3
Chapter Seven
It was the middle of the night when Smoke changed trains in Colorado Springs. The train had an extended stop in Denver, but it was still the dark of the morning and Smoke dozed in his seat, barely aware of the stop. It was nearly noon by the time he reached Cheyenne, and after making certain that his horse was off-loaded and put in the stable to be ready for the next leg, Smoke checked his saddlebags with the stationmaster, then found a saloon where he could kill a few hours.
“Do you serve meals here?” he asked.
“Ham, fried potatoes, and biscuits,” the man behind the bar replied. He was wearing a white shirt with sleeve garters, and a string tie. “Not sure what kind of pie we have today. I think it’s apple.”
“Sounds good enough, I’ll take it,” Smoke said. He pointed to an empty table. “I’ll be over there.”
“All right,” the bartender replied with a nod.
Smoke glanced toward two young men who were standing at the far end of the bar. This wasn’t the first time he noticed them. He had seen them when he first stepped into the saloon. And though he had never seen these two particular men before, he had seen men like them in saloons and bars from Montana to New Mexico and from Kansas to California.
They wore their guns low, and they had a way of slouching, as if showing their disdain for the rest of the world. They were men who earned a living with their guns, either directly, by robbery, or indirectly, by hiring their guns out.
It was the latter that concerned Smoke—not that someone might have hired them to come after him—as far as he knew, right now, he had no particular enemies after him. Also, he was not a wanted man, and had not been wanted for many years.
But if these men were hired guns, what stronger recommendation could they have than that they were the ones who had shot and killed Smoke Jensen? It was the same thing he had initially thought about young Emmett Clark, though ultimately, Clark had been on a mission of honor.
There was nothing honorable about these two.
One of them noticed that he was looking at them.
“Hey, old man,” he said. “What are you looking at?”
“Barney, leave my customers be,” the bartender said.
“You stay out of this, Troy. You just stand back there and polish glasses like a good little bartender,” the one called Barney replied.
The other young man with Barney laughed at the comment.
“What do you think, Clay?” Barney asked his friend. “Should I leave the customer be?”
“Depends on the customer,” Clay replied. “Hey, customer, are we bothering you?”
“Not too much,” Smoke replied.
“There you go, barkeep, did you hear that?” Barney called. “He said his ownself that we ain’t botherin’ him all that much.”
“How come it is that we ain’t botherin’ you all that much?” Clay asked.
“I guess it’s because I’ve been around braying jackasses like you two all my life,” Smoke said easily. “I’ve just learned to turn them off.”
The others in the saloon, who had suspended their own conversations and activities to monitor the developing drama, laughed loudly at Smoke’s rejoinder.
The two young punks were angered by the remark, and both of them stepped away from the bar, then stood facing him, their legs slightly spread, their arms hanging loose with their right hands curled and hovering just over the butts of their pistols.
“Mister, do you know who you are talking to?”
“From what I gather, your name is Barney and his name is Clay. Am I right?”
“Yeah. I’m Barney Hobbs, this here is Clay Vetters. I reckon you’ve heard of us?”
“Can’t say as I have,” Smoke replied.
“That don’t matter none. I reckon that after we kill you, just about ever’ one will know who we are. That’s right, ain’t it? Killin’ you is goin’ to make us famous, don’t you think?”
“Who is this fella?” one of the customers asked, saying the words much louder than he intended.
Smoke still said nothing.
“Of course, seein’ as you’ll be dead, it won’t make no difference what you actual think, will it?”
Again, Smoke remained quiet.
“You don’t talk a lot, do you?” Barney asked.
“Well, if I don’t talk much, it seems to balance out, because you two can’t seem to shut up,” Smoke said.
There was more laughter, though by now, the laughter was somewhat strained as everyone in the saloon realized that the Rubicon had been crossed and there was no going back. This was going to end in bloodshed.
“Before we start this little dance, I need to know that we are killin’ the right man. You are Smoke Jensen,
