Chapter Seven

It was the middle of the night when Smoke changed trains in Colorado Springs. The train had an extended stop in Denver, but it was still the dark of the morning and Smoke dozed in his seat, barely aware of the stop. It was nearly noon by the time he reached Cheyenne, and after making certain that his horse was off-loaded and put in the stable to be ready for the next leg, Smoke checked his saddlebags with the stationmaster, then found a saloon where he could kill a few hours.

“Do you serve meals here?” he asked.

“Ham, fried potatoes, and biscuits,” the man behind the bar replied. He was wearing a white shirt with sleeve garters, and a string tie. “Not sure what kind of pie we have today. I think it’s apple.”

“Sounds good enough, I’ll take it,” Smoke said. He pointed to an empty table. “I’ll be over there.”

“All right,” the bartender replied with a nod.

Smoke glanced toward two young men who were standing at the far end of the bar. This wasn’t the first time he noticed them. He had seen them when he first stepped into the saloon. And though he had never seen these two particular men before, he had seen men like them in saloons and bars from Montana to New Mexico and from Kansas to California.

They wore their guns low, and they had a way of slouching, as if showing their disdain for the rest of the world. They were men who earned a living with their guns, either directly, by robbery, or indirectly, by hiring their guns out.

It was the latter that concerned Smoke—not that someone might have hired them to come after him—as far as he knew, right now, he had no particular enemies after him. Also, he was not a wanted man, and had not been wanted for many years.

But if these men were hired guns, what stronger recommendation could they have than that they were the ones who had shot and killed Smoke Jensen? It was the same thing he had initially thought about young Emmett Clark, though ultimately, Clark had been on a mission of honor.

There was nothing honorable about these two.

One of them noticed that he was looking at them.

“Hey, old man,” he said. “What are you looking at?”

“Barney, leave my customers be,” the bartender said.

“You stay out of this, Troy. You just stand back there and polish glasses like a good little bartender,” the one called Barney replied.

The other young man with Barney laughed at the comment.

“What do you think, Clay?” Barney asked his friend. “Should I leave the customer be?”

“Depends on the customer,” Clay replied. “Hey, customer, are we bothering you?”

“Not too much,” Smoke replied.

“There you go, barkeep, did you hear that?” Barney called. “He said his ownself that we ain’t botherin’ him all that much.”

“How come it is that we ain’t botherin’ you all that much?” Clay asked.

“I guess it’s because I’ve been around braying jackasses like you two all my life,” Smoke said easily. “I’ve just learned to turn them off.”

The others in the saloon, who had suspended their own conversations and activities to monitor the developing drama, laughed loudly at Smoke’s rejoinder.

The two young punks were angered by the remark, and both of them stepped away from the bar, then stood facing him, their legs slightly spread, their arms hanging loose with their right hands curled and hovering just over the butts of their pistols.

“Mister, do you know who you are talking to?”

“From what I gather, your name is Barney and his name is Clay. Am I right?”

“Yeah. I’m Barney Hobbs, this here is Clay Vetters. I reckon you’ve heard of us?”

“Can’t say as I have,” Smoke replied.

“That don’t matter none. I reckon that after we kill you, just about ever’ one will know who we are. That’s right, ain’t it? Killin’ you is goin’ to make us famous, don’t you think?”

“Who is this fella?” one of the customers asked, saying the words much louder than he intended.

Smoke still said nothing.

“Of course, seein’ as you’ll be dead, it won’t make no difference what you actual think, will it?”

Again, Smoke remained quiet.

“You don’t talk a lot, do you?” Barney asked.

“Well, if I don’t talk much, it seems to balance out, because you two can’t seem to shut up,” Smoke said.

There was more laughter, though by now, the laughter was somewhat strained as everyone in the saloon realized that the Rubicon had been crossed and there was no going back. This was going to end in bloodshed.

“Before we start this little dance, I need to know that we are killin’ the right man. You are Smoke Jensen, aren’t you?”

“If I told you I wasn’t, would it make any difference?”

“Nah. You’ve done shot your mouth off too much. I reckon we’re goin’ to kill you, no matter who you are.”

“I am Smoke Jensen.”

Now there was a collective gasp from all who were in the saloon.

“I know’d that was him soon as he come in here,” a quiet voice said from somewhere else in the saloon.

“This here is goin’ to be interestin’ to watch,” yet another voice said.

“I’m glad you come clean with that—Mister—Jensen,” Barney said, setting the word “Mister” apart from the rest of the sentence. “Now we will have witnesses who can back up our claim as to who you are.”

Smoke shook his head. “The witnesses aren’t going to do you any good,” he said.

“What do you mean they ain’t goin’ to do us any good? Why, word will spread all over ‘bout you bein’ kilt and ‘bout who the ones was that kilt you,” Clay said.

“It’s not going to do you any good because you’ll be dead,” Smoke said to Clay. Then he looked directly at Barney. “Both of you will be dead.”

Smoke’s comment was followed by a beat of silence.

“If you boys are going to make your play, do it now and be damned,” Smoke said. “I’ve got my lunch comin', and I don’t figure on lettin’ it get cold.”

Smoke’s voice was calm, cold as ice. His face was an indecipherable, blank mask. Only his steel-gray eyes showed any animation, and one could almost imagine that they were windows, opening on to hell.

“Maybe you ain’t noticed Mr. High-an'-Mighty Smoke Jensen, but there’s two of us,” Barney said. “I wouldn’t be pushin’ it if I was you. That is, unlessen you’re all that anxious to die.”

