Shootout of the Mountain Man

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Smoke Jensen was in Longmont’s saloon playing cards with a few of his friends. Louis Longmont wasn’t playing, but he was nearby, leaning up against the wall, adding his own comments to the conversation that flowed around the card table.

Smoke was only partially participating in the conversation, and was only partially participating in the card game, as was demonstrated when he failed to respond to the dealer’s request.

“Smoke?” Garrett said. Garrett, a stagecoach driver, was one of the other players.

“What?”

“How many cards?”

“I pass.”

“What do you mean you pass? You’ve already matched the bet.”

“Oh, uh, I’ll play these.”

“Smoke what’s got into you?” Louis asked. “You seem to be somewhere else.”

“I fold,” Smoke said.

Laying his cards facedown on the table, Smoke got up. Not until he stood could anyone get a good enough look at him to be able to gauge the whole of the man. Six feet two inches tall, he had broad shoulders and upper arms so large that even the shirt he wore couldn’t hide the bulge of his biceps. His hair, the color of wheat, was kept trimmed, and he was clean shaven. His hips were narrow, though accented by the gun belt and holster from which protruded a Colt .44, its wooden handle smooth and unmarked.

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