you’re not going to do, sonny-boy, and I’ll break both your goddamn arms so you’ll never be able to pick up a gun again. You understand me?”
For the first time in his life, Melvin Malone knew real fear. It clutched at him, souring his stomach. He looked into the eyes of Smoke Jensen and saw death staring back at him. Death rode a fiery horse and the grim reaper wore the face of Smoke Jensen.
“Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “I understand.” Then rage overrode fear and the young man made up his mind. He carried a hide-out gun behind his belt buckle.
Smoke released him. He was expecting a sneak-play from the young man and was ready for it.
Mel grabbed for his Remington over-and-under .41 derringer and Smoke hit him. Smoke’s big fist smashed into the young man’s face, flattening his nose and knocking him flat on his butt in the street. Before Mel could shake the birds and bells and buzzing bees out of his head, Smoke had rolled him over and clamped handcuffs tight around his wrists.
Smoke straightened up. “Take him to jail, Jim. The charge is disorderly conduct, disturbing the peace, and attempted murder of a peace officer. Bond, if any, will be set by Judge Garrison in the morning. That’s it, people. Check your guns with Mrs. Marbly and have fun.”
Smoke walked back onto the boardwalk, turned, and faced the mounted men.
Red cut his eyes to the south. A dozen men, all armed with rifles, stood in the street, blocking any escape. Max followed the glance, grunted, and then looked toward the north. Another dozen men, all heavily armed, blocked the north end of the street.
“I think,” Alex Bell said with unusual restraint, “that we’uns better check our guns and get ready for the dance.”
“We’ll do that,” Red said, swinging his gaze back to Smoke. “and there’ll be no trouble in this town tonight. Not by any of my people. But you’ll not try my boy on them charges, Jensen.”
“He’ll be tried, Red. And if convicted, he’d do his time in the territorial prison. Now hear me well, all of you. The days of lawlessness are over in this town. The days of any of you riding roughshod over decent, law-abiding people have ended. Pull in your horns and act right, or die. That’s the only choice I’m going to give any of you. If any of you cause trouble at tonight’s festivities, I’ll kill you. I’ll shoot you down like a rabid skunk and drag your carcass off and stick it in the first hole I come to. And if it’s the lime pit of an old privy, that’ll do just fine. Now stable your horses and check your guns.”
Max was the first to move. He backed his horse and rode to the livery stable, Red and the others following. And it was a silent following. Not one of them doubted that Smoke Jensen meant every word they’d just heard him say.
In the stable, Val Singer said, “I’d hate to think I had to spend eternity in a shit-pit.”
“And Jensen would do it, too,” Alex Bell said.
“We got to do something about Jensen, Max,” Dave Poe said. “And we got to do it damn quick.”
“I know. Did you boys notice anything riding into town?”
No one had.
“Then open your damn eyes!” Max snapped at them “Look around you. You’re supposed to be gunfighters, men who live by your wits. Hell, boys, there are water barrels everywhere. Full barrels. With buckets close by. This very stable is where the town used to keep their pumper. It’s gone. That means that Jensen outguessed us ... again. He guessed we might try to burn him out, and they’re prepared for it.
“Did any of you see the clearing of brush that’s been done around the town? And up on the ridges where a sharpshooter might hide? There is no place. Not anymore. The town is ready for an attack.”
“Where is them high-priced sharpshooters from Europe that was comin’ in?” Val asked.
“I don’t know,” Max admitted. “They should have been here by now. Unless ...” he mused aloud. Then he shook his head. “No. Jensen had no way of knowing they were coming in. And neither one of them carries a sidearm ... where it can be seen. He’d have no reason to pull them off the stage. I can but assume they are on their way in.”
One of the gunslingers unbuckled his gunbelt and draped it over his shoulder. “Well,” he drawled. “Let’s go be good little boys and check our guns and dance with some real ladies, and then we’ll eat some home cookin’ for a change.”
Smoke stood on the edge of the lantern-lighted perimeter and let Curly from the Circle W and a redheaded hand from the Lightning brand slug it out. He had no idea what had started the fracas, but as long as no guns were involved, he had told his deputies to let the men fight, but to just keep it away from the ladies.
“Anybody that would work for Red Malone would eat road apples,” Curly told the puncher.
Red flattened him.
Curly jumped up, butted Red in the stomach with his head, and both of them went rolling across the dirt. Curly came up on top and proceeded to rearrange Red’s face for him.
Smoke finally pulled the man off the Lightning puncher. “That’s enough, Curly. He’s out of it. Kill him and the matter becomes something other than a fistfight.”
The blacksmith, Benson, grabbed Curly and led him off to a horse trough. Benson, strong as a grizzly bear, picked Curly up and dunked him headfirst into the trough several times.
“Now cool down, man,” Benson told him. “Your sweetie’s box is gonna be comin’ up soon. You miss the bid on it and she’ll never speak to you again.” Benson was holding him by his boots, upside down.
“You do have a point,” Curly sputtered. “Now turn me a-loose.”
“You sure?” Benson asked.
“Damn right, I’m sure.”
Benson turned him loose and Curly dropped headfirst into the horse trough.
