He fixed himself a sandwich from the fresh-laid out lunch selection and poured a cup of coffee, then walked to a table in the back of the room. He took off his coat and sat down. Slipping the hammer-thong from his Colts was something he did the instant his boots touched ground out of the stirrups.
The front door opened and the lippy barkeep entered, followed by a huge bear of a man.
“There he is,” the barkeep said, pointing Smoke out. Then he ran back behind the bar. “And that’ll be fifty cents for that drink of good whiskey.”
“Money’s on the bar,” Smoke told him.
The man lumbered over, stopping a few feet from the table. The floor had trembled as he moved. Smoke figured him to be about six feet six inches tall and weighing maybe two hundred and seventy-five pounds.
“My name’s Tom Lilly,” the big man rumbled.
Smoke took a bite from his sandwich and said nothing.
“Are you deef!” Lilly hollered.
“I will be if you keep shouting,” Smoke told him. “Quiet down, will you?”
The man looked shocked. “You really tellin’ me what to do, cowboy?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. And you smell bad, too. Step back, before your breath contaminates the cheese.”
Tom was so shocked he was momentarily speechless. Nobody ever spoke to him in such a manner. A few had challenged him, years back, and he had broken their heads, their backs, or just simply and quickly stomped them to death. He had run this town with an iron hand-or fist—for several years; now this drifter shows up and starts with the mouth.
Finally Tom found his voice. “You better enjoy that sandwich, drifter. ’Cause it’s gonna be the last thing you’ll ever eat except my fist.”
Smoke shoved the square table with all his strength, one sharp corner catching Tom in the thigh and pushing through the cloth of the big man’s trousers, tearing a gouge in his leg. Tom screamed in pain and grabbed at his bleeding leg just as Smoke came around the table, picking up a sturdy chair during his brief journey. Smoke brought the chair down on Tom’s head, driving the man to his knees and destroying the chair. Using what was left of the chair back as a club, Smoke proceeded to rain blows on the bully, the wood ringing like a blacksmith’s hammer as Smoke bounced it against Tom’s head.
A crowd began to gather, both inside the saloon and on the boardwalk in front.
When Smoke had beaten the man unconscious, he tossed the club to the floor and dragged Tom Lilly across the floor and to the now open door. He dragged him across the boardwalk and dumped him in the street.
The citizens, male and female, stood and applauded Smoke as he walked back inside the saloon. The barkeep stood rooted behind the bar, disbelief and fear in his eyes. “Don’t kill me!” he finally squalled.
“He’s been Tom Lilly’s biggest supporter,” a tired-looking man said. “But he’s nothing. As soon as Tom’s men come back from making their collections around the area, you’re gonna be in real trouble, mister.”
“Collections?” Smoke asked.
“They claim to be protecting us,” a woman said, standing outside the saloon and speaking through the open door. No way a good woman would enter a saloon. “They showed up here about three years ago. Next thing we knew, our part-time marshal was dead and Tom and his bunch were running things.”
“Several tried to intervene,” a man said. “They come up dead or missing.”
“How many in Tom’s gang?” Smoke asked, knowing he had gotten himself into another situation.
“It varies. Anywhere from six to ten. Scum just seem to gather around the likes of Tom Lilly.”
“Oh, my Lord!” a woman cried. “Tom’s gettin’ to his feet.”
Smoke stepped out onto the boardwalk. By now, all had noticed the unusual way he wore his guns and pegged him as a gunfighter. The man from the livery stood on the fringe of the crowd and said nothing. But there was a big grin on his face.
With blood running down his face from the savage beating he’d just taken from Smoke, Tom Lilly staggered to his feet and swayed for a moment. “No man does this to me and lives,” Tom snarled the words. Then he grabbed for his gun.
6
Smoke’s draw was faster than the blink of an eye. He put a .44 slug into Tom’s arm, the slug breaking the bully’s elbow and rendering the arm useless. Tom screamed as the gun dropped back into leather. Smoke’s draw had been so fast Tom had been unable to clear his holster.
“Jesus,” a man said. He cut his eyes to Smoke. “Who in hell are you, mister?”
“A man who doesn’t like bullies,” Smoke told him.
“My arm’s ruint!” Tom bellowed. “You done crippled me.”
“You people do with him as you see fit,” Smoke told the crowd. The whole town had turned out; about a hundred people, including the dogs and cats.
“My boys’ll burn this damn town to the ground,” Tom yelled. “They’ll have their way with the women and kill the men. You people better wise up and run this drifter outta town and get me some medical help.”
“We’ll help you,” a man said, uncoiling a length of rope he’d taken from his saddle.
“I’ll be down the street at the cafe,” Smoke said. He walked back into the saloon and got his coat and hat. He looked at the barkeep. “If you have any sense at all, you’d better take to the air and don’t look back. The townspeople are gettin’ ready to hang Tom Lilly and they just might decide to string you up, too.”
“Who are you?” he stammered, his face sweat-shiny from fear.
“Smoke Jensen.”
The barkeep gulped a couple of times then hit the back door at a run. Seconds later, the sounds of a galloping horse filled the cool air.
“Now wait a minute!” Tom Lilly yelled. “You people can’t do this to me.”
“Shut up, Tom,” a woman told him. “Your days of bullying and killing are over.”
Smoke walked over to Beth’s Cafe and stepped inside.
“Get him up on that horse!” a man yelled, just as Smoke was closing the door. “Take him down to the hangin’ tree.”
“Goddamn you all to hellfire!” Tom screamed.
Smoke sat down by a front window and smiled at the lady behind the counter. “Coffee and a plate lunch,” he said. “Or would you rather go down and see the hanging first?”
“Just as long as Tom Lilly does get hanged,” she said. “He’s got about seven pretty bad ol’ boys due back in town right around noon. What are you going to do about them?”
“I’m not going to do anything,” Smoke told her. “Unless they crowd me. I think the townspeople will handle them.”
She brought him coffee. Smoke watched through the window as men armed with rifles began stationing themselves on roof tops.
“He ran the town through fear and intimidation,” Beth said from the kitchen. “He threatened to do terrible things to the kids. He would take a child’s pet and kill it with his bare hands, right in front of the children. He’s raped more than one woman. Tom Lilly is a horrible man.”
“Was,” Smoke said, as he watched the crowd of people come walking back up the wide street, leading a riderless horse. “Tom Lilly is swinging in the wind now.”
Beth placed his plate of food in front of him. “Got puddin’ for dessert.”
“Sounds good.” Smoke ate slowly of the thick stew and hot, fresh-baked bread laden with sweet butter. When he had finished, Beth brought him a big bowl of pudding and he topped that off with more coffee.
Riders galloped into town just as Smoke was sugaring his coffee. He rolled a cigarette and watched the men rein up in front of the saloon.
“Lilly’s men?” he asked.
“Yes. And a scummier bunch never sat a saddle.”
“I don’t think they’ll ever sit another saddle,” Smoke told her.
The words had hardly left his mouth before a dozen rifles smashed the mid-day air and seven bodies lay crumpled in the street, their blood staining the dirt.