“As soon as
“No, sir.”
Smoke finished his pie, wiped his mouth with the napkin, and waved for Olga to refill his cup. He sugared and stirred and sipped. “A man gets real calm inside, Bob. It’s the strangest thing. You can hear a fly buzz a hundred yards off. And you can see everything so clearly. And the quiet is so much so it’s scary. Dogs can be barking, cats fighting, but you won’t hear anything except the boots of the man you’re facing walking toward you.”
“How old was you when you killed your first man, Smoke?” Bob asked.
“Fifteen, I think. Maybe fourteen. I don’t remember.”
“That must have been a terribly traumatic time for you,” Parnell said.
“Nope. I just reloaded’er up and went on. Me and Preacher. I killed some Indians before that ... in Kansas I think it was. Pa was still alive then. They attacked us,” he added. “I always got along with the Indians for the most part. Lived with them for a while. Me and Preacher. That was after Pa died. Drink your coffee, Bob. It’s about time.”
Smoke noticed the young man’s hands were calm as he lifted the cup to his mouth, sipped, and replaced the cup in the saucer.
Parnell looked at the men, his eyes drifting back and forth. He had heard from his sister and from the old gunfighters at the ranch that Smoke was a devoted family man: totally faithful to his wife and a loving father. A marvelous friend. Yet for all of those attributes, the man was sitting here talking about killing with less emotion than he exhibited when ordering a piece of pie.
Parnell watched with a curious mixture of fascination and revulsion as Smoke took his guns from leather, one at a time, and carefully checked the action, using the napkin to wipe them free of any dust that might have accumulated during his ride to town. He loaded up the usually empty chamber under the hammer.
Bob checked his Remington .44 and then pulled a short-barreled revolver out of his waistband and checked that, loading both guns full. He cut his eyes to Smoke. “Insurance,” he said.
“Never hurts.” Smoke pushed back his chair and stood up. “You know these people, Bob?”
“They been pointed out to me.” He stood up.
“Their buddies are sure to join them. We’re probably not going to have much time for plan-making. At the first twitch, we start shooting. Take the ones to your left. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s go.”
Both men had noticed, out of the corners of their eyes, the horses lining both sides of the wide dusty street being cleared from the line of fire.
They stepped out of the cafe and stood for a moment on the boardwalk, hats pulled down low, letting their eyes adjust to the bright sunlight.
“Your play,” Smoke said. “You call it.”
“Rose!” Bob yelled. “Cliff! And any others who tortured and dragged Hatfield. Let’s see if you got the backbone to face someone gun to gun.”
Rose looked out the window of the Hangout. “Hell, it’s that damn kid.”
“And Smoke Jensen,” he was reminded.
“Let’s shoot ’em from here,” Cliff suggested.
“No!” Lanny Ball stepped in. “They’re callin’ you out fair and square. If you ain’t got the stomach for it, use the back door and cut and run ... and don’t never show your faces around here agin. I’ve killed a lot of men, and I’ve rode the owlhoot trail with a posse at my back. But I ain’t never tortured nobody while they was trussed up like a hog. I may not be much, but I ain’t no coward.”
Only a few of the other gunhawks in the large saloon murmured their agreement, but those few were the best-known and most feared of their kind. It was enough to bring the sweat out on the faces of Cliff and Rose and the two others who had taken part in the dragging and torture of Hatfield.
When open warfare was finally called by Hanks, Lanny and the few other who still possessed a modicum of honor would back-shoot and snipe at any known enemy ... that was the way of war. But when a man called you out to face him, you faced him, eyeball to eyeball.
With a low curse, Rose checked his guns and stepped out through the batwings, Cliff and the others behind him. It was straight-up noon, the sun a hot bubbling ball overhead. There were no shadows of advantage for either side.
Smoke and Bob had drifted down the boardwalk and now stood in the middle of the street, about ten feet apart, waiting.
Rose and Cliff and their two partners in torture stepped off the boardwalk and walked to the center of the street.
“Rose to my left,” Bob said. “Cliff is to your right.”
“Who are those other two?”
“I don’t know their names.”
“You two in the middle!” Smoke called, his voice carrying the two hundred odd feet between them. “You got names?”
“I’m Stanford and this here is Thomas!”
“You take Stanford, Bob. Thomas is mine.” Smoke’s voice was low.
