All were wanted for multiple murders, at least. The outlaws had nothing at all to lose.
“Let’s start gettin’ the saddles on the horses,” Davidson ordered. He laughed. “One damn mile from the center of town, and nobody ever thought to look here. It was a good plan, Dagget.”
“All I want is a shot at that damned John Reynolds,” Dagget growled. “I want to gut-shoot that fancy-talkin’ lawyer so’s it’ll take him a long time to die.”
“They any kids in the Reynolds house?” Brute asked. “Say ten or eleven years old?”
No one answered the man. He was along solely because of his ability to use a gun and his nerves of steel. Other than that, no one had any use at all for Brute Pitman.
Not even his horse liked him.
The outlaws began a final check of their guns. They were going in heavily armed, and Rex Davidson had said he wanted the streets to run red with Yankee bluenose blood: Men, women, and kids; didn’t make a damn to him.
And it didn’t make a damn to the outlaws. Just as long as Davidson paid in cash or gold.
They had gotten a third of the money. The other two-thirds they’d receive in Canada.
Two men eased out of the cold house and slipped to the barn to curry and then saddle their mounts.
“I sure will be glad to have me a hot cup of coffee,” Tie bitched.
“You want to take a chance on smoke being seen from the chimney?” Dagget asked him.
“I ain’t complainin’,” Tie replied. “I just wish I had a cup of coffee, that’s all.”
“Coffee on the train,” Rex told them all. “And probably some pretty women.”
“Yeah!” several of the outlaws perked up.
“And maybe some children,” Brute grinned.
The outlaw seated next to Brute got up and moved away, shaking his head.
22
Good men, Smoke thought, after looking at the men that had been chosen. Not gunfighters, but good, solid, dependable men. Their weapons were not what Smoke would have chosen for his own use, but they seemed right in the hands of local citizens. Their pistols were worn high, in flap holsters; but they wouldn’t be called upon to do any fast-draw work.
Smoke looked outside. The streets of the town were empty. The storeowners had locked their doors but left the shades up, to give the impression that all was well.
“You men are going to protect the bank and other buildings along Main Street,” Smoke told the locals. “When you get the bastards in gunsights, pull the damn trigger! We don’t have time to be nice about it. You’re all veterans of the Army. You’ve all seen combat. This is war, and the outlaws are the enemy. The sheriff has deputized you, and I’ve given you federal commissions. You’re protected both ways. Now get into the positions the sheriff has assigned you and stay put. Good luck.”
The men filed out and began taking up positions. Some were hidden behind barrels and packing crates in alley openings. Others were on the second floor of the buildings on both sides of the street.
The sheriff and his deputy, the chief of police and his one man on duty, armed themselves and took their positions.
Smoke, Louis, and York swung in their saddles and began a slow sweep of the town.
At the Reynolds home, the twins had been taken down into the basement, where a warm fire had been built, and they were being looked after by Abigal and her daughter-in-law.
“I say, Father,” Walter asked, his hair disheveled and his face flushed with excitement, “whatever can Jordan and I do?”
“Stand aside and don’t get in the way,” the father ordered, picking up a double-barreled shotgun and breaking it down, loading it with buckshot. He did the same to two more shotguns and then loaded a lever-action rifle. He checked the loads in the pistols Smoke had given him and poured another cup of coffee. Cowboy coffee. John was beginning to like the stuff. Really pepped a man up!
He shoved two six-shooters in his belt, one on each side. Then he took up another notch in his belt to keep his pants from falling down.
“Who is that man running across the street?” Walter asked, peering out the window.
John looked. “This isn’t a man, Son. That’s Martha, in men’s jeans.”
“Good Lord, Father!” Jordan blurted. “That’s indecent!”
John looked at the shapely figure bounding up onto the front porch. He smiled. “That’s…not exactly the way I’d describe the lass, boy.” He opened the door and let her in.
Martha carried a Smith & Wesson pocket .32 in her right hand. She grinned at John. “You know me, Mr. Reynolds. I’ve always been somewhat of a tomboy.”
“Sally is guarding the back door, Martha. She is…ah…also in men’s britches.”
“Yes.” Martha grinned. “We bought them at the same time.” She walked back to the rear of the house.
Sally was sitting by the rear window, a rifle in her hand. She had a shotgun leaning up against the wall and wore a six-gun belt around her waist.
“Can you really shoot all those guns?” Martha asked.
“Can and have, many times. And if you’re moving west, you’d better learn how.”
“I think today is going to be a good day for that.”
“The Indians have a saying, Martha: It’s a good day to die.”
