Warpath of the Mountain Man

Book 28: Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Short Stories

Synopsis

USA Today best-selling author William W. Johnstone has over 10 million copies of his books in print. His Mountain Man series has become a favorite of listeners looking for the sweet taste of revenge in the Wild West. Legendary hero Smoke Jensen comes to the rescue once again when a crew of crooked outlaws attempts to rob the town’s bank. After Smoke puts a damper on their plans, leader of the pack, renegade Jack Tatum, is determined to seek vengeance. Little does Tatum know—no one mistreats Smoke’s family or friends and gets away with it.

Release date: August 29, 2017

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

The territorial prison was an adobe brick building that stood in the middle of 180 acres between 14th East and 21st South in the town of Sugar House in the Utah Territory. Though built to house less than two hundred men, it was already crammed to the breaking point with some of the meanest men west of the Mississippi—from footpads to rapists to bank robbers to murderers, sooner or later they all ended up here.

In Cellhouse No. 1, over thirty men slept on cots in corridors between the cells, eating their meals in three shifts and using buckets for privies since the toilet facilities were so primitive.

The place was barely tolerable in the heat of summer, but now that the fall was upon the region and the nighttime temperatures often fell into the twenties, the situation was almost unbearable.

One of the hardest men in the group of very hard men indeed, Ozark Jack Berlin, leaned over the bucket full of piss and shit and spat out his food. He was a big man, standing three inches over six feet, with muscular shoulders as broad as an ax handle. His face was rough-featured, set under a full head of unruly black hair, with a nose that’d been broken more than once and lips that were thin and cruel.

“This stuff ain’t fit for man nor beast!” he groused to the half-breed Modoc Indian sitting on a cot next to his. The Indian had long black hair hanging down over his ears to his collar, and his reddish-bronze skin framed a hooked nose over full lips that he was constantly licking.

Blue Owl looked up from his plate, which was empty except for a small piece of biscuit he was using to sop up the gravy from the maggot-riddled horse meat. “If you no want yours, shove it over here,” he growled. “It’s better’n buffalo meat any day.”

Berlin handed Blue Owl his plate. “I tell ya’, Blue Owl, I think it’s ’bout time to bust outta this joint.”

Blue Owl didn’t answer, being busy shoving Berlin’s food into his mouth, but he cut his eyes to the side and nodded his agreement.

“I got me an idea how we can do it,” said Berlin.

Blue Owl grunted, his eyebrows raised.

“Today’s payday for the guards. I figger they’ll all head for town soon’s they get their money to spend it on whores an’ whiskey.”

Blue Owl nodded again, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

“That’ll only leave one man in Cellhouse No. 1, an’ a couple more in the other parts of the building. If’n we can get our hands on the guard’s gun, we can break into the armory an’ steal us some more weapons an’ take over the rest of the prison.”

Blue Owl burped loudly, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “Then what, Jack?” he asked. “We gonna walk all the way to Salt Lake City?”

Berlin smiled, shaking his head. “Naw. We’ll take the guards’ hosses an’ the supply wagons they keep around back, and head toward Colorado. They’s plenty of sodbusters an’ farmers ’tween here an there. We’ll just take what we need along the way.”

Blue Owl shrugged, flipping his hair out of his face with a thick, meaty finger. “Sounds all right to me. Anyway, it’ll beat sittin’ here an’ waitin’ to be hung.”

After the evening meal, prison guard Joe Johnson moved through the cell block, picking up plates and tin cups from the inmates. Following protocol set up by the warden, he wore no weapon while in the company of the criminals he was working with. He was watched by guard Billy Thornton, who was standing outside the bars of the cell block, a .44 Colt in a holster on his hip and an American Arms 12-gauge shotgun cradled in his arms.

It was a ritual they’d played out countless times, and Thornton was bored. He leaned against a wall and covered his mouth with a hand as he yawned. He’d been up most of the night playing poker after his shift the night before, and hadn’t slept well when he’d finally crawled into his bed in the morning. As Joe Johnson leaned down to take Berlin’s plate from him, Berlin glanced over his shoulder and saw Thornton leaning back against the wall with his eyes closed.

Quick as a flash, Berlin grabbed the back of Johnson’s head and hit him in the throat with his closed fist.

Johnson’s eyes bulged and his mouth opened as he gulped for air like a fish out of water. As the skin of his face turned blue and he dropped to his knees, his hands at his throat, Berlin turned and called to Thornton.

“Hey, Billy. Somethin’s wrong with Joe. He’s choking!”

