William W. Johnstone by Law of the Mountain Man

sleeve and proceeded to take a big swig.
    “Hey, piss-ant!” Smith hollered. “I’m talkin’ to you, pig farmer’s boy!”
    “I’m not deaf,” Matthew said softly. “Do you eat bacon, mister?”
    “Haw?”
    “I said do you eat bacon?”
    “Why ... hell, yes, I eat bacon. Don’t ever’body?”
    “Where do you think it comes from—grown on trees?”
    “Are you gettin’ sassy with me, punk?”
    “No, sir,” Matthew replied respectfully. “I was just curious. If you enjoy eating bacon, why do you make fun of those people who raise the hogs?”
    Smith—no mental giant anyway one wanted to view it—wore a look of bewilderment on his face. “I don’t think I lak you very much, four-eyes. As a matter of fact, I know I don’t lak you.”
    “That’s a shame. I have nothing against you, mister.”
    “Let’s take his pants down and make him ride back home buck-assed nekkid!” another Bar V hand suggested.
    The four men all agreed that would be a great idea. They made some crude remarks about what they might find when they shucked Matt’s jeans. And what they might do if one of them could find a corncob.
    “No way,” Smoke muttered, as he stepped away from the bar.
    The two cattlemen suddenly looked very sorry, sober, and sick.
    The barkeep shook his head in disgust at the Bar V hand’s suggestion.
    Leroy earred back the hammer on the .44-.40.
    Matt set his soda pop bottle on the bench and stood up, his right hand hanging by his side.
    “Well, now!” Smith said, surprise in his voice. “The little piggy’s done gone and thought hisself to be all growed up.”
    “I’ll get the corncob, Smith,” a Bar V hand said.
    “You’ll get a bullet,” Matt told him, his quiet words stopping the man and turning him around.
    “You threatenin’ me, pig-boy?” the hand challenged.
    “Aren’t you threatening me?” Matt countered.
    Leroy stepped to a dusty window and pulled the Winchester to his shoulder, sighting in one of the V hands.
    Smoke moved closer to the batwings.
    “Why, you little turd-faced punk!” the Bar V hand hissed at the boy. “I think I’ll just kill you!”
    “You have it to do,” Matt said softly.
    The Bar V riders spread out, all of them grinning, seconds away from a killing.

10
    Smoke pushed open the batwings and stepped out onto the porch. “I’ll take these two so-called gunslicks on the right, Matthew.”
    “And I’ve got that ugly, skinny, bow-legged one on the far left in rifle sights!” Leroy called from inside the store.
    “I guess that leaves you and me, doesn’t it?” Matt told Smith.
    The Bar V riders looked sick at the appearance of Smoke Jensen. This was not something they had counted on.
    “You got no call to interfere in this, Jensen!” Smith hollered. “This ain’t none of your concern.”
    “It is when four of you gang up on one boy, you sorry piece of buffalo droppings.” Smoke then proceeded to hang a cussing on the Bar V riders, and having been jerked up, so to speak, by the old mountain man, Preacher, Smoke could let the cuss words fly when he had a mind to. And today was one of those days.
    The riders took it for a time, and then pride got the best of them.
    “I’ve had it, Jensen!” one yelled at him. “You don’t cuss me like some saddle bum!”
    “Then make your play, damn you!” Smoke lost his temper and started to push.
    The puncher held his hands away from his side. “No way, Jensen. I ain’t no match for you with guns. But I’ll tear your damned head off with my fists if you’ve got the belly for it.”
    “I’ll take you up on that, partner. Whatever your name is.”
    “Larry Noonan.”
    “Oh, yeah!” Smoke said, his voice filled with scorn. “I know enough about you to know you’re a yellow little two-bit punk. You killed an unarmed sheepherder. Shot him in the back, so I recall reading on the dodger.”
    Noonan flushed but did not deny the damning charges.
    “I still got something to settle with this loud-mouthed,