“That’s Tustin, the preacher. Has to be.”
“A preacher? Here?” The ranger’s voice was filled with disbelief.
The gunfire had almost ceased, as the outlaws in the saloon could not find Smoke or York.
“Oh, Lord!” Tustin’s voice filled the night. “Take these poor unfortunate bastards into the gates of Heaven and give us the strength and the wherewithal to find and shoot the piss outta them that’s attackin’ us!”
“I ain’t believin’ this,” York muttered.
Smoke smiled, his strong white teeth flashing in the night. “Good luck, York.”
“Same to you, partner.”
Carrying their heavy sacks of weapons and cartridge-filled belts, the men parted, one heading north, the other heading south.
York and Smoke both held to the edge of the timber as they made their way north and south. The town’s inhabitants had adopted a panicked siege mentality, with outlaws filling the streets, running in every direction. No one among them knew how many men were attacking the town. Both York and Smoke had heard the shouts that hundreds of lawmen were attacking.
Just before Smoke slipped past the point where he could look up and see the fine home of Davidson, he saw the lamps in the house being turned off, the home on the hill growing dark.
And Smoke would have made a bet that Davidson and Dagget had a rabbit hole out of Dead River, and that both of them, and probably a dozen or more of their most trusted henchmen, were busy packing up and getting out.
Just for a moment, Smoke studied the darkened outline of the home on the hill. And then it came to him. A cave. He would be a hundred dollars that King Rex had built his home in front of a cave, a cave that wound through the mountain and exited out in the timbered range behind Dead River. And he would also bet that White Wolf and his braves knew nothing of it. It might exit out into a little valley where horses and gear could be stored.
Cursing in disgust for not thinking of that sooner, Smoke slipped on into the night, seeking a good spot to set up a defensive position.
He paused for a moment, until York had opened fire, showing Smoke where the ranger had chosen to make his stand. And it was a good one, high up on the right side of the ridge overlooking the town, as Smoke stood looking north. With a smile, Smoke chose his position on the opposite side of the street, above the first store one encountered upon entering the outlaw town.
Below him, the outlaws had settled down, taking up positions around the town. Smoke could see several bodies sprawled in the street, evidence of York’s marksmanship with his Henry.
A handful of outlaws tried to rush the ranger’s position. Hard gunfire broke out on either side and above York’s position. White Wolf’s Utes were making their presence known in a very lethal manner. For years, the outlaws had made life miserable for the Utes, and now it was payback time. With a vengeance.
A horseman came galloping up the street, toward the curve that exited the town. The man was riding low in the saddle, the reins in his teeth and both hands full of six-guns. Smoke took careful aim with a rifle he’d picked up in the saloon and knocked the man out of the saddle. The rider hit the ground hard and rolled, coming up on his feet. A dozen rifles spat lead. The man was hit a dozen times, shot to bloody rags. He dropped to the roadway, his blood leaking into the dirt.
The horse, reins trailing, trotted off into an alley.
Smoke hit the ground, behind a series of boulders, as his position was found and rifles began barking and spitting in the night, the lead ricocheting and whining off the huge rocks, spinning into the night.
A Ute came rolling down the hill crashing against the boulder behind which Smoke was hiding. Smoke rolled the brave over and checked his wound—a nasty wound in the brave’s side. Smoke plugged it with moss and stretched the Indian out, safe from fire. The Ute’s dark eyes had never left Smoke’s face, and he endured the pain without a sound.
Smoke made the sign for brother and the Indian, flat on his back returned the gesture. Gunfighter and Indian smiled at each other in the gunfire-filled night above the outlaw town.
Smoke picked up his rifle as the Indian, who had never let go of his rifle, crawled to a position on the other end of the line of boulders. Smoke tossed him a bag of cartridges and the men began lacing the town with .44 rifle fire. The .44s, which could punch through a good three inches of pine, began bringing shouts and yells of panic from the outlaws in the town below.
Several tried to run; they were knocked down in the street. One outlaw, his leg twisted grotesquely, tried to crawl to safety. A slug to the head stopped his strugglings.
Smoke spoke to the Ute in his own language. “If they ever discover how few we are up here, we’re in trouble, brother.”
The Ute laughed in the night and said, “My people have always fought outnumbered, gunfighter. It is nothing new to us.”
Smoke returned the laugh and began working the lever on his Henry, laying a line of lead into a building below their position. The sudden hard fire brought several screams of pain from inside the building. One man fell through a shattered window to hang there, half in and half out of the building.
The Ute shouted a warning as a dozen outlaws charged their position, the men slipping from tree to tree, rock to rock, working closer.
Smoke quickly reloaded the Henry and laid two .44s on the ground beside him, one by each leg. There was no doubt in his mind that the outlaws would certainly breach their position, and then the fighting would be hand to hand.
Smoke heard the ugly sound of a bullet striking flesh and bone, and turning his head, he saw the Ute fall backward, a blue-tinged hole in the center of his forehead. With his right hand, Smoke made the Indian sign for peaceful journey and then returned to the fight.
He took out one outlaw who made the mistake of exposing too much of his body, knocking the man spinning
