“Yes. And something else. John Reynolds told me that Dagget has hated the Reynolds family for years, even before he got into trouble and had to leave.”
“So John and Abigal might also be targets.”
“Yes.”
“This Dagget, he have any family still livin’ in town?” York asked.
Smoke shook his head. “I don’t know. But I’d bet he does.”
“But Dagget would still know the town,” Louis mused aloud.
“Yes. And he would know where the best hiding places were.”
“And he just might have supporters still livin’ here,” York interjected.
“There is that, too.”
The men sat their horses for a moment, quiet, just listening to the near silence.
“Me and Louis been talkin’. Smoke, we’ll take the main street. You best head on over toward the Reynolds place.”
Smoke nodded and tightened the reins. “See you boys.” He rode slowly toward the Reynolds house.
York and Louis turned the other way, heading for the main street of town.
Smoke put Drifter in the stable behind the house but left the saddle on him. Pulling his rifle from the boot, he walked around the big house on the corner. The house directly across the street, on the adjacent corner, was empty. The home facing the front porch was occupied. John had said the family had taken to the basement. To the rear and the left of the Reynolds house, looking from the street, the lots were owned by John; in the summers, neat patches of flowers were grown by Abigal.
Smoke stood on the front porch, the leather hammer thongs off his .44s, the Henry repeating rifle, loaded full with one in the chamber, held in his left hand. Without turning around, he called, “What’s the time, John?”
“Ten-thirty, Son,” John called through the closed front door.
“They’ll hit us in about ten minutes. Relax, John. Have another cup of coffee. If you don’t mind, pour me one while you’re at it. I’ll keep an eye on the front.”
The man is utterly, totally calm, John thought, walking through the house to the kitchen. Not a nerve in his entire body. He looked at his daughter. Sally was sitting in a straight-back chair by a kitchen window, her rifle lying across her lap. She looked as though she just might decide to take a nap.
“Coffee, girls?”
“Thanks, Father. Yes, if you don’t mind.”
Calm, John thought. But then, he suddenly realized, so am I!
Amazing.
“Why hasn’t the Army been notified?” Mayor Mahaffery demanded an answer from the sheriff.
Sheriff Poley puffed on his pipe before replying. “Wire is down, George. ’Sides, Mr. Reynolds tried to get in touch with the governor last night. He’s on a vacation. Tried to get in touch with the commander of that Army base over in New York State. He’s in Washington, D.C. Relax, George, we’ll handle it.”
George pulled a Dragoon out of his belt, the barrel about as long as his arm.
Sheriff Poley looked at the weapon dubiously. “Is that thing loaded, George?”
“Certainly, it’s loaded!” Hizzoner replied indignantly. “I carried it in the war!”
“What war?” Poley asked. “The French and Indian? Git away from me before you try to fire that thing, George. That thing blow up it’d tear down half the building.”
Muttering under his breath, George moved to another spot in the office.
“Look at those guys,” Deputy Peter Newburg said, awe in his voice.
“What guys?” Poley asked.
“Mr. Longmont and that Arizona Ranger, York. They’re just standing out on the sidewalk, big as brass. Got their coats pulled back so’s they can get at their guns. That York is just calm as can be rolling a cigarette.”
“Hell, the gambler is reading a damn newspaper!” George spoke up. “They behave as though they’re just waiting for a train!”
“In a way,” Poley said, “they are.”
“What time is it?” George asked.
Sheriff Poley looked at him. “About a minute later than the last time you asked.”
Before George could tell the sheriff what he could do with his smart remarks, the deputy said, “The gambler just jerked up his head and tossed the paper to the street. He’s lookin’ up Main.”
“Here they come!” a lookout shouted from atop a building. “And there’s a mob of them!”
Louis and York separated, with York ducking behind a horse trough and Louis stepping back into the shallow protection of a store well. Both had drawn their guns.
Tie Medley and his bunch were leading the charge, followed by Studs Woodenhouse and his gang, then Paul Rycroft and Slim Bothwell and their followers. Bringing up the rear were Tustin, LaHogue, Shorty, Red, and Jake. Davidson, Dagget, Lapeer, Moore, and Brute were not in the bunch.
Louis yelled out, “You men on the roof, fire, goddamnit, fire your rifles!”
But they held their fire, and both Louis and York knew why: They had not been fired upon. It was the age-old myth of the fair fight; but any realist knows there is no such thing as a fair fight. There is just a winner and a loser.
Louis stepped out of the store well and took aim. His first shot knocked a rider from the saddle. York triggered off a round and a splash of crimson appeared on an outlaw’s shirtfront, but he stayed in the saddle. A hard burst of returning fire from the outlaws sent Louis back into the store well and York dropping back behind the horse trough.
The outlaws took that time to ride up to the bank and toss a giant powder bomb inside; then they charged their horses into an alley. When the bomb went off, the blast blew all the windows out of the bank front and sent the doors sailing out into the street.
Smoke and dust clouded the street. The outlaws tossed another bomb at the rear of the bank building and the concussions could be felt all over the town. The outlaws rode their horses into the back of the bombed-out bank building, and while a handful worked at the safe, the others began blasting away from the shattered front of the building.
The suddenness and viciousness of the attack seemed to stun the sheriff, the chief, and the local volunteers. From the positions chosen by the lawmen, there was nothing for them to shoot at; everything was happening on their side of the street.
Pinned down and fighting alone, Louis lost his composure and shouted, “Will you yellow-bellied sons of bitches, goddamnit, fire your weapons!”
Of course the locals were not cowardly; not at all. They just were not accustomed to this type of thing. Things like this just didn’t happen in their town.
But Louis’s call did get their attention, which was all he wanted.
“Call me a yellow-bellied son of a bitch, will you?” Mayor George muttered, his ears still ringing from the bomb blasts. Before anyone could stop him, George charged out of the building and onto the sidewalk. Kneeling down, he cocked the Dragoon and squeezed the trigger.
The force of the weapon discharging knocked Hizzoner to the sidewalk. His round missed any outlaw in the bank, the slug traveling clear through the wall and into the hardware store, where it hit the ammunition case and set off several boxes of shotgun shells.
The outlaws in the bank thought they were coming under attack and began shooting in all directions.
George raised to his knees and let bang another round from the Dragoon.
The slug struck an outlaw in the chest and knocked him halfway across the room.
“Clear out!” Tie hollered. “We’re blowin’ the vault!”
Fifteen seconds later, it seemed the gates to Hell opened up in the little town in New Hampshire.
23
The force of the giant powder exploding sent half the roof flying off and blew one wall completely down. George Mahaffery ended up in Sheriff Poley’s lap and the chief of police found himself sitting on a spittoon, with no one really knowing how they got in their present positions.
“I got money in that bank!” a volunteer suddenly realized.