The boy looked at the tall man with the wide shoulders and the massive arms that bulged his shirt with muscles. “Bathe? Ah . . . no, sir.”
“So they still stink?”
“Ah . . . yes, sir. I reckon so, sir.”
“I feel sorry for the undertaker.”
The tall man with the two guns walked out of the livery stable, moving like a great hunting cat, his spurs jingling as he moved. He carried his rifle with him as he crossed the wide street and walked toward the hotel.
The boy hung a nose-bag on the buckskin and began currying the horse as he ate a bait of grain. The boy suddenly stopped his brushing as a coldness washed over him. “Oh, my God!” he whispered, finally placing the big man with the cold eyes. “Oh, my God!”
“Good evening, sir!” the desk clerk called. “It certainly is a quiet evening in our town.”
It won’t be for long, Smoke thought, as he signed the register.
The desk clerk looked at the name on the register and gripped the edge of the counter. His mouth dropped open and worked up and down like a fish. “Ah, bah, bah, bah . . .” He cleared his throat. “The dining room just closed, sir. But I can get you a plate of food sent up to your room if you wish.”
“I wish. Thank you.”
“We’re a very modern hostelry, sir. We have the finest in up to date water closets.”
“Good. Give me the key to my room, have the tub in the facilities filled with hot water, and put a fresh bar of soap in there. Lots of towels. I like lots of clean towels.”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir. And I’m sure that room I assigned you has fresh sheets. As a matter of fact, I know it does! It’s such a pleasure having you here with . . .”
Those cold eyes stopped his chatter. It was like looking into a frozen Hell.
The tall man turned and walked up the stairs.
The desk clerk beat on the bell until a man appeared. “Get the marshal— right now! Tell him to deputize the boys. We got big trouble.” Or somebody has, he thought, recalling those three hardcases who rode into town that day.
When the tall man walked down the stairs, four of the men the marshal had deputized took one look at him and exited the lobby, fading into the night. They wanted no part of this hombre. They weren’t cowards; they were all good, solid men who had used a gun on more than one occasion against outlaws or Indians. But they were intelligent men.
“You got business in this town, mister?” the marshal asked.
“Oh, yes,” Smoke replied. “But it’s my business.”
“Maybe I’ll make it mine,” the marshal stood his ground.
“That’s your job. But I have a better suggestion.”
“I’m listening.”
“Go home. Make yourself a fresh pot of coffee. Talk to your wife and family Tell your men to go home and gather their families around them. Get the citizens off the street.”
“I don’t take orders from you.”
“I didn’t give you any orders.”
The marshal nodded his head. That was a fact. What Jensen was doing was giving him an out, to save face. The desk clerk was all ears, hanging on every word. Whatever happened here would be all over town in ten minutes. “I’m not afraid of you, Jensen.”
The desk clerk gasped.
“I can see that. You’re a good man, Marshal. The town should be proud to have you behind that star, and the city council should give you a raise.”
The marshal cut his eyes. He was alone. His newly deputized men had gone. “Come to think of it, my wife just baked a fresh apple pie. It’d still be warm.”
“Man shouldn’t pass that up,' Smoke said. “Might insult his wife. My wife was insulted the other day when the gang those punks in the saloon was ridin’ with shot her.”
The marshal’s eyes narrowed. No man harmed a woman in the West. Just to jostle one on the street was grounds for a good butt—whipping. “She bad hurt?”
“Caught her in the arm. They killed a little girl.”
“You have a good evening, Mr. Jensen.”
“Thank you, Marshal. I plan to.”
The marshal left the hotel lobby. The palms of his hands were sweaty. He wiped them on his britches. He was a good, tough lawman, having gunned down Bad jack Summers on the main street of this very town only a few months back. But Bad Jack couldn’t shine Smoke Jensen’s boots. The marshal sighed. Come to think of it, a wedge of pie would taste mighty good.
Smoke stepped out of the lobby and moved to the shadows, standing for a moment. He worked his guns in and out of leather a few times. The grips of the .44s seemed to leap into his big hands. He stepped off the boardwalk and into the street, walking to the saloon. He stood for a moment at the batwings, looking in, allowing his eyes to adjust to the lantern light of the interior. He pushed open the batwings, stepped inside, and walked to the end of the bar.
“Whiskey,” he told the pale-faced barkeep. “Out of the good bottle. I don’t like snake heads.”
“Yes, sir.”
Some people who made their own whiskey would drop snake heads into the barrel for added flavor. Smoke was not much for strong drink, but he did enjoy a sip every now and then. The saloon was empty except for Smoke, the barkeep, and three unshaven and dirty men seated around a table next to a wall.
The barkeep poured a shot glass full. “That’s the best in the house, sir.”
“Thank you.” Smoke did not touch his liquor. “Where’s all your business this evening?'
“Everybody left sort of sudden-like a few minutes ago.”
“Is that right. Well, l can sure understand why.”
“Oh?” The barkeep was getting jumpy.
“Stinks in here. Smells like a bunch of damn sorry punks whose mothers didn’t teach them to bathe regularly. Like that stinking bunch of crap over there at the table.”
That made the barkeep real nervous. He moved farther away from the tall, well-built man with the cold eyes and the big hands with flat knuckles. Fighter’s hands.
“What’s that?” one of the men at the table said.
“You heard me, punk. I said you stink.”
The man pushed back his chair and walked toward the bar, the big California spurs jangling. “You’re pushin’, mister. You ain’t got no call to say somethin’ like that.”
“I’ve been around skunks that smell better than you three,” Smoke told him. He lifted the shot glass with his left hand and took a small sip. It was good whiskey.
One of the men at the table laughed. “Take him, Bob.”
Smoke chuckled, but the sound was void of humor. “Yeah, Bob. Why don’t you take me?”
Bob looked back at his buddies. This wasn’t going like it usually did. He’d been a bully all his life, and folks usually backed up and took water when he prodded them. This tall man just laughed at him. Funny kind of laugh. Guy looked familiar, too. He’d seen that face somewheres before.
The tall man turned to face Bob. Dirty, unshaven, and smelly. Smoke grimaced at the body odor. “It wouldn’t be right for you to meet your Maker smelling like an over-used outhouse. Why don’t you boys find a horse trough and take a bath?”
“Huh! What are you talkin’ about, mister. I ain’t a-goin’ to meet my Maker.”
“Oh, yes, you are.” Smoke set the shot glass on the bar. “All three of you.”
“You seem right sure of that,” one of the men seated at the table said.
“I’m positive of it.”
The men at the table smiled. “Three of us and one of you. You’re either drunk or crazy.”
“I’m neither. But I’ll tell you boys that you made a bad mistake getting tied up with Lee Slater and that pack of rabid hyenas that run with him. You made the next to the worst mistake of your lives when you attacked Big Rock the other day and shot those women and kids.”
