Destiny Of The Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone Page B

Get ready to use it.”
    At the challenge, those who were standing close to Smoke scattered quickly, moving to each end of the bar.
    One person very pointedly did not move. Pearlie was standing next to Smoke, but he didn’t even turn around to face Smoke’s challenger. Instead, he leaned over the bar and called down to the bartender, who, like the others, had fled down to the far end of the bar.
    â€œMr. Barkeep, would you put a head on my beer, please?” Pearlie called.
    â€œWhat?” the bartender answered in a nervous voice. “What do you want?”
    Pearlie held up his beer mug. “I want you to refresh my beer, if you would. I’ve lost the head.”
    â€œYou . . . you don’t want me to do that right now, do you?”
    â€œWell, I sure would appreciate it, if you don’t mind,” Pearlie said. “And what’s wrong with right now?”
    â€œMister, are you blind, or just crazy?” the bartender asked. “There’s a shoot-out about to take place, and you are right in the line of fire.”
    â€œOh. Are you talking about that dumb turd standing in the door there? What did he say his name was? Dingus Pugh? Don’t worry, I’m not in the line of fire. He won’t even get a shot off. Smoke will put him down before he clears leather.”
    â€œSmoke?” the bartender said.
    â€œSmoke Jensen,” Pearlie said. “Now, about that beer, a cool one would be nice.”
    Smoke’s name traveled all around the saloon, from mouth to mouth.
    â€œSmoke.”
    â€œSmoke Jensen.”
    â€œI’ll be damned. I’ve heard of ’im, never seen ’im before.”
    â€œYou reckon that’s really him?”
    â€œCould be. Otherwise, why would he be standin’ there so calm after someone’s just said they’re goin’ to shoot him?”
    â€œThis’ll be something to tell my grandkids. The day I seen Smoke Jensen kill somebody in a gunfight.”
    â€œIs that clock right? I want to remember the time this all happened.”
    When he heard Smoke Jensen’s name, and the comments being made by the others in the saloon, beads of perspiration broke out on Dingus Pugh’s forehead. His lower lip began to tremble, his mouth went dry, and he licked his lips nervously. His hand, which he was holding just over his pistol, began to shake visibly.
    â€œWell, are you going to open the ball? Or just stand there with your thumb up your ass?” Smoke asked. His voice was as quiet and calm as if he were having a conversation over a cup of coffee.
    Pugh stood there for a moment longer, neither speaking nor moving.
    â€œGo away, Pugh,” Smoke said. “I don’t want to kill anyone today.”
    Pugh glared at Smoke, then put both hands up and shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “I ain’t goin’ to give you no excuse to kill me. No, sir.”
    Turning, he pushed back out through the swinging doors, chased by the laughter of everyone in the saloon.
    Pugh stood just outside the saloon for a long moment, seething in rage. The anger he had felt over being thrown from the train was now compounded by the humiliation he had just experienced by being run out of the saloon.
    That was when he saw the shotgun protruding from the saddle sheath of one of the horses tied to the hitching rail in front of the saloon. Grinning broadly, he grabbed the gun, a Winchester double-barrel twelve-gauge. Breaking it down, he checked the loads, then snapped it closed again. He stepped back up onto the porch.
    Smoke just happened to glance in the mirror behind the bar when he saw Dingus Pugh charge back into the room, bent over, his shoulders thrust forward, his face set in a scowl. He was raising the shotgun to his shoulder even as he came in.
    â€œYou’re going to die, you bastard!” he shouted loudly, pulling the trigger.
    The gun roared and one of the barrels spewed