Ackerman had been a thief and a murderer during the war — and a deserter. And the sheriff could not abide a coward.
But, he sighed, if he was reading this young man called Smoke right, Ackerman’s future looked very bleak.
A hard-ridden horse hammered the street into dust. A hand from the Bar-X slid to a halt. “Ackerman and his bunch are ridin’ in, sheriff,” the cowhand panted. “They’re huntin’ bear. Told me to tell you he’s gonna kill this kid called Smoke — and anyone else that got in his way.”
The sheriff’s smile was grudgingly filled with admiration. The kid’s patience had paid off. Ackerman had made his boast and his threat; anything the kid did now could only be called self-defense.
The sheriff thanked the cowboy and told him to hunt a hole. He crossed the street and told his deputy to clear the street in front of the hotel.
In five minutes, the main street resembled a ghost town, with a yellow dog the only living thing that had not cleared out. Behind curtains, closed doors, and shuttered windows, men and women watched and waited, ears atune, anticipating the roar of gunfire from the street.
At the edge of town, Ackerman, a bull of a man, with small, mean eyes and a cruel slit for a mouth, slowed his horse to a walk. Ackerman and his hands rode down the street, six abreast.
Preacher and Smoke were on their feet. Preacher stuffed his mouth full of chewing tobacco. Both men had slipped the thongs from the hammers of their Colts. Preacher wore two Colts, .44s. One in a holster, the other stuck behind his belt. Mountain man and young gunfighter stood six feet apart on the boardwalk.
The sheriff closed his office door and walked into the empty cell area. He sat down and began a game of checkers with his deputy.
Ackerman and his men wheeled their horses to face the men on the boardwalk. “I hear tell you boys is lookin’ for me. If so, here I am.”
“News to me,” Smoke said. “What’s your name?”
“You know who I am, kid. Ackerman.”
“Oh, yeah!” Smoke grinned. “You’re the man who helped kill my brother by shooting him in the back. Then you stole the gold he was guarding.”
Inside the hotel, pressed against the wall, the desk clerk listened intently, his mouth open in anticipation of gunfire.
“You’re a liar. I didn’t shoot your brother; that was Potter and his bunch.”
“You stood and watched it. Then you stole the gold.”
“It was war, kid.”
“But you were on the same side,” Smoke said. “So that not only makes you a killer, it makes you a traitor and a coward.”
“I’ll kill you for sayin’ that!”
“You’ll burn in hell a long time before I’m dead,” Smoke told him.
Ackerman grabbed for his pistol. The street exploded in gunfire and black powder fumes. Horses screamed and bucked in fear. One rider was thrown to the dust by his lunging mustang. Smoke took the men on the left, Preacher the men on the right side. The battle lasted no more than ten to twelve seconds. When the noise and the gunsmoke cleared, five men lay in the street, two of them dead. Two more would die from their wounds. One was shot in the side — he would live. Ackerman had been shot three times: once in the belly, once in the chest, and one ball had taken him in the side of the face as the muzzle of the .36 had lifted with each blast. Still Ackerman sat his saddle, dead. The big man finally leaned to one side and toppled from his horse, one boot hung in the stirrup. The horse shied, then began walking down the dusty street, dragging Ackerman, leaving a bloody trail.
“I heard it all!” the excited desk clerk ran out the door. “You were in the right, Mr. Smoke. Yes, sir. Right all the way. Why …!” He looked at Smoke. “You’ve been wounded, sir.”
A slug had nicked the young man on the cheek, another had punched a hole in the fleshy part of his left arm, high up. They were both minor wounds. Preacher had been grazed on the leg and a ricocheting slug had sent splinters into his face.
Preacher spat into the street. “Damn near swallered my chaw.”
“I never seen a draw that fast,” a man spoke from his store front. “It was a blur.”
The sheriff and a deputy came out of the jail, walking down the bloody, dusty street. Both men carried Greeners: double-barreled twelve gauge shotguns.
“Right down this street,” the sheriff said pointing, “is the doctor’s office. Get yourselves patched up and then get out of town. You have one hour.”
“Sheriff, it was a fair fight,” the desk clerk said. “I seen it.”
The sheriff never took his eyes off Smoke. “One hour,” he repeated.
“We’ll be gone.” Smoke wiped a smear of blood from his cheek.
Townspeople began hauling the bodies off. The local photographer set up his cumbersome equipment and began popping flash-powder, sealing the gruesomeness for posterity. He also took a picture of Smoke.
The editor of the paper walked up to stand by the sheriff. He watched the old man and the young gun-hand walk down the street. He truly had seen it all. The old man had killed one man, wounded another. The young man had killed four men, as calmly as picking his teeth.
“What’s that young man’s name?”
“Smoke Jensen. But he’s a devil.”
Nine
There was a chill to the air when Smoke kicked off his blankets and rose to add twigs to the still smoldering coals.
