Blood of the Mountain Man Read Free

killed him.
    Jake walked closer, and Smoke knew then that Bonner was no gunfighter. No gunfighter wanted action this close up. The odds were too great that both men would take lead.
    “You’re a dead man, mister,” Jake hissed the words.
    “No,” Smoke said slowly. “But you’re sure a hurt one.” He backhanded Jake with a hard right that knocked the man spinning. Jake fell against a table, the table collapsed, and Jake landed on his butt on the floor in a state of confusion.
    Things weren’t supposed to work out this way. Every time he’d try to get up, the big stranger would knock him back down. Jake felt his lips pulp and knew he’d lost a couple of teeth. The big man hauled back a huge fist and busted Jake right on the nose. Jake screamed in pain as his beak busted and the blood poured. In a fog of hurt, Jake felt himself being jerked to his feet and hurled through the air. He crashed against a wall and the air left him.
    When Jake could catch his breath, he reached for his guns, but his holsters were empty. He blinked a couple of times and saw his guns, on the bar, in front of the big stranger. The stranger was calmly sipping at his whiskey.
    Smoke unloaded the matched .45s and lined up the cartridges on the bar. “Children shouldn’t play with guns,” he said. “You might hurt yourself, Booper.”
    “The name is Bonner,” Jake gasped.
    Smoke nodded gravely and finished his drink. “You all through trying to play tough boy, Bone-head?”
    Jake struggled to his feet and stood swaying for a moment. Then, with a curse, he reached behind him and jerked out a knife.
    “I really wish you hadn’t done that,” Smoke said.
    “Jake!” the faro dealer shouted. “Don’t do it, boy. You don’t know who you’re messin’ with.”
    Jake sneered at the dealer. Smoke stood facing the bar, both hands on the polished mahogany.
    “I’m gonna gut you like a fish, mister,” Jake panted, the blood dripping down from his busted nose and smashed lips.
    The batwings flipped open and a man wearing a star stood there. “Put it down, Jake,” he ordered. “Do it now, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
    Jake slowly lowered the knife. The Marshal walked around to face the young would-be tough. “What the hell ran over you, Jake? A beer wagon?”
    Jake refused to answer.
    “Put the knife up, Jake. Right now.”
    Jake sheathed the big blade and with something that sounded like a sob, abruptly turned and lurched from the saloon.
    “These are his guns, Marshal,” Smoke said. “I took the precaution of unloading them.”
    The marshal walked up to Smoke and the counterman placed a cup of coffee in front of him. “Jake’s a pretty salty type, mister. Not many men around here would have tried to disarm him.”
    “He’s a two-bit loudmouth,” Smoke replied. “Nothing more.”
    ‘You got a name?”
    “Doesn’t everybody?” Smoke turned and walked out of the bar and into the dining area. He was seated and a menu was placed in front of him.
    The marshal was irritated and his face showed it. He turned to follow Smoke and the faro dealer said, “Leave him alone, Jeff. He’s a good, decent man who was pushed, that’s all. Believe me when I say that is the last man in the world you want to crowd.”
    “You know him, Sparks?”
    “I’ve seen him a time or two, yes. He just wants to have a meal and a good night’s sleep, that’s all.”
    Jeff thought for a moment, and then nodded. “All right, I’ll take your word for it. But you know Jake’s not gonna stand for this.”
    “His funeral, Marshal.”
    “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”
    Smoke ate his meal and had coffee, then stepped out onto the porch for a cigarette and a breath of night air. He had not forgotten Jake Bonner. That would have been a very unwise thing to do. For the Jakes of this world, once humiliated, would never forgive or forget, and Smoke was careful of his back.
    He looked across the street and saw the marshal sitting on the