“I step out down to the canyon floor. One of your men steps out. One of us, one of you. We do that until we’re all facin’ each other. Anybody tries anything funny, your men on the ridge can drop them already out. And since I’ll be the first one out…well, you get the pitcher, don’t you?”
Smoke looked back at the posse members. “They’re asking for a showdown. But a lot of you men aren’t gunslicks. I can’t ask you to put your life on the line.”
“A lot of them ol’ boys in there ain’t gunslicks, neither,” Beaconfield said. “They’re just trash. Let’s go for it.”
Every member of the posse concurred without hesitation. The minister, Ralph Morrow, was the second to agree.
“All right, Bothwell. You and Rycroft step out with me and Pearlie.”
“That’s a deal. Let’s do ’er.”
Each taking a deep breath, Smoke and Pearlie stepped out to face the two outlaws. Several hundred feet separated the men. The others on both sides quickly followed, the outlaws fully aware that if just one of them screwed up, the riflemen on the skyline of the canyon would take a terrible toll.
Davidson and Dagget were the last two down from the rocks. Davidson was giggling as he minced down to the canyon floor.
And Davidson and Dagget positioned themselves so they both were facing Smoke.
“And now we find out something I have always known,” Davidson called to Smoke.
“What’s that, stupid?” Smoke deliberately needled the man.
“Who’s the better man, of course!” Davidson called.
“Hell, Davidson. I’ve known that since the first time I laid eyes on you. You couldn’t shine my boots.”
Davidson flushed and waved his hand. “Forward, troops!” he shouted. “Advance and wipe out the mongrels!”
“Loony as a monkey!” Garrett muttered.
“But dangerous as a rattlesnake.” Smoke advised. “Let’s go, boys.”
The lines of men began to walk slowly toward each other, their boots making their progress in the muddy, snowy canyon floor.
The men behind their rifles on the canyon skyline kept the muzzles of their guns trained on the outlaws.
No one called out any signals. No one spoke a word. All knew that when they were about sixty feet apart, it was time to open the dance. Rycroft’s hands jerked at the pistol butts and Beaconfield drilled him dead center just as Bothwell grabbed for his guns. Minister Morrow lifted the muzzle of his Henry and shot the outlaw through the belly, levered in another round, and finished the job.
The canyon floor roared and boomed and filled with gunsmoke as the two sides hammered at each other.
Smoke pulled both .44s, his speed enabling him to get off the first and accurate shots.
One slug turned Dagget sideways and the other slug hit Davidson in the hip, striking the big bone and knocking the man to the ground.
Smoke felt the lash of a bullet impact with his left leg. He steadied himself and continued letting the hot lead fly. He saw Dagget go down just as Davidson leveled his six-gun and fired. The bullet clipped Smoke’s right arm, stinging and drawing the blood. Smoke leveled his left-hand .44 and shot Davidson in the head, the bullet striking him just about his right eye.
Dagget was down on his knees, still fighting. Smoke walked toward the man, cocking and firing. He was close enough to see the slugs pop dirt from the man’s shirt and jacket as they struck.
Dagget suddenly rose up to one knee and his fingers loosened their hold on his guns. He fell forward on his face just as Smoke slumped against a huge boulder, his left leg suddenly aching, unable to hold his weight.
Smoke punched out empties and reloaded as the firing wound down. He watched as Pearlie emptied both Colts into the chests of two men; Minister Morrow knocked yet another outlaw to the ground with fire and lead from his Henry.
And then the canyon floor fell silent.
Somewhere a man coughed and spat. Another man groaned in deep pain. Yet another man tried to get up from the line of fallen outlaws. He tried then gave it up, falling back into the boot-churned mud.
The outlaw line lay bloody and still.
“My wife told me to finish it this morning,” Smoke said, his voice seeming unnaturally loud in the sudden stillness.
“Anything my wife tells me to do, I do it,” Garrett spoke.
“Looks like we done it,” Johnny summed it up.
27
Beaconfield and Garrett called in some of their hands and the outlaws were buried in a mass grave. Reverend Ralph Morrow spoke a few words over the gravesite.
Damn few words.
Smoke tied off the wound in his leg and the men swung into the saddles. This part of Colorado was peaceful again, for a time.
The men turned their horses and headed for home. No one looked back at the now-quiet-but-once-roaring- and-bloody canyon floor. No one would return to mark the massive grave. The men of the posse had left the outlaws’ guns on top of the mound of fresh earth.
Marker enough.
York would make it, but it would be a long, slow
