The gunhand knew that no reply was expected. He stood quiet.
Max leaned back in his chair. “Somebody sent for him,” he finally said. “But who? Had to be somebody down in Barlow.”
Max stood up and reached for his guns. “Get the boys. We’re riding.”
The gunhand grinned. “Down to Barlow, boss?”
“Where else? I’m going to settle Smoke Jensen’s hash once and for all.”
5
Big Max rode into Barlow at the head of a small army. He had fifty men behind him, all heavily armed. They kicked up enough dust riding into town to put a thin cover of dirt on every storefront.
Max dismounted and walked to the boardwalk in front of the marshal’s office. He turned to face his men, and the instant his back was to the office, he felt the twin barrels of a sawed-off shotgun pressing into his back.
“Move, and I’ll scatter your guts all over the street, Huggins,” the voice told him.
Max froze. He knew what an express gun could do. A sawed-off shotgun could literally blow a man in two. “I’m froze,” he told the voice. “You Smoke Jensen?”
“That’s me. Now tell your men to drop their guns in the street. Every gun they’ve got. In the dirt.”
“And if I don’t?”
The muzzle of the shotgun nudged his back. That was all it took.
Max gave the order.
Men began appearing out of stores, all of them armed with rifles or shotguns, all of them with pistols belted around their waists.
Women came out after them, holding buckets of water and rags.
“What the hell? ...” Max said.
“Your men created all this dust in town,” Smoke told him. “So your men are going to clean it up. They’re going to wash all the windows, sweep the boardwalks, and wipe down everything.”
“I’ll be goddamned if I will!” a gunny said, sitting his saddle.
Smoke stepped to one side and let one barrel of the express gun roar. It belched smoke and flame, and the mouthy gunhand was blown out of the saddle. He landed about ten feet behind his rearing and frightened horse, hitting the dirt in a bloody pile of torn flesh.
Holding the shotgun in his right hand, Smoke palmed one of his .44’s and stuck the muzzle to Max’s ear. “Give the order,” Smoke told him, his voice very cold and deadly.
Max swallowed with an audible gulp. He was a hard man in a hard land and he’d known some salty ol’ boys in his time. But none as hard as this man holding a .44 to his head. Smoke Jensen was death walking around.
“You boy’s get to cleaning,” he told his men. “I’m paying you and you take orders from me. Do it.”
“And drag that trash out of the street and bury it,” Smoke said. He looked at a citizen who’d introduced himself as Tom Johnson. “You get some boys and gather up their guns, Tom. All of them. And take their rifles from the saddle boots. Bring them to me at the jail.” He lowered and holstered his .44 and jerked Max’s guns from leather. “In my office, Max. Move.”
Seated, Max studied Jensen. And he was impressed. Smoke was about four inches shorter than him and probably weighed sixty pounds less, but he was a hell of a man, Max concluded. No doubt about that.
“You won the first little skirmish, Smoke,” Max told him. “But you can’t win the war.”
Smoke poured them both coffee and sat down behind the desk. “What war, Max?” he asked innocently. “I did what I did in this town because I don’t like to see citizens bullied, and I especially don’t like to hear about children being threatened.”
Max grunted. “There ... may have been some incidents where my men got a little heavy-handed. But as far as I know, no kids have been harmed.”
“But if you continue, Max, they will be. The odds are tilted that way.”
“And you intend to do what about that?” Max challenged the gunfighter.
“For the good of humanity, I ought to just stop it right now.”
“How?” Max smiled the question.
“By killing you,” Smoke said bluntly.
Max studied Smoke Jensen carefully. He concluded that Smoke meant what he’d just said. He also concluded that if he was to leave this town alive, he’d better play his cards close to the vest. Very close.
Max was a cold-blooded killer. But he was an intelligent one. He knew he was sitting very close to the grave. He also knew that like himself, Smoke Jensen had been born without that one tiny cog in his psyche that prevented man from killing without remorse. But unlike Max, Smoke Jensen had landed on the side of the law. He would always defend the underdog, the poor, the right and just causes.
“Are you?” Max asked softly.
“Am I what?”
“Going to kill me?”
“Probably.”
