“For your information, he will be going down to the saloon after his dinner.”
“How do you know?”
“We discussed it as he was signing in,” the clerk said.
Coltrane hurried back to the saloon. It was early evening, and the saloon was at its busiest, with drinkers, card players, and even a few who were eating their dinner. He saw Stallings talking with one of the bar girls, and motioned him over. Grange was standing at the far end of the bar, nursing a drink, and Coltrane walked down to join him. He waited to speak until Stallings joined them.
“Jensen is here,” Coltrane said.
“Where?”
“Right now he is having his supper. Then he’s coming down here, so I suggest we get ready for him.”
Coltrane moved to stand just inside the door of the saloon watching for Jensen. When he saw him coming, he gave a signal to the others, who hurried to get into position.
The saloon had a wide boardwalk flanking the dusty street, a couple hitching posts out front, and bat wing doors through which Smoke pushed his way inside.
When he entered the saloon, he stepped to the side and made a quick perusal before he walked up to the bar to order a beer. At one time saloons such as this one had become so much a part of his day-to-day existence they had become part of his heritage. From Denver to Cheyenne to Phoenix to Dodge City, one saloon was like another.
Since he’d married Sally that was no longer the case. He still spent a lot of time in Longmont’s, but that was because Louis was his friend. And Longmont’s was so superior to the ordinary saloon, it was more like a private club than a public watering hole.
“What will it be, mister?” the bartender asked.
Smoke saw that, for some reason, the bartender seemed more than a little nervous. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I ... ,” the bartender started, then his eyes darted to the rear of the saloon, so quickly Smoke couldn’t tell whether it was a reflexive action or a signal.
Curious and cautious, he glanced toward the rear of the saloon.
“He’s seen us!” someone yelled at the top of his voice from the upper level floor. He was wielding a double-barrel shotgun, which he had turned toward Smoke.
“Shoot the son of a bitch!” someone else shouted and the shotgun boomed loudly.
Alerted by the shout, Smoke fell to the floor and rolled to his right, just as the man at the top of the stairs fired. The heavy charge of buckshot tore a large hole in the top and side of the bar, right where Smoke had been standing but a second before. Smoke shot at the man before he could pull the trigger on the second barrel. The would-be assailant tumbled over the railing and crashed onto the piano below.
As Smoke and the man on the overlook were firing at each other, Coltrane took the opportunity to go for his own gun. Suddenly the saloon was filled with the roar of another gunshot as Coltrane fired.
The presence of a second gunman did not surprise Smoke, for he had heard the first shooter yell out, “He’s seen us!” Smoke was able to react so quickly, his gunshot and the shot fired by Coltrane sounded like one.
Smoke hit exactly what he was aiming for. Coltrane was knocked backward onto a table where he lay sprawled out on his back, his head hanging down on the opposite side of the table. The table was covered by green felt, the easier for card playing. At the moment, however, it was soaked in blood.
A third man ran out of the saloon without even attempting a shot. Smoke didn’t know if he was running to get out of the line of fire, or if he had been a part of the team of ambushers who lost his courage when he saw the other two cut down.
Hearing the shots, the town marshal and his deputy came running into the saloon with guns drawn. Smoke had already holstered his pistol and was standing calmly with his back to the bar, his arms up, resting his elbows on the bar. The other customers in the saloon, those who had dived under the tables, or behind the piano, were milling around the two dead bodies, looking down at them with a cross between morbid curiosity and guilty appreciation of still being alive.
Noticing that Smoke was the only one not milling around with the others, the marshal and his deputy holstered their own pistols, then stepped over to talk to him.
“I have a feeling you are a part of this,” the marshal said.
“I was,” Smoke agreed. “But not by choice.”
“You want to tell me what happened?”
“These two men shot at me,” Smoke said. Moving to one side, he pointed to the damaged bar. “I believe there may have been a third, but he ran when the shooting started.”
“You’re Smoke Jensen, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I guess you are used to this by now. Getting shot at, I mean.”
“I don’t know if you ever get used to it,” Smoke replied.
“Hey, Marshal, look at this!” one of the saloon patrons said.
He brought over a piece of paper and showed it to the marshal. The marshal read it, looked up at Smoke, then back down at the paper. To Smoke’s surprise, the marshal drew his pistol and pointed it at Smoke.
“What’s that for?” Smoke asked. “You can ask anyone in here and they will tell you these two men started the shooting.”
“That may be so,” the marshal said. “But it doesn’t make any difference whether they started it or not, as long as they had justification for it.”
“What can justify one man dry gulching another?” Smoke asked.
“This, perhaps?” The marshal showed Smoke the wanted poster, stating that a five thousand dollar reward would be paid for him, dead or alive.
“Where did that come from?” Smoke asked, surprised to see the poster.
“Coltrane had it on him,” the saloon patron said.
“It’s not real,” Smoke said.
“What do you mean, it’s not real?” the marshal asked. “I’m holding it in my hand, looking at it. It’s real.”
“Look, it’s no secret that I’m after Bill Dinkins and his gang. I’ve been told he put out a one thousand dollar reward, payable to anyone who killed me. I haven’t heard about this, but he has to be behind this as well.”
The marshal shook his head. “According to this, it’s the sheriff of La Plata County who has put out the reward.”
“Do you get reward posters in the mail to post in your office?” Smoke asked.
“Yes.”
“Have you gotten this flyer on me?”
“No, not yet. But that don’t mean nothin’. It could be days, even weeks before I might get a poster that’s bein’ sent out. It looks like I’m goin’ to have to lock you up in jail until we get to the bottom of this.”
“I don’t think I would like that,” Smoke said.
“Well, Mr. Jensen, I don’t care what you would like,” the marshal replied. “I’ve got a duty to this badge. And right now, I’ve got the drop on you. So I reckon we’ll just do it my way.”
In a move that was totally unexpected, and incredibly fast, Smoke reached out and jerked the marshal’s pistol out of his hand. Even as he was doing that, he drew his own gun.
“Uh-uh.” Smoke cautioned the deputy with a warning glance, and the deputy who looked as if he might go for his own gun, stopped in mid-move. “We’ll do it my way.”
“And what way is that?” the marshal asked, his voice edged with fear.
“We are going to go down to the telegraph office and send a wire to the sheriff of La Plata County. I want you to ask him if he has authorized this poster.”
“His name is on it,” the marshal said. “He must have approved it.”
“You think so?”
“If he didn’t approve it, where did it come from?”
“I told you that Dinkins had a thousand dollar reward on me. It looks like he just upped the ante.”
“You think he has that much money?” the marshal asked.
“It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t intend to pay it,” Smoke said. “That’s why he put it out over the sheriff of La Plata’s name.”