“No offense, Preacher,” Monte said, “but I hope not. I happen to know you consider a big ruckus entertaining.”
“Well, it keeps things from gettin’ monotonous, anyway,” the old mountain man said with a chuckle.
The three of them left Longmont’s Saloon and turned toward the Brown Dirt Cowboy, which was Big Rock’s second most-successful saloon. By any criteria, it was far down on the scale when compared to Louis’s place. A man named Emmett Brown owned and operated it. He tried to keep order there, but brawls frequently broke out among the customers.
Another one might well be in the offing if Bart Pascoe and Gil Green got together before Smoke, Preacher, and Monte Carson arrived.
That was exactly what had happened, Smoke saw as he entered the saloon behind the sheriff. Two groups of men faced each other, one at each end of the bar, and a tense feeling of impending violence hung in the air. The other customers had drawn back, giving the rival freighters plenty of room.
Emmett Brown stood behind the bar, looking worried. An expression of relief appeared on his face when he saw Monte Carson, followed by Smoke and Preacher. “Sheriff!” he called loudly in a clear attempt to get the attention of the men standing in front of the bar. “I’m glad to see you.”
“I ain’t,” growled Bart Pascoe. He was a burly bear of a man in a buffalo coat. A long black beard bristled from his jutting jaw. A floppy-brimmed black hat drooped above his rugged face. “You ain’t needed here, Sheriff. Won’t be no trouble. My boys and me are just gonna get rid of some trash is all.”
Gil Green said, “I’m lookin’ at the only trash in here.” He was taller and leaner than Pascoe, with a clean-shaven, lantern-jawed face and fists like mallets at the end of long, wiry arms. Pascoe probably outweighed him by fifty or sixty pounds, but in a fight Green would have a considerably greater reach.
Green’s bunch was outnumbered. He had three men at his back. Pascoe had five. Still, six to four odds weren’t that bad. Most men on the prod wouldn’t back down from them—especially if any booze was involved, as it obviously had been.
“All right. Listen to me, all of you,” Monte Carson began. “There’s not going to be any ruckus today. Pascoe, you and your men have been here for a while. You’ve had your drinks. You file on out and go about your business. Green, you and your men stay right where you are and don’t move until Pascoe’s wagons are out of town. Is that understood?”
Green sneered “What I understand, Sheriff, is that you’re mighty quick to strut in here and start givin’ orders when you’ve got your pet gunfighter with you. You might not act so damn high and mighty if you couldn’t sic Jensen on anybody you want gunned down.”
Anger welled up inside Smoke. He had a bit of a temper himself, and didn’t like what Green had said. He started to step around Monte when the lawman held out an arm to stop him.
Monte strode forward and said in a tight voice, “You just bought yourself and your boys a ticket out of town. You’re going to be the first to leave after all.”
One of Green’s muleskinners protested. “That ain’t fair. We just got here. Ain’t even had a drink yet, let alone a chance to dally with one o’ Brown’s saloon gals!”
“That’s too bad. Take it up with your boss. He’s the one with the big mouth.”
Green’s hands clenched into bony fists as he moved closer to Monte. “I’m not gonna stand for this, Carson.”
“That’s Sheriff Carson,” Monte reminded him. “You take a swing at me, you’ll be assaulting an officer of the law. That’ll be thirty days behind bars, if not more.”
“Might be worth it, you high and mighty son of a—”
Smoke stepped in, knowing that—badge or no badge—Monte wouldn’t take being called a name like that. As he crowded between the two men, he told Green, “I don’t see any guns on you or any of your men, mister.”
“You gonna threaten us with those smokepoles of yours now?” Green asked with another sneer.
“Nope.” Smoke’s hands went to the buckle of the gun belt around his waist. “I’m going to take them off and ask you to step outside with me. No sense in us laying waste to Mr. Brown’s saloon.”
“Smoke, you’re out of line,” Monte snapped. “We came down here to stop a fight, not start one.”
“Sometimes things can’t be stopped, only played out to their natural conclusion.”
“I’m not afraid to fight you, Jensen,” Green blustered. “Not man-to-man.”
