“Clear out!” Tie hollered. “We’re blowin’ the vault!”
Fifteen seconds later, it seemed the gates to Hell opened up in the little town in New Hampshire.
23
The force of the giant powder exploding sent half the roof flying off and blew one wall completely down. George Mahaffery ended up in Sheriff Poley’s lap and the chief of police found himself sitting on a spittoon, with no one really knowing how they got in their present positions.
“I got money in that bank!” a volunteer suddenly realized.
“Hell, so do I!” another called from a rooftop.
“Get ’em boys!” another called.
Then they all, finally, opened up.
“They just blew the bank building,” Smoke called.
“Place needed renovating anyway,” John returned the call.
Smoke laughed. “You’ll do, John. You’ll do!”
And John realized his son-in-law had just paid him one of the highest compliments a western man could give.
Smoke heard the pounding of hooves on the street and jerked up his Henry, easing back the hammer. He recognized Glen Moore. Bringing up the butt to his shoulder, Smoke shot the killer through the belly. Moore screamed as the pain struck him, but he managed to stay in the saddle. He galloped on down the street, turning into a side street.
Out of the corner of his eye, Smoke saw Brute Pitman cut in behind the house, galloping across the neatly tended lawn.
“Coming up your way, Sally!” Smoke called, then had no more time to wonder, for the lawn was filled with human scum.
Smoke began pulling and levering at almost point-blank range. Lapeer taking a half-dozen round in his chest. Behind him, Smoke could vaguely hear the sounds of breaking glass and then the booming of a shotgun. An outlaw Smoke did not know was knocked off the porch to his left, half his face blown away.
“Goddamned heathen!” Smoke heard John say. “Come on, you sorry scum!”
Smoke dropped the Henry and jerked out his six-guns just as he heard gunfire from the rear of the house. He heard Brute’s roar of pain and the sounds of a horse running hard.
Splinters flew out of a porch post and dug into Smoke’s cheek from a bullet. He dropped to one knee and leveled his .44s at Tustin, pulling the triggers. One slug struck the so-called minister in the throat and the other took him in the mouth.
Tustin’s preaching days were over. He rolled from his saddle and hit the ground.
“We’ve beaten them off!” John yelled, excitement in his voice.
“You stay in the house and keep a sharp lookout, John,” Smoke called. “Sally! You all right?”
“I’m fine, honey. But Martha and I got lead in that big ugly man.”
Brute Pitman.
And Smoke knew his plan to ride into town must wait; he could not leave this house until Brute was dead and Rex and the others were accounted for.
Reloading his guns, Smoke stepped off the porch and began a careful circling of the house and grounds.
Louis took careful aim and ended the outlaw career of Studs Woodenhouse, the slug from Longmont’s gun striking the outlaw leader dead center between the eyes. A bit of fine shooting from that distance.
A rifleman from a second-floor window brought down two of Davidson’s gang. Another volunteer ended the career of yet another. Several of the men had left their positions, at the calling of Sheriff Poley, and now the townspeople had the outlaws trapped inside the ruined bank.
One tried to make a break for it at the exact time Mayor George stepped out of the office, his Dragoon at the ready. The Dragoon spat fire and smoke and about a half pound of lead, the slug knocking the outlaw from his horse and dropping him dead on the cobblestones.
“Bastard!” George muttered.
Four rounds bouncing off cobblestones sent the mayor scrambling back into the office.
Tie Medley exposed his head once too often and Sheriff Poley shot him between the eyes. The Hog, along with Shorty, Jake, and Red, slipped out through a hole blown in the wall and crept into the hardware store. There, they stuffed their pockets full of cartridges and began chopping a hole in the wall, breaking into a dress shop and then into an apothecary shop. They were far enough away from the bank building then to slip out, locate their horses, and get the hell out of that locale.
“Let’s find this Reynolds place!” Shorty said. “I want Jensen.”
“Let’s go!”
Smoke came face to face with Brute Pitman at the rear of the corner of the house. The man’s face was streaked with blood and there was a tiny bullet hole in his left shoulder, put there by Martha’s pocket .32.
Smoke started pulling and cocking, each round striking Brute in the chest and belly. The big man sat down on his butt in the grass and stared at Smoke. While Smoke was punching out empty brass and reloading, Brute Pitman toppled over and died with his eyes and mouth open, taking with him and forever sealing the secret to his cache of gold.
Smoke holstered his own .44s and grabbed at Brute’s six-guns, checking the loads. He filled both of them up with six and continued his prowling.
