“Don’t get smart with me, mister,” the man said. “I don’t like people who get smart around me.”
“Then you must not have many friends,” Smoke said. “I can’t imagine anyone around you who isn’t smarter than you.”
The others in the saloon laughed.
“What? What did you say?”
“Boomer, why don’t you leave the stranger alone now?” the bartender said. “He ain’t botherin’ nobody. He and his friend just came in for a beer is all.”
“You stay out of this, Abe, it ain’t none of your concern,” Boomer said. “This here is between me and Mr. Smart Mouth there. Ain’t it, Mr. Smart Mouth?”
“Boomer, is it?” Smoke said. “Boomer, why don’t you have a drink on me. Abe, set him up with whatever he wants,” Smoke said.
Boomer stared at Smoke for a long moment. Then his eyes flashed with recognition. He pointed his finger at Smoke.
“Wait a minute, wait just a damn minute here! I know who you are now. You’re the fella they call Smoke Jensen.”
“That’s right.”
“My name is Watkins. Boomer Watkins. That mean anything to you?”
“Can’t say that it does.”
“You killed my brother, Jerry.”
“Jerry Watkins was your brother?”
“Yeah. Do you remember him now?”
“I remember him,” Smoke said. “One of the ugliest men I’ve ever met. Of course, I suppose that is because his face was scarred with birdshot from a woman he tried to rape.”4
“I’m glad you remember, ‘cause I want you to know why I’m killin’ you,” Boomer said as his hand snaked toward his gun.
Boomer was fast, and he prided himself on his speed, but to his astonishment, Smoke had his gun out with the barrel inches from Boomer’s face before he even cleared leather.
Boomer dropped his pistol back into his holster and threw his hands up.
“No! No!” he shouted.
“Shuck out of that gun belt and walk out of here,” Smoke said.
“Sure thing, mister, sure thing,” Boomer said.
“I didn’t mean nothin', I was just tryin’ to scare you is all.”
Boomer released the buckle, then let the belt fall. “Abe, I reckon I’ll take that drink now,” he said.
“I reckon you won’t,” Smoke said. “I told you to walk out of here and that’s what you are going to do.”
Boomer glared at Smoke for a long moment. “You ain’t got no right to run me outta here.”
Smoke pulled the hammer back and it made a deadly, double click as it rotated the cylinder.
“Then I’ll shoot you and drag you out of here,” Smoke said.
“No! I’m goin'! I’m goin'!” Boomer said as the laughter of the others in the saloon chased him out.
“Smoke Jensen, by God!” someone said. “That there is Smoke Jensen! I’ve he’erd tell of him. Ain’t never seen him before.”
“Well, we’ve seen him now,” another said.
Bobby Lee chuckled, then spoke under his breath. “And you were worried about me being recognized.”
“Are you really Smoke Jensen?” the bartender asked.
“Yes. And I’m sorry about running off one of your customers,” Smoke replied.
“Don’t worry none about that, Mr. Jensen,” Abe replied. “If there was ever any sumbitch that needed runnin’ off, it is Boomer Watkins. Hell, he runs off half my customers anyway, always bul-lyin’ them. Yes, sir, it was worth it seeing him get his comeuppance. Besides which, you comin’ here will be good for my business. I’ll just put up a sign that said the great Smoke Jensen had a beer here.”
“Or two,” Smoke said. He put another dime down. “How about another for my friend and me?”
Abe pushed the dime back. “No, sir, Mr. Jensen, your money ain’t no good in here.”
“I appreciate that, Abe, but you aren’t in business to give away your product. I’m more than glad to pay for it.”
“Thanks,” Abe said, taking the dime back. “What are you doing in Midas, Mr. Jensen? I mean really? ‘Cause I know for sure you ain’t a cowboy lookin’ for work.”
“Not looking for work, but I am looking for someone,” Smoke said.
“Who would that be?”
“Frank Dodd.”
