated without incident.
Louis frowned at the rather skimpy selections on the menu, sighed, and decided to order a steak. The others did the same.
“Sorry we don’t have no buffalo here for you range-riders,” a man blurted from the table next to them. His friend laughed, and the women with them, hennaed and painted up and half drunk, also thought fat boy’s comments to be hysterically amusing.
Louis ignored the man, as did Smoke and York. “A drink before ordering, gentlemen?” a waiter magically appeared.
“I’m sure they’ll want rye, George,” the fat boy blurted. “That’s what I read that all cowboys drink. Before they take their semi-yearly bath, that is.”
His table erupted with laughter.
“I could move you to another table, gentlemen,” the waiter suggested. “That”—he cut his eyes to the man seated with fat boy and the woman—“is Bull Everton.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to us?” Smoke asked.
“He’s quite the bully,” the waiter whispered, leaning close. “He’s never been whipped.”
“That he’s admitted,” Louis commented dryly. “If he can’t fight any better than he can choose women, he must have never fought a man.”
Smoke and York both laughed at that.
“We’ll have Scotch,” Louis ordered.
“Yes, sir,” The waiter was glad to get away from the scene of what he presumed would soon be disaster for the western men.
“You take them damn guns off,” the voice rumbled to the men, “and I’ll show you what a real man can do.”
Smoke lifted his eyes to the source of the voice. Bull Everton. He surveyed the man. Even sitting, Smoke could see that the man was massive, with heavy shoulders and huge wrists and hands. But that old wildness sprang up within Smoke. Smoke had never liked a bully. He smiled at the scowling hulk.
“I’ll take them off anytime you’re ready, donkey-face,” he threw down the challenge and insult.
Bull stood up and he was big. “How about right now, cowboy? Outside.”
“Suits me, tub-butt.” Smoke stood up and unbuckled and utied, handing his guns to a waiter.
The waiter looked as though he’d just been handed a pair of rattlesnakes.
“Where is this brief contest to take place?” Louis asked Bull.
“Brief, is right,” Bull laughed. “Out back of the hotel will do.”
“After you,” Smoke told him.
When the back door closed and Bull turned around, Smoke hit him flush in the mouth with a hard right and followed that with a vicious left to the wind. Before Bull could gather his senses, Smoke had hit him two more times, once to the nose and another hook to the body.
With blood dripping from his lips and nose, Bull hollered and charged. Smoke tripped him and hit him once on the way down, then kicked him in the stomach while he was down.
Smoke was only dimly aware of the small crowd that had gathered, several of the spectators dressed in the blue uniform of police officers. He did not hear one of the cops say to Louis, “I’ve been waiting to see Everton get his due for a long time, boys. Don’t worry. There will be no interference from us.”
Smoke backed up and allowed Bull to crawl to his feet. There was a light of fury and panic in the man’s eyes.
Bull lifted his hands in the classic boxer’s stance: left fist held almost straight out, right fist close to his jaw.
Smoke whirled and kicked the bully on his knee. Bull screamed in pain and Smoke hit him a combination of blows, to the belly, the face, the kidneys. Smoke trip-hammered his fists, brutalizing the bigger man, knocking him down, hauling him back up, and knocking him down again.
Bull grabbed Smoke’s knees and brought him down to the dirt of the alley. Pulling one leg free, Smoke savagely kicked the bully in the face. Teeth flew, glistening in the night.
Smoke pulled Bull to his feet and leaned him up against the rear wall, then went to work on the man’s belly and sides. Only after he had felt and heard several ribs break did he let the man fall unconscious to the ground.
“Drag Bull to the paddy wagon, boys,” the cop in charge ordered. “We’ll take him to the hospital. I can tell by looking that his jaw is broken, and I’ll wager half a dozen ribs are broken as well.” He looked at Smoke. “You don’t even look angry, young man.”
