Blood Of The Mountain Man. William W. Johnstone
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put a rope on him and drag him,” another suggested.
“Fine idea, Shell.”
Smoke looked at the third man. “You have a name, or did your mother just throw you out with the garbage and forget about you?”
“Why, you! … Yeah, I got a name. Ned.”
“Well, come on, Ned. Don’t be shy.”
The men again exchanged glances. They’d been riding roughshod over people for years. At no time had they ever run up on anybody like this tall stranger.
The locals were doing their best to hide their smiles. And it did not go unnoticed by the three rowdies.
“You think it’s funny now, citizens,” Shell told them. “But when we finish with this yahoo, we’ll settle your hash, too.”
“You won’t be able to do anything in about five minutes,” Smoke told him. “None of you. Now either shut your damn mouths or step up here. What’s it going to be?”
Ned cussed and walked up to the bar. Smoke hit him in mid-stride, his left boot still off the floor in a half-step. Smoke hit him with a solid left that pulped the man’s lips and knocked him flat on his butt on the floor.
Shell and Carl rushed him. Smoke turned, picked up a chair, and splintered it across Shell’s face. The blood flew and Shell joined Ned on the floor.
Carl’s eyes widened and he did some fast back pedaling, but it was too late. Smoke stepped in and began hammering at the man with both fists, the lefts and rights landing like small bombs, and sounding like them.
Carl swung a wild blow and Smoke grabbed the man’s forearm and tossed him over the bar. He landed on the ledge amid dozens of bottles of whiskey. The mirror jarred free of its braces and fell on him, shattering in hundreds of pieces. Ned was staggering to his feet just as Smoke grabbed him by the neck and the seat of his jeans and propelled him toward one of the big front windows. Ned started hollering as soon as he realized what Smoke had in mind. His bellering was cut short as Smoke tossed him through the window. Ned sailed over the warped boardwalk and impacted against and wrapped around a hitchrail. Ned did a little acrobatics around and around the rail and landed on his back in the street, the wind knocked from him.
Carl was staggering around behind the bar, trying to figure out what had happened. Smoke cleared it all up real quick by grabbing the man by the bandanna and brutally hauling him over the bar. Carl’s eyes were bugged out and he was making choking sounds. Smoke began spinning him around and around in a circle, Carl impacting with tables and chairs and knocking them in all directions. Smoke released his hold on the bandanna and Carl went sailing across the room, right through the second large window and out into the street. Carl was thrown up against a horse and the animal reared in fright and kicked out with its hind legs. The steel-shod hooves caught Carl right in the butt and the would-be tough went sailing across the street. He landed on his face in the dirt, out cold.
The citizens in the saloon were enjoying every minute of it, wide eyed and smiling.
“Oh, hell!” Shell said, getting to his feet and facing a mean-eyed Smoke Jensen.
Smoke smiled at him and then reared back. Shell bounced off a wall and very unwillingly came toward Smoke. Smoke stepped to one side, grabbed the man in the very same manner he’d done with Ned, and threw him out into the street. Shell landed in a horse trough and wisely decided to stay there.
A very startled Red Lee and his foreman had just ridden up and stared in amazement at the sight before them.
“Who is that out there?” Smoke asked the locals who were still sitting at a table.
“Red Lee and Jim Sloane,” he was told. “Big rancher and his foreman.”
“Is that right?” Smoke said. He found his whiskey, downed what remained of it, and walked out to the boardwalk, using the batwings, about all that was still intact at the front of the saloon.
Smoke stood on the boardwalk and looked at the two men for a few seconds. The big, rough-looking man with red hair returned the stare.
“I suppose you’re Red Lee,” Smoke said.
“That’s right. What the hell is going on around here?”
“Some of your boys decided to get lippy. One of their suggestions was to rope and drag me. I didn’t like the idea.”
“Damn shore didn’t,” Shell muttered from the water trough. “It was a really bad idea.”
“Shut up,” Red told him. He returned his gaze to Smoke.
Smoke said, “You obviously enjoy the notion of your hands riding roughshod over people. So that makes you responsible for whatever happens. The saloon needs to be swept out and straightened up. You do it.”
The whole town had turned out. At least thirty-five people now stood on the boardwalk, silent and listening and watching.
Red’s expression was priceless. It took him a moment to find his voice. “You want me to do what?”
“Swamp out the saloon.”
“When Hell freezes over,” Red said.
“Oh, it’ll be before then.” Smoke’s hand flashed and his .44 came out spitting fire and lead. The bullets howled and screamed around the hooves of Red’s horse. The animal panicked and reared up, dumping Red on his butt in the street. The foreman was frantically fighting to get his own horse under control.
Smoke could move with deceptive speed for a man of his size. He was off the boardwalk and in the street in the blink of an eye. He jerked the foreman out of the saddle and threw him down in the dirt on his belly, momentarily addling the man. He turned and planted a big fist smack on the side of Red’s jaw. The rancher went down like a brick.
Smoke jerked their guns from leather and tucked them behind his own belt. Jim got to his boots just in time to feel a hard hand gripping his neck and another hand gathering up denim at the seat of his pants. The foreman felt himself propelled out of the street, up on the boardwalk and then through the broken window. He slid on his face for a few feet before his face came to rest against a full cuspidor.
Jim looked up to see his boss come sailing through the other broken window. Red Lee landed hard on his belly and slid a couple of yards, coming to an abrupt halt when his head banged against the front of the bar.
The bartender had long since exited out the back door and hastily beat it over to the barbershop. He and barber were standing by the front window, watching.
“Who is that man?” the bartender asked.
“Damned if I know,” the barber replied. “But he’s sure a one-man wreckin’ crew.”
Over at the saloon, the bulk of Smoke Jensen filled the pushed-open batwings. His hands were filled with guns taken from the still addled hands of Red Lee. “Find some brooms and dustpans,” he told the men on the floor. “And get busy.”
“You’re a dead man,” Red Lee said, his voice harsh and filled with hatred.
Smoke tossed him a pistol. The six-shooter landed on the floor, inches from the rancher.
“You want to try your luck, be my guest,” Smoke told him.
Outside, Ned had climbed out of the water trough and was slopping around. The liveryman ran over and whispered in his ear, and Ned damn near fainted. He squished up to the boardwalk and over to a busted window.
“Boss? Dyer just read the brand on that stranger’s horse. “That’s Smoke Jensen, Boss.”
The saloon had never been so clean. Ned, Shell, and Carl pitched in and the five of them worked at it until it shone. Smoke sat at a corner table and ate supper while the men worked.
“I’ll be back through here from time to time,” Smoke said, having no intention of ever returning to this town. “Chances are you