“I know Nappy is wanted for rape and murder,” Smoke said. “What else did he do?”
“Killed my older brother down between the Mogollon Plateau and the Little Colorado. Jimmy was a lawman, workin’ out of Tucson. Nappy had killed an old couple just outside of town and Jimmy had tracked him north.” York talked as they walked. “Nappy ambushed him. Gut-shot my brother and left him to die. But Jimmy wasn’t about to die ’fore he told who done him in. He crawled for miles until some punchers found him and he could tell them what happened, then he died. I was fifteen at the time. I joined the Rangers when I was eighteen. That was six years ago.”
“I figured you for some younger than that.”
“It’s all the clean livin’ I done,” York said with a straight face.
Then they stepped into the saloon.
And Nappy wasn’t alone.
The short, barrel-chested, and extremely ugly outlaw stood at the far end of the bar, his hands at his sides. Across the room were two more hardcases, also standing, each wearing two guns tied down low. To Smoke’s extreme right, almost in the shadows, was another man, also standing.
“Napoleon Whitman?” York spoke to the stocky outlaw.
“That’s me, punk.”
“I’m an Arizona Ranger. It is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest for the murder of Tucson deputy sheriff Jimmy York.”
“Do tell? Well, Ranger, this is Colorado. You ain’t jack-shit up here.”
“I have also been appointed a deputy U.S. Marshal, Nappy. Now how is it gonna be?”
“Well,” Nappy drawled, as the men at the tables drifted back, out of the line of fire. And since Nappy had men posted all around the room, that meant getting clear outside, which is what most did. “I think I’m gonna finish my drink, Ranger. That’s what I think I’m gonna do. And since both you squirts is about to die, why don’t y’all order yourselves a shot?”
Then he arrogantly turned his left side to the man and faced the bar. But both Smoke and York knew he was watching them in the mirror.
“He’s all yours,” Smoke murmured, just loud enough for York to hear. “Don’t worry about the others.”
York nodded. “I don’t drink with scum,” he told the ugly outlaw.
Nappy had lifted the shot glass to his mouth with his left hand. With that slur, he set the glass down on the bar and turned, facing the younger man. “What’d you say to me, punk?” The outlaw was not accustomed to be talked to in such a manner. After all, he was a famous and feared gunfighter, and punk kids respected him. They sure didn’t talk smart to him.
“I said you’re scum, Nappy. You’re what’s found at the bottom of an outhouse pit.”
All were conscious of many faces peering inside the dark barroom; many men pressed up against the glass from the boardwalk.
“You can’t talk to me lak ’at!” Nappy almost screamed the words, and he could not understand the strange sensation that suddenly filled him.
It was fear.
Fear! The word clutched at Nappy’s innards. Fear! Afraid of this snot-nosed pup with a tin star? He tried to shrug it off but found he could not.
“I just did, Nappy,” York said. He smiled at the man; he could practically smell the fear-stink of the outlaw.
Nappy stepped away from the bar to stand wide-legged, facing York. “Then fill your hand, you son of a bitch!”
16
Smoke had been standing, half turned away from York, about three feet between them, his arms folded across his lower chest. When Nappy grabbed for iron, Smoke went into a low crouch and cross-drew, cocking and firing with one blindingly fast motion. First he shot the man in the shadows with his right-hand .44, then took out the closest of the two men to Nappy’s immediate left.
Nappy had beaten York to the draw, but as so often happens, his first slug tore up the floor in front of York’s boots. York had not missed a shot, but the stocky outlaw was soaking up the lead as fast as York could pump it into him and was still standing on his feet, tossing lead in return. He was holding onto the bar with his left hand and firing at York.
Smoke rolled across the floor and came up on his knees, both .44s hammering lead into the one man he faced who was still standing. The .44 slugs drew the life from the man and Smoke turned on one knee, splinters from the rough wood floor digging into his knee with the move. The man in the shadows was leaning against a wall, blood all over his shirt front, trying to level his .45. Smoke shot him in the face, and the man slid down the wall to rest on his butt, dead.
As the roaring left his ears and Smoke could once more see, Nappy was still standing, even though York had emptied his .44 into the man’s chest and belly.
But Smoke could see he was not going to be standing much longer. The man’s eyes were glazing over, and blood was pouring out of his mouth. His guns were laying on the floor beside his scuffed and dirty boots.
Nappy cut his eyes to Smoke. “That you, Jensen?” he managed to say.
“It’s me, Nappy.” Smoke stood up and walked toward the dying outlaw.
“Come closer, Jensen. I cain’t see you. Dark in here, ain’t it?”
Death’s hand was slowly closing in on Nappy.
“What do you want, Nappy?”
