He was clean-shaven now, having shaved off his mustache before leaving Gibson, although he did have a stubble of beard on his face, something he planned to rectify as soon as he could get a hot bath and find a barber.
He was trail-worn and dusty, and Dagger was just as tired as he was. “Get you rubbed down and find you a big bucket of corn, boy,” Smoke promised the horse. “And me and you will get us a good night s sleep.”
Dagger whinnied softly and bobbed his head up and down, as if to say, “I damn well hope so!”
Smoke stabled Dagger, telling the boy to rub him down good and give him all the corn he could eat. “And watch my gear,” he said, handing the boy a silver dollar.
“Yes, sir!”
Slapping the dust from his clothes, Smoke stopped in the town’s only saloon for a drink to cut the dry from his throat.
He was an imposing figure even in faded jeans and worn shirt. Wide-shouldered and lean-hipped, with his arms bulging with muscle, and cold, emotionless eyes. The men in the saloon gave him a careful onceover, their eyes lingering on the guns around his waist, the left gun butt-forward. Don’t see many men carrying guns thataway, and it marked him immediately.
Gunfighter.
“Beer,” Smoke told the barkeep and began peeling a hardboiled egg.
Beer in front of him, Smoke drank half of the mug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then ate the egg.
“Passin’ through?” the barkeep asked.
“Yeah. Lookin for a hot bath and a shave and a bed.”
“Got a few rooms upstairs. Cost you ...”
“He won’t be needin’ no bath,” the cold voice came from the batwings. “Just a pine box.”
Smoke cut his eyes. Jason Bright stepped into the room, which had grown as silent as the grave.
Smoke was tired of killing. Tired of it all. He wanted no trouble with Jason Bright. But damned if he could see a way out of it.
“Jason, I’ll tell you the same thing I told Diego, just before I killed him.”
Chairs were pushed back and men got out of the line of fire. Diego dead? Lord have mercy! Who was this big stranger anyways?
“Speak your piece, Jensen,” Jason said.
Smoke Jensen! Lordy, Lordy!
“The war is over,” Smoke spoke softly but firmly. “Nobody’s paying you now. There are warrants all over the place for you. Ride out, man.”
“You queered the deal for me, Smoke. Me and a lot of others. They scattered all around, from here to Colorado, just waitin’ for a shot at you. But I think I’ll just save them the trouble.”
“Don’t do it, Jason. Ride on out.”
The batwings were suddenly pushed inward, striking Jason in the back and throwing him off balance. Smoke lunged forward and for the second time in about a month, Jason Bright was about to get the stuffing kicked out of him.
Smoke hit the gunfighter in the mouth and floored him, as the man who had pushed open the batwings took one look inside and hauled his freight back to the house. He didn’t need a drink noways.
Smoke jerked Jason’s guns from leather and tossed them into a man’s lap, almost scaring the citizen to death.
“I’m tired of it, Jason,” Smoke told the man, standing over him like an oak tree. “Tired of the killing, tired of it all.”
Jason came up with the same knife he once tried to use on Cord. Smoke kicked it out of his hand and decked the man with a hard right fist. He jerked Jason up and slammed him against the bar. Then Smoke proceeded to hammer at the man’s midsection with a battering ram combination of left’s and right’s. Smoke both felt and heard ribs break under the hammering. Jason’s eyes rolled back in his head and Smoke let him fall to the floor.
“You ought to go on and kill him, Smoke,” a man called from the crowd. “He ain’t never gonna forget this. Someday he’ll come after you.”
“I know,” Smoke panted the words. “But I’m tired of the killing. I don’t want to kill anybody else. Ever!”
“We’ll haul him over to the doc’s office for you, Smoke,” a man volunteered. “He ain’t gonna be ridin’ for a long time to come. Not with all them busted ribs. And I heard ’em pop and crack.”
“I’m obliged to you.” He looked at the bartender. “The tub around back.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get a boy busy with the hot water right away.”
“Keep anybody else off me, will you?”
Several men stood up. “Let us get our rifles, Mister Jensen. You can bathe in peace.”
“I appreciate it.” He looked down at Jason. “You should have kept ridin‘, Jason. You can’t say I didn’t give you a chance.’
Thirty-Two
Dagger was ready to go when Smoke saddled up the next morning. Not yet light in the east. He wanted to get gone, get on the trail home. He would stop down the road a ways and fix him some bacon to go with the bread he’d bought the night before. But he would have liked some coffee. He looked toward the town’s only cafe. Still dark. Smoke shrugged and pointed Dagger’s nose south. He had his small coffeepot and plenty of coffee. No trouble to fix coffee when he fixed the bacon.
About an hour after dawn, he stopped by a creek and made his fire. He fixed his bacon and coffee and sopped out the pan with the bread, then poured a cup of coffee and rolled a cigarette.
The creek made happy little sounds as it bubbled on, and the shade was cool. Smoke was reluctant to leave, but knew he’d better put some miles behind Dagger’s tail.
Jason’s words returned to him: “They scattered all around, from here to Colorado, just waitin’ for a shot at you.”
He thought back: Had there been a telegraph wire at that little town? He didn’t think so. And where would the nearest wire office be? One over at Laramie, for sure. But by the time he could ride over there and wire Sally to be on the lookout, he could be almost home.
He really wasn’t that worried. The Sugarloaf was very isolated, and unless a man knew the trails well, they’d never come in from the back range. If any strangers tried the road, the neighbors would be instantly alerted.
Smoke made sure his fire was out, packed up his kit, and climbed into the saddle. He’d make the northermost edge of the Medicine Bow Range by nightfall. And he’d stay in the timber into Colorado, doing his best to avoid contact with any of the outlaws. Ol’ Preacher had burned those trails into his head as a boy. He could travel them in his sleep.
Nightfall found him on the ridges of the Medicine Bow Range. It had been slow going, for he followed no well-traveled trails, staying with the trails in his mind.
He made his camp, ate his supper, and put out his fire, not wanting the fire’s glow to attract any unwanted gunslicks during the night. Smoke rolled up in his blankets, a ground sheet under him and his saddle for a pillow.
He was up before dawn and built a hat-size fire for his bacon and coffee. For some reason that he could not fathom, he had a case of the jumps this morning. Looking over at Dagger, he could see that the big horse was also uneasy, occasionally walling his eyes and laying his ears back.
Smoke ate his breakfast and drank his coffee, dousing the fire. He filled his canteens from a nearby crick and let Dagger drink. Smoke checked his guns, wiping them free of dust and then loaded up the chamber under the hammer, usually kept empty. He checked his Winchester. Full.
Then, on impulse, he dug out a bandoleer from the saddlebags and filled all the loops, then added a handful of cartridges to his jacket pocket.
He would be riding into wild and beautiful country this day and the next, with some of the mountains shooting up past twelve thousand feet. It was also no country to be caught up high in a thunderstorm, with lightning dancing all around you. That made a fellow feel very small and vulnerable.
And it could also cook you like a fried egg.