So the cat was out of the bag. Fine. He was getting tired of being Buck West. “You…ladies have plenty of food and water?”
“Enough for a month-long siege. Go on, Buck.”
“Call me Smoke.”
15
Smoke slipped around the side of the Pink House and into the weed-grown alley in the rear. He carefully picked his way toward the rear of the stable. He felt sure the front of the stable would be watched.
For the first time since he had arrived in Bury, the town was silent. No wagons rattled up and down the streets. No riders moving in and out of town. No foot traffic to be seen in Bury. A tiny dust devil spun madly up the main street, picking up bits of paper as it whirled away.
Smoke slipped from outhouse to outhouse, both hammer thongs off his .44s.
Reese and his deputies apparently believed Smoke would not take to the alleys, but instead stroll right down the center of the main street, spurs jingling, like some tinhorn kid who fancied himself a gunhand. But Smoke had been properly schooled by Preacher, whose philosophy was thus: if you’re outnumbered, circle around ’hind ’em and ambush the hell out of ’em. Ain’t no such thang as a fair fight, boy. Just a winner and a loser.
Smoke didn’t want to open the dance just yet. He was in a very bad position, being on foot and armed with only his short guns.
And he was still about a block and a half from the stable. His eyes picked up the shape of a small boy, frantically and silently waving his arms. Little Ben. Smoke returned the wave. Ben disappeared into the stable and returned seconds later, leading a saddled and ride-ready Drifter. Smoke grinned. Drifter must have taken a liking to Little Ben, for had he not, the stallion would have stomped the boy to death.
“Jensen!” The harshly spoken word came from his right, from the shadows of an alley.
Out of the corner of his eye, Smoke could see the young man had not drawn his pistol. The cowboy was a PSR rider, but Smoke did not know his name.
Smoke slowly turned, facing the young rider. “Back away, cowboy,” Smoke stated softly. “Just walk back up the alley and no one will ever have to know. If you draw on me, I’ll kill you. Turn around and you’ll live. How about it?”
“That thirty thousand dollars looks almighty good to me, Jensen,” the puncher replied, his hands hovering over his low-tied guns. “Start me up a spread with that.”
“You’ll never live to work it,” Smoke warned him.
Ben was slowly leading Drifter up the alley.
“Says you!” the cowboy sneered.
“What’s your name, puncher?”
“Jeff Siddons. Why?”
“So I’ll know what to put on your grave marker.”
Jeff flushed. “You gonna draw or talk?”
“I’d rather not draw at all,” Smoke again tried to ease out of the fight.
“You yellow scum!” Jeff said. “Draw!” His hands dipped downward.
Jeff’s hands had just touched the wooden handles of his guns when he felt a terrible crushing double blow to his chest. The young cowboy staggered backward, falling heavily against the side of the building. Smoke was already turning away from the dying cowboy as light faded in Jeff’s eyes. “Ain’t no human man that fast!” Jeff spoke his last words, sitting in his own dusty blood.
Smoke looked back at the dying cowboy. “Just remember to tell Saint Peter this wasn’t my idea.”
But he was talking to a dead man.
He heard the drum of bootheels on the boardwalk, all running in his direction. He turned just as a voice called out, “Hold it, Jensen!”
Smoke ducked in back of the building just as a shot rang out, the bullet knocking a fist-sized chunk of wood out of the building. Smoke dropped to one knee and fired two fast shots around the side of the building, then he was up and running toward Ben and Drifter, ignoring the howl of pain behind him and in the alley. At least one of his snap shots had struck home.
“That damned little stableboy’s helpin’ Jensen!” a man’s voice yelled. “I’ll take a horsewhip to that little son of a bitch!”
Smoke reached Ben and Drifter. “Run to Miss Flora’s, Ben. Them women won’t let anything happen to you. Run, boy, run!”
Ben took off as if pursued by the devil. Smoke mounted up. His saddlebags were bulging, so Ben must have transferred a lot of his gear from the packs normally borne by the pack animal. He looked back over his shoulder. Sheriff Reese was leading a running gang of men. And they weren’t far behind Smoke.
“Hold up there, Jensen!” Reese yelled, just as Smoke urged Drifter forward and cut into the alley where the dead cowboy lay. Reese lifted a double-barreled coach gun and pulled the trigger. The buckshot tore a huge hole in the corner of the building.
Drifter leaped ahead and charged through the alley, coming out on the main street. Smoke turned his nose north for a block and then whipped into another alley, coming out behind Reese and his men. Smoke had reloaded his Colts and now, with the reins in his teeth, a Colt in each hand, he charged the knot of gunslicks headed by Sheriff Reese.
