“I had a hunch you’d come around, Pete. Where is Aggie being held?”
“She ain’t bein’ held nowhere, Smoke. She’s dead. Max done his evil and give her to the men. Made me sick to my stomach. I’d ridden over to Kalispell for supplies; came back right in the middle of it. I just got out of Hell’s Creek with my hide on.”
“Are they planning on attacking the town, Pete?”
“If a big enough posse rides out, yeah. They got men on the ridges with signal mirrors to tell yea or nay. I figured I’d ride in and warn the townspeople.”
Smoke scribbed a short note and handed it to Pete. “This will keep someone in the town from shooting you, Pete. I’m going to go show the citizens of Hell’s Creek what hell is really like.”
“You want some company?”
Smoke shook his head. “This is something I want to do myself. How many people pulled out with you?”
“No one, Smoke. There ain’t nothin’ but trash left up there. Men and women. There ain’t no kids in the town. Not a one. Even that so’called minister up yonder took his turn with that poor child. When she went crazy-actin’ after all the horribleness, Frigo shot her.”
“You keep an eye on Elias, Brown. Hog-tie the boy if you have to.”
Smoke stepped into the saddle and was gone.
The outlaw and gunslinger experienced the chill of a cold sweat as the muzzle of the .44 was pressed against his head. He’d just stepped out of the privy and was slipping into his galluses when the muzzle touched his head.
“If I think you’re lying to me,” Smoke’s voice was as cold as the invisible grip of death that touched the hired gun, “I’ll stake you out and skin you alive. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. Jensen?”
“That’s right, punk. Did you take part in the rape of Aggie?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How many more?”
“Jesus, Smoke ... ever’body in the whole damn town. Includin’ some of the women. She screamed and hollered until she couldn’t holler no more. Went on all day. Then she went nuts in the head and Frigo shot her.”
Smoke cursed under his breath. “How did you feel raping that child, punk?”
“I ... liked it, damn you!”
“Yeah, scum like you would. They waiting for me down in town?”
“Yeah. They damn sure are. So go on down and git killed, Jensen. You ...”
He never got to finish it. Smoke buried the big blade of his Bowie into the man’s back and twisted it upward with all his considerable strength. Smoke slammed the man’s face first onto the ground to stifle the scream building in his throat. He wiped the blade clean on the man’s shirttail and sheathed the weapon. Smoke checked his guns, loading them full, then took the dead gunny’s two Remington Frontier .44’s, looping gunbelt and all over one shoulder. He made his way back to his horse and circled the town, keeping to the timber until he found a good spot to picket the animal.
He changed into moccasins, slung his saddlebags over his other shoulder, picked up his rifle, and began working his way toward the town. He knew they were waiting for him because of the silence of the usually raucous place. Lights were burning, but there was no laughter coming from any of the saloons.
And Smoke was determined that before he left that night, there would be no cause for joy in the town for a long, long time. If he could, he was going to destroy as much of Hell’s Creek as possible.
He paused for a moment, listening. The old mountain man, Preacher, his mentor, had taught him many things, including patience. Smoke heard the faint jingle of spurs coming up the weed-grown alleyway. He pressed against the building. When the man drew close, Smoke hit him in the face with the butt of the rifle. The man dropped like a stone, faint moonlight glistening off his bloody and broken face.
Smoke walked on to a corral. He didn’t want to hurt any animal; they could not choose their owners. He silently slid open the bars. When the action started, the horses would find the opening and bolt. He did the same at two other corrals. He glanced at the huge livery stable and decided to leave it alone. Men were probably lying in wait for him in there.
He slipped around to the back of a saloon, dug in a pocket of his saddlebags, and came out with six sticks of dynamite, taped together, already capped with a long fuse.
He softly entered through the back door. Now he could hear voices and the tinkle of glasses and beer mugs. But the conversation was low and the drinking was probably light.
Smoke thumbnailed a match into flame and lit the long fuse, placing the charge against the storeroom wall. With a smile on his face, he slipped back into the night.
Smoke planted two more charges on that side of the street before he was spotted by a man who’d stepped out of a back door to relieve himself.
“Hey!” the man shouted, turning and still spewing water.
Smoke shot him about five inches below the belt buckle. The man fell to the earth, screaming in agony.
“You’ll not rape another girl,” Smoke muttered, then dashed across the street, at the far end of town.
The saloon charge blew. Smoke saw one man thrown from the building, crashing through glass. He hit the street and did not move. Another man fell through the floor and onto the dusty walkway in front as the rear part of the poorly constructed building collapsed under the heavy weight of the charge.
The second and third charges blew, and chaos reigned for a few minutes as men and women poured into the street.
