Lujan flicked his dark eyes to Smoke. No point in delaying upcoming events, the quick glance seemed to say.
Smoke shot the Mexican gunfighter. He gave no warning; just drew, cocked, and fired, all in a heartbeat. Lujan was a split second behind him, his slug taking Gomez in the belly.
Hardrock took out Pooch Matthews just as Smoke was pouring lead into Eddie Hart and Silver Jim and Pistol had turned their guns on the others.
Royce was down, hanging onto a table. Dave and Hazzard were backed up against a wall, the front of their shirts turning crimson. Blaine and Nolan were out of it, their hands empty and over their heads, total shock etched on their tanned faces.
Diego raised his pistol, the sound of the cocking loud in the room.
“Don’t do it, Diego,” Smoke warned him.
The gunfighter cursed Smoke, in English and in Spanish, telling him where he could go and in what part of his anatomy he could shove the suggestion.
Smoke shot him between the eyes just as Lujan was putting the finishing touches to Gomez.
The batwings pushed open and Jackson Bodine walked in, carrying a sawed-off double barrel express gun.
“There might be re-ward money for them two,” Hardrock said, pointing to Blaine and Nolan. “You might send a telly-graph to Fort Benton.”
Hazzard finally lost the strength to hang onto the table and he fell to the floor. Dave hung on, looking at Smoke through eyes that were beginning to lose their light.
“We was snake-bit all through this here job,” he said, coughing up blood. “Didn’t nothin’ turn out right.” The table tipped over under his weight and he fell to the floor. He lay amid the cigar and cigarette butts, cursing Smoke as life left him. Profanity was the last words out of his mouth.
“Anyone else gunnin’ for you boys?” the marshall asked.
“Several more,” Smoke told him.
“I sure would appreciate it if y’all would take it on down the road. This is the first shootin’ we’ve had here in three years.”
Hardrock laughed at the expression on the marshal s face. “I swear, Jackson. I do believe you’re gettin’ crotchety in your old age.”
“And would like to get older,” the marshal replied.
Hardrock slapped his friend on the back. ’Come on, Jackson, I’ll buy you a drink.”
The men rode on south, crossing the Tongue, and rode into the little town of Sheridan, Wyoming. There, they took their first hot soapy bath since leaving Gibson, got a shave and a trim, and enjoyed a cafe-cooked meal and several pots of strong coffee.
The sight of five of the most famous gunslingers in all the West made the marshal a tad nervous. He and some of the locals, armed with shotguns, entered the cafe where Smoke and his friends were eating, positioning themselves around the room.
“I swanny,” Silver Jim said. “I do believe the town folks is a mite edgy today.” He eyeballed the marshal. “Ain’t it a bit early for duck-huntin’?”
“Very funny,” a man said. “We heard about the shootin’ up North. There ain’t gonna be no repeat of that around here.”
“I shore hope not,” Hardrock told him. ”Violence offends me turrible. Messes up my di-gestive workin’s. Cain’t sleep for days. I’m just an old man a-spendin’ his twilight years a-roamin’ the countryside, takin’ in all the beauty of nature. Stoppin’ to smell the flowers and gander at the birds.”
“Folks call me Peaceful,” Silver Jim said, forking in a mouthful of potatoes and gravy. “I sometimes think I missed my callin’. I should have been a poet, like that there Longbritches.”
“Longfellow,” Smoke corrected.
“Yeah, him, too.”
“I think you’re all full of horse hocky,” the marshall told them. “No trouble in this town, boys. Eat your meal and kindly leave.”
“Makes a man feel plumb unwanted,” Pistol said.
They made camp for the night a few miles south of town. Staying east of the Bighorns, they pulled out at dawn. They rode for two days without seeing another person.
Over a supper of beans and bacon, Smoke asked, “Where do you boys pick up the rest of your reward money?”
“Cheyenne,” Silver Jim replied.
“You best start anglin’ off east down here at the Platte.”
“That’s what we was thinkin’,” Pistol told him. “But I just don’t think it’s over, Smoke.”
“You can’t spend the rest of your life watching my backtrail.” He looked across the fire at Lujan. “How about you, Lujan?
“I’ll head southwest at the Platte.” He smiled grimly. “My services are needed down on the Utah line.”
Smoke nodded. “Are you boys really going to start up a place for old gunfighters and mountain men?
“Yep,” Hardrock said. “But we gonna keep quiet about it. Let the old fellers live out they days in peace and quiet. Soon as we get it set up, we’ll let you know. We gonna try to get Preacher to come and live thar. You think he
