Putting his hand to the ground, Smoke thought he could detect a trembling. Bending over, being careful not to expose his butt to the guns of the outlaws, he pressed his ear to the ground and picked up the sound of faint rumblings. The posse was no more than a mile away.
“York!” he yelled.
“Yo, Smoke!” came the call.
“Here they come, Ranger! Shovel the coals to it!”
Smoke began levering and pulling the trigger, laying down a blistering line of fire into the buildings of the town. From his position at the other end, York did the same. The Utes opened up from both sides of the town, and the night rocked with gunfire.
“For the love of God!” Sheriff Larsen cried out, reining up by the lines of tortured men and women on the outskirts of town. His eyes were utterly disbelieving as they touched each tortured man and woman.
“Help us!” came the anguished cry of one of the few still alive. “Have mercy on us, please. We were taken against our will and brought here.”
The posse of hardened western men, accustomed to savage sights, had never seen anything like this. All had seen Indian torture; but that was to be expected from ignorant savages. But fellow white men had done this.
Several of the posse leaned out of their saddles and puked on the ground.
“Three or four men stay here and cut these poor wretches down,” Jim Wilde ordered, his voice strong over the sound of gunfire. “Do what you can for them.”
“Jim!” Smoke called. “It’s Jensen. Hold your fire, I’m coming over.”
Smoke zigzagged over to the posse, catching the reins of a horse as the man discounted. “Your horses look in good shape.”
“We rested them about a mile back. Let them blow good and gave them half a hatful of water. How’s your head?”
“My Sally has hit me harder,” Smoke grinned, swinging into the saddle. He patted the roan’s neck and rubbed his head, letting the animal know he was friendly.
“You comin’ in with us?” the marshal asked.
“I got personal business to tend to. There’s an Arizona Ranger named York up yonder.” He pointed. “I forgot to tell him to tie something about his arm. He’s a damn good man. Good luck to you boys.”
Smoke swung the horse’s head, and with a screaming yell from the throats of sixty men, the posse hit the main street hard. The reins in their teeth, the posse members had their hands full of .44s and .45s, and they were filling anybody they saw with lead.
Smoke rode behind the buildings of the town and dismounted, ground-reining the horse. He eased the hammers back on the express gun and began walking, deliberately letting his spurs jingle.
“Jensen!” a voice shouted from the forward darkness. “Smoke Jensen!”
Stepping behind a corner of a building, Smoke said, “Yeah, that’s me.”
“Cat Ventura here. You played hell, Jensen.”
“That’s what I came here to do, Ventura.”
Step out and face an ambush, you mean, Smoke thought. “No, thanks, Ventura. I don’t trust you.”
As soon as he said it, Smoke dropped to the ground. A half-dozen guns roared and sparked, the lead punching holes in the corner of the building where he’d been standing.
Smoke came up on one knee and let the hammers fall on both barrels of the sawed-off shotgun. He almost lost the weapon as both barrels fired, the gun recoiling in his strong hands.
The screaming of the wounded men was horrible in the night. Smoke thought of those poor people at the end of town and could not dredge up one ounce of sympathy for the outlaws he’d just blasted.
He reloaded the shotgun just as Cat called out, “Goddamn you, Jensen.”
Smoke fired at the sound of the voice. A gurbling sound reached his ears. Then silence, except for the heavy pounding of gunfire in the street.
He slipped out of the alley and looked down at what was left of Cat Ventura. The full load of buckshot had taken him in the chest and throat. It was not pretty, but then, Cat hadn’t been very pretty when he was alive.
Smoke stepped over the gore and continued his walking up the back alley. The posse had dismounted and were taking the town building by building. But the outlaws remaining were showing no inclination to give up the fight. The firing was not as intense as a few moments past, but it was steady.
Smoke caught a glimpse of several men slipping up the alley toward him. He eased back the hammers of the express gun and stepped deeper into the shadows, a privy to his left.
Smoke recognized the lead man as an outlaw called Brawley, a man who had been in trouble with the law and society in general since practically the moment of birth. There were so many wanted posters out on Brawley that the man had been forced to drop out of sight a couple of years back. Now Smoke knew where he’d been hiding.
Smoke stepped out of the shadows and pulled both triggers. The sawed-off shotgun spewed its cargo of ball bearings, nails, and assorted bits of metal. Brawley took one load directly in the chest, lifting the murderer off his feet and sending him sprawling. The man to Brawley’s right caught part of a load in the face. Smoke recalled that the man had thought himself to be handsome.
That was no longer the case.
The third man had escaped most of the charge and had thrown himself to the ground. He pulled himself up to his knees, his hands full of .44s. Holding the shotgun in his left hand, Smoke palmed his .44 and saved the public the expense of a trial.
“The goddamn Injuns got Cahoon!” a hoarse yell sprang out of the night.
Smoke turned, reloading the sawed-off, trying to determine how close the man was.
“Hell with Cahoon!” another yelled. Very close to Smoke. “It’s ever’ man for hisself now.”
Smoke pulled the triggers and fire shot out of the twin barrels, seeming to push the lethal loads of metal. Horrible screaming was heard for a moment, and then the sounds of bootheels drumming the ground in death.
Smoke reloaded and walked on.
At a gap between buildings, Smoke could see York, still in position, still spitting out lead from his Henry. The bodies in the street paid mute testimony to the ranger’s dead aim.
A man wearing a white armband ducked into the gap and spotted Smoke.
“Easy,” Smoke called. “Jensen here.”
Smoke could see the badge on his chest, marking him as a U.S. Marhsal.
“Windin’ down,” the man said. “Thought I’d take me a breather. You and that Arizona Ranger played hell, Smoke.”
“That was our intention. You got the makin’s? I lost my sack.”
The man tossed Smoke a bag of tobacco and papers. Squatting down, out of the line of fire, Smoke and the marshal rolled, licked, and lit.
Smoke could see the lawman had been hit a couple of times, neither of the wounds serious enough to take him out of a fight.
“I figure the big boys got loose free,” Smoke spoke over a sudden hard burst of gunfire. He jerked his head. “That’s Davidson’s big house up yonder on the ridge….”
Jim Wilde almost got himself plugged as he darted into the alley and slid to a halt, catching his breath.
“I dearly wish you would announce your intentions, ol’ hoss,” the marshal said to him. “You near’bouts got drilled.”
“Gimme the makin’s, Glen, I lost my pouch.” Jim holstered his guns.
While Jim rolled a cigarette, Smoke elaborated on his theory of the kingpins escaping.
“Well, let us rest for a minute and then we’ll take us a hike up yonder to the house. Check it out.” He puffed for a moment. “I’ve arranged for a judge to be here at first light,” he said. “The hands from Red Davis’s place is gonna act as jury. Red’ll be jury foreman. Soon as we clean out the general store, I got some boys ready to start workin’ on ropes.”
“Hezekiah Jones the judge?” Glen asked.
“Yep.”