The Feedbag was set up similarly to Longmont’s Saloon back in Big Rock. It consisted of a large room with eating tables on one side, and a bar and smaller tables for the men who just wanted to drink their meals on the other side. It was about three quarters full. Most of the men wore the canvas trousers of miners, but there was a smattering of men dressed in chaps and flannel shirts and leather vests who were obviously cowboys from nearby ranches.
Van Horne pushed through the batwings and walked directly toward a large table in the front corner of the room, while Smoke, Pearlie, Cal, and Louis spread out just inside the door with their backs to the wall waiting for their eyes to adjust to the gloomy lighting. The two mountain men stopped and eyed Smoke with raised eyebrows.
“You expectin’ trouble, Smoke?” Rattlesnake Bob asked, his hand dropping to the old Walker Colt stuck in the waistband of his buckskins.
Smoke smiled as his eyes searched the room for anyone who might be giving him special attention. “No, Rattlesnake, but I’ve found the best way to avoid trouble is to be ready for it when it appears.”
When he saw no one was looking their way, Smoke walked on over to the table where Van Horne was already sitting down talking to a waiter, and took his usual seat with his back to the wall and his face to the rest of the room.
As they all took their seats, Bill said, “I ordered us a couple of pitchers of beer to start with while we decide what to order for lunch.”
Bear Tooth smacked his lips. “That sounds mighty good, Bill. I ain’t had me no beer since last spring.”
Before Bill could answer, a loud voice came from a group of men standing at the bar across the room. “God Almighty! What the hell is that smell?” a man called loudly, looking over at their table. “Did somebody drag a passel of skunks in here?”
The young man, who appeared to be about twenty years old, was wearing a black shirt and vest with a silver lining, and had a brace of nickel-plated Colt Peacemakers tied down low on his hips. He had four other men standing next to him, all wearing their guns in a similar manner, and all were laughing as if he’d just said something extremely funny.
Rattlesnake Bob glanced at Bear Tooth and grimaced. “I hate it when that happens,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “Now we’re gonna have to kill somebody ‘fore we’ve even had our beer.”
“Take it easy, Rattlesnake,” Smoke said. “He’s just some young tough who’s letting his whiskey do his thinking for him.”
Rattlesnake eased back down in his chair. “You’re right, Smoke,” he said, smiling. “If’n ever’ man who was drunk-dumb got kilt, there wouldn’t hardly be none of us left.”
Smoke continued to keep an eye on the man across the room as the bartender tried to get him to be quiet, without much success.
When their waiter appeared with the beer and glasses, Smoke asked him, “Who’s the man with the big mouth over there at the bar?”
The waiter glanced nervously over his shoulder, and then he whispered, “That’s Johnny MacDougal. His father owns the biggest ranch in these parts.”
“Well, I don’t care if’n his daddy owns Colorado Territory,” Bear Tooth growled. “You go on over there an’ tell the little snot if’n he wants to see his next birthday he’d better keep his pie-hole shut.”
The waiter’s face paled and he shook his head rapidly back and forth. “I couldn’t do that, sir,” he said.
“Why not?” Rattlesnake asked.
“Just last week Johnny shot a man for stepping on his boots.” The waiter hesitated, and then he added, “And the man wasn’t even armed at the time.”
“How come he’s not in jail then?” Louis asked.
“Uh, his father carries a lot of water in Pueblo,” the waiter said. “The sheriff came in and said it was in self- defense, though it was plain to everyone in the place that the man wasn’t wearing a gun.”
“So that’s the lay of the land,” Van Horne said, pursing his lips.
“Yes, sir,” the waiter said, and hurried off back to the kitchen before these tough-looking men could get him in trouble, or worse yet, get him shot.
A few minutes later, after he’d downed another glass of whiskey, the young tough and his friends began to swagger across the room toward Smoke’s table.
Smoke and Louis both eased their chairs back, took the hammer thongs off their Colts, and waited expectantly for the trouble they knew was coming. Smoke eased his right leg out straight under the table so he’d have quicker access if he had to draw.
MacDougal stopped a few feet behind Rattlesnake’s chair and made a production of holding his nose. “Whew, something’s awfully ripe in here,” he said loudly, looking around the room to make sure he had an appreciative audience. “I think something done crawled in here and died.”
Rattlesnake eased his hand down to the butt of the big Walker Colt in his belt, and as quick as a snake striking he whipped it out, stood up, and whirled around, slashing the young man viciously across the face with the barrel.
MacDougal screamed and grabbed his face as blood spurted onto his vest. Before the other men could react, Rattlesnake grabbed MacDougal by the hair, jerked his head back, and jammed the barrel of the gun in his mouth, knocking out his two front teeth.
As MacDougal’s eyes opened wide and he moaned in pain, Rattlesnake eared back the hammer and grinned, his face inches from the young tough’s. “Now, what was it you was sayin’, mister?” he growled. “Somethin’ ‘bout somebody smelling overly ripe, I believe?”
As one of MacDougal’s friends dropped his hand to his pistol, Bear Tooth stood up, and had his skinning knife against the man’s throat before he could draw. “Do you really want some of this?” he asked, smiling wickedly at the man. “’Cause if’n you do, you’ll have a smile that stretches from ear to ear ‘fore I’m done with you.”
