“Gonna be some short trials.”
“Yep.”
“And they’s gonna be a bunch of newspaper folks and photographers here, too.”
“Yep.”
An outlaw tried to make a break for it, whipping his horse up the street toward the edge of town. A dozen guns barked, slamming the outlaw out of the saddle. He rolled on the street and was still.
Glen looked at the body of the outlaw. “I’m thinkin’ there might not be all that many to be tried.”
Jim Wilde ground out the butt of his smoke under his heel and stood up. “Yep,” he said.
Jim was known to be a spare man with words.
15
The battle for the outlaw town of Dead River was winding down sharply as Smoke and the marshals made their way up the hill to Rex Davidson’s fine home. They passed a half-dozen bodies on the curving path, all outlaws. All three men were conscious of eyes on them as they walked up the stone path…. Utes, waiting in the darkness, watching.
Somewhere back in the timber, a man screamed in agony.
“Cahoon,” Smoke told the men.
Glen replied, “Whatever he gets, he earned.”
That pretty well summed up the feelings of all three men. Jim pulled out his watch and checked the time. Smoke was surprised to learn it was nearly ten o’clock. He stopped and listened for a moment. Something was wrong.
Then it came to him: The gunfire had ceased.
“Yeah,” Jim remarked. “I noticed it too. Eerie, ain’t it?”
The men walked on, stepping onto the porch of the house. Motioning the lawmen away from the front door in case it was booby-trapped, Smoke stepped to one side and eased it open. The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges.
Smoke was the first in, the express gun ready. Jim and Glen came in behind him, their hands full of pistols. But the caution had been unnecessary; the room was void of human life.
The men split up, each taking a room. They found nothing. The big house was empty. But everywhere there were signs of hurried packing. The door to the big safe was open, the safe empty of cash. Jim began going through the ledgers and other papers, handing a pile to Glen while Smoke prowled the house. At the rear of the house he found the rabbit hole, and he had been correct in his thinking. The home had been built in front of a cave opening. He called for Jim and Glen.
“You was right,” Jim acknowledged. “We’ll inspect it in the morning. I’ll post guards here tonight.” He held out the papers taken from the safe. “Interestin’ readin’ in here, Smoke. All kinds of wanted posters and other information on the men who lived here. What we’ve done—it was mostly you and York—is clean out a nest of snakes. We’ve made this part of the country a hell of a lot safer.”
On the way back to the town, Smoke spotted the Ute chief, White Wolf. The men stopped, Jim saying, “We’re goin’ to try them that’s still alive, White Wolf. Do that in the mornin’. We should be out of the town by late tomorrow afternoon. When we pull out, the town and everything in it is yours.”
“I thank you,” the chief said gravely. “My people will not be cold or hungry this winter.” He turned to Smoke and smiled. “My brother, Preacher, would be proud of you. I will see that he hears of this fight, young warrior.”
“Thank you, Chief. Give him my best.”
White Wolf nodded, shook hands with the men, and then was gone.
Cahoon was still screaming.
It was a sullen lot that were rounded up and herded into the compound for safekeeping. A head count showed fifty hardcases had elected to surrender or were taken by force, usually the latter.
But, as Smoke had feared, many of the worst ones had slipped out. Shorty, Red, and Jake were gone. Bill Wilson’s body had been found, but Studs Woodenhouse, Tie Medley, Paul Rycroft, and Slim Bothwell were gone. Hart and Ayers were dead, riddled with bullets. But Natick, Nappy, LaHogue, and Brute Pitman had managed to escape. Tustin could not be found among the dead, so all had to assume the so-called minister had made it out alive. Sheriff Danvers had been taken prisoner, and Sheriff Larsen had told him he was going to personally tie the noose for him. Dagget, Glen Moore, Lapeer and, of course, Rex Davidson were gone.
Smoke knew he would have them to deal with—sooner or later, and probably sooner.
Smoke bathed in the creek behind the campsite, and he and York caught a few hours sleep before the judge and his jury showed up. They were to be in Dead River at dawn.
As had been predicted, there were several newspaper men with the judge, as well as several photographers. The bodies of the outlaws still lay in the street at dawn, when the judge, jury, reporters, and photographers showed up. Two of the half-dozen reporters were from New York City and Boston, on a tour of the wild West, and they were appalled at the sight that greeted them.
Old Red Davis, obviously enjoying putting the needle to the Easterners, showed them around the town, pointing out any sight they might have missed.
“See that fellow over yonder?” he pointed. The reporters and a photographer looked. “The man with a gold badge on his chest? That’s the most famous gunfighter in all the West. He’s kilt two/three hundred men. Not countin’ Injuns. That’s Smoke Jensen, boys!”
The Easterners gaped, one finally saying, “But why is the man wearing a badge? He’s an outlaw!”
“He ain’t no such thing,” Red corrected. “He’s just fast with a gun, that’s all. The fastest man alive. Been all sorts of books writ about Smoke. Want to meet him?”
Foolish question.
Luckily for Smoke, Jim Wilde intercepted the group and took them aside. “You boys from back east walk light around the men in this town. This ain’t Boston or New York. And while Smoke is a right nice fellow, with a fine ranch up north of here, he can be a mite touchy at times.” Then the marshal brought the men up to date on what Smoke had done in Dead River.
The photographer set up his awkward equipment and began taking pictures of Smoke and the Arizona Ranger, York. Both men endured it, Smoke saying to York, “You got any warrants on any of them that cut and run?”
“Shore do. What you got in mind?”
The camera popped and puffed smoke into the air.
“I think Sally told me she was going to give birth about October. I plan on bein’ there when she does. That gives us a few months to prowl. Tell your bosses back in Arizona not to worry about the expenses; it’s on me.”
The camera snapped and clicked, and smoke went into the air as the chemical dust was ignited.
And Marshal Jim Wilde, unintentionally, gave the newspaper reporters the fuel that would, in time, ignite the biggest gunfight, western-style, in Keene, New Hampshire history.
“Smoke’s wife is back in New Hampshire. He’ll be going back there when she gives birth to their child. Now come on, I’ll introduce you gentlemen to Smoke Jensen.”
Judge Hezekiah Jones had set up his bench, so to speak, outside the saloon, with the jury seated to his left, on the boardwalk. Already, a gallows had been knocked together and ropes noosed and knotted. They could hang three at a time.
The trial of the first three took two and a half minutes. A minute and a half later, they were swinging.
“Absolutely the most barbaric proceedings I have ever witnessed,” the Boston man sniffed, scribbling in his journal.
“Frontier justice certainly does leave a great deal to be desired,” the New York City man agreed.
“I think I’m going to be ill,” the photographer said, a tad green around the mouth.
“Hang ’em!” Judge Jones hit the table with his gavel, and three more were led off to meet their maker.
Sheriff Danvers stood before the bench, his hands tied behind his back. “I have a statement to make, Your Honor,” he said.
Hezekiah glared at him. “Oh, all right. Make your goddamn statement and then plead guilty, you heathen!”