you got, Smoke,” Barrie said. “She’ll do to ride the river with.”
“Believe me, I know. Let’s head over to the Golden Plum and have us a beer. I need to look the place over.”
“You haven’t been there yet?” Barrie asked.
“No. But I think now is a dandy time to visit. I feel like there must be a hundred guns pointed at me.”
“Cosgrove didn’t wait long, did he?” Van Horn asked, as the men reined up in front of the saloon and swung down.
“I guess he figures it would be a lot easier to deal with Jenny than with me,” Smoke replied, stepping up onto the boardwalk.
About a dozen locals were seated around tables, and five men stood at the far end of the bar. Smoke knew only one of them, a hired gun out of Utah who called himself Stoner.
The interior of the saloon was as fancy as anything Smoke had ever seen, with heavy drapes and polished brass spittoons. The long bar was gleaming-Gambling tables of all descriptions were spaced across the floor. The place was unusually quiet for this time of day.
“Remember me, Barrie?” one of the five men at the bar asked. He had an ugly-looking knife scar running down one side of his face.
“Can’t say as I do,” the ex-town tamer replied. He looked at the barkeep. “Beer.”
Smoke ordered coffee and Van Horn asked for rye.
“You gunned down my brother in New Mexico Territory some years back,” Scarface said.
“Do tell. I don’t remember it, so he must not have been very hard to handle. Or very important,” he added.
Barrie was on the prod and Smoke wondered about that. Everything he had ever heard about the man added up to the picture of a careful man, not one to push or crowd.
There’s more here than I know, Smoke concluded.
“Hey, old man,” another of the five called to Van Horn. He was young, not more than twenty-four or -five, and very foolish if he was seeking trouble with Van Horn. Van Horn was as much a legend as any man who ever strapped on six-shooters.
“There’s one in every crowd,” Van Horn muttered.
“The famous Smoke Jensen,” Stoner said, sarcasm thick in the words.
“What’s your interest in this affair, Stoner?” Smoke asked. “Other than making war on seventeen-year-old girls, that is.”
“You ain’t no seventeen-year-old girl.”
‘You want to make war on me, Stoner?” Smoke lifted the coffee cup with his left hand and took a sip.
Stoner stepped away from the bar, both hands hovering over his guns. “I never did believe all that crap folks say about you, Jensen. You can die just like any other man.”
“But not this day,” Smoke said, then shot the man in the belly.
Eleven
Stoner folded over and took a step backward. He straightened up, a terrible look on his face, and managed to pull one .45 from leather. Smoke gave him another .44 slug and the man sat down in a chair, the .45 clattering to the floor.
“Now, Barrie!” Scarface hollered.
Everybody pulled iron, the bartender hit the floor, the locals flattened out under tables, and the Golden Plum erupted in gunfire.
The loudmouth who just had to try Van Horn didn’t even clear leather before the old gunfighter’s Remingtons roared fire and smoke and lead. The kid took two in the heart and was dead before he stretched out in front of the bar, his eyes wide open in death.
Smoke put one in a tall, lanky gunhand and the man sat down hard, hollering in pain.
Van Horn and Barrie finished off the remaining two and the saloon began- quieting down.
Outside, somebody began beating on a bass drum and another person started tooting on a trumpet.
“The local temperance league,” Van Horn explained, reloading. “Led by Preacher Lester Laymon and his wife, Violet. But she ain’t no violet. She’s got her a mouth that’d put a champion hog caller to shame.”
“Forward into the fray, brothers and sisters!” a woman shrieked. “Into the den of sin and perversion we shall march.”
“That’s her,” Van Horn said.
“Hell, I’d rather
“Believe me, I know. Let’s head over to the Golden Plum and have us a beer. I need to look the place over.”
“You haven’t been there yet?” Barrie asked.
“No. But I think now is a dandy time to visit. I feel like there must be a hundred guns pointed at me.”
“Cosgrove didn’t wait long, did he?” Van Horn asked, as the men reined up in front of the saloon and swung down.
“I guess he figures it would be a lot easier to deal with Jenny than with me,” Smoke replied, stepping up onto the boardwalk.
About a dozen locals were seated around tables, and five men stood at the far end of the bar. Smoke knew only one of them, a hired gun out of Utah who called himself Stoner.
The interior of the saloon was as fancy as anything Smoke had ever seen, with heavy drapes and polished brass spittoons. The long bar was gleaming-Gambling tables of all descriptions were spaced across the floor. The place was unusually quiet for this time of day.
“Remember me, Barrie?” one of the five men at the bar asked. He had an ugly-looking knife scar running down one side of his face.
“Can’t say as I do,” the ex-town tamer replied. He looked at the barkeep. “Beer.”
Smoke ordered coffee and Van Horn asked for rye.
“You gunned down my brother in New Mexico Territory some years back,” Scarface said.
“Do tell. I don’t remember it, so he must not have been very hard to handle. Or very important,” he added.
Barrie was on the prod and Smoke wondered about that. Everything he had ever heard about the man added up to the picture of a careful man, not one to push or crowd.
There’s more here than I know, Smoke concluded.
“Hey, old man,” another of the five called to Van Horn. He was young, not more than twenty-four or -five, and very foolish if he was seeking trouble with Van Horn. Van Horn was as much a legend as any man who ever strapped on six-shooters.
“There’s one in every crowd,” Van Horn muttered.
“The famous Smoke Jensen,” Stoner said, sarcasm thick in the words.
“What’s your interest in this affair, Stoner?” Smoke asked. “Other than making war on seventeen-year-old girls, that is.”
“You ain’t no seventeen-year-old girl.”
‘You want to make war on me, Stoner?” Smoke lifted the coffee cup with his left hand and took a sip.
Stoner stepped away from the bar, both hands hovering over his guns. “I never did believe all that crap folks say about you, Jensen. You can die just like any other man.”
“But not this day,” Smoke said, then shot the man in the belly.
Eleven
Stoner folded over and took a step backward. He straightened up, a terrible look on his face, and managed to pull one .45 from leather. Smoke gave him another .44 slug and the man sat down in a chair, the .45 clattering to the floor.
“Now, Barrie!” Scarface hollered.
Everybody pulled iron, the bartender hit the floor, the locals flattened out under tables, and the Golden Plum erupted in gunfire.
The loudmouth who just had to try Van Horn didn’t even clear leather before the old gunfighter’s Remingtons roared fire and smoke and lead. The kid took two in the heart and was dead before he stretched out in front of the bar, his eyes wide open in death.
Smoke put one in a tall, lanky gunhand and the man sat down hard, hollering in pain.
Van Horn and Barrie finished off the remaining two and the saloon began- quieting down.
Outside, somebody began beating on a bass drum and another person started tooting on a trumpet.
“The local temperance league,” Van Horn explained, reloading. “Led by Preacher Lester Laymon and his wife, Violet. But she ain’t no violet. She’s got her a mouth that’d put a champion hog caller to shame.”
“Forward into the fray, brothers and sisters!” a woman shrieked. “Into the den of sin and perversion we shall march.”
“That’s her,” Van Horn said.
“Hell, I’d rather
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