“Let’s get at it, then,” Smoke said as he handed his gun belt and holstered Colts to Preacher.
The old mountain man had a big grin on his grizzled face. He was going to get some entertainment after all, it looked like.
“Hold on, hold on,” rumbled Bart Pascoe. “I got a grudge o’ my own against Green. If you beat the tar out of him, I can’t wallop him my own self.”
Green said, “Any tar beatin’, I’ll be the one doin’ it.”
Smoke rubbed his chin and frowned in thought for a moment, then said, “We’ve got a problem here, all right. If I whip Green for what he said, then you’re going to be mad at me, Pascoe. Have I got that right?”
“You damn sure do!”
Smoke spread his hands. “Then I guess the only solution is for me to whip Green, then fight you,” he said to the burly man in the buffalo coat.
“Wait just a minute,” Monte Carson said. “This is going from bad to worse. There’s not gonna be any fights, between anybody!”
As Smoke turned his head to talk to his old friend, Green suddenly yelled, “The hell there ain’t!” and lunged at Smoke, bringing his right fist around in a looping, devastating punch.
CHAPTER 14
The blow that Green aimed at Smoke’s head was a real blockbuster, the sort of punch that might kill a man, as well as break a few knuckles on the hand that landed it, but it had to connect solidly with its target to do that.
Smoke twisted aside just in time to avoid the full force of the punch. Green’s knobby knuckles glanced off the side of his head with enough power to knock him against the bar, but he didn’t go down. In fact, he recovered so quickly that he was able to ram a punch of his own into the middle of Green’s face while the man was still close to him. The blow rocked Green’s head back.
The freight line owner might have a rangy, wiry look about him, but a lifetime of hard work had left him whang-leather tough. He shook off the effects of Smoke’s punch and bored in, hooking a left and a right to the belly while he had Smoke pinned against the bar.
Smoke lifted both arms and brought his fists crashing down on Green’s shoulders at the point where they met the man’s neck. The precisely aimed blows made Green’s arms go numb momentarily. As his arms sagged, his eyes widened in anticipation of what was about to happen.
Smoke finished him off with a right hook that smashed into the jaw and sent him flying backwards. Green landed in a skidding sprawl across the sawdust-littered floor and wound up lying stunned at the feet of Bart Pascoe.
Smoke’s hat had fallen off during the brief altercation, but Preacher had picked it up. Smoke took it and brushed sawdust off of it.
Pascoe stared down at Gil Green then lifted his head, and let out a raucous, “Haw-haw!”
Smoke put his hat on and said, “I seem to recall something about you and me tangling now, Bart.”
“No, sir!” Pascoe replied with an emphatic shake of his head. “Sure, I would’ve liked to bounce my fists off that hard skull o’ Green’s a few times, but seein’ the addled look on his face right now is worth a mite of disappointment.” He grunted. “Besides, I ain’t a tarnal idiot. Green got in the first lick, but you still handled him without even breakin’ a sweat. I figure if you and me was to go head-to-head, I could take you sooner or later—maybe we’ll find out one o’ these days—but the boys and me got a long haul with those goods and supplies, and I don’t hanker to spend the whole trip achin’ in ever’ bone and muscle.”
Monte Carson pointed a thumb toward the do
or. “Go ahead and get out of town, then. It’ll take Green a while to regain his senses, and by the time he does, I expect you and your wagons to be long gone.”
“All right, Sheriff.” Pascoe jerked his bushy head in a signal for his men to follow him. They all trooped out of the Brown Dirt Cowboy.
Monte spoke to Green’s men. “Pick up your boss and lay him on a table until he comes around. No more trouble.”
“No trouble, Sheriff,” one of the freighters promised.
With a disgusted shake of his head, Monte Carson left the saloon. Smoke and Preacher followed him, Smoke buckling the gun belt back around his lean hips.
Monte stopped on the boardwalk outside the Brown Dirt Cowboy, fingered his chin for a moment, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He looked like he had a bitter taste under his tongue.
“Something wrong, Monte?” Smoke asked.
“Yeah. Damn right there’s something wrong.”
