Blood of the Mountain Man Read Free Page A

boardwalk, watching him.
    The marshal knows Jake isn’t going to forget what happened in the saloon, he thought. And he’s thinking Jake just might decide to do something tonight. Smoke sat down in a chair that was shrouded in
    darkness and finished his cigarette. He was tired, but not sleepy. He knew he should go on up to his room and lie down, but he didn’t want to do that. He was more irritated than restless. He would have liked to walk the main street of the town. But to do that would only bring him trouble. Hell, he thought, sitting here will probably bring me trouble.
    In my own way, I am a prisoner.
    Come on, Jake, he reasoned, his thoughts suddenly savage. Come on. If you’re going to do something foolish, do it now and get it over with.
    The marshal stood up and walked to his office. He stood for a moment in the open door, then stepped inside and closed it behind him.
    I’m a stranger here, Smoke thought. I’d better have witnesses.
    He stood up and walked through the hotel lobby to the bar, a tall, well-dressed man in a tailored suit. In the saloon, he ordered coffee and stood by the bar, waiting for it to cool. The place was doing a brisk business. But when Smoke elected to stand at the bar, the long bar cleared, the men choosing tables instead.
    That amused Smoke, in a sour sort of way. He was conscious of the faro dealer watching him. I’ve seen that man somewhere down the line, Smoke thought.
    The batwings pushed open and Jake Bonner stood there, his bruised face swollen now. He’d found him more guns and his holsters were full.
    “I’m callin’ your hand, mister,” Jake said, his voice husky with emotion. “Now turn around and face me.”
    Smoke turned, brushing back his coat as he did. “Go home, Jake Bonner. There is no need for this.”
    “Do what he says, Jake,” the faro dealer called. “He’s giving you a chance to live. Take it.”
    “Shut up, gambler!” Jake yelled. “This ain’t none of your affair. I’m the man who killed Smoke Jensen.
    No two-bit stranger does to me what this one done.”
    “You didn’t kill Smoke Jensen, Jake,” the dealer said. “Smoke Jensen is standing in front of you.”
    The saloon became as hushed as a church. Jake’s face drained of blood and he stood pale and shaken.
    “Go home, Jake,” Smoke told him. “Go home and live. Don’t crowd me.”
    “Draw, damn you!” Jake screamed, and grabbed iron.
    Smoke’s draw was perfection, deadly beauty. As Jake’s hands closed around the butts of his guns, he felt a hammer blow in the center of his chest. He stumbled backward and fell against the wall, then slowly slid down to sit on the floor. His guns were still in leather.
    “No,” he said. “This ain’t . . . this ain’t right. This ain’t the way it’s suppose’ to be.”
    “But it is,” the faro dealer said.
    “You go to hell!” Jake Bonner screamed.
    It was the last thing he said.
    Smoke holstered his gun and stood by the bar. He picked up his coffee cup with his left hand and took a sip. Just right.
    “Jesus God!” a man breathed. “I seen it but I don’t believe it. It was a blur. Hell, it wasn’t even that!”
    The marshal stepped in, gun drawn. He looked at Jake, then at Smoke, and holstered his .45. “I knew it was going to happen,” he said. “I thought about lockin’ Jake up until mornin’. Now I wish I had.”
    “Jake called him and drew first,” a man said. “Or tried to. That’s Smoke Jensen, Marshal.”
    “The poor dumb fool,” the marshal said. “Not you,” he was quick to add, looking at Smoke.
    ‘You have any questions for me?” Smoke asked. “Only one. When are you leavin’ town?”
    “First thing in the morning.”
    “Good. Somebody get the undertaker and get Jake
    fitted for a box.” The marshal looked at Smoke. There were things he wanted to say, but he was wise enough not to say them. It wasn’t that he blamed Smoke, for he was sure that Smoke had been pushed into the fight. “Good night,