“In the saloon!” someone yelled.
Williams jumped through an open, glassless window of the saloon. Just as his boots hit the old warped boards, Smoke shot him, the .44 slug stopping him and twisting the gunhawk back out the window to the boardwalk. Williams was hurt, but not out of it. He crawled along the side of the building, one arm broken and dangling, useless.
“Smoke Jensen!” the gunnie called Cross called. “You ain’t got the sand to face me.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Smoke muttered. He took careful aim and shot the man in the stomach, doubling him over and dropping him to the dirty street.
The miners had hightailed it to the ridges surrounding the old town. There they sat, drinking and betting and cheering. The old Mountain Men, Preacher among them, watched expressionless.
The young man called Smoke, far too young to have been one of that rare and select breed of adventuring pioneers called Mountain Men, had, nonetheless, been raised, at least in part, by Preacher, so that made Smoke one of them. Indeed, the last of the Mountain Men.
A bullet dug a trench along the old, rotting wood, sending splinters flying, a few of them striking Smoke in the face, stinging and bringing a few drops of blood.
Smoke ran out the back, coming face to face with Simpson, the outlaw gunfighter having both his dirty hands filled with .44s.
Smoke pulled the trigger on his own .44s, the double hammer-blows of lead taking Simpson in the lower chest, knocking him dying to the ground.
Smoke reloaded, then grabbed up Simpson’s guns and tucked them behind his belt. He ran down the alley. A gunslick stepped out of a gaping doorway just as Smoke cut to his right, jumping through a windowless opening. A bullet burned his shoulder. Spinning, he fired both Colts, one slug taking Martin in the throat, the second striking the outlaw just above the nose, almost removing the upper part of the man’s face.
Smoke caught a glimpse of someone running. He dropped to one knee and fired. His slug shattered the hip of Rogers, sending the big man sprawling in the dirt, howling and cussing. Another gunslick spurred his horse and charged the building where Smoke was crouched. He smashed his horse’s shoulder against the old door and came thundering inside. The animal, wild-eyed and scared, lost its footing and fell, pinning the outlaw to the floor, crushing the man’s stomach and chest. The outlaw, Reese, cried in agony as blood filled his mouth and darkness clouded his eyes.
Smoke slipped out the side door.
“Get him, Turkel!” a hired gun yelled.
Smoke glanced up roof-level high; he ducked as a rifle bullet flattened against the building. Smoke snapped off a shot and got lucky, the slug hitting Turkel in the chest. He crashed through an awning, bringing down the rotting awning. The hired gun did not move.
A bullet removed a small part of Smoke’s right ear; blood poured down the side of his face. He ran to where he had stashed the shotgun, grabbing it up and cocking it, leveling the barrels just as the doorway filled with gunslicks.
Smoke pulled both triggers, fighting the recoil of the 12-gauge. The blast cleared the doorway of all living things.
“Goddamn you, Jensen,” a hired gun yelled, his voice filled with rage and frustration. He stepped out into the street.
Smoke dropped the shotgun and picked up a rifle, shooting the gunhand in the gut.
It was white-hot heat and gunsmoke for the next few minutes. Smoke was hit in the side, twisting him into the open doorway of a rotting building where a dead man lay. Smoke picked up the man’s bloody shotgun and stumbled into the darkness of the building just as spurs jingled in the alley. Smoke jacked back both hammers and waited.
The spurs came closer. Smoke could hear the man’s heavy breathing. He lifted the shotgun and pulled both triggers, blowing a bullet-sized hole in the rotting pine wall.
The gunslick stumbled backward, and slammed into an outhouse. The outhouse collapsed, dumping the dying gunhand into the shit-pit.
Smoke checked his wounds. He would live. He reloaded his own Colts and the guns taken from the dead gunnie. He listened as Fenerty called for his buddies.
There was no response.
Fenerty was the last gunslick left.
He called again and Smoke pinpointed his voice. Picking up a Henry, Smoke emptied the rifle into the storefront. Fenerty came staggering out, stumbled on the rotting steps, and pitched face-forward into the street. There, he died.
Smoke laid down the challenge to Richards, Potter, and Stratton. “All right, you bastards!” he yelled. “Face me in the street if you’ve got the balls!”
The sharp odor of sweat mingled with blood and gunsmoke filled the summer air as four men stepped out into the death-street.
Richards, Potter, and Stratton stood at one end of the block. A tall, bloody figure stood at the other. All guns were in leather.
“You son of a bitch!” Stratton lost his cool and screamed, his voice as high-pitched as an hysterical girl’s. “You ruined it all!” He clawed for his .44.
Smoke drew, cocked, and fired before Stratton’s pistol could clear leather.
Screaming his outrage, Potter jerked out his pistol. Smoke shot him dead with his left-hand Colt. Holstering both Colts, Smoke faced Richards and waited.
