Smoke filled his coffee cup without comment.
“My folks dubbed me Clarence, but nobody calls me that. Just Rusty.”
“I guessed right at first glance.” Smoke speared some bacon out of the pan and handed a hunk of bread to Rusty.
“Much obliged.” He let his eyes drift over Smoke’s rig, noting the two guns, one butt-forward.
“You ridin’ east like all them others?” Smoke asked.
“West for a day, then I’ll do a turnaround back to the Bear. Any work over yonder?”
“I’m lookin’ for hands.”
“You shore found one. My poke’s as flat as a sit-on pancake.”
“Might be dangerous signin’ on with me.”
Rusty’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of work you got in mind, mister-whatever-your-name-is?”
“Punching cows. Fixing fence. Cleaning out water-holes. Cowboy work. You up to it?”
“Shore! That’s what I been doin’ since I was big enough to sit a saddle. What’s the danger you talkin’ about?”
Smoke sipped his coffee before replying. “Big rancher who is about half nuts is trying to run the old man and woman who own the spread off their land. They hit us the other night. We emptied seven saddles.”
“How many is us?”
“You talking about hands?”
“Yep.”
“Three old men who are about seventy and a handful of kids, average age twelve.”
Rusty looked dead at him. “Are you serious?”
“As a crutch.”
“What’re you payin’?”
“A hundred a month and found.”
“A hundred a month! Shoot, man! You just hiredyourself a hand.”
“Those are fighting wages, Rusty.”
“I kinda figured they was. But I got to tell you, I ain’t never hired out my gun.”
“Can you use it?”
“Oh, yeah. I reckon I’m as good as the next man. I’ve drug iron a time or two.”
“Any family?”
“Ma and Pa died years back. I got some cousins somewhere that I ain’t never seen.”
“Just curious. I want to know who to notify if you catch one.”
“Just plant me where I fall, I reckon. And make sure my horse is taken care of. He’s a good one.”
“I’m heading over to Malad City. Then we’ll head back to the Box T.”
“Sounds good to me. You got a name?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“You are a most exasperatin’ feller! You ’shamed of your handle?”
“No.”
Rusty cussed and then ate his bacon, mopping the grease out of his tin plate with bread. He poured another cup of coffee, rolled a cigarette, and leaned back. “You a gunfighter?”
“Some say I am.”
“You look familiar to me. I seen you somewheres before. On a wanted poster, maybe?”
“No. I’m not wanted. I own a ranch down Colorado way. The Sugarloaf. I’m just helping out an old couple. I don’t like to see folks shoved around.”
“Right nice of you. I kinda get riled up some myself when somebody tries to roll over other folks. You gonna tell me your name?”
Smoke smiled faintly. “I tell you my name, you might not come to work.”
“For a hundred a month and found? You could tell me your name was Satan and I wouldn’t back away.”
“All right,” Smoke replied. “Come to think of it, you just might be riding into a corner of Hell after all.” He left it at that.
Smoke and Rusty reached Malad City at mid-morning, just as the town was catching its breath after a wild and raucous night. Things had been reasonably quiet the previous night, with only one killing.
“Don’t never ask nobody for directions in this place,” Rusty told him. “When they laid out these streets, they just tossed a handful of sticks on the ground for a blueprint... and then followed it.”
They stabled their horses and Smoke pointed out a cafe, telling Rusty he’d meet him there in a few minutes. He took care of Walt’s bank draft and walked the boardwalk to the cafe. He saw several gunslicks he knew by name and a dozen more who had the hardcase brand stamped all over them. And a half-dozen punks who were looking for a reputation, but more than likely would find a grave to hold their swagger long before they found a reputation.
Smoke Jensen had been elusive for over a decade, surfacing outside of his ranch in Colorado only briefly. Many people knew his name but could not put a face to it, unless they had memorized the covers of the many penny dreadfuls, most of which were rarely accurate.
He received many a furtive glance as he walked toward the cafe, for danger clung to him; it was an aura that made many strong and brave men step aside until he had passed.
Smoke was scarcely into his thirties, just now approaching the prime years of his life, but he was already a living legend, and not just west of the Mississippi. Had he elected to cut notches into the handles of his Colts after each kill, he would have gone through half a dozen sets and still not have any handles left. But only tinhorns did that.
He opened the door to the cafe and stepped in, the good smells of cooking making him realize how hungry he was. Rusty was already working on his first plate of bacon and eggs and fried potatoes—and the first of several pots of coffee.
The redhead pushed out a chair with his boot and Smoke sat down.
“Been several folks wonderin’ who you are,” the newly hired puncher said. “Most I heard come to the conclusion that you was a lawman of some sort.”
“I’ve worn a badge a time or two,” Smoke admitted, then called out his order to the counterman. He picked up his cup and allowed the waitress to fill it.
She met his eyes. “I seen you two or three years back,” she spoke the words softly. “You be careful in this town. It’s filled up with hired guns, all of them just bumin’ to kill you.”
“I appreciate that.”
She nodded and walked back into the kitchen.
Rusty’s freckled face screwed up with disgust. “Seems like ever’body knows who you are but me!”
Smoke sugared his coffee and stirred. “The name is Jensen.”
The redhead’s fork froze midway to his mouth. “Smoke Jensen?” he finally managed to say.
“That’s it. Now close your mouth before a bug decides to fly in there.”
Rusty filled his mouth with food and then closed it. “Boy, I sure know how to pick ’em,” he muttered. “I’m beginnin’ to wonder if a hundred a month is enough.”
“And found,” Smoke reminded him.
“Food ain’t too tasty with a bellyful of lead,” the puncher said mournfully. But there was a definite twinkle in his eyes.
“You didn’t sign a contract,” Smoke reminded him. “Feel free to ride.”
“Naw! Hell, I’ll stick around. I ain’t never ridden with such highfalutin’ company before. Might be interestin’.”
“I’m not looking for trouble, Rusty. After we eat our meal, I plan on saddling up and riding out.”
“That must be why you walk around with them hammer thongs off your guns.”
Smoke grinned. “I just believe in being a very cautious man, that’s all.”
“Right. With your name, you damn well better be.”
The two men cleaned their plates, Rusty eating two plates of food without apology, then finished off another pot of coffee. Not as strong as they liked it, but it would do. Then they leaned back, rolled cigarettes, and lit up. The cafe was gradually filling with the lunch crowd, all of the diners giving the two men short and cautious looks as they took their seats.
Then the door opened and four hardcases stepped inside.
Bob Garner and Montana Slim were the only two that Smoke recognized. The other two were unknown to him. But Garner and Montana Slim were quite enough to face on a full stomach.
Or an empty belly for that matter.
Slim’s eyes widened as they settled on Smoke and recognition set in. Then he grinned, his hands close to the butts of his guns.
But the humor—if that’s what it was—did not reach his killer eyes.