Thornton came to attention, looked into the cell block, and saw his friend Joe on his knees, his face blue and his mouth open and gasping as he jerked wide eyes back and forth.

Thornton quickly grabbed the keys to the cell door off his belt and shoved the bars open. He ran to Joe’s side and went down on one knee to see if he could help.

Blue Owl stepped up behind Thornton, put his hands together, and swung them like a club into the back of Thornton’s neck.

The guard dropped as if he’d been poleaxed.

Berlin grabbed the shotgun before it could hit the dirt floor of the cell, and Blue Owl slipped the .44 Colt from Thornton’s holster as he fell facedown on the ground.

Berlin ran toward the cell door, shouting over his shoulder to one of the men standing there as Johnson finally gasped his last breath, “Grab them keys, boys. We’re gettin’ outta here!”

Sam Cook, in prison for raping and killing two women, took the keys off the unconscious Thornton’s belt and followed Berlin and Blue Owl through the door. Behind him, the other thirty men in the cell block scrambled to their feet and rushed after them.

Berlin slowed to a walk as he rounded the corner in the corridor leading from Cellhouse No. 1. He eared back the hammers on the shotgun and pointed it ahead of him as he walked toward a desk at the end of the corridor.

Bob Colton, head guard, was sitting behind the desk, finishing his supper of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. He looked up, and almost choked on his chicken leg when he saw Ozark Jack Berlin stalking toward him with the double-barreled shotgun aimed at his gullet.

“Howdy, Bob,” Berlin said amiably. “How ’bout you take that hogleg outta your holster and put it on the desk there?”

Colton swallowed, and gingerly pulled his pistol out of his holster and placed it on the desk in front of him.

“Don’t do nothing stupid, Ozark,” he croaked through a suddenly dry throat.

“Stupid would be stayin’ here to be hanged, Bob. Now, get to your feet and walk on back into the cell back there, or I’ll spread your guts all over the wall.”

As Colton walked down the corridor, Berlin called, “Sam, put him in the cell with the others and lock the doors.”

Less than thirty minutes later, Berlin, Blue Owl, and the other thirty men were in the prison armory, where they had armed themselves with pistols, shotguns, and rifles, and were stuffing their pockets with boxes of ammunition.

Two other guards who happened upon the group were stripped of their weapons and placed in the cell house with the others.

The prisoners then made their way to the stables, saddled up ten horses, hitched up a couple of teams to two supply wagons, and raced out of the prison gates. The day-shift guards continued to sleep in their barracks, unaware of the prison break.

As the escapees rode down the trail away from the town of Sugar House toward the mountains in the distance, Blue Owl inclined his head toward the men riding in the wagons. “We ain’t gonna make much time with them wagons, Ozark. What’re we gonna do?”

Berlin shrugged. “There’s plenty of farms ’tween here and the high country. We’ll just stop along the way and take what horses and supplies we need.” He grinned, exposing blackened teeth. “After all, who’s gonna stop us?”

Warden Joshua M. Stevens came out of a sound sleep with his heart hammering as someone pounded on his door.

His wife, Sofie, blinked her eyes and stared at him in fear at the harsh sound.

“Josh, what’s that noise?” she asked sleepily, rubbing her eyes.

“Go back to bed, dear,” he said, climbing out of bed and pulling on a robe. “It’s just someone at the door. I’ll take care of it.”

On the way to answer the door, Stevens paused to pick up a Colt off a dining room sideboard. Being the warden of a prison that housed hundreds of desperados made a man cautious—especially when awakened in the middle of the night.

“Who is it?” Stevens called from behind the closed and locked door, earing back the hammer on his pistol. Over the years, he’d made plenty of enemies, some of whom had vowed revenge when they got released.

“It’s Brock Jackson, Warden,” the answer came.

Brock was the assistant warden, Stevens’s second in command at the prison.

Stevens eased the hammer down on the Colt and opened the door.

“What the hell are you doing here at this ungodly hour?” Stevens asked irritably as he showed the man in.

Jackson twirled his hat in his hand nervously as he entered the warden’s drawing room.

“There’s been a prison break, Josh,” he said without preamble.

Stevens’s heart began to pound again at the news. “Anyone injured?” he asked.

Jackson nodded, his eyes grim. “One of the guards, Joe Johnson, was killed. Another, Billy Thornton, was knocked unconscious, but he’s recovering.”

“Tell me what happened while I boil some coffee,” Stevens said curtly, walking toward the kitchen.

