Richards smiled at Smoke’s choice of a showdown spot.
As the old ghost town appeared on the horizon, located on the flats between the Lemhi River and the Beaverhead Range, Turkel’s buddy, Harris, reined up and pointed. “Goddamn place is full of people!”
“Miners,” Brown said. “They come to see the show. Drinking and betting. Them old mountain men spread the word.”
“Just like it was at the camp on the Uncompahgre,” Richards said with a grunt.* “Check your weapons. Stuff your pockets full of extra shells. I’m going back to talk with Preacher. I want to see how this deal is going down.”
Richards rode back to the mountain men, riding with one hand in the air.
“That there’s far enuff,” Lobo said. “Speak your piece.”
“We win this fight, do we have to fight you men too?”
“No,” Preacher said quickly. “My boy Smoke done laid down the rules.”
His boy! Richards thought. Jesus God. “We win, do we get to stay in this part of the country?”
“If’n you win,” Preacher said, “you leave with what you got on your backs. If’n you win, we pass the word, and here ’tis: if’n you or any of your people ever come west of Kansas, you dead meat. That clear?”
“You’re a hard old man, Preacher.”
“You wanna see jist how hard?” Preacher challenged.
“No,” Richards said, shaking his head. “We’ll take our chances with Smoke.”
“You would be better off taking your chances with us,” Audie suggested.
Richards looked at Nighthawk. “What do you have to say about it?”
“Ummm.”
Richards looked pained.
“That means haul your ass back to your friends,” Phew said.
Richards trotted his horse back to what was left of his band. He told them the rules.
Britt looked up the hill toward an old falling-down store. “There he is.”
Smoke stood alone on the old curled-up and rotted boardwalk. The men could see his twin .44s belted around his waist. He held a Henry repeating rifle in his right hand, a double-barreled express gun in his left hand. Smoke ducked into the building, leaving only a slight bit of dust to signal where he once stood.
“Two groups of six,” Richards said, “one group of three, one group of four. Britt, take your group in from the rear. Turkel, take your boys in from the east. Reese, take your people in from the west. I’ll take my people in from this direction. Move out.”
Smoke had removed his spurs, hanging them on the saddlehorn of Drifter. As soon as he ducked out of sight, he had run from the store down the hill, staying in the alley. He stashed the express gun on one side of the street in an old store, his rifle across the street. He met Skinny Davis first, in the gloom of what had once been a saloon.
“Draw!” Davis hissed.
Smoke put two holes in his chest before Davis could cock his .44s.
“In Pat’s Saloon!” someone shouted.
Williams jumped through an open glassless window of the saloon. Just as his boots hit the old warped floor, Smoke shot him, the .44 slug knocking the gunslick back out the window to the boardwalk. Williams was hurt, but not out of it yet. He crawled along the side of the building, one arm broken and dangling, useless.
“Smoke Jensen!” Cross called. “You ain’t got the sand to face me!”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Smoke muttered, taking careful aim and shooting the outlaw. The lead struck him in the stomach, doubling him over and dropping him to the weed-grown and dusty street.
The miners had hightailed it to the ridges surrounding the town. There they sat, drinking and betting and cheering. The mountain men stood and squatted and sat on the opposite ridge, watching.
A bullet dug a trench along the wood, sending splinters flying, a few of them striking Smoke’s face, stinging and bringing a few drops of blood.
He ran out the back of the saloon and came face to face with Simpson, the gunhawk having both hands filled with a .44.
Smoke pulled the trigger on his own .44s, the double hammer-blows of lead taking Simpson in the lower chest, slamming him to the ground, dying.
Quickly reloading, Smoke grabbed up Simpson’s guns and tucked them behind his gunbelt. He ran down the alley. The last of Richards’s gunslicks stepped out of a gaping doorway just as Smoke cut to his right, jumping through an open window. A bullet burned Smoke’s shoulder. Spinning, he fired both Colts, one bullet striking Martin in the throat, the second taking the gunnie just above the nose, almost tearing off the upper part of the man’s face.
Smoke caught a glimpse of someone running. He dropped to one knee and fired. His slug shattered the hip of Rogers, sending the big man sprawling in the dirt, howling and cursing. Reese spurred his horse and charged the building where Smoke was crouched. He smashed his horse’s shoulder against the old door and thundered in. The horse, wild-eyed and scared witless, lost its footing and fell, pinning Reese to the floor, crushing the man’s stomach and chest. Reese howled in agony as blood filled his mouth and darkness clouded his eyes.
Smoke left the dying man and ran out the side door.
“Get him, Turkel!” Brown screamed.
Smoke glanced up. Turkel was on the roof of an old building, a rifle in his hand. Smoke flattened against a building as Turkel pulled the trigger, the slug plowing up dirt at Smoke’s feet. Smoke snapped off a shot, getting lucky as the bullet hit the gunhand in the chest. Turkel dropped the rifle and fell to the street, crashing through an awning. He did not move.
A bullet removed a small part of Smoke’s right upper ear; blood poured down the side of his face. He ran to where he had hid the shotgun, grabbing it up and cocking it, leveling it just as the doorway filled with men.
Firing both barrels, Smoke cleared the doorway of all living things, including Britt, Harris, and Smith, the buckshot knocking the men clear off the rotting boardwalk, dead and dying in the street.
“Goddamn you, Jensen!” Brown screamed in rage, stepping out into the street.
Smoke dropped the shotgun and picked up a bloody rifle from the doorway. He shot Brown in the stomach. Brown howled and dropped to the street, both hands holding his stomach.
Rogers leveled a pistol and fired, the bullet ricocheting off a support post, part of the lead striking Smoke’s left leg, dropping him to the boardwalk. Smoke ended Rogers’s career with a single shot to the head.
White-hot pain lanced through Smoke’s side as Williams shot him from behind. Smoke fell off the boardwalk, turning as he fell. He fired twice, the lead taking Williams in the neck, almost tearing the man’s head off.
Ducking back inside, grabbing up a fallen shotgun with blood on the barrel, Smoke checked the shotgun, then checked his wounds. Bleeding, but not serious. Williams’s slug had gone through the fleshy part of the side. Using the point of his knife, Smoke picked out the tiny piece of lead from Rogers’s gun and tied a bandana around the slight wound. He slipped further into the darkness of the building as spurs jingled in the alley to the rear of the old store. Smoke jacked back both hammers on the coach gun. He waited.
The spurs jingled once more. Smoke followed the sound with the twin barrels of the express gun. Carefully, silently, he slipped across the rat-droppings-littered floor to the wall that fronted the alley. He could hear breathing directly in front of him.
He pulled both triggers, the charge blowing a bucket-sized hole in the old pine wall.
The gunslick was blown clear across the alley, hurled against an outhouse. The outhouse collapsed, the gunhand falling into the shit-pit.
Silently, Smoke reloaded the shotgun, then reloaded his own .44s and the ones taken from the dead gunnie. He listened as Fenerty called for his buddies.
There was no reply.
Fenerty was the last gunhawk left.
Smoke located the voice. Just across the street in a falling-down old building. Laying aside the shotgun, he picked up a rifle and emptied the magazine into the storefront. Fenerty came staggering out, shot in the chest and belly. He died face down in the littered street.