War Of The Mountain Man

Smoke puffed on his cigar and waited.

A cowboy rode into town and reined up at the saloon. He dismounted, looked around him, and spotted Smoke Jensen, all dressed in a black suit with the coat brushed back, exposing those deadly .44’s.

The cowboy put it all together in a hurry and swung back into the saddle, riding down to the stable. He wanted his horse to be out of the line of fire.

After stabling his horse, the cowboy ran up the alley to the rear of the saloon and slipped inside. Everybody in the place, including the barkeep, was lined up by the windows.

“What’s goin’ on?” the cowboy called.

“Chub Morgan’s made his brags about killin’ Smoke Jensen for years. He’s about to get his chance. That there’s Smoke Jensen over yonder in the black suit.”

The cowboy pulled his own beer and walked to the window. “You don’t say? Damn, but he’s a big one, ain’t he? What’s he doin’ in this hick town?”

“Him and his wife rode in a couple hours ago. She’s a pretty little thing. Right elegant once she got out of them men’s britches and put on a proper dress. Packs a .44 like she knows how to use it.”

“Jensen doesn’t seem too worried about facin’ Chub,” the cowboy remarked.

“Jensen’s faced hundreds of men in his time,” an old rummy said. “He’s probably thinkin’ more about what he’s gonna have for breakfast in the mornin’ than worried about a two-bit punk like Chub.”

“Chub’s quick,” the cowboy said. “You got to give him that. But he’s a fool to face Jensen.”

“Yonder’s Chub,” the barkeep said.

Smoke, still leaning against the post, cut his eyes as a man began the walk down the street. As the man drew nearer, Smoke straightened up. He held his cigar in his left hand, the thumb of his right hand hooked under his belt buckle.

“He’s gonna use that left hand .44,” the cowboy said. “Folks say he’s wicked with either gun.”

“Reckon where his wife is?”

“Foster from the store said she was sitting in the lobby, readin’ the newspaper,” the barkeep said.

“My, my,” the cowboy said. “Would you look at Chub. He’s done went home and changed into his fancy duds.”

Smoke noticed the fancy clothes the punk was wearing. He’d blacked his boots and shined his spurs. Big rowels on them; looked like California spurs. His britches had been recently pressed. Chub’s shirt was a bright red; looked like satin. Had him a purple bandana tied around his neck. Even his hat was new, with a silver band.

Smoke waited. He knew where Sally was sitting; he’d told her where to sit, with a solid wood second-floor support to her back to stop any stray bullet. Not that Smoke expected any stray bullets from Chub’s gun. He doubted that Chub would even clear leather. But one never really knew for sure.

Smoke watched the man approach him and, for another of the countless times, wondered why a man would risk his life for the dubious reputation of a gunfighter.

“Jensen!” Chub called.

“Right here,” Smoke said calmly.

“Your wife’s a real looker,” Chub said, a nasty edge to the words. “After I kill you, I’ll take her.”

Smoke laughed at the man. Chub’s face grew red at the laughter. He cursed Smoke.

Smoke was suddenly tired of it. He wanted a good night’s sleep, lying next to Sally. He hadn’t ridden into town looking for trouble, and he resented trouble being pushed upon him. He was just damned tired of it.

“Make your play, punk!” Smoke called.

Chub’s hands hovered over his pearl-handled guns. “Draw, Jensen!” he shouted.

“I don’t draw on fools,” Smoke told him. “You called me out, Chub, remember? Now, if you don’t have the stomach for it, turn around and go on back home. I’d rather you did that.”

“Then you a coward!”

Smoke waited, his eyes unblinking.

“You a coward, damn you!” Chub hollered. “Draw, damnit, draw!”

Smoke’s cold, unwavering eyes bored into the man’s gaze.

“How’s it feel to be about to die?” Chub called, trying to steel himself for the draw.

“I wouldn’t know, Chub,” Smoke’s voice was calm. “Why don’t you ask yourself that question?”

The sheriff and his two deputies watched from the small office and jail.

“Now!” Chub yelled, and his hands closed around the butts of his guns.

Smoke drew, cocked, and fired with one fluid motion. A draw so fast that it was only a blur. Blink, and you missed it.

The .44 slug took Chub in the center of the chest, knocking him off his boots and down to his knees in the dusty street. His hands were still on the butts of his guns. The guns were still in leather.

“Good God!” the cowboy said. “I never even seen him draw.”

The sheriff and his deputies stepped out of the office just as the boardwalks on both sides of the street filled with people.

Smoke stepped off the porch and walked to the dying Chub. He held a cocked .44 in his right hand.

Sally had risen from her seat to stand at the window, watching her man.

Chub raised his head. Blood had gathered on his lips. His eyes were full of anguish. “I ... never even seen you draw,” he managed to gasp.

“That’s the way it goes, Chub,” Smoke told him just as the lawman reached the bloody scene.