Sandi would do, or say,” he added drily. “Her mouth doesn’t compare to Fae’s, but stir her up and you’ e got a cornered puma on your hands.”
“How about those California gunhands that just came in?
“I don’t trust them any more than I do the others. But I felt had to beef up my gunnies.”
“I don’t blame you a bit. And I may be all wrong in my suspicions.”
“Sad thing is, Smoke, I think you’re probably right.” Smoke left McCorkle’s ranch and headed back to the Box T. Halfway there, he changed his mind and pointed his horse’s nose toward Gibson. Some of the crew was running out chewing tobacco. He was almost to town when he heard the pounding of hooves. He pulled over to the side of the road and twisted in the saddle. Four riders that he had not seen before. He pulled his Winchester from the boot, levered in a round, and eared the hammer back, laying the rifle across his saddle horn. He was riding Dagger, and knew the horse would stand still in the middle of a cyclone; he wouldn’t even look up fr grazing at a few gunshots.
The riders reined in, kicking up a lot of unnecessary dust. Smoke pegged them immediately. Arrogant punks, would-be gunslicks. Not a one of them over twenty-one. But they wore two guns tied down.
“You there, puncher!” one hollered. “How far to Gibson?”
“I’m not standing in the next county, sonny, and I’m not deaf, either.”
“You ’bout half smart, though, ain’t you?” He grinned Smoke. “You know who you’re talkin’ to?”
“Just another loud-mouthed punk, I reckon.”
The young man flushed, looked at his friends, and th laughed. “You’re lucky, cowboy. I feel good today, so I won’ call you down for that remark. I’ve killed people for less. I’ Twain.”
“Does that rhyme with rain or are you retarded?”
“Damn you!” Twain yelled. “Who do you think you are, anyways?”
“Smoke Jensen.”
Twain’s horse chose that moment to dump a pile of road apples in the dirt. From the look on Twain’s face, he felt like doing the same thing in his saddle. He opened and closed his mouth about a half dozen times.
His friends relaxed in their saddles, making very sure both hands were clearly visible and kept well away from their guns.
“You keep on this road,” Smoke told them. “Gibson’s about four miles.”
“Ah ... uh ... yes, sir!” Twain finally got the words out. “I ... uh ... we are sure obliged.”
“You got any sense, boy, you won’t stop. You’ll just keep on ridin’ until you come to Wyoming. But I figure that anybody who cuts kill-notches in the butt of their gun don’t have much sense. Who you aimin’ to ride for, boy? ”
“Ah ... the D-H spread.”
Smoke sat his saddle and stared at the quartet. He stared at them so long they all four began to sweat.
“Is ... ah ... something the matter, Mister Smoke?” Twain asked.
“The rest of your buddies got names, Twain?”
“Ah ... this here is Hector. That’s Rod, and that’s Murray.”
“Be sure and tell that to the barber when you get to town.”
“The ... barber?” Hector asked.
“Yeah. He doubles as the undertaker.” Smoke turned his back on the young gunhands and rode on toward town.
Ten
Among the many horses tied to the hitchrails, on both sides of the street, the first to catch Smoke’s eyes was Bob’s paint, tied up in front of Hans’s cafe. Smoke looped his reins and went in for some coffee and pie. He wondered why so much activity and then remembered it was Saturday. Parnell sat with Bob at a table. They were in such heated discussion neither noticed as Smoke walked up to their table. They lifted their eyes as he pulled back a chair and sat down.
“Perhaps you can talk some sense into this young man’s head, Mister Jensen,” Parnell pleaded. “He is going to call out these Rose and Cliff individuals.”
Smoke ordered apple pie and coffee and then said, “His right, Parnell. I’d do the same was I standing in his boots.”
Parnell was aghast. His mouth dropped open and he shook his head. “But he’s just a boy! I cannot for the life of me understand why you didn’t call the authorities after the murder!”
“Because the law is a hundred miles away, Parnell. And out here, a man handles his own problems without runnin’ whining to the law.”
“I find it positively barbaric!”
Smoke ate some apple pie and sipped his coffee. Then he surprised the schoolteacher by saying, “Yes, it is barbaric, Parnell. But it’s quick. Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of lawyers out here before you know it, and they’ll be messin’ things up and writin’ contracts so’s that only another lawyer can read them. That’ll be good for people like you ... not so good for the rest of us. You haven’t learned in the time you’ve been here that out here, a man’s word is his bond. If he tells you he’s sellin’ you five hundred head of cattle, there will be five hundred head of cattle, or he’ll make good any missing. Call a man a liar out here, Parnell, and it’s a shootin’ offense. Honorable men live by their word. If they’re not honorable, they don’t last. They either leave, or get buried. Lawyers, Parnell, will only succeed in screwing that all up.” He looked at Bob. “You nervous, Bob?”
“Yes, sir. Some. But I figure I’ll calm down soon as I face him.”
