War Of The Mountain Man

Smoke stepped off the boardwalk. “Me,” he said. He walked across the dirt street to the saloon and pushed over the batwings, stepping into the dimness.

The bar had cleared of patrons when Dek walked in. His reputation was known throughout the West, and unlike Smoke, he liked all the hoopla. Smoke walked to the bar and faced Dek, leaning against the other end of the long counter.

“Jensen,” Dek said. “I hear you been throwing a wide loop here of late.”

“What of it?”

“Some folks don’t like it. So they got ahold of me to cut you back to size some.”

“And you figure you’re the man for the job, huh?”

“I figure so.”

“Anybody ever tell you that you were a damn fool, Dek?”

The gunfighter flushed, then fought his sudden anger under control and smiled at Smoke. “That won’t work, Jensen. So save your little mind games for the two-bit punks.”

“That’s you, Dek.”

Dek carefully picked up his shot glass and took a small sip of whiskey, gently placing the drink back on the bar. “You’ve had all those books written about you. I even seen a play some actors put on about you once. Made me want to puke.”

Smoke waited. He’d played this scene many times in his life. Dek was working up his courage.

The barkeep said, “Can I pull you a beer, Marshal?”

“Yes, that would be nice. Thanks, Ralph. A beer would taste good.”

Dek tossed a coin on the bar. “On me, barkeep. It’s gonna be his last one.”

“It’s on the house,” Ralph said. “And I ’spect the marshal will be comin’ in tomorrow for his afternoon taste.”

Dek didn’t like that. His eyes narrowed and his left hand clenched into a fist. Slowly, he relaxed and picked up his whiskey. Another tiny sip went down his throat.

Ralph slid the beer mug up the bar and Smoke stopped it with his hand. He took a healthy pull, holding the mug in his left hand. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took several steps toward Dek.

Dek watched him, the light in his eyes much like that of a wild animal, filled with suspicion.

Smoke stopped and said, “Why, Dek?”

“Huh? Why? Why what, Jensen?”

“Why do you want to kill me?”

“That’s a stupid question! ’Cause there’s money on your head, that’s why.”

“What good is it going to do you dead?” Smoke took another few steps.

“Huh? Dead? You’re the one gonna be dead, Jensen. Not me. Now you’re crowdin’ me, Jensen. You just stand still. Back up and drink your beer.”

Smoke took another step. He was almost within swinging distance. “You got a mother somewhere, Dek?”

“Naw. She’s been dead. Now, dammit, Jensen, you stand still, you hear me?”

“No wife for me to write to?”

“Naw. Why the hell would you want to write to my wife even if I had one?”

“To tell her about your death, that’s why.” Smoke took two more steps.

“Jensen, you’re crazy! Y ou know that? You’re as nutty as a road lizard. You ...”

Smoke hit him in the mouth with a right that smashed the man’s lips and knocked him spinning. Smoke jerked the man’s guns from leather and tossed them behind the bar. He stepped back, raising his fists.

“Now, Dek. Now we’ll see how much courage you have. Come on, Dek. You think you’re such a bad man. Fight me. Stand up, Dek. I don’t think you know how. I don’t think you have the guts to fight me.”

Dek cussed him.

Smoke took the time to pull riding gloves from behind his gunbelt and slip them on. He laughed at Dek. “Oh, come on, Dek. What’s the matter? You afraid I might kick your big tough butt all over this town in front of God and everybody? You afraid somebody might see and laugh at you?”

“That’ll be the day,” Dek snarled, raising his fists. “You ain’t about man enough to put me down.”

“We’ll sure see, Dek. But there is one thing that puzzles me.”

“What’s that?”

“Are you trying to talk me to death?”

Cursing, Dek charged Smoke. Smoke ducked a wild swing and tripped him. Grabbing Dek by the collar and by the seat of his pants, Smoke propelled him through the batwings and out into the street, Dek hollering and cussing all the way. On the boardwalk, Smoke gave a mighty heave and tossed Dek into the dirt.

Dek landed on his face and came up spitting dirt and cussing and waving his arms.

Smoke stepped in and gave Dek a combination, left and right, both to the face, which staggered the gunfighter and backed him up, shaking his head and spitting blood.

A crowd began gathering, grinning and watching the fun. The women tried to frown and pretend they didn’t like it, but from the gleam in their eyes, they were very much enjoying watching one of Max Huggins’s men get the tar knocked out of him.

“Knock his teeth down his throat, Smoke!” Mrs. Marbly hollered.

“Yeah,” the minister’s wife shouted. “Smite him hip and thigh and bust his mouth, too, Marshal.”

Dek looked wildly around him. He looked back at Smoke just in time to catch a big right fist smack on his nose. The nose crunched and Dek squalled as the blood flew. Dek backed up, trying to clear his vision.