from behind a tree; a second slug from Smoke’s rifle forever stilled the man.
Then there was no time for anything except survival, as the outlaws charged Smoke’s position.
Smoke fought savagely, his guns sending several outlaws into that long darkness. Then his position was overrun. Something slammed into the side of his head, and Smoke was dropped into darkness.
14
He was out for no more than a few seconds, never really losing full consciousness. He felt blood dripping down the side of his face. He was still holding onto his guns, and he remembered they were full. Lifting them, as a dozen shapes began materializing around him in the night, Smoke began cocking and pulling the triggers.
Hoarse screams filled the air around him as the slugs from his pistols struck their mark at point-blank range. Unwashed bodies thudded to the ground all around him, the dead and dying flesh unwittingly building a fort around his position, protecting him from the returning fire of the outlaws.
Then, half-naked shapes filtered silently and swiftly out of the timber, firing rifles and pistols. By now, the remaining outlaws were too confused and frightened to understand how a man whom they believed to be dead from a head wound had managed to inflict so hideous a toll on them.
And then the Utes came out of the timber, and in a matter of seconds, what had been twenty outlaws were no more than dying, cooling flesh in the still-warm mountain air slightly above Dead River.
The Utes vanished back into the timber, as swiftly and as silently as they had come.
Smoke reloaded his guns, pistols, and rifles, and slung the rifles across his shoulders. He wrapped his bandana around his head and tied it, after inspecting his head-wound with his fingers and finding it not serious; he knew that a head wound can bleed hard and fast for a few moments, and then, in many cases, stop.
He loaded his pistols, then loaded the sawed-off shotgun. Then he began making his way down the hill, back into the town of Dead River. He was going to take the fight to the outlaws.
He stopped once to tie a white handkerchief around his arm, so not only the Indians would know who he was but so the posse members would not mistakenly shoot him.
He slipped down to the building where the outlaw was still hanging half out of the window and quietly checked out the interior. The building was void of life. Looking up the street, he could see where he, York, and the Utes had taken a terrible toll on the population of the outlaw town. The street, the alleys, and the boardwalks were littered with bodies. Most were not moving.
He did not know how much time had transpired since he and Ranger had opened the dance. But he was sure it was a good half hour or forty-five minutes.
He slipped to the south a few yards and found a good defensible position behind a stone wall that somebody had built around a small garden. Smoke pulled a ripe tomato off the vine, brushed the dust off it, and ate it while his eyes surveyed the street, picking out likely targets.
He unslung the rifles, laid his sack of guns and cartridges by one side, the express guns by his other side, and then picked up and checked out a Henry.
He had found a man stationed on top of a building. Sighting him in, Smoke let the other outlaws know he was still in the game by knocking the man off the roof with one well-placed shot to his belly. The sniper fell screaming to the street below. His howling stopped as he impacted with earth.
Putting his hand to the ground, Smoke thought he could detect a trembling. Bending over, being careful not to expose his butt to the guns of the outlaws, he pressed his ear to the ground and picked up the sound of faint rumblings. The posse was no more than a mile away.
“York!” he yelled.
“Yo, Smoke!” came the call.
“Here they come, Ranger! Shovel the coals to it!”
Smoke began levering and pulling the trigger, laying down a blistering line of fire into the buildings of the town. From his position at the other end, York did the same. The Utes opened up from both sides of the town, and the night rocked with gunfire.
“For the love of God!” Sheriff Larsen cried out, reining up by the lines of tortured men and women on the outskirts of town. His eyes were utterly disbelieving as they touched each tortured man and woman.
“Help us!” came the anguished cry of one of the few still alive. “Have mercy on us, please. We were taken against our will and brought here.”
The posse of hardened western men, accustomed to savage sights, had never seen anything like this. All had seen Indian torture; but that was to be expected from ignorant savages. But fellow white men had done this.
Several of the posse leaned out of their saddles and puked on the ground.
“Three or four men stay here and cut these poor wretches down,” Jim Wilde ordered, his voice strong over the sound of gunfire. “Do what you can for them.”
“Jim!” Smoke called. “It’s Jensen. Hold your fire, I’m coming over.”
Smoke zigzagged over to the posse, catching the reins of a horse as the man discounted. “Your horses look in good shape.”
“We rested them about a mile back. Let them blow good and gave them half a hatful of water. How’s your head?”
“My Sally has hit me harder,” Smoke grinned, swinging into the saddle. He patted the roan’s neck and rubbed his head, letting the animal know he was friendly.
“You comin’ in with us?” the marshal asked.
“I got personal business to tend to. There’s an Arizona Ranger named York up yonder.” He pointed. “I forgot to tell him to tie something about his arm. He’s a damn good man. Good luck to you boys.”
Smoke swung the horse’s head, and with a screaming yell from the throats of sixty men, the posse hit the main street hard. The reins in their teeth, the posse members had their hands full of .44s and .45s, and they were filling anybody they saw with lead.
