Free Code of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone Page B

...”
    â€œMills, lead, follow, or get the hell out of my way.”
    Smoke stepped off the boardwalk just as the outlaws were entering the saloon. Seconds later the saloon emptied of locals.
    Smoke pushed open the batwings and stepped inside, Mills right behind him. Smoke heard Dirty asking for a room for the night.
    â€œNot in this town, Dirty,” Smoke called out. “The only room you’re going to get is a pine box. And if there isn’t enough coins in your pocket to buy a box, we’ll roll you up in your blankets and plant you that way.”
    Mills gasped at the sheer audacity of Smoke.
    Dirty turned and faced Jensen. The man was big and dirty and mean-looking. He wore one gun tied down and had another six-shooter shoved behind his belt. “You got no call to talk to me like that, Jensen.”
    â€œYou ever ridden back to Nevada to put flowers on the grave of that little girl you killed, Dirty?”
    Dirty flushed under the beard and the dirt on his face. “I was drunk when that happened, Jensen. Man can’t be held responsible for what he does when he’s drunk.”
    â€œYeah,” Smoke said sourly. “The courts will probably hold that to be true one of these days. But ‘one of these days’ don’t count right now.”
    Mills grunted softly.
    â€œGive him a drink,” Smoke told the barkeep. “On me. Enjoy it, Dirty. It’s gonna be your last one.”
    Deke Carey moved away from the bar to get a better angle at Smoke.
    â€œStand still, Deke,” Smoke told him. “You move again and I’ll put lead in you.”
    Deke froze to the floor, both hands in plain sight. “You think you can take us all, Jensen?”
    â€œYes.”
    Mills had moved to one side, one thumb hooked over his belt buckle. Smoke had noticed several days before that the federal marshal carried a hideout gun shoved behind his belt, under his jacket.
    â€œWho’s your funny-lookin’ friend, Jensen?” another of the six asked.
    â€œI am United States Marshal Walsdorf,” Mills informed him.
    â€œWell, la-tee-da,” a young punk with both guns tied down said with a simper. “A U-nited States Marshal. Heavens!” He put a hand to his forehead and leaned up against the bar. “I’m so fearful I think I might swoon.”
    Mills was across the room before the punk could stand up straight. Mills hit the smart-mouthed punk with a hard right fist that knocked him sprawling. He jerked him up, popped him again, and threw him across the room. The punk landed against the cold pot-bellied stove. The stove fell over, the stovepipe broke loose from the flue collar, and the two-bit young gunny was covered with soot.
    â€œShow some respect for the badge, if not for me,” Mills said.
    â€œI don’t like your damn attitude!” another gunny said. “I think I’ll just take that badge and shove . . .”
    The only thing that got shoved was Mills’ fist, smack into the gunny’s mouth. Mills hit him two more times, and the man slumped to the floor, bleeding from nose and mouth and momentarily out of it.
    Mills swept back his coat, put his hand on the butt of his short-barreled Peacemaker .45 and thundered, “I will have law and order, gentlemen!”
    â€œHalp!” the soot-covered punk yelled. “I cain’t see nothin’. Halp!”
    â€œLet’s take ’em, Greeny!” Dirty said.
    But Smoke was already moving. He reached Dirty before the man could drag iron and loosened some of Dirty’s teeth with a short, hard right.
    Greeny swung at Mills and almost fell down as Mills ducked the punch. Mills planted his lace-up boots and decked the outlaw.
    Smoke jabbed a left fist into Deke’s face three times, the jabs jarring the man’s head back and bringing a bright smear of blood to his mouth. He followed the jabs with a right cross that knocked Deke to the floor.
    â€œBy the