Smoke’s eyes narrowed. “You could have cussed me all day and not said that. Make your grab, Cheave.”
Cheave’s hands dipped and touched the butts of his guns. Two shots thundered, the reports so close together they sounded as one. Smoke had drawn both guns and fired, rolling his left hand .44. It was a move that many tried, but few ever perfected; and more than a few ended up shooting themselves in the belly trying.
John Cheave had not cleared leather. He sat down in the chair he had just stood up out of and leaned his head back, his wide, staring eyes looking up at the ceiling of the saloon. There were two bloody holes in the center of his chest. Cheave opened his mouth a couple of times, but no words came out.
His boots drummed on the floor for a few seconds and then he died, his eyes wide open, staring at and meeting death.
“I seen it, but I don’t believe it,” a man said, standing up. He tossed a couple of dollars on the table. “Cheave come out of California. Some say he was as fast as John Wesley Hardin. Count me out of this game, boys. I’m ridin’.”
He walked out of the saloon, being very careful to avoid getting too close to Smoke.
The sounds of his horse’s hooves faded before anyone else spoke.
“The barber doubles as the undertaker,” Pooch Matthews said.
Smoke nodded his head. “Fine.”
The bartender yelled for his swamper to fetch the undertaker.
“Impressive,” a gunhawk named Hazzard said. “I have to say it: you’re about the best I’ve ever seen. Except for one.”
“Oh?”
Hazzard smiled. “Yeah. Me.”
Smoke returned the smile and turned his back to the man, knowing the move would infuriate the gunhawk.
“Another beer, Mister Smoke?” the barkeep asked. No. ”
The barkeep did not push the issue.
Smoke studied the bottom of the empty beer mug, wondering how many more would fall under his guns. Although he knew this showdown would have come, sooner or later, one part of him said that he should not have come into the saloon, while another part of him said that he had a right to go wherever he damned well pleased. As long as it was a public place.
It was an old struggle within the man.
The barber came in and he and the swamper dragged the body out to the barber’s wagon and chunked him in. The thud of the body falling against the bed of the wagon could be heard inside the saloon.
“I believe I will have that beer,” Smoke said. While the barkeep filled his mug, Smoke rolled one of his rare cigarettes and lit up.
The saloon remained very quiet.
The barkeep’s hand trembled just slightly as he set the foamy mug in front of Smoke.
Several horses pulled up outside the place. McCorkle and Jason Bright and several of Cord’s hands came in. They walked to a table and sat down, ordering beer.
“What happened?” Smoke heard Cord ask.
“Cheave started it with Jensen. He didn’t even clear leather.”
“I thought you was going to stay out of this game, Jensen?” McCorkle directed the question to Smoke’s back.
Smoke slowly turned, holding the beer mug in his left hand. “Cheave pushed me, Cord. I only came in here for a beer.”
“Man’s got a right to have a drink,” Cord grudgingly conceded. “I seen some Box T cattle coming in, Jensen. They was grazin’ on range ’bout five, six miles out of town. On the west side of the Smith.”
“Thanks.” And with a straight face, he added, “I’ll have Lujan and a couple of others push them back to Box T Range.”
“Lujan!” Jason Bright almost hollered the word.
“Yes. He went to work for the Box T a couple of hours ago.” A gunslick that Smoke knew from the old days, when he and Preacher were roaming the land, got up and walked toward the table where Cord was sitting. “I figure I got half a month’s wages comin’ to me, Mister McCorkle. If you’ve a mind to pay me now, I’d appreciate it.”
With a look of wry amusement on his face, Cord reached into his pocket and counted out fifty dollars, handing it to the man. “You ridin’, Jim?”
“Yes, sir. I figure I can catch up with Red. He hauled his ashes a few minutes ago.”
Cord counted out another fifty. “Give this to Red. He earned
“Yes, sir. Much obliged.” He looked around the saloon. “See you boys on another trail. This one’s gettin’ crowded.” He walked through the batwings.
“Yellow,” Hazzard said disgustedly, his eyes on the swinging and squeaking batwings. “Just plain yellow is all he is.”
Cord cut his eyes. “Jim Kay is anything but yellow, Hazzard. I’ve known him for ten years. There is a hell of a lot of difference between being yellow and bettin’ your life on a busted flush.” He looked at Smoke. “There bad
