squall in outrage. The coffee was weak and the sandwich uneatable. Smoke gave both to a ragged man who seemed down on his luck, and then he waited.
Soon he saw York walking up the street and turning into the saloon. Smoke hurriedly crossed the street and stepped into the crowded saloon, elbowing and shouldering his way through the crowd. Several turned to protest, looked into the unforgiving eyes of the tall stranger with the two six-guns, and closed their months much faster than they opened them.
York was facing Natick and two other hard-looking men that Smoke did not know and did not remember seeing in Dead River.
And the crowd was rapidly moving back and away, out of the line of fire.
It was almost a repeat performance of Nappy and his crew. Except that this time a photographer was there and had his equipment set up, and he was ready to start popping whenever the action began.
The town marshal, a notorious bully and killer, was leaning up against the bar watching it all, a faint smile on his face. He was not going to interfere on behalf of either side.
“Mort!” Smoke called.
The marshal turned and faced Smoke, and his face went a shade paler.
“Jensen,” he whispered.
“Either choose a side or get out,” Smoke warned him, clear menace in his voice.
It was a warning and a challenge that rankled the town marshal, but not one he wanted to pick up. Quick with his guns and his fists, boasting that he had killed seven men, Mort’s reputation was merely a dark smudge on the ground when compared to Smoke’s giant shadow.
The marshal nodded and walked outside, turning and going swiftly up the street.
“All right, boys,” York said. “You all know Smoke Jensen. Make your play.”
The three outlaws drew together. One did not even clear leather before Smoke’s guns belched fire and smoke, the slug striking the outlaw in the center of the chest. The second outlaw that Smoke faced managed to get the muzzle free of leather before twin death-blows of lead hammered at his belly and chest.
York’s guns had roared and bucked and slammed Natick against a rear wall of the saloon, down but not quite dead.
Smoke walked to him. “Natick?”
“What do you want, Jensen?” the outlaw gasped.
“I know why you broke with Davidson and the others.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Because you may be a lot of bad things, but you’re no baby killer.”
Natick nodded his bloody head. “Yeah. I couldn’t go along with that. I’m glad it was you boys who done me in. Pull my boots off for me, Jensen?”
Smoke tugged off the man’s boots. One big toe was sticking through a hole in his sock.
“Ain’t that pitiful?” Natick observed. “I’ve stole thousands and thousands of dollars and cain’t even afford to buy a pair of socks.” He cut his eyes to Smoke. “Rex and Dagget’s got some bad ones with them, Jensen. Lapeer, Moore, The Hog, Tustin, Shorty, Red, and Jake. Studs Woodenhouse, Tie Medley, Paul Rycroft, Slim Bothwell, and Brute Pitman. I don’t know where they’re hidin’, Jensen, and that’s the truth. But Davidson plans on rapin’ your woman and then killin’ your kid.”
Natick was whispering low, so only Smoke and York could hear his dying words. The photographer was taking pictures as fast as he could jerk plates and load his dust.
Smoke bent his head to hear Natick’s words, but the outlaw would speak no more. He was dead.
Smoke dug in his own pocket and handed some money to a man standing close by. “You’ll see that he gets a proper burial?”
“I shore will, Mr. Jensen. And it was a plumb honor to see you in action.”
The photographer fired again.
The batwings snapped open and a dirty man charged into the bar, holding twin leather bags. “She’s pure, boys. Assayed out high as a cat’s back. The drinks is on me! Git them damn stiffs outta the way!”
17
John and his sons and daughters and their families looked at the pictures John had sent in from New York, looked at them in horror.
Bodies were sprawling in the street, on the boardwalks, hanging half in and half out of broken windows. One was facedown in a horse trough, another was sprawled in stiffened death beside the watering trough.
And John’s son-in-law, Smoke Jensen, handsome devil that he was, was standing on the boardwalk, calmly rolling a cigarette.
“That’s my Smoke!” Sally said, pointing.
Smoke was wearing his guns cross-draw, and he had another one tucked behind his gunbelt. In another picture, the long-bladed Bowie knife he carried behind one gun could be clearly seen. In still another picture, Smoke was sitting on the edge of the boardwalk, eating an apple. In the left side of the picture, bodies could be seen hanging from the gallows.
John’s stomach felt queasy. He laid the pictures aside and stifled a burp when Sally grabbed them up and began glancing at them.
“There’s a bandage on Smoke’s head,” she noted. “But I can’t see that he was shot anywhere else.”
