Noonan looked at the bulk of Smoke Jensen and swallowed hard. “Come on, boys!” he urged, panic in hisvoice. “They’s three of us. We can take them two.”
The Bar V rider with his hands in his back pockets told Noonan what he could do with his suggestion, together with the same corncob they had originally had in mind for Matthew.
“That goes double for me,” the remaining Bar V rider added. “You wanted to fight Jensen, you just go right ahead, Noonan.” He removed his gun belt and hung it on his saddle horn.
The other hand thought that was a dandy idea, and did the same. Leroy shifted the muzzle of the .44-.40 to Noonan’s belly and the man let his gunbelt fall.
The shopkeeper, his wife, the barkeep, and the two cattlemen had walked out on the porch, to stand and stare. The body of Smith was, for the moment, being ignored. Matt walked around from behind the building, wiping his mouth with his shirt sleeve.
Smoke took off his guns and laid them on the bench. He stepped off the porch, walked up to Noonan, and knocked the puncher down in the dirt with one very quick and unexpected hard left hook.
Noonan rolled and came to his boots, the side of his jaw beginning to bruise from the blow. He shook his head, clearing it of stars and chirping birdies, and backed up, lifting his fists.
He swung at Smoke. Smoke ducked the punch and busted the cowboy in the belly with a hard right. Noonan whoofed out air just as Smoke came around with another left which connected on the man’s ear, spinning him around and seriously impairing his hearing for a few moments.
Just as Noonan regained his balance, Smoke stepped in and blasted him in the mouth with another straight right punch. Noonan’s boots left the dirt and he sat down hard on his butt, his mouth bloody.
Smoke backed up. He wasn’t even breathing hard; hadn’t even worked up a sweat yet.
Noonan wisely sat on the ground. He took another good long look at the gunfighter who stood above him, his fists balled, hanging at his sides, waiting. Smoke looked awesome. A big man, six feet or more, with a massive barrel chest and shoulders and arms that were packed with hard muscle.
Noonan came off the ground in a rush, a long-bladed knife in his right hand.
Smoke slipped the first swing of the knife, bending down as he parried the thrust, his left hand scooping up dust from the road. When Noonan closed with him, Smoke tossed the dirt into the man’s eyes, momentarily blinding the man.
Smoke kicked the man on the knee, bringing a howl of pain. Smoke hit the man twice in the face, a left and a right. The knife dropped from his hand just as Smoke’s right hand clamped down on the man’s fingers. Smoke bore down, using all his strength. Noonan began screaming as the bones in his fingers were crushed, the crunching sounds causing all the spectators to wince.
Still holding onto Noonan’s now ruined hand, Smoke began battering the man’s face with short, hard, chopping blows from his left fist. Within a minute, the man’s face had been turned into a bloody, misshapen mask. His nose was flattened, his lips smashed into bloody pulp, several teeth knocked out of his mouth. Both eyes were beaten closed.
Smoke let him drop to the dirt. Noonan was unconscious.
Smoke walked to the horse trough and washed his face and hands and buckled his gun belt around his lean waist. He looked up at Leroy.
“All the supplies loaded, Leroy?”
“Just about, sir.”
“I’ll get right on that, Mr. Jensen!” the store owner said.
He and his wife rushed back into the store.
Smoke looked at the now completely sober cattlemen. They were standing on the porch, faces pale under the tan, staring at the crippled Noonan.
Smoke pointed first at Smith, then to Noonan. “When you men decide to take a stand in this issue,” Smoke told them, “I would suggest that both of you keep this sight fresh in your minds.”
Smoke turned and swung into the saddle.
The news of the gunfight between the seasoned Smith and the nester’s kid, and the short but brutally crippling fight between Smoke and Noonan spread like unchecked wildfire throughout the southeastern corner of Idaho. Noonan would never regain the use of his right hand. The so-called badman drifted out of the country, sucking on a bottle of laudanum to ease the pain. He would drift far away, change his name, and work the remainder of his life as a cowboy with a crippled hand, his true identity hidden forever, even to the grave.
Jud Vale had been oddly silent after the shooting and the beating at the trading post. Smoke had a hunch all that would abruptly change as soon as Editor Argood left on his journey to Utah. And that was just about a week away.
At Smoke’s suggestion, the ranch house and the bunkhouse had been fortified against both attack and against siege—Smoke suspected the latter would be tried, with Jud Vale’s marksmen in carefully placed positions attempting to pick off the defenders one by one.
The remaining Box T herd had been moved to safer pastures; a huge valley with good grass and water, difficult for rustlers to get the cattle clear without being seen.
On a warm bright late spring morning, Smoke walked around the compound, inspecting the work that had been done. He could not think of anything else they could do.
And Smoke was growing restless. Edgy, might be a better word for it. Calm it might be—for now—but he knew their position was lousy, and if Jud would just do a little thinking and planning, logically instead of emotionally, and then turn his rabid dogs loose, there was no way that Smoke and the defenders could hold back a well-planned and well-executed attack against them.
So what to do?
