one butt forward for a cross draw.
“Five boxes of .44’s,” Smoke told the clerk.
“You plannin’ on startin’ a war?” the clerk said, sticking his mouth into something that didn’t concern him.
Smoke’s only reply was to fix his cold brown eyes on the man and stare at him. The clerk got the message and turned away, a flush on his face.
He placed the ammunition on the counter and asked no more questions. Smoke bought three cans of peaches and paid for his purchases. He walked out onto the shaded porch, Ring and Beans right behind him. The three of them sat down and opened the peaches with their knives, enjoying a midmorning sweet-syruped snack.
“Don’t see too many people wearin’ twin guns thataway,” Beans observed, looking at Smoke’s rig.
“Not too many,” Smoke agreed, and ate a peach.
“Riders coming,” Ring said quietly. “From the south.”
The men sat on the porch, eating peaches, and watching the riders come closer.
“You recognize any of them?” Smoke tossed the question out.
Beans took it. “Nope. You?”
“That one on the right is Park. Gunfighter from over in the Dakotas. Man next to him is Tabor. Gunhawk from Oklahoma. I don’t know the others.”
“They know you?” Ring asked.
“They know of me.” Smoke’s words were softly spoken.
“By the name of Kirby?”
“No.”
The five dusty gunhands reined up and dismounted. A ferret-faced young man ducked under the hitchrail and paused by the porch, staring at Smoke. His eyes drifted to Smoke’s twin guns.
The other gunhawks were older, wiser, and could read sign. They were not being paid to cause trouble in this tiny village, therefore they would avoid trouble if at all possible.
The kid with the acne-pocked face and the big Colts slung around his hips was not nearly so wise. He deliberately stepped on Smoke’s boot as he walked past.
Smoke said nothing. The four older men stood to one side, watching, keeping their hands away from the butts of their guns.
Ferret-face laughed and looked at his friends, jerking a thumb toward Smoke. “There ain’t much to him.”
“I wouldn’t bet my life on it,” Park said softly. To Smoke, “Don’t I know you?”
Smoke stood up. At the approach of the men, he had slipped the leather hammer-thongs from his guns. “We’ve crossed rails a time or two. If this punk kid’s a friend of yours, you might better put a stopper on his mouth before I’m forced to change his diapers.”
The kid flushed at the insult. He backed up a few yards, his hands hovering over the butts of his fancy guns. “They call me Larado. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”
“Can’t say as I have,” Smoke spoke easily. “But I’m glad to know you have a name. That’s something that everybody should have.”
“You’re makin’ fun of me!”
“Am I? Maybe so.”
“I think I’ll just carve another notch on my guns,” Larado hissed.
“Yeah? I had you pegged right then. A tinhorn.”
“Draw, damn you!
But Smoke just stood, smiling at the young man.
Two little boys took that time to walk by the store; perhaps they were planning on spending a penny for some candy. One of them looked at Smoke, jerked dime novel out of the back of his overalls, and stared at the cover. He mentally shaved off Smoke’s mustache. His mouth dropped open.
“It’s really him! That’s Smoke Jensen! ”
All the steam went out of Larado. His sigh was audible. He lifted his hands and carefully folded them across his chest, keeping his hands on the outside of his arms.
Beans and Ring sat in their chairs and stared at their friend.
“You some distance from Colorado, Smoke,” Tabor said.
“And you’re a long way from Oklahoma,” Smoke countered.
“For a fact. You headin’ north or south?”
“North.”
“I never knowed you to hire your guns out.”
“I never have. It isn’t for sale this trip, either.”
“But you do have a reputation for buttin’ in where you ain’t wanted,” Park added his opinion.
