“Payable in ad-vance,” the man said sourly.
Smoke looked at him for a moment through the coldest, most dangerous eyes the man had ever seen.
“It’s for ever’body, mister,” he spoke gently. “Boss’s orders. I just work here.”
Smoke smiled and handed the man some coins, including a little extra. “Have yourself a drink on me at day’s end.”
“I’ll do it,” the man said with a returning smile. “Thanks. They’s beds over the saloon or you’re welcome to bed down here. Beth’s is our only cafe and she serves up some pretty good grub.”
“I’ll check it out. Much obliged.”
“Ain’t I seen you before, mister?”
“Never been here before in my life.”
“Shore looks familiar,” the man muttered, when Smoke had walked away. Then he stood still as a post as recognition struck him. “Good God!” he said. “And I got lippy with
Smoke checked out the rooms over the saloon, saw fleas and various other crawling and hopping creatures on the dirty sheets, and decided he would sleep in the loft of the barn. He’d always liked the smell of hay.
“You mighty goddamn particular,” the combination barkeep and desk clerk told him.
That did it. Smoke grabbed the man by the shirt, picked him up about a foot off the floor, and pinned him to the wall. “Would it too much of a problem for you to be civil?”
“You better put me down, mister. Tom Lilly runs this town, and he’s a personal friend of mine.”
“And you’ll run tell him about this little incident and he’ll do your fighting for you, right?”
“Something like that. And he’ll clean your plow, drifter.”
Smoke dragged him to the landing and threw him down the stairs. “Then go tell him, you weasel. I’ll be having a drink at the bar. From the good bottle.”
The man scrambled to his feet and ran out the front door. Smoke walked down the steps, rummaged around behind the bar until he found the good bottle of whiskey, and poured himself a drink. Although not much of a drinking man, the whiskey was smooth and felt good going down.
He fixed himself a sandwich from the fresh-laid out lunch selection and poured a cup of coffee, then walked to a table in the back of the room. He took off his coat and sat down. Slipping the hammer-thong from his Colts was something he did the instant his boots touched ground out of the stirrups.
The front door opened and the lippy barkeep entered, followed by a huge bear of a man.
“There he is,” the barkeep said, pointing Smoke out. Then he ran back behind the bar. “And that’ll be fifty cents for that drink of good whiskey.”
“Money’s on the bar,” Smoke told him.
The man lumbered over, stopping a few feet from the table. The floor had trembled as he moved. Smoke figured him to be about six feet six inches tall and weighing maybe two hundred and seventy-five pounds.
“My name’s Tom Lilly,” the big man rumbled.
Smoke took a bite from his sandwich and said nothing.
“Are you deef!” Lilly hollered.
“I will be if you keep shouting,” Smoke told him. “Quiet down, will you?”
The man looked shocked. “You really tellin’ me what to do, cowboy?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. And you smell bad, too. Step back, before your breath contaminates the cheese.”
Tom was so shocked he was momentarily speechless. Nobody ever spoke to him in such a manner. A few had challenged him, years back, and he had broken their heads, their backs, or just simply and quickly stomped them to death. He had run this town with an iron hand-or fist—for several years; now this drifter shows up and starts with the mouth.
Finally Tom found his voice. “You better enjoy that sandwich, drifter. ’Cause it’s gonna be the last thing you’ll ever eat except my fist.”
Smoke shoved the square table with all his strength, one sharp corner catching Tom in the thigh and pushing through the cloth of the big man’s trousers, tearing a gouge in his leg. Tom screamed in pain and grabbed at his bleeding leg just as Smoke came around the table, picking up a sturdy chair during his brief journey. Smoke brought the chair down on Tom’s head, driving the man to his knees and destroying the chair. Using what was left of the chair back as a club, Smoke proceeded to rain blows on the bully, the wood ringing like a blacksmith’s hammer as Smoke bounced it against Tom’s head.
A crowd began to gather, both inside the saloon and on the boardwalk in front.
When Smoke had beaten the man unconscious, he tossed the club to the floor and dragged Tom Lilly across the floor and to the now open door. He dragged him across the boardwalk and dumped him in the street.
The citizens, male and female, stood and applauded Smoke as he walked back inside the saloon. The barkeep stood rooted behind the bar, disbelief and fear in his eyes. “Don’t kill me!” he finally squalled.
“He’s been Tom Lilly’s biggest supporter,” a tired-looking man said. “But he’s nothing. As soon as Tom’s men come back from making their collections around the area, you’re gonna be in real trouble, mister.”
“Collections?” Smoke asked.
“They claim to be protecting us,” a woman said, standing outside the saloon and speaking through the open
