the floor just in front of him. Smoke was to him in a few quick steps and, using the toe of his boot, he kicked the pistol across the floor, out of reach of the wounded man.
“I’m dying,” the wounded man said.
“Yes, you are,” Smoke said. “Why did you shoot at me? Why couldn’t the two of you just leave it alone?”
“Because you are Smoke Jensen,” Clay answered.
“What have I ever done to you?”
“Barney said that iffen we was to kill you, we’d make a lot of money,” Clay said. “I shouldn’t a’ listened to him. The sumbitch got me kilt is what he done.”
Clay coughed once, and blood spilled from his mouth. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell over.
“Damn, Mr. Jensen, do you get this all the time?” one of the cardplayers asked.
“Too many times,” Smoke replied. He put his gun away just as the city marshal came in.
The marshal saw the two bodies on the floor, and the others standing around looking down at them. The marshal had his gun drawn as well, but seeing nobody with a drawn weapon, he put his pistol back in his holster.
“Someone want to tell me what happened here?” he asked.
Everybody started talking at once, and the marshal, in exasperation, held up his hand.
“Hold it, hold it!” he called. “I need just one person to tell me what happened.”
Most of the people looked directly at Smoke.
“I have a feeling you’re involved in this,” the marshal said.
“If the fact that I killed them means I’m involved, then yes, I’m involved,” Smoke said.
“Why did you kill them?”
“He didn’t have no choice, Marshal,” someone said, and everyone else in the saloon agreed with him.
The marshal shook his head and again, held up his hands for quiet. “What’s your name?”
“Jensen. Kirby Jensen, though most people call me Smoke.”
A big smile spread across the marshal’s face. “Smoke Jensen?” He stuck out his hand. “Damn if I wouldn’t like to shake your hand. That is, if you don’t mind. Though, I reckon just about every one you meet wants to shake your hand.”
“It’s not the people who want to shake my hand that I have a problem with,” Smoke said. He glanced back toward the two bodies that were lying on the floor. “It’s the people who want to kill me that give me trouble.”
“Yeah,” the marshal said, nodding and looking as well at the bodies. “I see what you mean. Are you going to be here long, Mr. Jensen?”
“You running me out of town, Marshal?” Smoke asked, though the tone of his voice softened the words so that it was not a challenge.
“What? No, no,” the marshal replied. “You’re free to stay here as long as you want. I was just wonderin’ if there were likely to be any more incidents like this. I mean, fellas tryin’ to make a name for themselves.”
“I’m not staying, Marshal. I’ll be leaving on the next train. That is, unless you need me to stay for an inquest.”
“Won’t be necessary, Mr. Jensen,” the marshal said. “Unless someone in here has a different story from the one I’ve been hearing.”
There were several then who spoke up, but all were in agreement with the initial report that Smoke Jensen had acted in self-defense. There was not one word in opposition.
“I’d say that you are free to go,” the marshal said.
Chapter Eight
Believing that Smoke Jensen was the man who killed his father, Emmet Clark had dedicated himself to finding and killing Smoke. When he learned that Smoke was not guilty of the act, and that the men who actually were responsible for the murder of his father had already been taken care of by the very man he had been hunting, he felt unfulfilled. He had dedicated a significant part of his life to one objective, only to discover that it was the wrong objective. The result of having spent so much of his life pursuing a false goal left Emmett Clark with a huge sense of emptiness. So, what would he do now? He had skills with a gun—incredible skills, but what was he to do with them?
In the weeks following his confrontation with Smoke, Clark began a western drift with no specific sense of purpose or destination. One day, quite by accident, he happened upon a stagecoach robbery in progress. The driver, two women, a child, and an old man were standing on the road beside the coach with their hands in the air. A highwayman, wearing a hood over his face, was holding a gun.
Without a second thought, Clark pulled his pistol and, urging his horse into a gallop, started toward the scene. The robber, hearing the sound of the approaching horse, turned toward Clark, and seeing that Clark was bearing down upon him, fired. Clark heard the bullet whiz by him and he returned fire. One shot was all it took. The would- be robber dropped his pistol, clasped his hands across his chest, then fell.
“Is anyone hurt?” Clark shouted, leaping down from his horse as he arrived.
“Just him,” the driver said. In a gesture of derision, he spit a stream of tobacco on the robber’s prostrate form.
