“Yes. I did. They accosted me on the trail, and I was forced to defend myself.”
“My God, man! You could have at least given them a decent burial.”
“They weren’t decent people.”
“You’re disgusting, Jensen. The vultures had picked at them.”
“They probably flew off somewhere and died.'
Mills ignored that. “Did you really think you could lose us?”
“Only if I wanted to. You may be city boys, but you probably know how to use a compass.”
“To be sure. I’m curious about that badge you’re wearing.”
“I think it’s made of tin.”
A pained look passed Mills’ face. He sighed. “You are a very difficult man to speak with, Jensen. I meant . . .”
“I know what you meant. I believe the Slater gang is heading this way. The town didn’t have a marshal. I volunteered and they accepted my unpaid services.”
“Well, we’re here now, so you can feel free to resign.”
“Oh, well, hell, Mills. That makes me feel so much better. What are you going to do when the Slater gang hits town, talk them to death?”
A flash of irritation passed the federal marshal’s face. He cleared his throat and said, “I intend to arrest them, Jensen. Then we’ll try them and see that they get long prison sentences.”
“How about a rope?”
“I don’t believe in capital punishment.”
“Oh, Lord!” Smoke said, looking heavenward. “What have I done for you to send this down on me?”
Mills laughed at Smoke. “Oh, come now, man! You’re obviously a fellow of some intelligence. You surely know that the death penalty doesn’t work . . .”
“The hell it doesn’t!” Smoke said. “They’ll damn sure not come back from the grave to commit more crimes.”
“That’s not what I mean. It isn’t a deterrent for others not to commit the same acts of mayhem.”
“Now, what bright fellow thought up that crap?”
“Very learned people in some of our finest Eastern universities.”
Smoke said a few very ugly words, which summed up his opinion of very learned people back East. He turned and walked toward the batwings, pausing for a moment and calling over his shoulder.
“There’re rooms upstairs here, Mills. Take your baths across the street behind the barber shop. Don’t try supper at Bonnie’s Cafe this evening. The cook’s drunk. That apple, turnip, and carrot stew he fixed for lunch was rough.”
Mills and his marshals were sitting at one table in the saloon, Smoke sitting alone at another playing solitaire when the batwings shoved open and half a dozen men crowded into the saloon, heading for the bar. They eyeballed the U.S. Marshals and grinned at their hightop lace-up boots, their trousers tucked in.
Mills cut his eyes to Smoke. The gunfighter had merely looked up from his game, given the newcomers the briefest of glances, and apparently dismissed them.
The men lined up at the bar and ordered whiskey. “Hear you got some law in this town, now,” a big cowboy shot off his mouth. “I reckon me and the boys will have to mind our P’s and Qs. We sure wouldn’t want to run afoul of the law.”
The cowboys laughed, but it was not a good-natured laugh. More like a sarcastic, go-to-hell braying of men who looked for trouble and did not give a damn about the rights of anyone else. Smoke didn’t know if they were outlaws or not. But they damn sure were hardcases. Standing very close to the outlaw line.
“Evenin’, Luttie,” the barkeep said.
Smoke had been briefed on the men. The one with the biggest mouth was Luttie Charles, owner of the Seven Slash Ranch. The foreman was named Jake. Neither man was very likeable, and both were bullies, as were the dozen or so hands the ranch kept on the payroll.
“Yeah,” Jake said, after tossing back his whiskey. “Where is this new marshal? I want to size him up and maybe have some fun.”
Smoke had also learned that the last marshal the town hired had not left because the town couldn’t pay him, but because he’d been savagely beaten by men from the Seven Slash, although low pay had played a part in it.
“I hope it ain’t one of these pretty boys,” a hand said, turning and sneering at Mills and his men. “That wouldn’t be no contest a-tall.”
I wouldn’t sell Mills and his men short, Smoke thought. I got a hunch those badge-toters have a hell of a lot more sand and gravel in them than appears. They’ve been dealing with big city punks and shoulder-strikers and foot-padders for a long time. You boys just might be in for a surprise if you crowd them. Especially Mills. He’s no pansy.
Luttie turned to stare at Smoke, sitting close to the shadows in the room. “You, there!” he brayed. “What are you doing?”
“Minding my own business,” Smoke said in a quiet voice. “Why don’t you do the same?”
To a man, the Seven Slash riders turned, looking at the partially obscured figure at the table.
“You got a smart mouth on you, mister,” Luttie said. “Maybe you don’t know who I am.”
“I don’t particularly care who you are.”
The Seven Slash riders looked at one another, grinning. This might turn out to be a fun evening after all. It was always fun to beat hell out of someone.
“Git up!” Luttie gave the command to Smoke.
Smoke, in a quiet voice, told him where he could put his order—sideways.
Luttie shook his head. Nobody talked to him like that. Nobody. Ever. “Who in the hell do you think you are?” Luttie roared across the room.
“The new town marshal,” Smoke told him, shuffling the deck of cards.
“Maybe he’s sittin’ over there in the dark ’cause he’s so ugly,” a hand suggested.
“Why don’t we just drag him out in the light and have a look at him?” another said.
“And then we’ll stomp him,” another laughed.
“That’s Smoke Jensen,' the barkeep said.
The hands became very silent, and very still. They watched as Smoke stood up from the table. Seemed like he just kept on gettin’ up. He laid the deck of cards down on the table and walked out of the shadows, his spurs softly jingling as he walked across the floor. He stopped in front of Luttie.
Luttie was no coward, but neither was he a fool. He knew Smoke Jensen’s reputation, and knew it to be true. As he looked into those icy brown eyes, he felt a trickle of sweat slide down the center of his back.
“If there is any stomping to be done in this town,” Smoke told the rancher, “I’ll do it. And I just might decide to start with you. I don’t like bullies.
And you’re a bully. l don’t like big-mouthed fatheads. And you’re a big-mouthed fathead. And you’re also packin’ iron. Now use it, or shut your goddamn mouth!”
Luttie was good with a gun, better than most. He knew that. But he was facing the man who had killed some of the West’s most notorious gunfighters. And also a man who was as good with his fists as he was with a six- shooter.
“I got no quarrel with you,” Luttie said sullenly. “The boys was just funnin’ some.”
“No, they weren’t,” Smoke told him. “And you know it. They’re all bullies, just like you. I’ve heard all about how you and your crew comes into this town, intimidating and bullying other people. I’ve heard how you like to pick fights and hurt people. You want to fight me, Luttie? How about it? No guns. just fists. You want that, Luttie?”
“I shall insure it is a fair fight,” Mills said quietly, opening his jacket to show his badge.
“Luttie,” Jake said. “Them Eastern dudes is U.S. Marshals.”
The rancher’s sigh was audible. Something big was up, and he didn’t know what. But he knew the odds were hard against him on his evening. “We’ll be going, boys,” he said.
Luttie and his crew paid up and left the saloon, walking without swagger. The crew knew the boss was mad as hornets, but none blamed him for not tangling with Smoke Jensen. That would have been a very dumb move. There was always another day.
“What the hell’s he doin’ here?” Jake questioned, as they stood by their horses.