After a fire was lit in the stove, Stevens took a cigar out of a box and lit it, sitting at the kitchen table.

“Ozark Jack Berlin and that breed Blue Owl killed Johnson, and when Thornton went in to help, they knocked him out and took his weapons.” Jackson shrugged. “After that, they got the drop on the other night-shift guards, broke into the armory, and stole some weapons and ammunition, then took horses and wagons out of the stables and hightailed it toward the mountains.”

“How many got out?”

“Over thirty . . . all from Cellhouse No. 1,” Jackson answered.

“Damn! Those are the worst men we’ve got,” Stevens said, a worried look on his face.

“You’re right about that, Josh. There ain’t a one of ’em that wouldn’t cut the throat of a baby if it meant they’d go free.”

Stevens sighed. “Anybody told Mrs. Johnson about Joe yet?” he asked.

“I sent one of the guards who’s a good friend over to break the news to her.”

As the coffee began to boil, Stevens got to his feet and poured them each a cup.

“Well, I’ll get dressed and head on over to the telegraph office. I’ve got to notify the governor as soon as it’s light.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“We don’t have enough men to go chasing them, not and still guard the prison. You’d better get on over to the Army post and see if they’ll send a patrol out after them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Brock . . .”

“Yes?”

“Tell the captain over there to send plenty of good men. Let him know what kind of galoots they’ll be going up against.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ten miles east of Salt Lake City, Ozark Jack Berlin held up his hand as his men crested a small ridge looking down on a valley below. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, sending bright orange and red rays over the farm below.

There was a main house, a large barn, and off to one side a bunkhouse. In a corral next to the barn, about fifteen horses could be seen.

Berlin nodded. “Looks like just what we need, boys,” he growled.

His men pulled out their weapons and leaned over their horses as Berlin led the charge down the side of the hill.

As they galloped down the slope, a man and a woman appeared on the porch of the house. The man gave a yell and the woman disappeared back inside. Men began to boil out of the bunkhouse, some still in their long underwear and pulling their boots on.

The battle was over quickly, the seven hands and the ranch owner no match for thirty hardened gunmen. Within minutes, eight men lay dead on the ground, along with one of Berlin’s men.

Berlin, breathing heavily, pointed to the corral and barn. “Get them hosses saddled an’ see what else you can find in the barn and bunkhouse,” he called. “We need some clothes an’ supplies, an’ don’t forget to get their guns and ammunition ’fore we leave.”

Blue Owl cut his eyes toward the house, where the woman had disappeared. “You go ahead, Boss. I got me some business in the house.”

Berlin grinned. “Save a little for the rest of us, Blue Owl. Don’t cut her up till we get our turn.”

Blue Owl stared at him. “But Ozark, that’s half the fun.”

“You can cut her when the rest of us are done, but it’s been a long time since most of us have had a woman, so take it easy.”

Blue Owl nodded as he turned his horse’s head toward the house.

Later, Berlin took stock of what they’d found. Most of the men were able to get out of their prison coveralls and into jeans and shirts, though some were too big to fit into the clothes of the farmer and his hands. They also found enough horses in the corral and barn to get all of the men on horseback and off the wagons, along with more guns, rifles, shotguns, and even some dynamite the farmer used to bust up tree stumps.

All of the food was taken from the house. Then, with the farmer’s wife’s body still lying on the bed in their bedroom, Berlin put a torch to the house.

As they walked their horses toward the distant mountains, Berlin said, “A couple’a more farms like this, an’ we should have enough supplies and horses to get us through the mountains an’ into Colorado.”

Blue Owl glanced at the snow-covered peaks. “It’ll be hard goin’ if the snows come early,” he observed.

Berlin laughed. “Not as hard as goin’ the other way. I suspect the Army’ll be on our trail by now.”

Blue Owl smiled. “If they try to follow us up into the high country, it will be easy to ambush them.”

“That’s what I figured. If we can kill enough of ’em, they’ll soon tire of chasin’ us,” Berlin said, spurring his horse into a canter toward the mountains ahead.

Army Captain Wallace Bickford looked across his desk at Brock Jackson. “Are you telling me thirty of the worst criminals in your prison just walked out last night?”

Jackson nodded grimly. “Yeah, Captain. Only, they didn’t just walk out. They killed one guard and smashed another’s head in. Like I told you, these men are all killers—about as bad as men can be. If we don’t do something soon, they’re gonna leave a trail of blood behind them that’ll make newspapers all over the country.”

