“You sure didn’t,” the young man said. “We all got to meet him, Valentine, and you just did.”
“I reckon.” Then he died.
Listening, Smoke cocked his head. Something was very wrong. Then it came to him. No gunfire.
Cautiously, Smoke stepped to the stable door and looked out. Gunsmoke lay over the town like a shroud. The dusty streets were littered with bodies, not all of them TF gunhands.
Smoke was conscious of his friends looking at him, standing silently.
Louis pointed with the muzzle of his pistol.
Smoke looked far up the street. He could make out the shape of Tilden Franklin. Smoke stepped out into the street and faced the man.
Tilden began walking toward him. As the man came closer, Smoke said, “It’s over, Tilden.”
“Not yet,” the big man said. “I gotta kill you, then it’s over.”
“Make your play,” Smoke said.
Tilden grabbed for his guns. Both men fired at almost the same time. Smoke felt a shock in his left side. He kept earing back the hammers and pulling the triggers. Dust flew from Tilden’s chest as the slugs slammed into his body. The big man took another step, staggered, and then slumped to his knees in the center of the street.
Blood leaking from his wounded side, Smoke walked up to the man who would be king.
“You had everything a man could ask for, Tilden. Why weren’t you satisfied?”
Tilden tried to reply. But blood filled his mouth. He looked at Smoke, and still the hate was in his eyes. He fell forward on his face, in the dust, his guns slipping from his dead fingers.
It was over.
Almost.
16
They all heard the single shot and whirled around. Luke Nations lay crumpled on the boardwalk, a large hole in the center of his back.
Lester Morgan, a.k.a. Sundance, stepped out of a building, a pistol in his hand. He looked up and grinned.
“I did it!” he hollered. “Me. Sundance. I kilt Luke Nations!”
“You goddamned backshootin’ punk!” Charlie Starr said, lifting his pistol.
“No!” Smoke’s voice stopped him. “Don’t, Charlie.” Smoke walked over to Lester, one hand holding his bleeding side. He backhanded the dandy, knocking him sprawling. Lester-Sundance landed on his butt in the street. His mouth was busted, blood leaking from one corner. He looked up at Smoke, raw fear in his wide eyes.
“You gonna kill me, ain’t you?” he hissed.
The smile on Smoke’s lips was not pleasant. “What’s your name, punk?”
“Les…Sundance. That’s me, Sundance!”
“Well,
“Yeah!”
“And you wanna be known as a top gunhand, right, Sundance?”
“Yeah!”
Smoke kicked Lester in the mouth. The punk rolled on the ground, moaning.
“What’s your last name, craphead?”
“M…Morgan!”
“All right Les Sundance Morgan. I’ll let you live. And Les, I’m going to have your name spread all over the West. Les Sundance Morgan. The man with one ear. He’s the man who killed the famed gunfighter Luke Nations.”
“I got both ears!”
Before his words could fade from sound, Smoke had drawn and fired, the bullet clipping off Lester’s left ear. The action forever branded the dandy.
Lester rolled on the dirt, screaming and hollering.
“Top gun, huh, punk?” Smoke said. “Right, that’s you, Sundance.” He looked toward Johnny North. “Get some whiskey and fix his ear, will you, Johnny?”
Lester really started hollering when the raw booze hit where his ear had been. He passed out from the pain. Ralph took that time to bandage the ugly wound.
Then Smoke kicked him awake. Lester lay on the blood- and whiskey-soaked ground, looking up at Smoke.
“What for you do this to me?” he croaked.
“So everybody, no matter where you go, can know who you are, punk. The man who killed Luke Nations. Now, you listen to me, you son of a bitch! You want to know how it feels to be top gun? Well, just look around you, ask anybody.”
Lester’s eyes found Charlie Starr. “You’re Charlie Starr. You’re more famouser than Luke Nations. But I’m gonna be famous too, ain’t I?”
Charlie rolled a cigarette and stuck it between Lester’s lips. He held the match while Lester puffed. Charlie straightened up and smiled sadly at Lester.
