“I say, Father,” Jordan asked, “wherever do you want us to be posted?”
John looked at his two sons. He loved them both but knew that they were rather on the namby-pamby side. Excellent attorneys, both of them. But in a situation like the one about to face them all, about as useless as balls on a bedpost.
John laughed at his own vulgarity. “I think it would please your mother very much, boys, if you would consent to guard them in the basement.”
They consented and moved out. Smartly.
Sally came in and checked on her father. She grinned at him and patted him on the shoulder. “You look tough as a gunslinger, Father.”
“I feel like an idiot!” He grinned at her. “But I do think I am capable of defending this house and all in it against thugs and hooligans.”
“There isn’t a doubt in my mind about that, Father. Don’t leave your post. I’ll handle the back.”
Probably with much more proficiency and deadliness than I will handle the front, he thought.
He leaned down and kissed her cheek and winked at her.
“Don’t let them get on the porch, Father,” she cautioned the man. “When you get them in gunsights, let ’er bang.”
He laughed. “I shall surely endeavor to do that, darling!”
Smoke rode alone to the edge of town, and the huge barn to the southeast caught his eyes. There was no smoke coming from the chimney of the house, and the day was cool enough for a fire. He wondered about that, then put it out of his mind. He turned Drifter’s head and rode slowly back to town.
The town appeared deserted.
But he knew that behind the closed doors and shuttered windows of the homes, men and women and kids were waiting and watching. And the people of the town were taking the news of the outlaws’ arrival calmly, obeying the sheriff’s orders without question.
Smoke, York, and Louis, all in the saddle, met in the center of town.
“What’s the time, Louis?” Smoke asked.
The gambler checked his gold watch. “Ten-fifteen, and not a creature is stirring,” he said with a small smile.
“Unless they’re hidin’ awful close,” York said, rolling a tight cigarette, “they’re gonna have to make their first move damn quick.”
Smoke looked around him at the quiet town. “They’re close. Maybe no more than a mile or two outside of town. I’ve been thinking, boys. Jim Wilde told me that those ledger books of Davidson’s showed him to be a very rich man; money in all sorts of banks…in different banks, under different names, Jim guessed. The assumed names weren’t shown. So why would he be interested in knocking off a bank? It doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“You think the primary target is Sally and the babies?” Louis asked.
“Yes. And something else. John Reynolds told me that Dagget has hated the Reynolds family for years, even before he got into trouble and had to leave.”
“So John and Abigal might also be targets.”
“Yes.”
“This Dagget, he have any family still livin’ in town?” York asked.
Smoke shook his head. “I don’t know. But I’d bet he does.”
“But Dagget would still know the town,” Louis mused aloud.
“Yes. And he would know where the best hiding places were.”
“And he just might have supporters still livin’ here,” York interjected.
“There is that, too.”
The men sat their horses for a moment, quiet, just listening to the near silence.
“Me and Louis been talkin’. Smoke, we’ll take the main street. You best head on over toward the Reynolds place.”
Smoke nodded and tightened the reins. “See you boys.” He rode slowly toward the Reynolds house.
York and Louis turned the other way, heading for the main street of town.
Smoke put Drifter in the stable behind the house but left the saddle on him. Pulling his rifle from the boot, he walked around the big house on the corner. The house directly across the street, on the adjacent corner, was empty. The home facing the front porch was occupied. John had said the family had taken to the basement. To the rear and the left of the Reynolds house, looking from the street, the lots were owned by John; in the summers, neat patches of flowers were grown by Abigal.
Smoke stood on the front porch, the leather hammer thongs off his .44s, the Henry repeating rifle, loaded full with one in the chamber, held in his left hand. Without turning around, he called, “What’s the time, John?”
“Ten-thirty, Son,” John called through the closed front door.
“They’ll hit us in about ten minutes. Relax, John. Have another cup of coffee. If you don’t mind, pour me one while you’re at it. I’ll keep an eye on the front.”
The man is utterly, totally calm, John thought, walking through the house to the kitchen. Not a nerve in his entire body. He looked at his daughter. Sally was sitting in a straight-back chair by a kitchen window, her rifle lying across her lap. She looked as though she just might decide to take a nap.
