Charlie lifted his Peacemaker and shot Cat Jennings twice in the head. Propped up on one elbow, the old gunfighter had enough strength to make sure Cat was dead, then slumped to the floor.
Hardrock and Silver Jim and Pistol LeRoux had seen Charlie go down, and they screamed their rage as they jumped off their horse, their hands full of guns.
Silver Jim stalked up the boardwalk, holding his matched set of Remington .44’s, looking for No-Count George Victor. Hardrock was by his side, his hands gripping the butts of his guns, his eyes searching for Three-Fingers Kerman and his buddy, Fulton. Pistol had gone looking for Peck and Nappy.
The Sabler Brothers, Ben, Carl, and Delmar were waiting at the edge of town, waiting for Lujan.
Diego, Pablo, and a gunfighter called Hazzard were waiting to try Smoke.
Twenty or more gunslicks had already hauled their ashes out of town. They had realized what the townspeople already knew: nobody hogties and trees a western town.
The Larado Kid had teamed up with several more punks, including Johnny and his buddy, Bret, and the backshooter, Danny Rouge. They had turned tail and galloped out of town. There would be another day. There always was. Besides, Johnny had him a plan. He wanted to kill Smoke Jensen. And he knew this fight was just about over. Smoke would be heading home. And a lot could happen between Montana and Colorado.
“No-Count!” Silver Jim yelled, his voice carrying over the din of battle, the screaming of the wounded, and the sounds of panicked horses.
No-Count whirled around, his hands full of pistols. Silver Jim drew and fired as smoothly as he had forty years back, when he had cut the flap off a soldier’s holster and tied it down.
Both the old gunfighter’s slugs struck true and No-Count squatted down in the muddy alley, dropped his pistols, and fell over facefirst in the mud.
Hardrock felt a numbing blow striking him in the shoulder, staggering him. He turned, falling back up against a building front, his right hand gun coming up, his thumb and trigger finger working as partners, rolling thunder from the muzzle.
Three-Finger Kerman went down, the front of his shirt stained with blood. Fulton fired at Hardrock and missed. Hardrock grinned at the outlaw and didn’t miss.
Pistol Le Roux rounded a corner and came face-to-face with Peck and Nappy. Pistol’s guns spat fire and death before the two so-called badmen could react. Pistol looked down at the dead and damned.
“Pikers!” he snorted, then turned and walked into one of the new saloons, called the Pink Puma, and drew himself a cool one from the deserted bar. He could sense the fight was over. He had already seen Dad Estes and his gang hightail it out of town.
Damn! but he hated that about Charlie. Him and Charlie had been buddies for nigh on ... Hell, he couldn’t remember how many years.
He drew himself another beer, sat down, and propped his boots up. It could be, he mused, he was getting just too old for this type of nonsense.
Naw! he concluded. He looked up as Hardrock came staggering in, trailed by Silver Jim.
“What the hell happened to you, you old buzzard?” he asked Hardrock.
“Caught one, you jackass!” Hardrock snapped. “What’s it look like—I been pickin’ petunias?”
“Wal, sit down.” He shoved out a chair. ”I’ll fetch you a beer and then try to find the doctor. If I don’t, you’ll probably whine and moan the rest of the day.“ He took his knife and cut away Hardrock’s shirt. ”Bullet went clear through.” He got Hardrock a beer and picked up a bottle of whiskey. ”This is gonna hurt you a lot more than it is me,” he warned.
Hardrock glared at him.
Pistol poured some whiskey on the wounds, entrance and exit, and took a reasonably clean bar towel that Silver Jim handed him and made a bandage.
“You’ll keep. Drink your beer.”
“Make your play, gentlemen,” Lujan told the Sabler Brothers.
Parnell stood by Lujan’s side, smiling faintly.
The sounds of battle had all but ceased.
The Sablers grabbed for iron.
Lujan’s guns roared just a split second before Parnell’s blasters boomed, sending out their lethal charges. In the distance, a bugle sounded. Someone shouted, “The Army’s here!”
Ben, Carl, and Delmar Sabler lay on the muddy bloody ground. Ben and Carl had taken slugs from Lujan. Delmar had taken a double dose from Parnell’s blasters. He was almost torn in half.
Lojan holstered his guns and held out his hand. “My friend, you can stand shoulder-to-shoulder with me anytime you like. You are truly a man!”
Parnell blushed.
“Thank you, Lujan.” He shook the hand.
“Come on, amigo. Let’s go have us a ... sarsaparilla.”
Thirty
The commander of the Army contingent, a Captain Morrison, met with Cord, Smoke, and a few others in what was left of the Hangout, while the undertaker and his helper roamed among the carnage.
“A lot of bad ones got away,” Smoke told the young captain. Smoke’s shirt was stiff from sweat and dirt and blood. “I expect I’ll meet up with some of them on the trail home.”