“I don’t see what it is. We headed off a brawl that likely would’ve done considerable damage to Brown’s saloon.”
“You headed it off,” Monte said sharply. “It’s gotten to where folks around here don’t always listen to what I tell them . . . unless you’re with me. Maybe you really have become my pet gunfighter, Smoke.”
“I’m nobody’s pet, and you know that,” Smoke replied with a sharp edge in his voice.
Monte waved a hand. “I didn’t mean it like that. Sorry for the way it sounded. But things have got me to thinking . . . who’s the real law around here, Smoke, you or me?”
Smoke frowned. He could tell that his friend was genuinely upset. He suggested, “Why don’t we go back to Louis’s, have a cup of coffee, and talk about this?”
Preacher said, “Talk, talk, talk. That fight didn’t hardly last no time at all, and now you want to go talk.” He snorted. “Maybe I’ll just mosey along to the church and see if Sally and the other ladies need any help plannin’ their party. Sounds like it might be more excitin’ than listen’ to you two jaw at each other.”
“Preacher’s right,” Monte said. “Forget it, Smoke. I’m going to walk down to the depot and make sure Pascoe and his bunch get out of town with their wagons. Green’ll be waking up before too much longer, if he hasn’t come around already.”
“All right,” Smoke agreed. He started to add that if Monte needed him for anything, he’d be at Longmont’s, but decided that given the sheriff’s mood, that might not be a good idea.
As Monte strode off toward the railroad station, Preacher said to Smoke, “Come on, let’s get back to that French fella’s place. Maybe I’ll try some o’ that fancy brandy o’ his, after all. At my age, I need somethin’ to get my blood pumpin’ again, and that little scuffle sure didn’t do it!”
Sugarloaf Ranch
Sally seemed quite pleased with the way the plans for the Christmas celebration were going. Before they left the ranch, she had put a roast on the stove to cook slowly for supper, and she was humming Christmas carols to herself as she sliced potatoes and wild onions to add to the pot.
Smoke was glad to see her so happy. In the years they had been together, they had experienced many adventures and endured more than their share of danger. She deserved some peace and quiet and contentment.
In the back of his mind, though, was a little nagging voice warning him that trouble always seemed to be right around the corner.
It might show up in the person of Eagle-Eye Callahan. Smoke cornered Preacher on the front porch where the old mountain man was stoking a foul-smelling briar pipe.
“Figured it’d be best not to pollute the air inside the house with this ol’ pipe o’ mine,” Preacher commented.
“You figured right,” Smoke told him as he casually leaned a shoulder against one of the porch posts. “Preacher, I’ve been wondering . . . what are the chances that this fella Callahan is going to trail you here to the Sugarloaf?”
Preacher looked uncomfortable, which was unusual for him. He was always sure of himself, and too old to be embarrassed, he claimed. “I don’t know. I wasn’t exactly hidin’ out when I got word that ol’ Eagle-Eye was lookin’ for me. Like I done told you, he run a tradin’ post for a lot o’ years, so it’s been a while since he had to do any real trailin’, but he was always pretty good at it, back in our younger days.”
“How did you find out about it in the first place?”
Preacher had the pipe going. He puffed on it until a cloud of gray smoke wreathed his face then said, “He sent me a letter. It caught up to me in Laramie.”
“He told you about his wife and her, uh, feelings for you?”
“Yeah.” Preacher sighed. “Gals always did seem to find me dang near irresistible, for some reason.”
“It’s a mystery, all right,” Smoke commented dryly.
“Anyway, Eagle-Eye went on to say in his letter that he was comin’ after me. He stated flat-out that his honor had been insulted, and one of us had to die. Now, you know me, Smoke, I ain’t a-feared of dyin’. Lord knows, I’ve lived a long time and seen more ‘n my share of life, good and bad. Sure, I wouldn’t mind stayin’ around for a spell longer, but if my string has played out, then so be it.”
“That doesn’t give Callahan any right to kill you for something that’s not even your fault!”
“No, it don’t,” Preacher agreed, “and I worried that if there was a showdown betwixt the two of us, I might not be able to stop myself from . . .” Preacher’s voice trailed off.
