would?”
“Maybe, You never know about that old coot. He’s nearabouts the last mountain man.”
“No,” Silver Jim drawled the word. “The last mountain man will be ridin’ the High Lonesome long after Preacher is gone.”
“What do you mean?”
“You, boy. You be the last mountain man.”
The men parted ways at the Platte. They resupplied at the trading post, had a last drink together, and rode away; Lujan to ply his deadly trade down on the Utah line; Silver Jim and Pistol Le Roux and Hardrock to get the bulk of their reward money and find a spot to build a home for old gunfighters. Smoke headed due south.
“We’re goin’ home, boy,” he spoke to Dagger, and the horse’s ears came up. “It’ll be good to see Sally and the babies.”
Smoke left the trail and took off into the wild, a habit he had picked up from Ol’ Preacher. He felt in his guts that he was riding into trouble, so he would make himself as hard to find as possible for those wanting to kill him.
He followed the Platte down, keeping east of the Rattlesnake Hills, then crossing the Platte and making his way south, with Bear Mountain to his east. He stayed on the west side of the Shirley Mountains and rode into a small town on the Medicine Bow River late one afternoon.
He was clean-shaven now, having shaved off his mustache before leaving Gibson, although he did have a stubble of beard on his face, something he planned to rectify as soon as he could get a hot bath and find a barber.
He was trail-worn and dusty, and Dagger was just as tired as he was. “Get you rubbed down and find you a big bucket of corn, boy,” Smoke promised the horse. “And me and you will get us a good night s sleep.”
Dagger whinnied softly and bobbed his head up and down, as if to say, “I damn well hope so!”
Smoke stabled Dagger, telling the boy to rub him down good and give him all the corn he could eat. “And watch my gear,” he said, handing the boy a silver dollar.
“Yes,
Slapping the dust from his clothes, Smoke stopped in the town’s only saloon for a drink to cut the dry from his throat.
He was an imposing figure even in faded jeans and worn shirt. Wide-shouldered and lean-hipped, with his arms bulging with muscle, and cold, emotionless eyes. The men in the saloon gave him a careful onceover, their eyes lingering on the guns around his waist, the left gun butt-forward. Don’t see many men carrying guns thataway, and it marked him immediately.
Gunfighter.
“Beer,” Smoke told the barkeep and began peeling a hardboiled egg.
Beer in front of him, Smoke drank half of the mug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then ate the egg.
“Passin’ through?” the barkeep asked.
“Yeah. Lookin for a hot bath and a shave and a bed.”
“Got a few rooms upstairs. Cost you ...”
“He won’t be needin’ no bath,” the cold voice came from the batwings. “Just a pine box.”
Smoke cut his eyes. Jason Bright stepped into the room, which had grown as silent as the grave.
Smoke was tired of killing. Tired of it all. He wanted no trouble with Jason Bright. But damned if he could see a way out of it.
“Jason, I’ll tell you the same thing I told Diego, just before I killed him.”
Chairs were pushed back and men got out of the line of fire. Diego dead? Lord have mercy! Who was this big stranger anyways?
“Speak your piece, Jensen,” Jason said.
“The war is over,” Smoke spoke softly but firmly. “Nobody’s paying you now. There are warrants all over the place for you. Ride out, man.”
“You queered the deal for me, Smoke. Me and a lot of others. They scattered all around, from here to Colorado, just waitin’ for a shot at you. But I think I’ll just save them the trouble.”
“Don’t do it, Jason. Ride on out.”
The batwings were suddenly pushed inward, striking Jason in the back and throwing him off balance. Smoke lunged forward and for the second time in about a month, Jason Bright was about to get the stuffing kicked out of him.
Smoke hit the gunfighter in the mouth and floored him, as the man who had pushed open the batwings took one look inside and hauled his freight back to the house. He didn’t need a drink noways.
Smoke jerked Jason’s guns from leather and tossed them into a man’s lap, almost scaring the citizen to death.
“I’m tired of it, Jason,” Smoke told the man, standing over him like an oak tree. “Tired of the killing, tired of it all.”
Jason came up with the same knife he once tried to use on Cord. Smoke kicked it out of his hand and decked the man with a hard right fist. He jerked Jason up and slammed him against the bar. Then Smoke proceeded to