Captain Bickford looked out the window for a moment. “Mr. Jackson, I want to be honest with you. I just got a batch of fresh recruits here. Not only have these boys not seen any action yet, I’m just not sure they’re up to a job like this.”

Jackson leaned forward, his hands on the desk. “Captain, ready or not, the Army took them in and made them soldiers. Now, they got a job to do and I’m afraid there isn’t anyone else available to do it.”

Bickford pursed his lips. “Maybe it’ll be all right if I send them out with a couple of sergeants who’ve been around for a while.”

Jackson stood up, a tight smile on his face. “Good. But Captain, be sure and send plenty of men. If I’m right, there are gonna be quite a few who don’t come back.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, Mr. Jackson,” Bickford said.

Jackson put his hat on. “I’ll be sure and tell the governor how cooperative you’ve been.”

Bickford smiled ruefully. “Yeah. Maybe he’ll be so grateful he’ll write the letters to the families of the boys who don’t come back.”

Smoke Jensen pushed the batwings to Louis Longmont’s Saloon open and stepped inside. Out of long habit, he stood to the side of the door, his back to the wall, until his eyes had adjusted to the relative gloom of the establishment.

Cal and Pearlie followed him inside and did the same on the other side of the door, hands near their Colts until they were sure there was no danger waiting inside. Such were the actions that years of standing by the side of one of the most famous gunfighters in the West had taught them.

Louis Longmont, owner of the saloon, looked up from his usual table in a far corner and smiled over his coffee, smoke from the long black cigar in his hand swirling around his head, stirred by a gentle breeze from the open windows in the walls.

“Smoke, boys, come on in,” he called, waving them to his table.

As they approached, Longmont’s eyes drifted to Smoke’s waist. Then his eyebrows raised in surprise. He’d noted Smoke wasn’t wearing his usual brace of pistols on his belt.

He looked up at his friend walking toward him, noticing again his imposing stature. Standing a couple of inches over six feet, with wide, muscular shoulders and a narrow waist, wearing his trademark buckskins, Smoke still looked dangerous, even though he was unarmed.

Louis, an ex-gunfighter himself, couldn’t imagine what had made Smoke leave his ranch at the Sugarloaf, a few miles north of the town of Big Rock, without wearing his pistols.

Louis was a lean, hawk-faced man, with strong, slender hands and long fingers, nails carefully manicured, hands clean. He had jet-black hair and a black pencil-thin mustache. He was, as usual, dressed in a black suit, with white shirt and dark ascot—something he’d picked up on a trip to England some years back. He wore low-heeled boots, and a pistol hung in tied-down leather on his right side. It was not for show, for Louis was snake-quick with a short gun and was a feared, deadly gunhand when pushed.

Louis was not an evil man. He had never hired his gun out for money. And while he could make a deck of cards do almost anything, he did not cheat at poker. He did not have to cheat. He was possessed of a phenomenal memory and could tell you the odds of filling any type of poker hand, and was one of the first to use the new method of card counting.

He was just past forty years of age. He had come to the West as a very small boy, with his parents, arriving from Louisiana. His parents had died in a shantytown fire, leaving the boy to cope as best he could.

He had coped quite well, plying his innate intelligence and willingness to take a chance into a fortune. In addition to the saloon in Big Rock, he owned a large ranch up in Wyoming Territory, several businesses in San Francisco, and a hefty chunk of a railroad.

Though it was a mystery to many why Longmont stayed with the hard life he had chosen, Smoke thought he understood. Once, Louis had said to him, “Smoke, I would miss my life every bit as much as you would miss the dry-mouthed moment before the draw, the challenge of facing and besting those miscreants who would kill you or others, and the so-called loneliness of the owlhoot trail.”

Sometimes Louis joked that he would like to draw against Smoke someday, just to see who was faster. Smoke allowed as how it would be close, but that he would win. “You see, Louis, you’re just too civilized,” he had told him on many occasions. “Your mind is distracted by visions of operas, fine foods and wines, and the odds of your winning the match. Also, your fatal flaw is that you can almost always see the good in the lowest creatures God ever made, and you refuse to believe that anyone is pure evil and without hope of redemption.”

When Louis laughed at this description of himself, Smoke would continue. “Me, on the other hand, when some snake-scum draws down on me and wants to dance, the only thing I have on my mind is teaching him that when you dance, someone has to pay the band. My mind is clear and focused on only one problem, how to put that stump-sucker across his horse toes-down.”

As Smoke and Cal and Pearlie took their seats at his table, Louis asked, “You gents want some breakfast?”

