Smoke nodded. “Yeah, I know. Sleeping in the bunkhouse. Wouldn’t be the first time either.
Andre interrupted the banter. “Monsieur Smoke, I will gladly make up a series of box lunches for you and the boys. You can send Cal or Pearlie into town every few days, and they can take them out to the Sugarloaf where you can sneak into the bunkhouse for a snack whenever you get to feeling weak from lack of sustenance.”
Smoke was about to reply when he noticed a tall, heavyset man at the bar watching him while trying not to show it. Years of living as a fugitive from some untrue wanted posters had taught Smoke to listen to his instincts, and they were screaming at him to be careful of this man.
While the others at the table gave Andre their orders, Smoke leaned back in his chair, extended his right leg under the table, and unhooked the rawhide hammer thong on his right-hand Colt.
Whenever he glanced in the cowboy’s direction, he noticed the man was sweating up a storm, though the temperature in the saloon was mild and cool.
Uh-huh, Smoke thought to himself, he’s definitely up to something. Probably trying to get up the nerve to come over here and call me out. He’d seen this kind of behavior before, mainly when some young buck had bragged to his friends that he could take the famous gunfighter Smoke Jensen and then they’d had the effrontery to call him on it.
They usually sweated like a pig until they finally either got up the nerve to actually try their hand, or ran out in the alley and puked their guts out. He hoped this man was a puker instead of a caller. He had no desire to kill anyone today, especially someone he didn’t even know.
While Cal and Pearlie and Louis reminisced over some of their adventures of the previous six months in Canada, Smoke kept his attention riveted on the man at the bar, but he did it so the man didn’t know he’d been seen.
The other thing Smoke noticed that made him even more certain the cowhand was up to something was the fact that the man nursed one beer for almost thirty minutes, not ordering another but not leaving the bar either. In Smoke’s experience, men at a bar either drank continually or they left. They didn’t stand around sneaking looks while they sipped a beer until it was warm and flat.
Once the meal was served, Louis, who was almost as experienced in the ways of the gun as Smoke was, leaned over and said in a low voice, “What is going on, my friend?”
Smoke raised his eyebrows as he cut into the incredibly juicy and tender steak Andre had prepared. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice innocent.
Louis smiled, though there wasn’t a lot of mirth in it. “I’ve been watching the man at the bar, and he seems inordinately interested in you and what you’re doing. Do you recognize him—perhaps someone you’ve come across before or someone who perhaps has a grudge against you for some reason or other?”
Smoke shook his head. “No, not that that means much. He could be a relative of someone I’ve had trouble with, or he could be a young gun looking to get a reputation the quick way. I just don’t know.”
Louis shook his head. “No, I don’t think he’s a gunny. He has the look of a working cowboy to me, not someone who’s riding the owlhoot trail.” Louis reached across the table to get the silver coffeepot, and used the act of refilling his coffee cup to observe the man better.
“In fact,” Louis said as he took a drink of his coffee, “his gun is old and worn and his boots are dirty. This man is no gunslick out to make a name for himself. He doesn’t dress well enough.”
“Yeah, I know. I agree,” Smoke said, “but he’s sure as hell on the prod for me, for whatever reason.”
Louis leaned back and pulled a long, black cigar from his coat pocket. As he put a match to it, he looked over the glowing tip at Smoke. “Well, what are you going to do about this impasse we find ourselves in, partner? You’re not going to let him pick the time and place, are you?”
Smoke smiled at Louis. “No, you’re right, Louis. That wouldn’t be very smart.”
Since he didn’t know if the man had friends waiting outside, Smoke looked around the table until he had Cal and Pearlie’s attention. “Boys,” he said in a low voice while keeping his expression bland and innocent, “keep your gun hands empty and keep a watch on the door for me. There’s a gent over at the bar that’s been eyeing me and I’m going over to have a talk with him. Watch my back in case he’s got friends outside.”
Cal and Pearlie nodded. “You got it, Boss,” Pearlie said, letting his hand drift down to release his hammer thong while he continued to stuff his face using his left hand.
Smoke took a final sip of coffee and got up from the table. Before the man at the bar could move, Smoke turned and walked directly toward him.
As he approached, Smoke noticed sweat dripping from under the man’s hat and running down the sides of his face. When he dropped his gaze to the man’s right hand, he saw it had a fine tremor in it. The man was definitely on edge, and Smoke knew such men, though rarely effective, were still extremely dangerous because one never knew what they were going to do.
Smoke walked up and stood at the bar next to the man, facing forward with his elbows on the bar and his chin in his hand while he watched him in the mirror behind the bar.
“What do you want?” the man asked, his voice hoarse and gruff, his legs fidgety as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and wiped sweat off his brow.
“Well, now, that’s exactly the question I was fixing to ask you, friend,” Smoke said, keeping his voice friendly while turning slightly so he was facing the man.
“Why . . . uh . . . what do you mean by that?”
Smoke smiled gently, his eyes interested but showing no animosity or anger. “You’ve been watching me for the past half hour, and you’re sweating like a racehorse, so I thought I’d just end the suspense and come over here and introduce myself. I’m Smoke Jensen.”
The man scowled. “I know who you are, Jensen,” he growled as he picked up his warm beer and drained the mug.
“Do you have some business with me?” Smoke asked in a level voice, with no trace of challenge or fear.
“I don’t do business with killers and murderers,” the man said.
Smoke shrugged. “Well, I have to admit, I’ve killed some men in my day, though I’ve never murdered anyone, and those I’ve killed have all tried to kill me first.”
“That’s a lie!”
Smoke’s face flushed. He didn’t ordinarily let someone talk to him like this, but he wanted to find out what the man’s beef was.
“Now ordinarily, friend, a man who spoke to me in that tone and with those words would either be flat on his back with a busted jaw, or he’d be bleeding all over the floor,” Smoke said evenly, trying to control his temper. “However, you’ve obviously got something weighing heavily on your mind that concerns me, so I’ll hold off on taking any offense for now. You want to tell me what you got stuck in your craw, Mister . . . uh . . . I didn’t get your name?”
The man reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a couple of coins and threw them on the bar. “Not yet, Jensen, but when I’m ready, you’ll know. And the name’s Macklin, Daniel Macklin.”
Smoke sighed and stepped away from the bar. “Well, we can settle this right now, if that’s what you really want,” he said, his eyes flat and hard. His hands hung loose by his thighs, his expression expectant.
Macklin’s eyes strayed to the table across the room, where Cal and Pearlie and Louis all sat watching the show.
“Yeah, with your friends over there all set to gun me down if I make a play. No, thanks.”
“My friends won’t interfere if it’s a fair fight,” Smoke said, his eyes never leaving Macklin’s.
Macklin sneered. “That’s not the way I hear it, Jensen. In fact, I hear they usually take a hand and join right in when you kill someone.”