Jack Lynch turned and put his back to the bar. Now he openly stared at the stranger, a sneer on his face. “You don’t have much to say, do you, mister?” he called.
The stranger did not look up. He poured another cup of coffee from the pot and sugared it, slowly stirring the strong brew. Then he started in on his fresh-baked dried apple pie. It had been a long day and he wanted no more than to eat his meal in peace and get a good night’s sleep at the small hotel in this Northern Utah town, not many miles from the Wyoming border.
But if this loud-mouth kept pushing him ...
“Hey! I asked you a question, man,” Jack raised his voice.
The stranger chewed his pie, swallowed, and took a sip of coffee. He lifted his eyes to the loud-mouth. The stranger’s eyes were brown and cold-looking, no emotion in them. His shoulders were wide and his arms heavily muscled, his wrists thick. His hands were big and flat-knuckled, scarred from many fights. He was a ruggedly handsome man, well over six feet tall. He wore two guns, one tied low on his right side, the other worn high and butt forward on his left side. A long-bladed knife was in a sheath behind his right-hand gun.
“Since the question was probably very forgettable, I’ve already forgotten it,” the stranger said in a soft voice. “Is it worth repeating?”
“Huh?” Jack said.
“See? You’ve already forgotten it. So how important can it be?” The stranger returned to his pie and coffee.
The gambler smiled. He thought he knew the stranger’s name. And if he was correct, this loud-mouth was standing very close to death.
“I don’t think I like you very much,” Jack said.
“You’re at the end of a very long list,” the stranger replied. He tapped the coffee pot and looked at the barkeep. “It’s empty. Would you bring another pot, please?”
“My, don’t he talk po-lite, though?” Jack sneered the words. “Like a sissy.”
“Jack,” one of the card players said. “Why don’t you shut your damn mouth and leave the man alone? He ain’t bothered no one.”
“You want to make me?” Jack challenged the man. “Come on. Make me shut up.”
“Oh, go to hell, Jack,” another card player said.
Another pot of coffee was placed on the stranger’s table and the barkeep backed quickly away. The stranger poured and sugared and stirred and then carefully rolled a cigarette, lighting up.
“My name’s Jack Lynch,” the young man called to the stranger.
“Everybody should know their name.”
The card players laughed at that. The gambler smiled and riffled the cards.
“What do you mean by that?” Jack asked.
“Boy,” the stranger said, “do you push all strangers like the way you’re proddin’ me?”
“Just the ones who think they’re tough. I usually prove they ain’t.”
“And how do you do that, Jack?”
“By stretchin’ ’em out on the floor!”
“Did you ever stop to think that one of these days it might well be you that’s stretched out on the floor?”
“That don’t ever enter my mind,” Jack said.
“It should.”
“You think you’re the man who can do that?”
“Yes,” the stranger said softly.
Jack flushed deeply, the color rising to his cheeks. The only reason he hadn’t called them old coots at the card table out after they laughed at him was that none of them was wearing a gun. “Stand up!” Jack shouted.
The stranger pushed back his chair and stood up.
“Big,” a card player said.
Jack Lynch stood with his legs spread, his hand by his gun.
The front door opened and a blast of cold air swept the saloon. The town marshal stepped in and sized up the situation in about two seconds. “Back off, Jack,” he barked the words. “And I mean right now, boy.”
“Marshal, I ...”
“Shut up, Jack!” the marshal hollered. “Put that hammer thong back in place and do it slow. Ahh. That’s better. Now settle down.” He looked at the stranger. “Been a long time.”
“Five years ago. Your horse threw a shoe and you stopped in town. You’re looking well.”
“Feel fine.”
“I recommend the apple pie,” the stranger said. “It was delicious.” He picked up his hat and settled it on his head.
“I’ll sure have me a wedge. And some coffee, Ralph,” he said to the barkeep.
