“They’re garbage, Vicky. Rabies-carrying rats whose diseased fleas are hopping onto everyone who gets close to them.”
Smoke stopped talking as a tall stranger on a painted pony rode slowly into town. The stranger cut his eyes to Smoke, sitting on the porch, and smiled.
Smoke stood up. “Time to go to work, Vicky. Max is pulling in the heavyweights now.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s Dek Phillips. A hired gun from down Texas way originally.”
“Why is he here?”
Smoke stepped off the porch. “To kill me.”
19
Victoria gasped and put one hand to her mouth. “But ... you’re the marshal! A deputy sheriff!”
“That doesn’t mean anything to men like Dek. When this is over, Vicky—the war, I mean—and Max Huggins and Red Malone are either dead or have pulled out, go on back to Vermont or wherever you came from. Maybe I’m judging you hastily. But I don’t think you’re cut out for the West. Excuse me now, Vicky. I got to go stomp on the head of a snake.”
“You’re going to arrest him?”
“I’m probably going to kill him.”
“But he hasn’t done anything!”
“That’s right. So I’ll just crowd a little bit and see what he’s got on his mind. If he wants to ride on out, I’ll let him. Thanks for the coffee. See you, Vicky.”
Smoke walked over to his office. Sal, Jim, and Pete were standing out in front. Dek’s horse was tied to the hitchrail outside the saloon.
“We seen him ride in,” Sal said. “You know him, Smoke?”
“I know him. From years back. He’s a no-good.”
“We agree on that,” Pete said. “I’d hired on for fightin’ wages down in Arizona some years back. I seen Dek shoot a nester woman in the back. I drew my wages and left. But give the devil his due, Smoke. He’s good. He’s damn good.”
“I’ve seen him work. Yeah, he’s good. But the problem is he knows it and it’s swelled his head. He stopped working with his gun years ago, letting his reputation carry him.”
“By the way,” Jim said. “I been hearin’ shootin’ every mornin’ for the past week or more. From outside of town. Real faint like. Sounds like someone practicin’. Reckon who that is?”
Smoke stepped off the boardwalk. “Me,” he said. He walked across the dirt street to the saloon and pushed over the batwings, stepping into the dimness.
The bar had cleared of patrons when Dek walked in. His reputation was known throughout the West, and unlike Smoke, he liked all the hoopla. Smoke walked to the bar and faced Dek, leaning against the other end of the long counter.
“Jensen,” Dek said. “I hear you been throwing a wide loop here of late.”
“What of it?”
“Some folks don’t like it. So they got ahold of me to cut you back to size some.”
“And you figure you’re the man for the job, huh?”
“I figure so.”
“Anybody ever tell you that you were a damn fool, Dek?”
The gunfighter flushed, then fought his sudden anger under control and smiled at Smoke. “That won’t work, Jensen. So save your little mind games for the two-bit punks.”
“That’s you, Dek.”
Dek carefully picked up his shot glass and took a small sip of whiskey, gently placing the drink back on the bar. “You’ve had all those books written about you. I even seen a play some actors put on about you once. Made me want to puke.”
Smoke waited. He’d played this scene many times in his life. Dek was working up his courage.
The barkeep said, “Can I pull you a beer, Marshal?”
“Yes, that would be nice. Thanks, Ralph. A beer would taste good.”
Dek tossed a coin on the bar. “On me, barkeep. It’s gonna be his last one.”
“It’s on the house,” Ralph said. “And I ’spect the marshal will be comin’ in tomorrow for his afternoon taste.”
Dek didn’t like that. His eyes narrowed and his left hand clenched into a fist. Slowly, he relaxed and picked up his whiskey. Another tiny sip went down his throat.
Ralph slid the beer mug up the bar and Smoke stopped it with his hand. He took a healthy pull, holding the mug in his left hand. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took several steps toward Dek.
Dek watched him, the light in his eyes much like that of a wild animal, filled with suspicion.
Smoke stopped and said, “Why, Dek?”
