His hair was slicked down and glistened with pomade, and the corners of his mustache curled up, held in place with wax. He had red hair and a red handlebar mustache. The cowboy drinking whiskey sported a fancy double-rig of hand-tooled holsters containing pearl-handled Colts, and wore a black silk shirt and black pants tucked into knee-high stovepipe black boots.
Though it was barely dawn, two of the men had mugs of beer in front of them and the third a glass of whiskey. Smoke’s eyes flicked around the room in an unconscious search for danger, automatically noting three men sitting at a corner table on the far side of the room. “Tell Andre to scramble up some hen’s eggs, burn three steaks, and make a fresh pot of coffee. Smoke and Pearlie and Cal pulled up chairs across from Louis, who waved a hand at a young black waiter. He was well educated and as smart as he was dangerous. He had come to the West as a young boy and made a name for himself first as a gunfighter, then as a skilled gambler. For Louis was snake-quick with a short gun. A pistol hung in tied-down leather on his right side it was not for show alone. He had jet black hair and a black, pencil-thin mustache. He was a lean, hawk-faced man, with strong, slender hands and long fingers, his nails carefully manicured, his hands clean.
Louis looked like a dandy, but he was in fact one of the fastest guns in the West. Even at this early hour, he was, as usual, dressed impeccably in a black suit and a starched white shirt with ruffles on the front, a black silk vest, and a red cravat around his neck. The ex-gunfighter smiled and waved them over to his table. When they brushed through the batwings, the three men found Louis Longmont sitting at his usual table, drinking coffee and smoking a long, black cigar. They left the buckboard in front of the store and ambled over to the Silver Dollar Saloon, following Smoke. With a prodigious yawn, he nodded and nudged Cal awake. Pearlie opened one eye and peered out from under his Stetson. He climbed back up on Horse and called out, “Cal, Pearlie, wake your lazy butts up and I’ll treat you to some breakfast over at Longmont’s.” Guess everyone but Monte and I are sleeping in this morning, he thought. He stepped out of his saddle and tried the door, finding it still locked. Smoke nodded and reined Horse to a stop in front of the general store next to the jail. “Good thing those broncs know the way to town, Smoke, or them boys’d be in Denver by now.” Though he wasn’t snoring, he was obviously asleep, too. His hat was also down and his eyes were closed. Sitting next to Pearlie, leaning against his shoulder, was Cal Woods, Pearlie’s second in command at the ranch. Pearlie, foreman of Smoke’s Sugarloaf ranch, was riding slumped over, his hat pulled down over his eyes, snoring loud enough to be heard over the creaking of wheels and the clopping of horses’ hooves. Otherwise they’d sleep half the day away.” “Got to set an example for these young punchers, Monte. Smoke smiled at his old friend and pointed back over his shoulder at a buckboard following him. Though his days as one of the West’s most feared gunfighters were behind him, old habits died hard, and old enemies seemed to live longer and outnumber old friends.Īs Smoke passed the jail, Sheriff Monte Carson stepped through the door and tipped his hat. As Horse cantered down dusty streets, Smoke’s eyes flicked back and forth, checking alleyways and shadows for potential trouble. Smoke Jensen rode his big Palouse, Horse, into Big Rock, Colorado, just as the sun peeked over the mountains to the east.
0 kommentar(er)
