The riders each carried at least two pistols belted around their waists. Most had two more six-guns, either tucked behind their belts or carried in holsters, tied to their saddles. All carried a rifle in the boot; some had added a shotgun, the express guns loaded with buckshot. The men had stuffed their pockets full of .44s, .45s, and shotgun shells.
The posse rode at a steady, distance-covering gait; already they had changed horses and were now approaching Red Davis’s place. While the hands switched saddles, the men of the posse grabbed and wolfed down a sandwich and coffee, then refilled canteens. All checked their guns, wiping them free of dust and checking the action.
“Wish I was goin’ with you,” Davis said. “I’d give a thousand dollars to see that damn town burned slap to the ground.”
Wilde nodded his head. “Red, there’ll be doctors and the like comin’ out here and settin’ up shop ’bout dark. Some of us are gonna be hard-hit and the slaves in that town are gonna be in bad shape. You got your wagon ready to meet us at the mouth of the pass?”
“All hitched up.” He spat on the ground. “And me and my boys will take care of any stragglers that happen to wander out when the shootin’ starts.”
Jim Wilde smiled grimly. Between the Utes and Red Davis’s hard-bitten hands, any outlaws who happened to escape were going to be in for a very rough time of it. Red’s ranch had been the first in the area, and the old man was as tough as leather—and so were his hands.
Red clasped Jim on the shoulder. “Luck to you, boy. And I wanna meet this Smoke Jensen. That there is my kind of man.”
Jim nodded and turned, facing the sixty-odd men of the posse. The U.S. Marshal wore twin .44s, tied down. He carried another .44 in his shoulder holster and a rifle and a shotgun in the boots, on his horse. “All right, boys. This is the last jumpin’-off place. From here on in, they’s no turnin’ back. You gotta go to the outhouse, get it done now. When we get back into the saddle, we ain’t stoppin’ until we’re inside Dead River.” He glanced at the sinking sun. “Smoke’s gonna open up the dance in about an hour—if he’s still alive,” he added grimly. “And knowin’ him he is. Anybody wanna back out of this?”
No one did.
“Let’s ride!”
The guards along the pass road had just changed, the new guards settling in for a long and boring watch. Nothing ever happened; a lot of the time many of them dozed off. They would all sleep this dusky evening. Forever.
One guard listened for a few seconds. Was that a noise behind him? He thought it was. He turned, brought his rifle up, and came face to face with a war-painted Indian. He froze, opening his mouth to yell a warning. The shout was forever locked in his throat as an axe split his skull. The Ute caught the bloody body before it could fall to the ground and lowered it to the earth. The body would never be found; time and wind and rain and the elements and animals would dispose of the flesh and scatter the bones. A hundred years later, small boys playing would discover the gold coins the outlaw had had in his pockets and would wonder how the money came to be in this lonely spot.
His job done, for the moment, the brave slipped back into the timber and waited.
Up and down the heavily guarded narrow road, the guards were meeting an end just as violent as the life they had chosen to live. And they had chosen it; no one had forced them into it. One outlaw guard, who enjoyed torturing Indians, especially children, and raping squaws, was taken deep into the timber, gagged, stripped, and staked out. Then he was skinned—alive.
Their first job done, the Indians quietly slipped back and took their positions around the outlaw town of Dead River. With the patience bred into them, they waited and watched, expressionless.
York looked up and blinked, at first not recognizing the tall muscular man who was walking toward him, out of the timber. Then he recognized him.
“Damn, DeBeers. I didn’t know you at first. How come you shaved off your beard?”
“It was time. And my name is not DeBeers.”
“Yeah. I kinda figured it was a phony. And I didn’t believe that Shirley bit, neither.”
“That’s right. You get my boots and spurs?”
York pointed to a bag on the ground. He had never seen such a change in any man. The man standing in front of him looked…awesome!
Smoke was dressed all in black, from his boots to his shirt. His belt was black with inlaid silver that caught the last glows of the setting sun. He wore a red bandana around his neck. He had buckled on twin .44s, the left handgun worn butt-forward, cross-draw style. He had shoved two more .44s behind his belt.
“Ah…man, you best be careful with them guns,” York cautioned. “You packin’ enough for an army. Are you fixin’ to start a war around here?”
“That is my hope, York.”
“Yeah?” Somehow, that did not come as any surprise to York. There was something about this tall man that was just…well, unsettling. He poured a cup of coffee and sipped it, hot, strong, and black. He looked at the tall man. Naw, he thought, it couldn’t be. But he sure looked like all the descriptions York had ever heard about the gunfighter. “Who are you, man?”
Smoke pulled a badge from his pocket and pinned it to his shirt. “I’m a United States Deputy Marshal. And as far as I’m concerned, York, all those warrants against you are not valid. And when we get out of here, I’ll see that they are recalled. How does that sound to you?”
York took a sip of coffee. Oddly, to Smoke, he had shown no surprise. “Sounds good to me, Marshal.” He stood up and pulled a gold badge out of his pocket and pinned it on his shirt. “Buddy York is the name. Arizona Rangers. I was wonderin’ if you plan on corralin’ this town all by your lonesome.”
“That’s a good cover story of yours, Ranger,” Smoke complimented him.
“Well, took us six months to set it up. The dodgers that are out are real. Had to be that way.”
“I gather you have warrants for some people in here?”
“A whole passel of them, including some on Dagget.”
“There is a large posse on the way in. They’ll be here just at dusk. The Utes have taken care of the guards along the road.”
York looked up at the sky. “That’s a good hour and a half away, Marshal.” He was grinning broadly.
“That’s the way I got it figured, Ranger. Of course, you do know that you have no jurisdiction in this area?”
“I’ll worry about that later.”
“Consider yourself deputized with full government authority.”
“I do thank you, Marshal.”
“You ready to open this dance, Ranger?” Smoke sat down on a log and buckled on his spurs. He looked up as York opened another bag and tossed him a black hat, low crowned and flat brimmed. “Thanks. I am ever so glad to be rid of that damned silly cap.” He tried the hat. A perfect fit.
“You did look a tad goofy. But I got to hand it to you. You’re one hell of a fine actor.”
Both men stuffed their pockets full of shells.
Rifle in hand, York said, “What is your handle, anyways?”
“Smoke Jensen,” the tall, heavily muscled man said with a smile.
York’s knees seemed to buckle and he sat down heavily on a log. When he found his voice, he said, “Holy jumpin’ Jesus Christ!”
“I’m new to the marshaling business, Ranger. I just took this on a temporary basis.” Then he explained what had happened at his ranch, to his wife.
“Takes a low-life SOB to attack a lone woman. I gather you want Davidson and Dagget and them others all to yourself, right?”