Up ahead, standing in the middle of the trail, was a man dressed in buckskins. He had a pistol in a holster tied down low on his right leg, and another pistol stuck in his belt facing his left hand. He was standing in the trail as cool and composed as if he were out for a walk.
“Jensen!” Angus hissed as he looked over Biggs’s shoulder at the man.
“That’s right, Mr. MacDougal. Now that the odds are fair, I’m ready to face you and your men headon.”
“Odds fair?” Josh Stone asked incredulously. “But it’s four to one.”
Smoke shrugged. “That’s about right, I ’spect. I want to give you men at least a fighting chance.”
“Holy shit!” Biggs whispered.
“Now, you can hook and draw, or you can turn tail and ride on off and live to enjoy another beautiful day in the High Lonesome,” Smoke said, seemingly unconcerned about their decision. “It’s your choice.”
“Son of a bitch!” Stone yelled and went for his gun, as did Biggs and Gomez.
Angus had never seen anything like it. One minute Jensen was standing there, as cool as a cucumber; the next his eyes were on fire and his hands were full of iron and he was blazing away at them.
Stone was hit in the throat, the slug blowing out the back of his neck and almost decapitating him. His body fell to the side, the head flopping back and forth on a slender thread of tissue.
Gomez didn’t even clear leather before he was hit twice, once in the left chest and the other bullet hitting him right between the eyes, blowing the back of his head off and leaving a cloud of red mist hanging in the air as Angus and Biggs were showered with bits of skull and brains.
Biggs actually managed to get his gun out and cocked before Jensen’s fourth slug took him in the gut, bending him over with a loud grunt. The fifth shot entered the top of his head and stopped his groaning as if a switch had been turned off.
As Biggs’s body fell off the horse to land facedown in the snow, Angus stuck his hands straight up in the air, his face a frightened mask of terror.
“I’ve got one bullet left, Mr. MacDougal,” Smoke said calmly, seemingly unaffected by his killing of three men in less time than it takes to tell it. “You want to try your luck?”
Angus shook his head violently from side to side. “Uh, no, please don’t shoot me,” he cried, tears running down his cheeks.
“You’re a pathetic excuse for a man, MacDougal,” Smoke said, holstering his pistol as he walked toward the broken man. “Your son was an asshole, but at least he fought his own battles. He didn’t hire other men to do his dirty work for him.”
Angus held his hands out in front of him like he was warding off an evil spirit as Smoke walked up to him.
Smoke reached up, took Angus’s gun from its holster, and threw it over the cliff. He leaned to the side and spit into the snow, as if he were getting rid of a bad taste in his mouth.
“You’d better go on home, MacDougal. To what home you have left, that is,” Smoke said, his voice filled with disgust as he turned and walked away.
THIRTY
Sally and the men riding with her, Louis, Cal, and Pearlie, finally reached Pueblo after a hard few days’ ride. They’d encountered no resistance along the way, which surprised Louis but not Sally.
“There’s no reason for them to be watching their back trail, Louis,” she’d said when he remarked on the absence of any sentries or guards. “They’ve already got Smoke where they want him, or he is already dead.”
Louis had looked at her, his mouth open, his eyes sad.
She’d smiled grimly at him. “Oh, don’t think I don’t know that is a possibility, Louis, old friend,” she’d said, her eyes blazing. “I hope to find him well and alive, but if I don’t, I will survive it.” She’d hesitated, her face set. “I will survive it, but the men who carried this out will not.”
As they rode into town, Louis said, “I think we ought to start with the sheriff. He’s bound to know this Sarah Johnson and where her parents live.”
They rode up to the sheriff’s office, and all got down off their horses and walked through the door.
A rotund man of average stature was sitting behind his desk, his feet up on one corner, drinking coffee when they entered. Upon seeing Sally, the man jumped to his feet, grinning his most engaging smile.
“Howdy, ma’am, my name’s Wally Tupper. I’m sheriff of Pueblo. How can I be of assistance to you?”
“Hello, Sheriff Tupper,” Sally said, equally engaging. “My name is Sally Jensen. I’m from the town of Big Rock and I’m looking for a young woman named Sarah Johnson.”
They all saw the blood drain from Tupper’s face as his smile faded like a snowflake on a hot stove. “Uh, I don’t know any Sarah Johnson, Mrs. Jensen,” he said, his voice croaking on the words.
Louis stepped forward. “Maybe her name’s not Sarah Johnson, Sheriff,” he said. “She’s about this high, attractive, with long brown hair, and is in her mid-twenties. You know anyone fits that description around here?”
“Uh . . . no. Why are you looking for this woman?” the sheriff asked, sweat appearing on his forehead.
Louis cocked his head. “Why would you need to know that if you don’t know anyone by that description, Sheriff?” Louis asked, his eyes boring into Tupper’s.
“I guess . . . I guess I don’t,” the sheriff answered weakly.
Sally said, “Come on, men, let’s go ask around town.”
