Ordeal of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone Page B

Sally hovering in his mind. “And, yes, you may. ”
    Jimmy’s eyes glowed. “Oh, boy, maybe I’ll get to see you wallop a few bad men.”
    Smoke frowned. “You had better hope you don’t. Which reminds me. If anything turns rough out here while you are around, duck. I mean, crawl underground.”
    â€œYesss, sir,” the little lad replied in disappointment.
    When Fred showed up and introduced himself, Smoke explained what was expected of him and what to watch out for. Then he walked back into the center of town with Jimmy at his side. He gave the boy another dime and sent him off to the Iron Kettle with the empty plate. Then he started for the first of two saloons he had on his list to clean out this afternoon.
    When he shoved his way through the batwings, Smoke walked smack into a fist in the mouth.

Seven
    Smoke Jensen rocked back on his boot heels, then lowered his head and drove into the man who had hit him. Off balance, the tough backpedaled until he struck a poker table and sprawled across it, scattering coins and chips.
    â€œHey, get off the table,” one of the irate players complained.
    From the bar, another added, “Yeah, Red, I thought you were gonna really fix the new sheriff. Looks like he’s done fixed you.”
    Goaded by the taunt, Red Cramer sprang to his feat and made a dive for Smoke Jensen. Smoke waited for his charge. At the last second, he side-stepped and clipped Red behind the ear. Red flew sideways and crashed into yet another table. Beer gushed upward in amber geysers as schooners broke in showers of glass, and the table’s occupants sprawled in disarray. Red wound up face-first across the collapsed table. Slower this time, he came to his boots.
    Smoke stood there ready to meet him. Only this time, Red decided he had enough of bare-hand grappling. He dropped a hand to his holster and hauled on his hogleg. He should have known better.
    Although superior to most of the thugs Smoke had faced since coming to Muddy Gap, Red Cramer managed to bring only the muzzle of his Colt to the top of the pocket before Smoke shot him in the chest.
    Red’s expression of surprise spoke volumes. For a moment he could simply not believe that he had been beaten. Especially by some nobody from Colorado. Then came the rush of certain knowledge. How could this be happening to him? Red Cramer went limp, and his Colt thudded on the floor. His eyes rolled up, and he sighed as though in regret for his short life and many sins. Then he died.
    Smoke faced the remaining occupants of the Red Rooster saloon. “You men were already in town when I posted it. Though by this time, you have to have seen one or more notices on your way in here. So, I’ll give you exactly thirty seconds to rid yourselves of every firearm you are carrying, and any knife with more than a three-inch blade. There are no exceptions,” Smoke added as one of the toughs started to voice a protest. “Failure to comply will result in being escorted out of town, by way of a visit to the justice of the peace and a stay in jail.”
    A long, silent fifteen seconds clicked away on the octagonal face of the oak-cased Regulator wall clock above the piano. Then, grumbling lowly among one another, three of the riffraff began to deposit weapons on the bar. When the slender, black hand reached twenty seconds, four more began to divest themselves of six-guns and knives. The thirty-second deadline arrived in the Red Rooster, and Smoke Jensen cut his eyes from one to another of the three holdouts, then down at the corpse cooling on the floor.
    â€œIf you don’t want to join him, I’d suggest you join your friends over there at the bar.”
    Two of them looked at Smoke as though he had spoken in tongues. The third scuttled to the bar and began to unburden his person of all arms. The pendulum of the Regulator ticked again, and the second hand advanced. One of the holdouts began to sweat