He quickly spotted Dave Marble, although he might have missed identifying him if he hadn’t been told by the liveryman about how Dave had been beaten by his brother. Dave’s face was dark with angry bruises and his fist-busted lips were black smears of crusty scabs. One of Dave’s eyes was almost swollen shut and he looked as if he ought to be in a hospital instead of a saloon. The man was seated at the rearmost table with his back to the wall. He was surrounded by four other men, and although there was a deck of cards on the table, they weren’t playing.
Smith wondered if he should try to lure Dave away from his friends, then decided to hell with it. The urge for revenge was so strong in him that nothing would do except to walk right up to the outlaw and force a showdown.
“You’re Dave Marble,” he said, coming to a halt before the table.
“That’s right,” Marble said, looking up. “What of it?”
“You and your gang set fire to my house in Denver and killed my wife and son. Now I’m going to kill you.”
Marble had been slouched down in his chair, but now he straightened up in a hurry, raising his hands and saying, “Whoa, there, stranger! When did this awful thing happen?”
“A few months ago.”
“In Denver, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“I ain’t been in Denver for almost two years!”
“Stand up,” Smith rasped, hand shadowing the butt of his six-gun.
“Now wait a damn minute here!” Dave shouted. “You got the wrong damned man!”
“No I haven’t,” Smith assured him with a cold grin. “I already killed Skoal and Trabert, and now I’m going to kill you!”
Dave gulped and developed a twitch at the left corner of his mouth. “Now … now I don’t know who you are, mister, but you’ve got no quarrel with me. I tell you, I haven’t been to Denver in two years. You got the wrong man.”
“Stand up and make your play, or take a bullet sitting down,” Smith commanded, ignoring the protests. “Either way is the same to me.”
Dave threw up his hands. “If you kill me, it’ll be murder and you’ll hang! Ain’t that right, boys?”
His companions nervously nodded their heads.
“For the last time,” Smith ordered, “stand up and fight!”
Dave jumped up, heaving the table away from himself into Smith and diving for cover as he reached for his six-gun. The heavy table struck Smith in the groin, knocking him off balance. Before he could recover, a shot rang out and Smith felt a searing fire explode against his shoulder. He went reeling backward and then crashed over another table. His gun spilled from his hand and his head struck the dirty sawdust floor. Smith knew that he was about to become a dead man.
Dave Marble jumped forward, smoking gun clenched in his big hand. “You sonofabitch! Did you really get lucky enough to kill my friends?”
“Damn right!” Smith choked.
“You’re going to die real slow,” Dave said, raising his six-gun and taking aim at Smith’s knee. “I’ve got five bullets left in this gun and you’re going to feel every damn one of them.”
Smith tried to kick out and knock Dave over, but the man was smart enough to stay out of reach. He laughed scornfully at Smith’s feeble effort and again took careful aim.
The Winchester clenched in Betty’s fists boomed and caused Dave Marble to take an exaggerated goose step backward. His chin dropped to his shirt and he stared down at the hole in his chest as a bright crimson trickle of blood sprang from his mouth. Then, with his legs beginning to buckle, he looked up and stared at the woman standing in the doorway.
“Betty?” he croaked, trying hard to focus.
“That’s right.”
“But … why!”
“Because you deserve death!” she cried, levering another shell into the rifle and sending it scorching through his brain.
Betty rushed inside the saloon. Pointing her rifle at the most harmless-looking pair she could find, she yelled, “You and you, pick my friend up and bring him with me!”
A half hour later, a doctor left their hotel room, saying, “I’ll have to dig that slug out first thing tomorrow morning if you ain’t dead before then.”
“I won’t be,” Smith vowed.
“Just don’t move or you’ll start bleeding again!”
When they were alone, Betty said, “What are we going to do about Tom?”
“I’ll kill him too,” Smith promised.
“No, we’ll do it together,” she said. “That way, I know you will not be shot again.”
“I should have just shot Dave instead of giving him an explanation,” Smith said angrily. “That was my big mistake tonight.”
“We will have to do better with Tom, or he will kill us for sure,” Betty said, coming to lie down beside him.
“I guess you’re right,” Smith agreed, using his good arm to draw her close. “A whole hell of a lot better.”
“I’m glad you finally are making sense,” Betty whispered, kissing his pale cheek.
Chapter 17
It was late afternoon when Longarm galloped into the little Colorado ranching town of Cortez, and the saloons were already doing a brisk business. Longarm tied Splash in front of one called the Two Bits Bar and wearily strode inside. No one seemed to pay him the slightest bit of attention, and he ordered a whiskey and drank it down neat.
“Bartender?”
“You want another?”
“Yeah,” Longarm said, “but first I need some information.”
The bartender was in his thirties, a handsome man with his oily black hair parted down the middle and a dimple in each cheek. He leaned close across the bar and said with a smile, “Information might cost you more than my whiskey, stranger.”
“I’m looking for a man with burn marks on his neck who is traveling with a pretty woman that looks to be either Indian or Mexican. They would have hit this town driving a buggy. Black with red fringe on top.”
The bartender poured Longarm another shot. “Whiskey is two bits a throw, information one dollar.”
“Fair enough,” Longarm said, paying the man.
“The pair you describe,” the bartender said, after refilling Longarm’s glass, “is holed up at the Fairplay Hotel just down the street.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yep. Fact is, that couple is famous in this town. Are you a friend of the Marble brothers?”
“No, but why do you ask?”
“Because the man braced Dave Marble but had the tables turned on him and was shot.”
“The Assassin was shot!”
The bartender frowned. “The Assassin? Is that what he is called?”
“By some, yes. Anyway,” Longarm said impatiently, “what happened then?”
“Well, that woman he was with came in and shot Dave Marble down with a rifle. Just drilled him twice as clean as you please.”
“She did?”
“I’m tellin’ you the truth.” The bartender straightened up and glanced down his bar. “Hey, boys, didn’t that pretty Indian gal kill Dave Marble last night?”
“Damn right!” a bearded man shouted. “Shot him deader than a doornail!”
The other patrons nodded in agreement, and one yelled, “Let’s have a toast for the Indian gal who did us all a big favor!”
Longarm raised his own glass and joined the toast. He was now a believer. Then he said, “And what happened to the couple after that?”
“The man was wounded in the shoulder,” the bartender said. “Our Doc Halsey dug the bullet out early this morning. The fella is in rough shape, but he’s expected to live.”
“And the woman?”
“She’s stickin’ to her man like a louse on a tall dog,” the bartender answered. “People around here are betting that Tom Marble is going to learn of this and come to kill ‘em both, but until then, they’re famous.
“We ought to help them two get away,” an old man with tobacco-stained whiskers interjected. “We ought to put ‘em in their buggy and send ‘em packin!”