Smoke dismounted and almost bumped into a small man wearing a derby hat and a checkered vest. The man’s head struck Smoke about chest-high.
“Horace Mulroony’s the name, sir. Owner and editor of The
“That’s right.”
Horace stuck out his hand and Smoke took it, quickly noticing that the hand was hard and calloused. He cut his eyes just for a flash and saw that the stocky man’s hands were thick with calluses around the knuckles. A Cornish boxer sprang into Smoke’s mind. Not very tall, but built like a boxcar. Something silently told him that Horace would be hard to handle.
“And your friends, Mister Jensen?”
Smoke introduced the man all around, pointing them out. “Charlie Starr, Lujan, The Moab Kid, Parnell Jensen.”
“The man they’re calling the Reno Kid.”
“I am not the Reno Kid.”
“Name’s Wolf,” Charlie said shortly. He didn’t like newspaper people; never wanted any truck with them. They never got anything right and was always meddlin’ in other folks’ business.
“I see,” Horace scribbled in his notebook. “That is quite an unusual affair strapped around your waist, Wolf.”
“I would hardly call two sawed-off shotguns an affair, Mister Mulroony. But since this is no time to be discussing proper English usage, I will let your misunderstanding of grammer be excused-for now.”
Mulroony laughed with high Irish humor. “You sound like a schoolteacher, Wolf.”
“I am.”
“Ummm. Are you gentlemen going to have a taste in Miss Harriet’s saloon?”
“We was plannin’ on it,” Charlie said. “The sooner the better. All this palaverin’ is makin’ me thirsty.”
“Do you mind if I join you?”
“Could we stop you?” Charlie asked.
“Of course not!” Horace grinned. “After you, Mister Starr.” He waved at a man toting a bulky box camera and the man came at a trot. Horace grinned at thegu nfighters. “One never knows when a picture might be available. I like to record events for posterity.”
Charlie grunted and pushed past the smaller man, but not before he saw the stranger leave his chair in front of the Pussycat and walk across the street, toward the saloon they were entering.
Charlie had a hunch the stranger was thinking about joining the game. He knew from experience that the man was a sucker for the underdog.
The saloon was filled with hardcases, both real and imagined. Smoke’s wise and knowing eyes immediately picked out the real gunslingers from the tinhorn punks looking for a reputation.
Smoke knew a few of the hardcases in the room. Several from Dad Estes’s gang were sitting at a table. A few that had left Cord’s spread were there. A couple of Cat Jennings’s bunch were present. They didn’t worry Smoke as much as the young tinhorns who were sitting around the saloon, their guns all pearl-handled and fancy-engraved and tied down low.
The known and experienced gunhandlers had stiffened when their eyes touched the awesome rig belted around Parnell’s waist. Nobody in their right mind wanted to tangle with a sawed-off shotgun, since a buckshot load at close range would literally tear a man in two. Even if a man could get lead into the shotgun toter first, the odds were, unless the bullet struck him in the brain or the heart, that he could still pull a trigger.
“Beer,” Smoke said.
“Tequila,” Lujan ordered.
Beans and Charlie opted for whiskey.
Horace ordered beer.
Parnell, true to his word, looked the barkeep in the eyes and ordered sarsaparilla.
Several young punks seated at a nearby table started laughing and making fun of Parnell.
Parnell ignored them.
The barkeep served up the orders.
“What’s the matter with you, slick?” a young man laughed the question. “Cain’t you handle no real man’s drink?”
Parnell took a sip of his sarsaparilla and smiled, setting the bottle down on the bar. He turned and looked the young man in the eyes. “Does your mother know where you are, junior?”
The punk’s eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth to retort just as the batwings swung open and the stranger entered.
There is an aura about really bad men, and in the West a bad man was not necessarily an outlaw. He was just a bad man to fool with. The stranger walked between the punk and Parnell, his hands hanging loosely at his side. He wore one gun, a classic Peacemaker .45, seven-and-a-half-inch barrel. It was tied down. The man looked to be in his mid-to-late thirties, deeply tanned and very sure of himself. He glanced at Parnell’s drink and a very slight smile creased his lips.
Walking to Charlie’s side, he motioned to the barkeep. “A sarsaparilla, please.”
