If anyone had taken the time to just look at Ralph, they would have noticed the rippling boxer’s muscles; the broad, hard, flat-knuckled fists; the slightly crooked nose. It had always amazed Haywood how so many people could look at something, but never see it.
Haywood suppressed a giggle. Come to think of it, he mused, Ralph
But it should be interesting when Ralph finally got a belly full of it.
Smoke cleared leather before Tay got his pistols free of their holsters. Smoke drew with such blinding speed, drawing, cocking, firing, not one human eye in the huge tent could follow the motion.
The single slug struck Tay in the center of the chest and knocked him backward. He struggled up on one elbow and looked at Smoke through eyes that were already glazing over. He tried to lift his free empty hand; the hand was so heavy he thought his gun was in it. He began squeezing his trigger finger. He was curious about the lack of noise and recoil.
Then he fell back onto the raw. rough-hewn board floor and was curious no more.
“Maybe we won’t set up those tin cans,” Louis muttered, just loud enough for Smoke to hear it.
“Tie him across a saddle and take him back to Tilden Franklin,” Smoke said, his voice husky due to the low- hanging cigarette and cigar smoke in the crowded gaming tent. “Unless some of you boys want to pick up where Tay left off.”
The riders appeared to be in a mild state of shock. They were all, to a man, used to violence; that was their chosen way of life. They had all, to a man, been either witnesses to or participants in stand-up gunfights, back- shoots, and ambushes. And they had all heard of the young gunslick Smoke Jensen. But since none had ever seen the man in action, they had tended to dismiss much of what they had heard as so much pumped-up hoopla.
Until this early evening in the boom town of Fontana, in Louis Longmont’s gaming tent.
“Yes, sir, Mister Jensen,” one young TF rider said. “I mean,” he quickly corrected himself, “I’ll sure tie him across his saddle.”
Until this evening, the young TF rider had fancied himself a gunhawk. Now he just wanted to get on his pony and ride clear out of the area. But he was afraid the others would laugh at him if he did that.
Smoke eased the hammer down with his thumb. A very audible sigh went up inside the tent with that action. There was visible relaxing of stomach muscles when Smoke holstered the deadly Colt.
Smoke looked at the young puncher who had spoken. “Come here,” he said.
The young man, perhaps twenty at the most, quickly crossed the room to face Smoke. He was scared, and looked it.
“What’s your name?” Smoke asked.
“Pearlie.”
“You’re on the wrong side, Pearlie. You know that?”
“Mister Smoke,” Pearlie said in a low tone, so only Smoke and Louis could hear. “The TF brand can throw two hundred or more men at you. And I ain’t kiddin’. Now, you’re tough as hell and snake-quick, but even you can’t fight that many men.”
“You want to bet your life, Pearlie?” Louis asked him. The man’s voice was low-pitched and his lips appeared not to move at all.
Pearlie cut his eyes at the gambler. “I ain’t got no choice, Mister Longmont.”
“Yes, you do,” Smoke said.
“I’m listenin’.”
“I need a hand I can trust. I think that’s you, Pearlie.”
The young man’s jaw dropped open. “But I been ridin’ for the TF brand!”
“How much is he paying you?”
“Sixty a month.”
“I’ll give you thirty and found.”
Pearlie smiled. “You’re serious!”
“Yes, I am. Have you the sand in you to make a turnaround in your life?”
“Give me a chance, Mister Smoke.”
“You’ve got it. Are you quick with that Colt?”
“Yes, sir. But I ain’t nearabouts as quick as you.”
“Have you ever used it before?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you stand by me and my wife and friends, Pearlie?”
“’Til I soak up so much lead I can’t stand, Mister Smoke.”
Smoke cut his eyes at Louis. The man smiled and nodded his head slightly.
“You’re hired, Pearlie.”
“Pearlie did
Clint repeated his statement, standing firm in front of the boss. Clint was no gunhawk. He was as good as or
