Abigal reached over and patted Sally’s hand. “I know we will, dear. And of course he’ll be welcomed here. Now please tell us what is in the wire. I’m fairly bursting with excitement.” She looked at her husband. “This is the most exhilarating thing that’s happened in Keene in twenty years, John!”
“Not yet, dear,” John said. “Smoke hasn’t yet arrived in town, remember.”
Sally laughed so hard she had to wipe her eyes with a handkerchief. She read from the wire. “Smoke has been appointed a deputy U.S. Marshal. This is from the marshal’s office in Denver. He has entered the outlaw town in disguise. They’ll wire me when the operation has been concluded.”
“Well!” John said, obviously pleased. “I’m happy to hear that your husband has chosen the legal way, Sally. He’ll properly arrest the criminals and bring them to trial the way it’s supposed to be, according to the laws of this land.”
Sally smiled. “Father, do you believe pigs can fly like birds?”
“What! Of course not.”
“Father, the only law Smoke is going to hand out to those outlaws will be coming out of the muzzles of his .44s. And you can believe that.”
“But he’s an officer of the law!” the man protested. “More than that, he is operating under a federal badge. He must see to due process. That is his sworn duty!”
Sally’s smile was grim. “Oh, he’ll see that the outlaws get their due, Father. Trust me.”
Smoke made his camp at the very edge of town, pitching his tent and unrolling his blankets. He gathered and stacked wood for a fire. Saving his meager supplies, he cut a pole and rigged it for fishing, walking to a little stream not far away. There he caught his supper, all the while letting his eyes stay busy, checking out the terrain. The stream had to come from somewhere; it didn’t just come out of the ground here. For it was full of trout.
He had deliberately made his camp far enough away so he could not hear the terrible cries and the begging of those men and women at the far end of town, being tortured to death. He wished desperately to help, but he knew for the moment, he was powerless to do so.
Huge peaks rose stately and protectively all around the little valley that housed Dead River. Smoke wondered where and how it had gotten its name. At first glance, he could understand why a lot of people would believe the myth of one way in and one way out. But Smoke knew that was crap, and he felt that most of the outlaws knew it as well. But those who would try to seek escape, when the attack came, would be in for a very ugly surprise when they tried those secret trails. White Wolf and his braves would be in hiding, waiting for them.
As Smoke had ridden to his camp, he had seen the compound where some prisoners were being held; but mostly the town itself was a prison, and he had noticed many slaves had free access to the town.
They obviously had been convinced, probably very brutally, that there was no way out except for the road, so why lock them up? But they were probably locked up at night. The compound, then, must be for any newcomers to the town. Or perhaps those were people being punished for some infraction of the rules.
Or waiting to die.
He wondered if the marshal’s plant, Hope Farris, was in the compound.
Or had she been discovered and killed?
He cleaned his fish and cooked his supper, all the while watching the comings and goings of the outlaws. So far, few had paid any attention to him.
Smoke judged the number of outlaws in the town at right around two hundred, and that was not counting the shopkeepers and clerks and whores. Rex Davidson had himself a profitable operation going here, Smoke concluded, and he was sure King Rex got his slice of the pie from every store in town and from every whore who worked.
Not that there were that many stores; Smoke had counted six. But they were all huge stores. By far, the biggest place in town was the livery stable and barns, a half dozen of them, all connected by walkways. And during bad weather, many men, Smoke guessed, would live and sleep in those barns. He knew that this high up the winters would be brutal ones.
And so far, Smoke had not seen the man called Dagget. He felt sure he would recognize him from Sally’s description. Already he had seen a dozen or more hardcases he had brushed trails with years back; but his disguise had worked. They had paid him no mind, other than a quick glance and equally quick dismissal as being nothing more than a fop and totally harmless.
He wondered if Lone Eagle had hidden his guns behind the privy yet, then decided he had not. Not enough time had gone by since Smoke had met with the brave at the head of the creek.
Smoke heard a harsh shriek of pain from a shack across the wide road. Then a man’s voice begging somebody not to do something again. Wild cursing followed by more shrieks of pain.
The door to the cabin was flung open and Smoke watched as a naked man ran out into the road. He was screaming. Then the obscene bulk of Brute Pitman appeared in the door of the shack. He was shirtless, his galluses hanging down to his knees. Brute held a long-barreled pistol in his hand.
The face of the running man was a mask of terror and pain. His body bore the bruises and markings of the many beatings he had endured until he could no longer take any more of it. And because he was naked, Smoke knew that beatings were not the only thing the man had been forced to endure.
But the man’s agony was about to end, Smoke noted, watching as Brute lifted the pistol and jacked the hammer back, shooting the man in the back. The naked man stumbled, screamed, and fell forward, sliding on his face in the dirt and the gravel. The bullet had gone clear through the man, tearing a hole in his chest as it exited. The man kicked once, and then was still.
“How shocking!” Smoke said.
Brute turned, looking at him. “You, come here!” he commanded.
“Not on your life, you obscene tub of lard!”
A dozen outlaws had stopped what they were doing and they were motioning for others to come join them; come listen and watch. For sure, they thought, the fop was about to get mauled.
