counted them. One gunfighter from south of the border. Smoke Jensen, from north of the border. The Moab Kid and a boy/man who rode with destiny on his shoulders.
They slowed their horses as they approached Gibson, the men splitting up into pairs, some circling the town to come in at different points.
But the town was nearly deserted. Hans’s cafe had been closed for the funeral. The big general store—run by Walt and Leah Hillery, a sour-faced man and his wife—was open, but doing no business. The barber shop was empty. There were no horses standing at the hitchrails of either saloon. Smoke walked his horse around the corral and then looked inside the stable. Only a few horses in stalls, and none of them appeared to be wet from recent riding.
The men gathered at the edge of town, talked it over, and then dismounted, splitting up into two groups, one group on each side of the street.
Smoke pushed open the batwings of the Hangout and stepped inside. The place was empty except for the barkeep and the swamper. The bartender, knowing that Smoke had on his warpaint, was nervously polishing shot glasses and beer mugs.
“Ain’t had a customer all morning, Mister Smoke,” he announced. “I think the boys is stayin’ close to the bunkhouse.”
Smoke nodded at the man and stepped back out onto the boardwalk, continuing on his walking inspection.
He met with Beans. “Nothing,” the Moab Kid said. “Town is deserted.”
“They are not yet ready to meet us,” Lujan said, walking up. “We’re wasting time here. We’ve still got cattle to brand and more to move to higher pasture. There’ll be another day. Let’s get back to work.”
The days passed uneventfully, the normal day-to-day routine of the ranch devouring the men’s time. Parnell, just as Old Spring had called it, moved back to the ranch and he and Fae continued their bickering. Rita improved, physically, but was not allowed off the ranch. And to make sure that she di not try any meetings with Sandi, her father assigned two to watch her at all times.
Bob Johnson was a drastically changed young man. Bobby was gone. The boy seldom smiled now, and he was always armed. Smoke and Charlie Starr had watched him practice late one afternoon, when the day’s work on the range was over.
“He’s better than good,” Charlie remarked. “He’s cursed with being a natural.’
He did not have to explain that. Smoke knew only too well what the gunfighter meant. With Bob, it was almost as if gun was a physical extension of his right arm. His draw was oil-smooth and his aim was deadly accurate. And he was fast . very fast.
Old Pat rode out to the branding site in the early morning the sixth day after Hatfield’s burying.
“Hans just sent word, Smoke. Them Waters Brothers come into town late yesterday and they brought a half dozen hardcases with them.”
“Hans know who they are?”
“He knowed two of‘em. No-Count George Victor and Three-Fingers Kerman. Other four looked meaner than snakes, Hans said. ’Bout an hour later, four more guns come in on the stage. Wore them big California spurs.”
“Of course they went straight to the Hangout?” Charlie asked.
“Waters’s bunch did. Them California gunslicks went on over to the Pussycat. McCorkle’s hirin’ agin.”
Smoke cursed, but he really could not blame Cord. Every peace effort he had made to Hanks had been turned down with a violent outburst of profanity from Dooley. And Hanks’s sons were pushing and prodding each time they came into town. Sonny, Bud, and Conrad Hanks had made their brags that they were going to kill Cord’s boys, Max, Rock, and Troy. They were all about the same age and, according to Cord, all possessing about the same ability with a short gun. Cord’s boys were more level-headed and better educated—his wife had seen to that. Hanks’s boys were borderline stupid. Hanks had seen to that. And they were cruel and vicious.
“We’re gonna be pulled into this thing,” Hardrock remarked. “Just sure as the sun comes up. There ain’t no way we can miss it. Sooner or later, we’re gonna run up on them no-goods that done in Young Hatfield. And whether we do it together, or Young Bob does the deed, we’ll have chosen a side.”
“I’m curious as to when that back-shootin’ Danny Rouge is gonna uncork,” Pistol said. “I been prowlin’ some; I ain’t picked up no sign of his ever comin’ onto Box T Range.”
“Hanks hasn’t turned him loose yet.” Smoke fished out the makings and rolled him a cigarette, passing the sack and the papers around. He was thoughtful for a moment. “I’ll tell you all what’s very odd to me: these gunhawks are drawing fighting wages, but they have made no move toward each other. I think there’s something rotten in the potato barrel, boys. And I think it’s time I rode over and talked it out with Cord.”
“You would have to bring that to my attention,” Cord said, a glum look on his face. “I hadn’t thought of that. But by George, you may be right. I hope you’re not,” he quickly added, “but there’s always a chance. Have you heard anything more about Rita’s condition?”
“Getting better, physically. Hanks keeps her under guard at the ranch.”
“Same thing I heard. Sandi asked to see her and Dooley said he wouldn’t guarantee her safety if she set foot on D-H Range. He didn’t out and out threaten her—he knows better than that—but he came damn close. His sons and my sons are shapin’ up for a shootin’, though. And I can’t stop them. I want to, but I don’t know how, short of hogtyin’ my boys and chainin’ them to a post.”
“How many regular hands do you have, Cord?”
“Eight, counting Del. I always hire part-timers come brandin’ time and drives.”
“So that’s twelve people you can count on, including yourself and your sons.”
“Right. Cookie is old, but he can still handle a six-gun and a rifle. You think the lid is going to fly off the pot, don’t you, Smoke?”
“Yes. But I don’t know when. Do you think your wife and Sandi would go on a visit somewhere until this thing is over?”
