“I know them.”
“They here. Crost the street in the saloon. My boy—who earns some pennies down to the stable—heared them talkin’. They gonna kill you.”
“They’re going to try.” Smoke gave the man his order and then took a handkerchief and wiped the dust from his guns. Hardrock stepped back into the store.
“Half a dozen of them ol’ boys in town, Smoke.”
“I know. They’re over at the saloon.”
As the words were leaving his mouth, the town marshal stepped in.
“Jackson Bodine!” Hardrock grinned at the man. “I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age.”
“Hello, Hardrock.” The marshal stuck out his hand and Hardrock gripped it.
“When’d you take up lawin’?”
“When I got too old to do much of anything else.” He looked at Smoke. “I don’t want trouble in my town, Mister-whoever-you-are.”
“This here’s Smoke Jensen, Jackson,” Hardrock said.
The marshal exhaled slowly. “I guess a man don’t always get his wishes,” he said reluctantly.
“I don’t want trouble in your town or anybody else’s town, marshal. But I’m afraid this is something those men over in the saloon won’t let me sidestep.” Briefly, he explained what had taken place over the past weeks.
The marshal nodded his head. “Give me ten minutes before you call them out, Smoke. That’ll give me time to clear the street and have the kids back at home.”
“You can have as much time as you need, Marshal.”
The marshal smiled. “I never really knew for sure whether you were real or just a made-up person. They’s a play about you, you know that?”
“No, I didn’t. Is it a good one?”
The marshall laughed. “I ain’t seen it. Folks that have gone to the big city tell me they got you somewheres between Robin Hood and Bloody Bill Anderson.”
Smoke chuckled. “You know Marshal, they just may be right.”
Jackson Bodine left the store to warn the townspeople to stay off the streets.
“He’s a good man,” Hardrock said. “Come out here ‘bout, oh, ’42 or ‘43, I reckon. Preacher knows him. ’Course, Preacher knows just about ever’body out here, I reckon.”
Silver Jim stepped inside. “I could have sworn we dropped Royce back yonder at the ranch,” he said. “But he’s over yonder, ’live and well and just as ugly as ever.”
“Anybody else?” Lujan asked.
“Lodi, Hazzard, Nolan ...” His eyes touched Lujan’s unblinking stare. “And Diego and Gomez. Three or four more I know but can’t put no names to.”
The Chihuahua gunfighter grunted. “Well, gentlemen, shall we cross the street and order us a drink?”
“I am a mite thirsty,” Hardrock said. “Boredom does that to me,” he added with a smile.
Thirty-One
The men walked across the dusty street, all of them knowing the gunfighters in the saloon were waiting for them, watching them as they crossed the street.
Smoke was the first to push open the batwings and step inside, moving to one side so the others could follow quickly and let their eyes adjust to the dimmer light.
The first thing Smoke noticed was that Diego and Gomez were widely separated, one standing clear across the room from the other. It was a trick they used often, catching a man in a crossfire.
Smoke moved to the bar, his spurs jingling softly with each step. He walked to the far end of the bar while Lujan stopped at the end of the bar closest to the batwings. The move did not escape the eyes of Diego and Gomez. Both men smiled knowingly.
Only Smoke, Lujan, and Hardrock were at the bar. Pistol and Silver Jim positioned themselves around the room, and that move made several of the outlaws very nervous.
Smoke decided to take a chance and make a try for peace. “The war is over, boys. This doesn’t have to be. You’re professionals. Dooley is dead. You’re off his payroll. There is no profit in dying for pride.”
A very tough gunfighter that Pistol knew only as Bent sighed and pushed his chair back. “Makes sense to me. I don’t fight for the fun of it.” He walked out the batwings and across the boardwalk, heading for the livery.
“One never knows about a man,” Diego spoke softly. “I was certain he had more courage than that.”
“I always knowed he was yeller,” Hazzard snorted.
“Maybe he’s just smart,” Smoke said.
Diego ignored that and stared at Lujan. “The noble Lujan,” he said scornfully. “Protector of women and little children.” He spat on the floor.
“At least, Diego,” Lujan said, “I have that much of a reputation for decency. Can you say as much?”
“Who would want to?” the gunfighter countered. ”Decency does not line my pockets with gold coins.”
There was no point in talking about conscience to the man—he didn’t have one.
