Journey of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone

said.
    â€œNever hurts.” Smoke pushed back his chair and stood up. “You know these people, Bob?”
    â€œThey been pointed out to me.” He stood up.
    â€œTheir buddies are sure to join them. We’re probably not going to have much time for plan-making. At the first twitch, we start shooting. Take the ones to your left. I’ll take care of the rest.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œLet’s go.”
    Both men had noticed, out of the corners of their eyes, the horses lining both sides of the wide dusty street being cleared from the line of fire.
    They stepped out of the cafe and stood for a moment on the boardwalk, hats pulled down low, letting their eyes adjust to the bright sunlight.
    â€œYour play,” Smoke said. “You call it.”
    â€œRose!” Bob yelled. “Cliff! And any others who tortured and dragged Hatfield. Let’s see if you got the backbone to face someone gun to gun.”
    Rose looked out the window of the Hangout. “Hell, it’s that damn kid.”
    â€œAnd Smoke Jensen,” he was reminded.
    â€œLet’s shoot ’em from here,” Cliff suggested.
    â€œNo!” Lanny Ball stepped in. “They’re callin’ you out fair and square. If you ain’t got the stomach for it, use the back door and cut and run . . . and don’t never show your faces around here agin. I’ve killed a lot of men, and I’ve rode the owlhoot trail with a posse at my back. But I ain’t never tortured nobody while they was trussed up like a hog. I may not be much, but I ain’t no coward.”
    Only a few of the other gunhawks in the large saloon murmured their agreement, but those few were the best-known and most feared of their kind. It was enough to bring the sweat out on the faces of Cliff and Rose and the two others who had taken part in the dragging and torture of Hatfield.
    When open warfare was finally called by Hanks, Lanny and few other who still possessed a modicum of honor would back-shoot and snipe at any known enemy . . . that was the way of war. But when a man called you out to face him, you faced him, eyeball to eyeball.
    With a low curse, Rose checked his guns and stepped out through the batwings, Cliff and the others behind him. It was straight-up noon, the sun a hot bubbling ball overhead. There were no shadows of advantage for either side.
    Smoke and Bob had drifted down the boardwalk and now stood in the middle of the street, about ten feet apart, waiting.
    Rose and Cliff and their two partners in torture stepped off the boardwalk and walked to the center of the street.
    â€œRose to my left,” Bob said. “Cliff is to your right.”
    â€œWho are those other two?”
    â€œI don’t know their names.”
    â€œYou two in the middle!” Smoke called, his voice carrying the two hundred odd feet between them. “You got names?”
    â€œI’m Stanford and this here is Thomas!”
    â€œYou take Stanford, Bob. Thomas is mine.” Smoke’s voice was low.
    â€œYou ready?” Bob asked.
    â€œI been ready.”
    Smoke and Bob started walking, their spurs softly jingling and their boots kicking up small pockets of dust with each step toward showdown.
    â€œYou boys watch this,” Lanny told the others. “I doubt they’s many of you ever seen Jensen in action. Don’t make no mistakes about him. He’s the fastest I ever seen. Some of you may want to change your minds about stayin’ once you seen him.”
    â€œI do not have to watch him,” Diego boasted. “I am better.” He knocked back a shot of whiskey.
    Several of the others in the saloon agreed.
    Lanny smiled at their arrogance. Lanny might be many things, but he was not arrogant when it came to facing Smoke Jensen. He did not feel he was better than Smoke, but he did feel he was as good. When the time came for them to meet, as he knew it would, it would all come down to that first