Smoke walked out onto the shaded boardwalks outside the sheriff’s office. He pulled his hat lower over his eyes and eased his Colts half out of leather a few times, letting them fall back naturally into the oiled leather. He stepped out into the street and turned toward the corral.
As he walked down the center of the street, his spurs jingling and his boots kicking up little pockets of dust, he was conscious of many unseen eyes on him, and even a few he could associate with a body.
Stonewall and Joel were on the opposite sides of the broad street, both still carrying shotguns. The duded-up dandies who fancied themselves gunslingers had gathered as close to the corral as the deputies would allow them. Smoke saw the young punk Luke had made eat crow that day. Lester Morgan, Sundance. He had himself some new Colts. And that kid who called himself The Silver Dollar Kid was there, along with a few other no-names who wanted to be gunfighters.
Smoke wondered how they got along; where did they get eating money? Petty thievery, probably.
Louis Longmont had stepped out of his gaming tent. “How many you facing, Smoke?” he asked, as Smoke walked by.
“Just one that I know of. Utah Slim. I think my sis, Janey, sent him after me.”
Louis paced Smoke, but stayed on the boardwalk. “Yes, it would be like her.”
“Where is she, Louis?”
“Tombstone, last I heard. Runnin’ a red-light place. She’s worth a lot of money. Richards’s money, I presume.”
“Yeah. Richards ain’t got no use for it. I never heard of no Wells Fargo armored stage followin’ no hearse.”
Louis laughed quietly. “I’ll watch your back, Smoke.”
“Thanks.”
Smoke kept on walking. He knew Louis had fallen back slightly, to keep an eye on Smoke’s back trail.
Then the corral loomed up, Utah Slim standing by the corral. Smoke’s eyes flicked upward to the loft of the barn. Billy was staring wide-eyed out of the loft door.
“Billy!” Smoke raised his voice. “You get your butt outta that loft and across the street. Right now, boy—move!”
“Yes, sir!” Billy hollered, and slipped down the hay rope to the street. He darted across the expanse and got behind a water trough.
“That there’s a good kid,” Utah said. “Funny the other week when he shot Tilden in the ass.”
“Yeah, I’d like to have seen that myself.”
“I ain’t got nothin’ personal agin you, Jensen. I want you to know that.”
“Just another job, right, Utah?”
“That’s the way it is,” the killer said brightly.
“My sister hire you?”
“Damned if’n I know. Some woman named Janey, down in Tombstone paid me a lot of money, up front.” He squinted at Smoke. “Come to think of it, y’all do favor some.”
“That’s my darlin’ sister.”
“Makes me proud I ain’t got no sister.”
“Why don’t you just get on your horse and ride on out, Utah. I don’t want to have to kill you.”
The killer looked startled. “Why, boy! You ain’t gonna kill me.”
“You want to wager on that?” Louis called.
“Yeah.” Utah smiled. “I’ll bet a hundred.”
“Taken,” Louis told him.
“How much did she pay you, Utah?” Smoke asked the man.
“Several big ones, boy.” He grinned nastily. “She’s a whoor, you know.”
“So I heard.” Smoke knew the killer was trying to anger him, throw him off, make him lose his composure.
“Yeah, she is,” Utah said, still grinning. “I tole her, as part of the payment, I’d have to have me a taste of it.”
“Is that right?”
“Shore is. Right good, too.”
“I hope you enjoyed it.”
“I did for a fact.” This wasn’t working out the way Utah had planned it. “Why do you ask?”
Smoke drew, cocked, and fired twice. Once with his right-hand Colt, that slug taking Utah in the chest and staggering him backward. The second slug coming from his left-hand gun and striking the gunslick in the stomach, dropping the killer to his knees, his left arm looped around the center railing of the corral.
Smoke holstered his left-hand Colt and waited for Utah. The killer managed to drag his Colt out of leather and cock it. That seemed to take all his strength. He pulled the trigger. The slug tore up the dirt at his knees.
Utah dropped the Colt. He lifted his eyes to Smoke. Just as the darkness began to fade his world, he managed to gasp, “How come you axed me if I enjoyed it?”
“’Cause you damn sure ain’t gonna get no more, Utah.”
Utah died hanging onto the corral railing. He died with his eyes open, staring at emptiness.
Smoke holstered his pistol and walked away.
11
The undertaker’s hack rumbled past Louis Longmont’s tent just as the gambler and the gunfighter were pouring tumblers of scotch.
Louis lifted his glass. “May I pay you a compliment, Smoke Jensen?”
“I reckon so, Louis.”
“I have seen them all, Smoke. All the so-called great gunfighters. Clay Allison, John Wesley Hardin, Bill Longley, Jim Miller. I’ve drank with Wild Bill Hickok and Jim, Ed, and Bat Masterson. I’ve gambled with Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp. I’ve seen them all in action. But you are the fastest gun I have ever seen in my life.”
The men clinked glasses and drank of the Glenlivet.
“Thank you, Louis. But I’ll tell you a secret.”
Louis smiled. “I’ll bet you a double eagle I already know what it is.”
“No bets, Louis, for I imagine you do.”
“You wish you were not the faster gun.”
“You got that right.”
The men finished their drinks and stepped out onto the boardwalk. The photographer had set up his equipment at the corral and was taking his shots of Utah Slim. The duded-up dandies had gathered around, managing to get themselves in almost every shot the man took.
“Fools!” Smoke muttered.
“Look at them with their hands on the butts of their guns,” Louis pointed out. “They’ll be bragging about that picture for the rest of their lives.”
“However short they may be,” Smoke added.
“Yes.”
Ralph walked up, joining the gambler and the gunfighter. Louis smiled at him.
“I would offer you a drink, Mister Morrow, but I’m afraid I might offend you.”
“I’m not adverse to a cool beer, Mister Longmont.”
Louis was more than slightly taken aback. “Well, I’ll just be damned!” he blurted.
“Oh, I think not, sir,” Ralph replied. He met the man’s cool eyes. “How is your orphanage up in Boulder doing? Or that free hospital out in San Francisco?”
Louis smiled. “For a man of the cloth, you do get around, don’t you, Ralph?”
“But I wasn’t always a preacher, Mister Longmont,” he reminded the gambler.
“Tell me more,” Smoke said with a grin, looking at Louis.
“Don’t let the news of my…philanthropic urges get out,” the gambler said. “It might destroy my reputation.”
Smoke looked at him and blinked. “Hell, Louis! I don’t even know what that means!”
Laughing, the men entered the gaming tent for a cool one.
And the photographer’s flash pan popped again.
And Utah Slim still clung to the corral railing.
The town of Fontana had begun to die, slowly at first, and then more rapidly as the gold vein began to peter out. More businesses shut down, packed up, and pulled out. The rip-roaring boom town was not yet busted, but a hole had been pierced in the balloon.
Those who elected to stay until the very end of the vein had been found were slowly shifting their trading to the new town of Big Rock. But since the Mayor of Big Rock, Wilbur Mason, refused to allow gaming and hurdy-gurdy girls in, the town of Fontana soon became known as the pleasure palace of the high country.