The cattleman muttered something that Smoke could not make out. His buddy said, “He ain’t gonna bother that boy, Jensen. That’s just whiskey talk.”
“Why did he say to get rid of the boys?”
“I don’t know,” the man said, then fell silent.
Smoke sipped his beer and ignored the drunk and near drunk cattlemen. He had thought all along that the age of the boys would make no difference to Jud Vale—when the man decided to make his move. In a way, he was glad the boys had taken to carrying guns.
He walked to the door that opened into the store, looking in. Leroy was still buying supplies. The boy caught his eye.
“It’s gonna be a few more minutes, Mr. Smoke. Miss Alice and Miss Doreen really gave me a long list.”
“Take your time, Leroy. I’ll have another beer.”
“Yes, sir.”
Smoke walked back to the bar and ordered a refill. “And pull it from a new barrel,” he told the barkeep. “That last one was flat.”
The barkeep grinned. “Cain’t blame a man for tryin’ to drain the barrel, now, can you?” He pulled a fresh brew. “This one’s on the house, Mr. Jensen.”
Smoke nodded his thanks and leaned against the plank. He had a bad feeling about this day. One he just could not shake. At the sounds of hard-ridden horses he knew his premonition was about to turn into reality.
Four Bar V riders came to a halt in an unnecessary cloud of dust, fogging everybody and everything in a brief dust storm. Smoke silently cursed as he recognized one of the riders as a man called Smith. Smith had a shallow-made reputation as a gunslinger; but Smoke knew there wasn’t much to the man. He was a bully who picked his fights, fists, and guns very carefully.
“Wal, lookie here!” Smith hollered, spotting Matt sitting on the bench, a disgusted look on his young face as he brushed the dust from his clothing. “Would you boys just take a look at that little piss-ant with the big iron strapped on!”
Smoke forced himself to stay put. He had warned Matt. Warned him several times. Smoke would not interfere unless the Bar V riders tried something in a bunch. As long as it was one on one, with both parties armed, it was an unwritten code that the fight was fair. It was not always a fair code, but that was the way it was.
Leroy heard the commotion and went out the back door to the wagon, getting his Winchester and jacking a round in the chamber of the carbine, easing down the hammer. He reentered the store and moved to the open doorway, staying concealed from the Bar V riders.
He had been getting something extra for Miss Alice. Some candles. She was going to surprise Matthew with a birthday cake. Tomorrow was his birthday. His fourteenth.
If he lives through this, Leroy added that to his thoughts.
Then his thoughts turned grim as he gripped the Winchester. Matthew would live through it. One way or the other. It was time for everybody in this section of the state to stand up to Mr. Jud Vale. And if it had to begin right here and now? ... Well, let it come.
The Winchester he carried was a hand-me-down from somebody. His dad never said where he’d got it. It was a .44-40 that some owner had sawed the barrel off to make into a saddle gun. It was several inches shorter than the short .44 carbine. It kicked something fierce, but when that bullet hit, it packed a wallop, especially at short range.
Leroy had never shot a man before—and didn’t especially want to now, but if his friend Matt got into it with that trash from the Bar V ... well, there was a first time for everything. He wished he could have had his first time with a girl before having to kill a man. But if wishes were horses then nobody would have to walk, would they? He inched closer to the door and settled down, waiting.
“Yes, siree!” Smith said. “I think we ought to get us a bottle of whiskey and hold the little craphead down and pour it in him. Since he’s totin’ a man’s gun, he ought to have hisself a man’s drink.”
Matt wisely ignored the bully’s comments. He had finished brushing himself off and then calmly wiped the neck of his soda pop bottle on his shirt sleeve and proceeded to take a big swig.
“Hey, piss-ant!” Smith hollered. “I’m talkin’ to you, pig farmer’s boy!”
“I’m not deaf,” Matthew said softly. “Do you eat bacon, mister?”
“Haw?”
“I said do you eat bacon?”
“Why ... hell, yes, I eat bacon. Don’t ever’body?”
“Where do you think it comes from—grown on trees?”
“Are you gettin’ sassy with me, punk?”
“No, sir,” Matthew replied respectfully. “I was just curious. If you enjoy eating bacon, why do you make fun of those people who raise the hogs?”
Smith—no mental giant anyway one wanted to view it—wore a look of bewilderment on his face. “I don’t think I lak you very much, four-eyes. As a matter of fact, I know I don’t lak you.”
“That’s a shame. I have nothing against you, mister.”
“Let’s take his pants down and make him ride back home buck-assed nekkid!” another Bar V hand suggested.
The four men all agreed that would be a great idea. They made some crude remarks about what they might find when they shucked Matt’s jeans. And what they might do if one of them could find a corncob.
“No way,” Smoke muttered, as he stepped away from the bar.
The two cattlemen suddenly looked very sorry, sober, and sick.
The barkeep shook his head in disgust at the Bar V hand’s suggestion.
Leroy earred back the hammer on the .44-.40.
Matt set his soda pop bottle on the bench and stood up, his right hand hanging by his side.
“Well, now!” Smith said, surprise in his voice. “The little piggy’s done gone and thought hisself to be all growed up.”
“I’ll get the corncob, Smith,” a Bar V hand said.
“You’ll get a bullet,” Matt told him, his quiet words stopping the man and turning him around.
“You threatenin’ me, pig-boy?” the hand challenged.
“Aren’t you threatening me?” Matt countered.
Leroy stepped to a dusty window and pulled the Winchester to his shoulder, sighting in one of the V hands.
Smoke moved closer to the batwings.
“Why, you little turd-faced punk!” the Bar V hand hissed at the boy. “I think I’ll just kill you!”
“You have it to do,” Matt said softly.
The Bar V riders spread out, all of them grinning, seconds away from a killing.
10
Smoke pushed open the batwings and stepped out onto the porch. “I’ll take these two so-called gunslicks on the right, Matthew.”
“And I’ve got that ugly, skinny, bow-legged one on the far left in rifle sights!” Leroy called from inside the store.
“I guess that leaves you and me, doesn’t it?” Matt told Smith.
The Bar V riders looked sick at the appearance of Smoke Jensen. This was not something they had counted on.
“You got no call to interfere in this, Jensen!” Smith hollered. “This ain’t none of your concern.”
“It is when four of you gang up on one boy, you sorry piece of buffalo droppings.” Smoke then proceeded to hang a cussing on the Bar V riders, and having been jerked up, so to speak, by the old mountain man, Preacher, Smoke could let the cuss words fly when he had a mind to. And today was one of those days.
The riders took it for a time, and then pride got the best of them.
“I’ve had it, Jensen!” one yelled at him. “You don’t cuss me like some saddle bum!”
“Then make your play, damn you!” Smoke lost his temper and started to push.
The puncher held his hands away from his side. “No way, Jensen. I ain’t no match for you with guns. But I’ll tear your damned head off with my fists if you’ve got the belly for it.”
“I’ll take you up on that, partner. Whatever your name is.”
“Larry Noonan.”
“Oh, yeah!” Smoke said, his voice filled with scorn. “I know enough about you to know you’re a yellow little two-bit punk. You killed an unarmed sheepherder. Shot him in the back, so I recall reading on the dodger.”