Pearlie, who never turned down food, grinned and said, “I thought you’d never ask. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, and some of those fried potatoes Andre is famous for.”

Cal just shook his head. “Dang, Pearlie, we ate once this mornin’ already.”

Pearlie assumed a hurt expression. “But that was hours ago, Cal, an’ it was a long ride in from the Sugarloaf.”

Smoke smiled. “All right, boys.” He glanced at Louis. “Would you ask Andre to bring us all some eggs and bacon and coffee?”

Louis called out toward a window in a back wall leading to the kitchen. “Andre, we got some hungry cowboys out here. Fix them something special.”

Andre, Louis’s French chef and friend of many years, stuck his head out the small window, saw Smoke and the boys, grinned, and nodded. He loved cooking for them, especially Pearlie, who was lavish in his praise of the chef’s cuisine.

The waiter brought cups and a fresh pot of coffee, and poured it all around. Once the men were drinking, Louis stared at Smoke and inclined his head toward his friend. “I notice you are only half-dressed this morning. Any particular reason?”

Smoke looked down at his naked waist, grinning ruefully. “Well, after that last little fracas, when Sally had to dig two bullets out of my hide, she sat me down for a long talk.”

“And?” Louis asked, knowing Smoke loved Sally enough to do almost anything she asked.

“The upshot of it was, I’m not getting any younger. She thinks I’m too old to go traipsing around fighting every saddle tramp and would-be famous gunslinger who wants to make a name for himself by shooting Smoke Jensen.”

Louis, who was a couple of years older than Smoke, frowned. “And her solution for this deplorable situation?”

Smoke shrugged. “She said if I quit wearing my guns, there would be less chance of my getting shot.”

Louis shook his head. “Typical woman’s thinking. And what if by chance some gunny braces you anyway?”

Smoke glanced at Cal and Pearlie sitting next to him. “I’m supposed to let Cal and Pearlie . . . show them the error of their ways while I stay out of it.”

Louis leaned forward, his eyes earnest. “Smoke, old friend, you know I respect Sally more than any other woman I’ve ever met, but she’s dead wrong this time. Taking your guns away from you is like taking the fangs off a rattlesnake and thinking he’ll lie down with the rabbits.”

Smoke laughed. “I agree with you, Louis. In fact, I’m gonna take you out to the Sugarloaf and have you tell that to Sally.”

Louis leaned back, a look of terror on his face. He held up his hands in front of him. “Oh, no, Smoke. I’d facedown a gang of cutthroats for you, stand with you against a band of bloodthirsty Indians, but I wouldn’t have the nerve to face up to Sally when she’s in her ‘protect my man’ stance. She’d tear me apart.”

Cal and Pearlie laughed at Louis’s description, remembering the times Sally had saddled up her horse, packed her Winchester and snub-nosed .36-caliber handgun, and gone riding to protect Smoke’s back. They knew Louis was right.

The conversation was halted when Andre and the waiter appeared bearing platters heaped with scrambled eggs, layers of steaming bacon, fresh-cut tomatoes, and fried potatoes.

Smoke looked at the red, ripe tomatoes on the platter. “Andre, where did you get fresh tomatoes at this time of the year?”

Andre grinned, puffing up a little at the compliment. “Monsieur Smoke, I have constructed myself a greenhouse out behind the saloon. There I can grow the tomatoes, and other vegetables, almost year-round.”

“You’d better not tell Sally,” Smoke said, spearing a few slices off the platter. “Otherwise, she’ll be down here raiding your crop. She hates the taste of the tinned ones we eat in the winter.”

“Madame Sally may have all she wants,” Andre said, “and be sure to tell her I have a new recipe she asked about, the one with the duck à l’orange.”

Pearlie glanced up from the prodigious pile of food on his plate. “Duck? I ain’t never ate duck fit to swallow.”

“That is because you have never eaten duck prepared by Andre,” Andre said haughtily as he turned on his heel and went back into the kitchen.

“I hope I didn’t hurt his feelin’s,” Pearlie said, a worried look on his face.

“Don’t worry, Pearlie,” Louis said. “Andre’s ego is impervious to insult.”

“Whatever that means,” Pearlie muttered, lowering his head and resuming the stuffing of food into his mouth.

The men had finished their meal and were enjoying after-breakfast coffee and cigarettes when the batwings swung open and four men walked in.

They stood in the doorway, brushing trail dust off their clothes for a moment before proceeding toward the bar.

