He tried to put himself inside the head of von Hausen. What would he do in a situation like this? For one thing he would not accept that his prey had gone north toward Hams Creek as Smoke had told the boys at the stable; that would be a deliberate ruse. Von Hausen had some good trackers with him. The gunslingers might be no more than human trash, with little values and no morals, but some of them could track a snake across a rock. Von Hausen had enough salty ol’ boys with him to split his forces. Yeah. He’d do that. He’d send men racing toward the north, then start working them south, from the old stage road at Hams Fork over to the Utah line.
“Good, Smoke,” he muttered. “Very good move on your part. Now you’ve got people coming at you from two directions. Preacher would not be happy with this move.”
Then he chuckled and turned his horse’s head due east. When he came to the stagecoach road, he turned north and headed for what was called the Sublette Cutoff. The cutoff was developed as part of the Oregon Trail; a faster way to get to Oregon country.
As Smoke approached the little town at the cutoff, he circled and came around from the east. He stabled his horses at the livery and stood for a moment in the darkness of the huge barn, studying the horses at the hitchrail in front of the saloon.
“Those two horses over yonder,” he asked the boy. “They local brands?”
“Naw,” the lad replied. “They come in this mornin’. From the south. Hardcases, they look to me. Askin’ questions about any strangers in town. You look familiar, mister. Are you famous, or something?”
Smoke smiled. “In a way that I did not choose,” he told the boy, then gave him a silver dollar. “That’s for you. Rub my horses down good and give them grain. Watch that Appaloosa; he’ll kick the snot out of you if you aggravate him.”
“I seen you on the cover of a book!” the boy said. “You’re Smoke Jensen, the gunfighter. Jeepers! Smoke Jensen is standin’ right here in front of me!”
“I’m Jensen. Does that little cafe over there serve up good meals?”
“Yes, sir. It’s the best place in town to eat.” He thought about that. “It’s the only place in town to eat.”
“Fine. I want me a meal, a bath and a shave, and I can’t do any of that until I get those two gunhands over there in the saloon off my back.”
“Is there gonna be a shoot-out?” the boy asked excitedly.
“I hope not. But there might be a pretty good fist-fight in a few minutes. Is there a back door to that saloon?”
“Yes, sir. You can duck around the side of this barn and come up from the north. That’s a blind side.”
“Fine. Now you keep still about me being in town for a few minutes. Then you can tell your friends. All right?”
“Anything you say, sir. Yes, sir.”
“Where’s the marshal?”
“Out of town chasin’ a thief. Stole a horse and rode right through Mrs. MacKenney’s wash. Took her drawers slap off the line. She ain’t found ’em yet.”
Smoke laughed at that. “Is there a jail?”
“Right over yonder.” He pointed up the street. “Got four cells.”
“I’ll just need one. Do my horses right now, you hear?”
“Oh, yes, sir!”
Smoke stepped out the back of the livery and walked the alley to the edge of the small town. He crossed the street and cut back toward the saloon, taking the alley route. If his plan worked out, von Hausen was going to be plenty miffed. Smoke thought that might do the arrogant baron some good. Or count, or whatever he was. Smoke had a pretty good idea what he was, but that wasn’t printable.
Smoke found the rear door to the saloon-easily done because of the mound of broken whiskey bottles and beer kegs-and slipped inside. He made his way through the gloom and peeked through a hole in the wall. He could tell the regular patrons because they were staying well away from the two trail-dusty, sweat-stained and unshaven men standing at the bar.
Smoke opened the door and stepped inside the barroom. He walked up to the bar and told the barkeep, “Beer.”
Lou Kennedy and Pride Anderson glanced at each other. Both of them wore very startled looks on their ugly faces.
The mug of beer was placed in front of Smoke and he took a sip. Bootsteps sounded on the short boardwalk in front of the saloon. A young man hurried inside, sat down at a table, and whispered something to the men seated there. The men all took a quick glance at Smoke, their eyes wide.
The barkeep waddled over to the table and listened. He looked at Smoke and at the two men standing at the bar. “Bar’s closed,” he announced, and sat down at the table.
Smoke dropped his right hand down to the butt of his gun. “Before I kill a man, or in this case, two men, I like to know their names.”
“Oh, Lord!” a farmer-type said. “Somebody call the law!”
“Shut up,” a cowboy seated across the room said. “Remember me, Mister Smoke?” he asked. “I rode for you down on the Sugarloaf two, three years ago. Dusty Hill.”
“Dusty. Sure. But you stay out of this. They got any friends in town?”
“I don’t think so. I’ll watch your back, Mr. Smoke.”
“Good enough.” Smoke moved closer to the pair of gunslingers.
“I’m Pride Anderson and this here’s Lou Kennedy. And we ain’t huntin’ no trouble, Jensen.”
“Then why have you and the rest of that pack of rabid coyotes been crowdin’ me for the past week?” He moved still closer.
“It’s a free country, Smoke,” Lou said. “A man can ride where he damn well pleases.”
Smoke stepped well within swinging range. “A man can get hurt crowdin’ another man. But I’m not going to hurt either one of you-very much.” Smoke hit Lou smack in the mouth with a big fist. As Lou was stumbling across the room, Smoke jerked Pride’s gunbelt down, the rig falling around his ankles. A split second later, Smoke had busted him square on the nose. Pride hollered as the blood and snot flew as he fell down, all tangled up in his gunbelt.
Smoke met Lou coming at him and hit him a left and right that glazed Lou’s eyes and further bloodied his mouth. Smoke turned and hit Pride twice in the belly just as he was getting up, the blows sounding like a man hitting a watermelon with the flat side of an axe. Smoke caught a blow to the side of his head that probably hurt Lou’s hand more than it did Smoke’s noggin. But it did sting. Smoke waded in, both fists swinging and connecting, the blow driving the man to his knees. Smoke turned and Pride hit him, bloodying his mouth. Smoke back-heeled him and sent the man crashing to the floor. Smoke stepped forward and grabbing the gunfighter by the back of the head, he brought a knee up into the man’s face and Pride stretched out on the floor, his mouth a mess and his nose flattened.
Smoke turned just as Lou was getting up. He measured his blow and put one hard right fist onto the side of Lou’s jaw. Lou’s eyes rolled back while he was falling, until only the whites were showing. He hit the floor, out cold.
Smoke walked back to the bar and drank his beer down. He turned to face the crowd. “These two are part of a gang that’s been hunting me ... for sport. I should have killed them both. But maybe this way is better. Maybe when the others come into town, the sight of these two will change some minds. Dusty, will you and some of these other good citizens drag these two over to the jail, lock them down, and bring the key to me?”
“We’ll shore do it,” Dusty said.
“I’ll be registering at the hotel and then I’ll be having me a bath and a shave.”
“I’ll find you,” Dusty said.
Smoke walked out the front door.
“Shoot!” one citizen said. “I was wantin’ to see a good gunfight.”
“If there had of been,” Dusty said, grabbing hold of Lou’s ankles, “if you’d blinked you’d a missed it.”