“I don’t have all day, gentlemen,” Smoke said. “Are you going to draw? Or do you plan on trying to talk me to death? ”

Smoke fixed the two young men with a cold death stare, and he could see they were beginning to have second thoughts. Perhaps they had made a mistake, perhaps the fact that there were two of them did not necessarily mean they could take him. They began to back away from their truculence. Beads of perspiration broke out on their foreheads, and Clay’s lower lip began to quiver.

“Barney, what are we doing?” he asked quietly.

Barney forced a grin.

“We do what we said we was goin’ to do,” Barney said.

“What?” Clay replied, fright obvious in his voice.

“We’ve been spoofin’ you, Mr. Jensen. But to show you there’s no hard feelin’s, we’d like to pay for your lunch,” Barney said. “Barkeep, bring us the bill.”

Sensing that the tension had been eased, the others in the saloon relaxed, breathed more easily, and renewed their conversations. A young woman came from the kitchen carrying a tray laden with the meal Smoke had ordered.

Smoke touched the brim of his hat and nodded at the two men. “I’m much obliged,” he said.

Barney and Clay returned to their private conversation at the far end of the bar, while Smoke ate his lunch.

After he finished his meal, he looked around the room and seeing a player leaving one of the card games, went over and inquired politely if he could join.

“It would be an honor to have you join us, Mr. Jensen,” one of the players said, and the others agreed.

He was well into the game, betting cautiously not wanting to lose, but not that concerned about winning. What was more important to him was just that he be able to entertain himself for a couple of hours, and he was doing that, all the while keeping an eye on the clock so as not to miss the train. The other players were cordial, and as no one was winning or losing very much, it was a very pleasant way of passing time.

With a final glance at the clock, Smoke noticed that it was within twenty minutes of the arrival time of the next westbound train.

“Gentlemen,” he said, folding his cards and pulling in his personal bank, “I thank you for inviting me in to your game. It has made my wait for the train much more pleasant.”

“Mr. Jensen, you were indeed a welcome visitor,” one of the other players said.

Smoke put the money back in his pocket and started toward the door.

“Smoke, look out!” one of the card players shouted.

Almost concurrent with the player’s shout was the crash of gunfire. Only the fact that Smoke had reacted to the warning saved his life, for the bullet whizzed by his ear so closely that he could feel the wind of its passing.

Smoke drew and whirled around in one motion. As he did so, he saw Barney and Clay standing in the middle of the floor. Barney had just fired at him, as evidenced by the smoke that was curling up from the barrel of his pistol. Clay was raising his pistol to fire.

Smoke fired twice, the shots coming so close on top of each other that to most of the witnesses, it sounded as if there was only one shot. And yet, two men went down. It had all happened too quickly for any of the others in the saloon to try and get out of the line of fire. Most were still moving, though by now it was all over.

Barney was killed instantly, but Clay was still alive. He sat up and tried to reach for the pistol that was lying on the floor just in front of him. Smoke was to him in a few quick steps and, using the toe of his boot, he kicked the pistol across the floor, out of reach of the wounded man.

“I’m dying,” the wounded man said.

“Yes, you are,” Smoke said. “Why did you shoot at me? Why couldn’t the two of you just leave it alone?”

“Because you are Smoke Jensen,” Clay answered.

“What have I ever done to you?”

“Barney said that iffen we was to kill you, we’d make a lot of money,” Clay said. “I shouldn’t a’ listened to him. The sumbitch got me kilt is what he done.”

Clay coughed once, and blood spilled from his mouth. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell over.

“Damn, Mr. Jensen, do you get this all the time?” one of the cardplayers asked.

“Too many times,” Smoke replied. He put his gun away just as the city marshal came in.

The marshal saw the two bodies on the floor, and the others standing around looking down at them. The marshal had his gun drawn as well, but seeing nobody with a drawn weapon, he put his pistol back in his holster.

“Someone want to tell me what happened here?” he asked.

Everybody started talking at once, and the marshal, in exasperation, held up his hand.

“Hold it, hold it!” he called. “I need just one person to tell me what happened.”

Most of the people looked directly at Smoke.

“I have a feeling you’re involved in this,” the marshal said.

“If the fact that I killed them means I’m involved, then yes, I’m involved,” Smoke said.

“Why did you kill them?”

“He didn’t have no choice, Marshal,” someone said, and everyone else in the saloon agreed with him.

The marshal shook his head and again, held up his hands for quiet. “What’s your name?”

“Jensen. Kirby Jensen, though most people call me Smoke.”

A big smile spread across the marshal’s face. “Smoke Jensen?” He stuck out his hand. “Damn if I wouldn’t like to shake your hand. That is, if you don’t mind. Though, I reckon just about every one you meet wants to shake your hand.”

“It’s not the people who want to shake my hand that I have a problem with,” Smoke said. He glanced back toward the two bodies that were lying on the floor. “It’s the people who want to kill me that give me trouble.”

“Yeah,” the marshal said, nodding and looking as well at the bodies. “I see what you mean. Are you going to be here long, Mr. Jensen?”

“You running me out of town, Marshal?” Smoke asked, though the tone of his voice softened the words so that it was not a challenge.

“What? No, no,” the marshal replied. “You’re free to stay here as long as you want. I was just wonderin’ if there were likely to be any more incidents like this. I mean, fellas tryin’ to make a name for themselves.”

“I’m not staying, Marshal. I’ll be leaving on the next train. That is, unless you need me to stay for an inquest.”

“Won’t be necessary, Mr. Jensen,” the marshal said. “Unless someone in here has a different story from the one I’ve been hearing.”

There were several then who spoke up, but all were in agreement with the initial report that Smoke Jensen had acted in self-defense. There was not one word in opposition.

“I’d say that you are free to go,” the marshal said.