Smoke’s eyes took in their garb. Two of the men were dressed mostly in black, with shiny boots, vests adorned with silver conchos, and pistols worn low on their right hips. They appeared to be related, bearing a strong resemblance to each other, and both looked to be in their early twenties. The men with them were more nondescript, wearing flannel shirts, trail coats, and chaps, but they also wore their pistols in the manner of gunmen rather than trail hands.

When the men bellied up to the bar and ordered whiskey, Louis whispered, “Uh-oh, looks like trouble.”

Smoke glanced at the Regulator clock on the wall, which showed it to be ten o’clock in the morning. “Yeah, it’s awfully early to be drinking liquor.”

As the men downed their shots, one glanced over and noticed Louis and Smoke looking at them. He frowned, put his glass down, and sauntered over toward them.

He stopped a few feet from the table and stared at Smoke. “Hey, mister,” he said belligerently, “you look familiar, like I seen you someplace before.”

Smoke shrugged, his face flat. “I’ve been someplace before.”

The man’s face looked puzzled as he tried to figure out if Smoke was making fun of him for a moment. Then he scowled.

“I got it, you’re Smoke Jensen.”

“Congratulations,” Smoke said evenly.

The man glanced over his shoulder, as if to see if his friends were watching.

“My friends an’ me traveled a long way to find you.”

“And just who might you be?” Smoke asked.

Louis slid his chair back a little and straightened his right leg, letting his hand rest on his thigh next to his pistol, ready for trouble.

“My name’s Tucson,” the man said.

“You must be from Arizona,” Louis said.

Tucson’s eyes flitted to Louis. “How’d you know that?” he asked.

Louis shook his head, grinning. “A lucky guess.”

Smoke turned his back. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck, Tucson. I’m not hiring anyone at the ranch just now.”

Tucson scowled again. “I didn’t come lookin’ for work, Jensen.”

Smoke looked back at him. “Then why did you come?”

“I came to kill you.”

Smoke’s expression didn’t change. “Any particular reason?”

“Yeah. A few years back, you killed my cousin.”

“What was your cousin’s name?”

“Billy Walker.”

“And where did this happen?”

“He came up here from Texas. Billy rode with a man named Lazarus Cain.”

“Now I remember,” Smoke said, smiling. “Cain was a crazy Bible-thumper who thought God was protecting him. Turned out he was wrong.”1

“Billy weren’t crazy,” Tucson said angrily. “You gut-shot him an’ left him to die.”

“If he rode with Cain, he deserved to die,” Smoke said simply, and turned back to his coffee.

Tucson let his hand drop next to his pistol. “Stand up and face me like a man, Jensen!”

Pearlie and Cal got to their feet. Pearlie took the rawhide hammer-thong off his Colt and stood off to the side, as did Cal.

“Settle down, mister,” Pearlie said slowly. “As you can see, Mr. Jensen ain’t wearin’ no guns.”

Tucson glanced at Smoke’s waist. “Why ain’t he heeled? He afraid to die?”

Pearlie shook his head. “Nope. It’s just that Smoke’s a mite tired of killin’ scum like you, fellow. You see, he’s done killed a couple of hundred or more an’ he’s gettin’ sick of it. Now me, I ain’t killed near that many, so it don’t bother me none if you want to try your hand.”

As Pearlie spoke, Tucson’s friends edged away from the bar to stand next to him, their hands near their weapons.

Cal grinned cockily. “Four to two, Pearlie. That ought’a make it about fair.”

Louis stood up, sweeping his black coat behind his back, exposing his pistol. “Four to three, Cal,” he said, smiling around the cigar stuck in his mouth.

“Hold on just a minute,” Smoke said, standing up. “I’m not used to letting other people fight my battles for me.”

He stepped over to stand just inches from Tucson. “You think you’re pretty fast with that hogleg, son?”

“Fast enough to beat you, old man,” Tucson said.

Smoke squared around. “Then go for it! If you can get it out and fire before I take it away from you and stick it up your ass, then you’ll have your revenge.”

“But . . . but you ain’t got no gun,” Tucson said.

“I don’t need a gun to beat a pup like you, Tucson. Grab leather!”

Tucson’s hand went for his gun. Before he had it half out of his holster, Smoke’s left hand moved quicker than the eye could follow.

He grabbed Tucson’s right hand where it was holding the handle of his pistol, and squeezed.

The sound of Tucson’s fingers breaking was like dry twigs snapping, and he yelled in pain and let go of his gun, doubling over and holding his broken, mangled hand against his chest.

At the sound of their friend’s screams, the men behind him went for their guns.

Three shots rang out almost simultaneously and the three