“Hell, so do I!” another called from a rooftop.
“Get ’em boys!” another called.
Then they all, finally, opened up.
“They just blew the bank building,” Smoke called.
“Place needed renovating anyway,” John returned the call.
Smoke laughed. “You’ll do, John. You’ll do!”
And John realized his son-in-law had just paid him one of the highest compliments a western man could give.
Smoke heard the pounding of hooves on the street and jerked up his Henry, easing back the hammer. He recognized Glen Moore. Bringing up the butt to his shoulder, Smoke shot the killer through the belly. Moore screamed as the pain struck him, but he managed to stay in the saddle. He galloped on down the street, turning into a side street.
Out of the corner of his eye, Smoke saw Brute Pitman cut in behind the house, galloping across the neatly tended lawn.
“Coming up your way, Sally!” Smoke called, then had no more time to wonder, for the lawn was filled with human scum.
Smoke began pulling and levering at almost point-blank range. Lapeer taking a half-dozen round in his chest. Behind him, Smoke could vaguely hear the sounds of breaking glass and then the booming of a shotgun. An outlaw Smoke did not know was knocked off the porch to his left, half his face blown away.
“Goddamned heathen!” Smoke heard John say. “Come on, you sorry scum!”
Smoke dropped the Henry and jerked out his six-guns just as he heard gunfire from the rear of the house. He heard Brute’s roar of pain and the sounds of a horse running hard.
Splinters flew out of a porch post and dug into Smoke’s cheek from a bullet. He dropped to one knee and leveled his .44s at Tustin, pulling the triggers. One slug struck the so-called minister in the throat and the other took him in the mouth.
Tustin’s preaching days were over. He rolled from his saddle and hit the ground.
“We’ve beaten them off!” John yelled, excitement in his voice.
“You stay in the house and keep a sharp lookout, John,” Smoke called. “Sally! You all right?”
“I’m fine, honey. But Martha and I got lead in that big ugly man.”
Brute Pitman.
And Smoke knew his plan to ride into town must wait; he could not leave this house until Brute was dead and Rex and the others were accounted for.
Reloading his guns, Smoke stepped off the porch and began a careful circling of the house and grounds.
Louis took careful aim and ended the outlaw career of Studs Woodenhouse, the slug from Longmont’s gun striking the outlaw leader dead center between the eyes. A bit of fine shooting from that distance.
A rifleman from a second-floor window brought down two of Davidson’s gang. Another volunteer ended the career of yet another. Several of the men had left their positions, at the calling of Sheriff Poley, and now the townspeople had the outlaws trapped inside the ruined bank.
One tried to make a break for it at the exact time Mayor George stepped out of the office, his Dragoon at the ready. The Dragoon spat fire and smoke and about a half pound of lead, the slug knocking the outlaw from his horse and dropping him dead on the cobblestones.
“Bastard!” George muttered.
Four rounds bouncing off cobblestones sent the mayor scrambling back into the office.
Tie Medley exposed his head once too often and Sheriff Poley shot him between the eyes. The Hog, along with Shorty, Jake, and Red, slipped out through a hole blown in the wall and crept into the hardware store. There, they stuffed their pockets full of cartridges and began chopping a hole in the wall, breaking into a dress shop and then into an apothecary shop. They were far enough away from the bank building then to slip out, locate their horses, and get the hell out of that locale.
“Let’s find this Reynolds place!” Shorty said. “I want Jensen.”
“Let’s go!”
Smoke came face to face with Brute Pitman at the rear of the corner of the house. The man’s face was streaked with blood and there was a tiny bullet hole in his left shoulder, put there by Martha’s pocket .32.
Smoke started pulling and cocking, each round striking Brute in the chest and belly. The big man sat down on his butt in the grass and stared at Smoke. While Smoke was punching out empty brass and reloading, Brute Pitman toppled over and died with his eyes and mouth open, taking with him and forever sealing the secret to his cache of gold.
Smoke holstered his own .44s and grabbed at Brute’s six-guns, checking the loads. He filled both of them up with six and continued his prowling.
Sally and Martha watched as he passed by a rear window, blood staining one side of his face. Then they heard his .44s roar into action, and each listened to the ugly sounds of bullets striking into and tearing flesh.
Glen Moore lay on his back near the wood shed, his chest riddled with .44 slugs.
Smoke tossed Bruce’s guns onto the back porch and stepped inside the house.
“You hurt bad?” Sally asked.
“Scratched, that’s all.” He poured a cup of coffee and carried it with him through the house, stopping by John Reynolds’s position in the foyer.
“It didn’t go as King Rex planned.” Smoke sipped his coffee. “I got a hunch he and Dagget have turned tail and run.”
“Then it’s over?”
“For now. But I think I know where the outlaws holed up before they hit us.”
The gunfire had intensified from the town proper.
“Where?”
“That big house with the huge barn just outside of town.”
“That’s Jennings Miller’s place. Yes. Come to think of it, I believe he went to visit one of his children the other day.”
“When this is over, I’ll get the sheriff and we’ll take a ride over there. Does Dagget still have kin in this town?”
John grimaced. “Unfortunately, yes. The Mansfords. A very disagreeable bunch. They live just north of town. Why do you ask?”
“Probably never be able to prove it, but I’ll bet they helped Dagget out in casing the town and telling them the best place to hide.”
“I certainly wouldn’t put it past them.”
The firing had lessened considerably from the town.
“I’ll wire the marshal’s office first thing after the wires are fixed.”
A train whistle cut the waning gunfire.
“I’ll ask them to give any reward money to the town. I reckon that bank’s gonna be pretty well tore up.”
The train whistle tooted shrilly.
John laughed.
Smoke cut his eyes. “What’s so funny, John?”
The gunfire had stopped completely; an almost eerie silence lay over the town. The train tooted its whistle several more times.
“I wouldn’t worry about the bank building, Son. Like I said, it needed a lot of work done on it anyway.”
“Bank president and owners might not see it that way, John.”
“I can assure you, Son, the major stockholder in that bank will see it my way.”
“Are you the major stockholder, John?”
“No. My father gave his shares to his favorite granddaughter when she turned twenty-one.”
“And who is that?”
“Your wife, Sally.”
24
Only two outlaws were hauled out of the bank building unscathed. Several more were wounded, and one of those would die in the local clinic.
Paul Rycroft and Slim Bothwell had managed to weasel out and could not be found.
Almost miraculously, no townspeople had even been seriously hurt in the wild shooting.
Rex Davidson and Dagget, so it appeared, were long gone from the town. The sheriff and his deputy went to the Mansford home and gave it a thorough search, talking with the family members at length. The family was sullen and uncooperative, but the sheriff could not charge anyone. After all, there was no law on the books against being a jackass.
The bodies of the dead were hauled off and the street swept and cleaned up in front of the ruined bank building. The townspeople began gathering around, oohing and aahing and pointing at this and that.