taking place in front of her eyes. Sally Jensen stood beside her. The wife of Smoke Jensen knew fully well what her husband was doing, and she approved of it. Men like Dek Phillips could not understand compassion because they possessed none. They understood only one thing: brute force. That was the only thing they could relate to. And Smoke was giving Dek a lesson in it that he would never forget.
When Dek Phillips finally measured his length in the dirt and did not get up, Smoke walked to a horse trough and bathed his face and hands. He straightened up and said to Pete, “Tie him across his saddle and take him to the edge of Hell’s Creek.”
“The man is injured!” Robert Turner shouted. “He needs medical attention.”
“Shut up, boy!” Joe Walsh spoke from the edge of the crowd. He had ridden up unnoticed and sat his saddle during the final minutes of the fight. “Dek Phillips just got all the attention his kind deserve.” The crowd muttered their agreement with that.
Sal said, “This ain’t back east, Doctor. The laws are still few out here. You’re a nice fellow, I’ll give you that, but you got some adjustin’ to do if you’re gonna make it out here. You might feel sorry for a rabid dog, but you don’t try to comfort it. You just kill it. You best learn that.”
His face stiff with anger, Dr. Robert Turner took Victoria’s hand and left the street, walking back to his office.
Pete rode out, leading the horse with Dek Phillips tied across the saddle.
Joe Walsh told several of his hands to accompany Pete, to act as guards in case some of the scum at Hells’Creek tried to waylay him.
Smoke walked back to the hotel to bathe the sweat and grime from him and change into fresh clothing.
Henry Draper, editor of the
The crowds broke up into small groups, talking over and rehashing the fight. With each victory they were stronger as a town, becoming closer-knit. The advance party from back east was due in the next day, and soon they would have a bank. Max Huggins would continue trying to destroy them—they all knew that—but they all sensed he would fail. And they owed it all to one man: Smoke Jensen.
Max Huggins had just come from the bedside of Dek Phillips. The horse doctor who had attended the gunfighter had said the man would probably live, but he would be marked forever. His jaw was broken, his ribs were cracked, one arm was broken, a lot of his teeth had been knocked out. And worse, the horse doctor said, Dek Phillips’s spirit appeared to be broken.
“The trial will probably last two ... three days,” Val Singer broke into Max’s thoughts. “lt’ll take a good two weeks for the prison wagon to get around to pickin’ up the boys. By that time, the bank will be operatin’. We hit the bank, loot the town, lift us some petticoats and have some fun with the women, and then strike out for greener pastures. What’d you think, Max?”
Max was thinking about Smoke Jensen. For three weeks, the big man had been exercising, running several miles a day and working out. He might not be able to beat Smoke Jensen with a gun—and that was up for grabs, for Max knew he was one of the best with a short gun—but there was no doubt in Max’s mind that he was the better fighter of the two.
But how much time did he have? His informant in Barlow had sent him word that Judge Garrison and Smoke Jensen were gathering up old arrest warrants on him from his days back east. Two or three weeks might be cutting it very close.
And his informant had also told him that old warrants were being looked at against Red Malone. If the authorities back east came through, the rancher would have to run with Max. And Max knew the man would never agree to do that. The man would stand his ground and die with a six-shooter in his hand. He was too bullheaded to do anything else.
With a deep sigh, Big Max turned his attentions to the group of outlaws in his office. “Yes,” he said slowly. “We’re out of time here. Smoke Jensen has beaten us. Red may not see it that way, but I do. Smoke has used fists and guns to bring civilization to our doorstep.”
Max eyeballed the group, one at a time. Val Singer, Warner Frigo, Dave Poe, Alex Bell, Sheriff Paul Cartwright. “We’re all wanted men, maybe not under the names we’re using now, but wanted nevertheless. Two or three weeks is going to be cutting it awfully close. But I understand that is the way it’s going to have to be. Monies have to be in the bank before we hit the town. To hell with those in jail. If we can get them out during the raid, fine. If not, that’s all right, too. Are we in agreement with that?”
They were in agreement.
“The next problem,” Max said, “is where do we run to?”
Everyone had a different idea. Cartwright couldn’t go back to California. He was wanted out there. Singer couldn’t go east. He was wanted in six or seven states in that direction.... And so it was with them all.
Max waved them silent. “All right, all right! Enough. It might be best if we split up after the raid anyway. We’ll pick a place to meet and divvy up the loot, and then split up. And boys,” he eyeballed each of them, “I shall be personally leading this raid.”
The outlaws all exchanged glances. Max had master-minded a lot of raids, but none of them had ever known him to lead one. They were curious, and Val Singer put that curiosity into words.
“I have plans for a certain lady in that town,” Max said with a smile. “I want her to know a real man just once in her life ... just before I kill her.”
“Well, if you gonna be draggin’ some squallin’ petticoat around with you,” Warner Frigo said, “I think it’s best we do split up. We’re gonna have enough money to divvy up to buy the best women in any crib in the world.”
“Yeah,” Dave Poe said. “That don’t make no sense, Max. It’s too risky. Once we’re out of this area, when words gets out about harmin’ a woman, they’ll be posses lookin’ for you all over the place. And you do have a tendency to stand out in a crowd,” he added dryly.
“It’ll die down. It always has before. Hell, don’t you boys get righteous on me. You’ve all raped before. Besides, you don’t even know who I have in mind.”
“Sure we do,” Alex Bell said. “Has to be the doctor’s wife, Victoria Turner.”
