War of the Mountain Man Read Online Free

idea, Sally. But I’ll tell you what he’s going to be as soon as I finish my food.”
    She looked at him. “What?”
    â€œDead.”
    Smoke had his coffee and a glass of brandy, then bought a cigar and stepped outside. Sally took a seat in the lobby and read the local paper.
    It was near dusk and the wide street was deserted. All horses had been taken from the hitchrails and dogs had been called home. Smoke lit his cigar and leaned against an awning support.
    He had played out this scene many times in his life. and Smoke knew he was not immortal. He’d taken a lot of lead in his life. And he would rather talk his way out of a gunfight than drag iron. But he was realist enough to have learned early that with some men, talking was useless. It just prolonged the inevitable. Smoke also knew—and had argued the belief many times with so-called learned people—that some men were just born bad, with a seed of evil in them.
    And there was only one way to deal with those types of people.
    Kill them.
    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.
    â€œWhat’s goin’ on?” the cowboy called.
    â€œChub 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?”
    â€œHim 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.”
    â€œJensen doesn’t seem too worried about facin’Chub,” the cowboy remarked.
    â€œJensen’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.”
    â€œChub’s quick,” the cowboy said. “You got to give him that. But he’s a fool to face Jensen.”
    â€œYonder’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.
    â€œHe’s gonna use that left hand .44,” the cowboy said. “Folks say he’s wicked with either gun.”
    â€œReckon where his wife is?”
    â€œFoster from the store said she was sitting in the lobby, readin’ the newspaper,” the barkeep said.
    â€œMy, 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