After a moment Smoke finished the thought for him. “You’re worried that you might kill Callahan, not that he might kill you.”
“Well, let’s just look at it reasonable-like. I been fussin’ and fightin’ and scrapin’ for my life for nigh on to seventy years now! Eagle-Eye’s been sittin’ in a tradin’ post, sellin’ goods and countin’ his money, for forty years. Who do you figure’s likely to be the more dangerous o’ the two?”
“So you plan on laying low here until he forgets about this vengeance quest of his?”
Preacher nodded solemnly. “That’s what I’m hopin’ will happen.”
“Preacher . . . did it occur to you that a lot of folks know that you and I are friends?”
“Well, I s’pose they’s some.” Preacher’s weathered forehead creased even more than it already was as he frowned. “You reckon he’ll know to come here to look for me?”
“He well might,” Smoke said. “What are you going to do if he shows up?”
Preacher heaved a sigh. “Try to talk some sense into his fool head, I reckon.”
“You think that’ll do any good?”
“’Tain’t likely,” admitted the old mountain man.
“If Callahan comes here, you can stay out of sight and we’ll tell him you haven’t been here.”
“You mean lie?” Preacher shook his head. “I know that wouldn’t sit good with you, son. Your pa raised you to be honest and always tell the truth. Anyway, if you was to do that, you’d have to let Miss Sally in on what’s goin’ on, and I’d just as soon she didn’t know.”
“If Callahan’s trying to kill you, she’s going to figure out that something’s wrong.”
“Well, hell. You’re right about that.” Preacher heaved another sigh. “I’ve got myself in a plumb mess there ain’t no good way out of, haven’t I?”
“It might not be any of your doing . . . but yeah, you’re sort of between a rock and a hard place.”
“Kinda like you and that star packer from Big Rock?”
“Monte?” Smoke straightened from his casual stance against the porch post. “What are you talking about, Preacher?”
“I mean he feels like you sorta stepped on his toes today, by handlin’ that trouble in the saloon the way you did.”
“Hell, he asked me for my help!” Smoke exclaimed.
“Yeah, he sure did, but I reckon he figured he’d take the lead in puttin’ down any ruckus, not you.”
“Then he shouldn’t have dragged me into the mess to start
with.”
“Maybe he didn’t think about that. Or maybe after it was over he just realized how many times you done pulled his fat outta the fire. Been a heap of them, ain’t there?”
Smoke shrugged. Trouble had come rampaging into Big Rock on plenty of occasions, and he and Monte Carson had faced it together. The idea that Monte might sometimes wind up resenting his help had never crossed Smoke’s mind.
“You might have a point,” he told Preacher. “Monte’s a plenty tough hombre in his own right. Maybe next time there’s a problem when I’m in town, I’ll just back off so he can handle it himself.”
“Might be a good idea,” Preacher said. “Providin’ that the trouble ain’t too bad . . .”
Both men were deep in their thoughts that they didn’t notice a few snowflakes drifting down from the overcast sky. The snow fell for only a moment and then stopped, unseen as if it had never been there.
CHAPTER 15
Denver, Colorado
The saloon was a good one, with chandeliers and a gleaming mirror behind the bar and a large, gilt-framed painting of an amply endowed woman who was nude except for a filmy scarf drifting around her. The brass foot rail shone, and the top of the mahogany bar was polished to a high gleam. Mitch Clark could see himself in it as he stood there waiting for the bartender to come over.
He was alone. Curly, Jed, Hector, and Blind Jimmy had stayed behind at the cheap hotel where they had gotten rooms with some of their rapidly dwindling funds. Clark hoped that not only would Jim Bleeker take them into his gang, but that he might provide them with a little walking around money, as well.
Clark thought he looked pretty good. He had shaken out the brown tweed suit from his bedroll, and he still wore Jimmy’s bowler hat. Not exactly a swell, but not bad. Of course, that might not be enough to impress a man like Jim Bleeker.
The bartender, a red-faced man with long, drooping sideburn whiskers, finally walked along the hardwood to him. “What’ll it be, mister?”
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