Smoke was the first to push open the batwings and step inside, moving to one side so the others could follow quickly and let their eyes adjust to the dimmer light.
The first thing Smoke noticed was that Diego and Gomez were widely separated, one standing clear across the room from the other. It was a trick they used often, catching a man in a crossfire.
Smoke moved to the bar, his spurs jingling softly with each step. He walked to the far end of the bar while Lujan stopped at the end of the bar closest to the batwings. The move did not escape the eyes of Diego and Gomez. Both men smiled knowingly.
Only Smoke, Lujan, and Hardrock were at the bar. Pistol and Silver Jim positioned themselves around the room, and that move made several of the outlaws very nervous.
Smoke decided to take a chance and make a try for peace. “The war is over, boys. This doesn’t have to be. You’re professionals. Dooley is dead. You’re off his payroll. There is no profit in dying for pride.”
A very tough gunfighter that Pistol knew only as Bent sighed and pushed his chair back. “Makes sense to me. I don’t fight for the fun of it.” He walked out the batwings and across the boardwalk, heading for the livery.
“One never knows about a man,” Diego spoke softly. “I was certain he had more courage than that.”
“I always knowed he was yeller,” Hazzard snorted.
“Maybe he’s just smart,” Smoke said.
Diego ignored that and stared at Lujan. “The noble Lujan,” he said scornfully. “Protector of women and little children.” He spat on the floor.
“At least, Diego,” Lujan said, “I have that much of a reputation for decency. Can you say as much?”
“Who would want to?” the gunfighter countered. ”Decency does not line my pockets with gold coins.”
There was no point in talking about conscience to the man—he didn’t have one.
Lujan flicked his dark eyes to Smoke. No point in delaying upcoming events, the quick glance seemed to say.
Smoke shot the Mexican gunfighter. He gave no warning; just drew, cocked, and fired, all in a heartbeat. Lujan was a split second behind him, his slug taking Gomez in the belly.
Hardrock took out Pooch Matthews just as Smoke was pouring lead into Eddie Hart and Silver Jim and Pistol had turned their guns on the others.
Royce was down, hanging onto a table. Dave and Hazzard were backed up against a wall, the front of their shirts turning crimson. Blaine and Nolan were out of it, their hands empty and over their heads, total shock etched on their tanned faces.
Diego raised his pistol, the sound of the cocking loud in the room.
“Don’t do it, Diego,” Smoke warned him.
The gunfighter cursed Smoke, in English and in Spanish, telling him where he could go and in what part of his anatomy he could shove the suggestion.
Smoke shot him between the eyes just as Lujan was putting the finishing touches to Gomez.
The batwings pushed open and Jackson Bodine walked in, carrying a sawed-off double barrel express gun.
“There might be re-ward money for them two,” Hardrock said, pointing to Blaine and Nolan. “You might send a telly-graph to Fort Benton.”
Hazzard finally lost the strength to hang onto the table and he fell to the floor. Dave hung on, looking at Smoke through eyes that were beginning to lose their light.
“We was snake-bit all through this here job,” he said, coughing up blood. “Didn’t nothin’ turn out right.” The table tipped over under his weight and he fell to the floor. He lay amid the cigar and cigarette butts, cursing Smoke as life left him. Profanity was the last words out of his mouth.
“Anyone else gunnin’ for you boys?” the marshall asked.
“Several more,” Smoke told him.
“I sure would appreciate it if y’all would take it on down the road. This is the first shootin’ we’ve had here in three years.”
Hardrock laughed at the expression on the marshal s face. “I swear, Jackson. I do believe you’re gettin’ crotchety in your old age.”
“And would like to get older,” the marshal replied.
Hardrock slapped his friend on the back. ’Come on, Jackson, I’ll buy you a drink.”
The men rode on south, crossing the Tongue, and rode into the little town of Sheridan, Wyoming. There, they took their first hot soapy bath since leaving Gibson, got a shave and a trim, and enjoyed a cafe-cooked meal and several pots of strong coffee.
The sight of five of the most famous gunslingers in all the West made the marshal a tad nervous. He and some of the locals, armed with shotguns, entered the cafe where Smoke and his friends were eating, positioning themselves around the room.
“I swanny,” Silver Jim said. “I do believe the town folks is a mite edgy today.” He eyeballed the marshal. “Ain’t it a bit early for duck-huntin’?”
“Very funny,” a man said. “We heard about the shootin’ up North. There ain’t gonna be no repeat of that around here.”
“I shore hope not,” Hardrock told him. ”Violence offends me turrible. Messes up my di-gestive workin’s. Cain’t sleep for days. I’m just an old man a-spendin’ his twilight years a-roamin’ the countryside, takin’ in all the beauty of nature. Stoppin’ to smell the flowers and gander at the birds.”
“Folks call me Peaceful,” Silver Jim said, forking in a mouthful of potatoes and gravy. “I sometimes think I missed my callin’. I should have been a poet, like that there Longbritches.”
“Longfellow,” Smoke corrected.
“Yeah, him, too.”
“I think you’re all full of horse hocky,” the marshall told them. “No trouble in this town, boys. Eat your meal and kindly leave.”
“Makes a man feel plumb unwanted,” Pistol said.
They made camp for the night a few miles south of town. Staying east of the Bighorns, they pulled out at dawn. They rode for two days without seeing another person.
Over a supper of beans and bacon, Smoke asked, “Where do you boys pick up the rest of your reward money?”
“Cheyenne,” Silver Jim replied.
“You best start anglin’ off east down here at the Platte.”
“That’s what we was thinkin’,” Pistol told him. “But I just don’t think it’s over, Smoke.”
“You can’t spend the rest of your life watching my backtrail.” He looked across the fire at Lujan. “How about you, Lujan?
“I’ll head southwest at the Platte.” He smiled grimly. “My services are needed down on the Utah line.”
Smoke nodded. “Are you boys really going to start up a place for old gunfighters and mountain men?
“Yep,” Hardrock said. “But we gonna keep quiet about it. Let the old fellers live out they days in peace and quiet. Soon as we get it set up, we’ll let you know. We gonna try to get Preacher to come and live thar. You think he would?”
“Maybe, You never know about that old coot. He’s nearabouts the last mountain man.”
“No,” Silver Jim drawled the word. “The last mountain man will be ridin’ the High Lonesome long after Preacher is gone.”
“What do you mean?”
“You, boy. You be the last mountain man.”
The men parted ways at the Platte. They resupplied at the trading post, had a last drink together, and rode away; Lujan to ply his deadly trade down on the Utah line; Silver Jim and Pistol Le Roux and Hardrock to get the bulk of their reward money and find a spot to build a home for old gunfighters. Smoke headed due south.
“We’re goin’ home, boy,” he spoke to Dagger, and the horse’s ears came up. “It’ll be good to see Sally and the babies.”
Smoke left the trail and took off into the wild, a habit he had picked up from Ol’ Preacher. He felt in his guts that he was riding into trouble, so he would make himself as hard to find as possible for those wanting to kill him.
He followed the Platte down, keeping east of the Rattlesnake Hills, then crossing the Platte and making his way south, with Bear Mountain to his east. He stayed on the west side of the Shirley Mountains and rode into a small town on the Medicine Bow River late one afternoon.