“That ain’t a bad idea,” Jerry said. “Do it for my hoss, too. How about you, Valdes?”
“I don’t give a damn what happens to my horse,” he said sullenly. “And how do you know we’re not gonna ride out of this dismal place?”
“ ’Cause the telegraph down the road says Smoke Jensen is about a half a day behind you boys,” a rancher spoke from a couple of tables over. “That’s why. I’ll see to it that you boys’ horses are put out to pasture and live a good life, if you want me to. I admire a man who takes care of his horse.”
“Thanks,” Pat said.
The rancher looked at Valdes. “You can go to hell.”
Valdes started to get up from the table. He stopped halfway out at the sound of several hammers being eared back. Four of the rancher’s hands stood at the bar, six-guns in their hands.
“Sit down,” one told him. “Way I figure it, you got maybe six or eight hours to live—at the most. You might as well enjoy that time. ’Sides, I don’t want to miss this fight.”
Valdes sat, being very careful to keep both his hands on the table.
“I’ll take care of your horse, too, Mex,” the rancher told him. “ ’Cause I like horses.”
“You serve up food in this place?” Jerry said.
“Got a stew that’s good,” the barkeep told him.
“That’ll suit me just fine,” Pat said. “Then I’m gonna take me a snooze under that tree yonder.” He pointed. “I reckon I’d better get in the habit of bein’ stretched out,” he added drily.
23
The day wore on with its usual never-deviating pace. But to the three hired guns in the saloon, time seemed to drag. The saloon filled as word spread around the area. Buck-boards and wagons rattled into town, carrying entire families ; many had packed box suppers. This was the biggest thing to happen in the community since the outhouse behind the church collapsed and dumped the minister into the pit. Took twelve men half the day to haul him out. Folks never dreamed that a man of the cloth would know all those bad words.
A cowboy galloped into town and jumped from the saddle in front of the saloon. He slapped the dust from him and ran inside. “Rider comin’! Big man on a big Appaloosa.”
“That’s Jensen,” Jerry Watkins said.
Valdes stood up and slipped the thongs from the hammers of his guns. Jerry rose and slipped his guns in and out of leather a couple of times. Pat Gilman shifted his chair around. His hip was hurting him so bad he was afraid if he stood up, he’d fall down.
Smoke rode slowly up the short street. Jerry started to pull iron and shoot him through the window. He froze as the rancher who had stayed at the table through the long afternoon eared back the hammer on his Colt.
“I’ll shoot you myself, boy,” he said. “Lord God, you got him three to one as it is. What kind of lowdown snakes are you people?” He shifted his gaze to Gilman. “Git up and take it like a man.”
Pat got to his boots and stood with an effort. “I’m surrenderin’,” he said. “I want a trial.”
“We ain’t got no badge-toter here,” a cowboy said. “Law’s a hundred miles away, near ‘bouts. ’Sides, we heard all about you boys ambushin’ that Army patrol and tryin’ to murder them women in the park. You’re gonna get a trial, all right. And the judge is comin’ through the door right about now.”
Spurs jingled on the rough boardwalk and the batwings were slowly pushed open. Smoke stepped inside, and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that this was Smoke Jensen. He seemed to fill the whole doorway and his cold eyes put a sudden chill in the room. Smoke sized up the situation and deliberately turned his back to the hired guns, walking to the bar.
“Beer,” he told the nervous barkeep.
Every inch of space along the front of the saloon was filled with people. The minister who had first-hand knowledge of excrement and knew it when he saw it, began praying for the lost souls of the hired guns.
Smoke drank his mug of beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and turned to face the trio. “Mighty good beer. Tasted good.”
“I’ll buy you another,” the rancher said.
“I’ll take you up on that in just a few minutes,” Smoke said. He stared at Valdes. “Valdes,” he said softly. “The backshooter. Angel told me about you.”
Valdes spat on the floor and cussed his former friend until he was near breathless.
“Pat Gilman,” Smoke shifted his gaze. “Raped and then killed your stepsister. Broke jail and killed a deputy in the process.”
“You writin’ a book, Jensen?” Gilman asked. His face was shiny with pain and fear.
Smoke smiled and looked at Jerry, with his birdshot-peppered face. “One of the women you big brave boys were trying to kill did that to you. I don’t know your name.”
“Watkins. Jerry Watkins. If I’d a got my hands on that woman, she’da been fun for a couple of days.”
“Yeah,” Smoke spoke softly. “That’s just about what I figured. Scum, all of you.”
“I don’t take that kind of talk from any man,” Valdes said. His voice was high-pitched, and he was sweating. He was in a half crouch, tensed, his hands over his guns.
“Then I guess it’s time, Valdes,” Smoke uttered the quiet, deadly words. That was his only warning that their time was up. He drew his right hand .44 and let it bang.
