They were empty! Jensen had been so fast he hadn’t even grabbed iron. But that was ... impossible! That thought was his last as he pitched forward into the dust, dead.
Rusty had taken his time and placed his shots well. One bounty hunter was down on his belly, his blood staining the dirt from two bullet holes in his belly, and the other so-called gunfighter was holding up his one good arm in surrender; his other arm, his shooting arm, was broken at the elbow and hanging at a very queer angle.
Smoke was off and running between the old barn and another building which looked to be in just as bad a shape as the barn. He quickly reloaded as he ran.
A bullet whammed into a corral post and Smoke dropped to his belly, scooting behind an old watering trough. He caught a glimpse of a red and white checkered shirt and snapped off a shot. He didn’t think he hit Garner, but the slug came close enough to bring a yelp of surprise from the man.
Smoke triggered off five more rounds then holstered that Colt, drawing his left-hand pistol just as Gamer ran briefly into view.
Smoke dusted him from side to side, spinning the man around and holding him there long enough for Smoke to take careful aim and put another slug into the man’schest. Bob Garner went down slowly and didn’t get up.
It was over.
For this go-around anyway.
Smoke reloaded both guns and walked over to where he’d seen Garner fall. The gunny was lying on his back, very close to death.
It was not a pretty sight. Of course, Garner hadn’t been very pretty to start with.
Smoke squatted down beside the man. There was not much life left in him.
And much of what life remained was spent in cussing Smoke.
Smoke waited until the dying man coughed up blood and tried to catch his breath.
“Anybody you want me to write, Bob?”
A funny look came into the gunfighter’s eyes. He shook his head. “Best ... if the wife ... just don’t never see me agin. I ain’t... been much of a husband or ... father.”
“Any money you got you want me to send them?”
“Spent it last ... night on the ... whoors.”
Rusty walked up and stood listening.
“I’ll swap your guns for a buryin’, Bob,” Smoke assured him.
“Right kind ... of you. See you ... boys in Hell!” Bob Garner closed his eyes and died.
Rusty was quiet as they rode out of Malad City that afternoon. The dead gunman had, for the moment, taken the fight out of those remaining in the town. They stood on the boardwalk and watched Smoke and Rusty clear town. Most would continue on toward the Bar V. But there were some, mostly older and wiser, who would elect to seek another trouble spot where they could ply their deadly trade. It was not that they were cowards, far from it. They simply knew Smoke Jensen’s reputation and their own capabilities and limitations.
“Mean right up to the end,” Rusty finally broke his silence.
“What are you talking about?”
“Garner. What makes a man like that, Smoke?”
“Some folks back East and in the cities are claiming it comes from bad rearing.”
“Huh!” Rusty summed up his opinion of that. 'I ain’t disputin’ your word, Smoke, but I just don’t believe in that at all. I been on my own for years. And my pa was a mighty mean man. He liked to whup up us boys and girls. Didn’t make no difference to him. My older sister run off when I was just a little shaver. I heard she was doin’ good out in California. My other brother died from a beatin’ Pa give him. Hell, Pa knocked me unconscious with his fists or with a chunk of stovewood more’un once. And I ain’t never stole nothin’ in my life, or rode the hootowl trail or done nothin’ much that was ag’in the law. And nobody could have had a worser home life than me. So them folks that think what you just said don’t know a pot of beans from a pile of cow droppin’s.”
Smoke grinned. “I had to be a man grown just after my thirteenth birthday, working a hardscrabble farm back in Missouri and looking after my sick mother. Wasn’t ever enough food; just enough to keep body and soul together. So I know what you mean. Rusty. And no, I don’t believe those so-called experts either.
“What makes men like Montana Slim and Bob Garner and all the rest be what they are?” He shook his head. “I think they were born to it, Rusty. They could have had all the advantages in the world and they would have turned out bad. A different kind of bad, maybe, but bad just the same.”
“What do you mean, a different kind of bad?”
“Oh, they might have been bankers cheating old ladies or grocers cheating people and being mean-spirited folks. That type of thing.”
Rusty thought about that for a mile or so. “You know, Smoke. You’re right. There sure are a lot of mean-minded and mean-spirited people in this world. Why, I know a few people who was born into money, and come from nice parents. Kind parents. But their kids would steal the pennies off’n a dead man’s eyes.”
“That’s what I mean, Rusty. Born to it. I call it the bad seed theory.”
Rusty settled into the bunkhouse with the old men and the kids. Smoke had taken to sleeping in a room out in the barn.
And Doreen stopped batting her eyes at Smoke and seemed to be quite taken with Rusty—much to the relief of Smoke. She got to getting all gussied up and swishing around him until it was embarrassing for all the others around them. Rusty, he just grinned like an egg-suckin’ dog and stood around in sort of a daze.
