“Yo, Smoke!” Sal called from the street.
“I’m all right. Stay under cover. I’m thinking this man is not alone.” Smoke rolled to his left as some primal warning jumped through his brain.
Two fast shots, coming from different weapons, tore up the ground where he had been lying.
Smoke caught the muzzle flashes of one of the guns and snapped off a fast shot. The gunhand screamed as the slug ripped his belly and sent him tumbling off the roof of the saddle shop. He hit the ground and did not move.
An unknown gunhand stepped out of his hiding place behind Smoke and leveled his pistol. Jim and Sal fired as one from the main street, both slugs striking the man, knocking him off his boots.
Smoke rolled and came up on his feet, behind a tree. Both his hands were filled with .44’s, hammers back. A slug ripped the night, burning through the bark of the tree, knocking chips flying. Smoke stepped to the other side of the tree and fired twice, left and right guns working. The man doubled over, both shots taking him in the stomach. Smoke ran to him and kicked the dropped guns out of his reach. He knelt down beside the hard-hit man just as his deputies came running up.
“You’re not going to make it,” Smoke told the bloodied man. “Who hired you?”
The man grinned through his pain. “Told the boys we was gonna be buckin’ a stacked deck comin’ after you.” He groaned. “But the money was just too good to pass up.”
“Whose money?” Smoke asked.
“You go to hell!” the man said, then closed his eyes and died.
“This one’s still alive!” Sal called, kneeling beside the man who had fallen off the roof. “But not for long. I think his neck’s broke.”
“Hell, that’s Blanchard,” Pete said, looking down at the man. “I thought he was in prison down in New Mexico.” He knelt down. “Come on, Blanchard,” he urged. “Go out clean for once in your life. This is your last chance, man. Who hired you?”
Two dozen people, men and women, in various dress, including nightshirts and long-handles, had gathered around.
“Huggins from over to ... Hell’s Creek,” the dying man gasped. “Pulled us up from Utah. We rode the train. Me and Dixson. Dee was ... he rode over from Idaho.”
“Dee Mansfield?” Smoke questioned.
“Yeah.”
“That his horse down by the crick?” Sal asked.
“Yeah. He ... Gettin’ cold and I can’t ... move my hands.”
Dr. Turner pushed through the crowd and knelt down, looking at the man. It was a quick look. Blanchard had died.
The doctor stood up and faced Smoke. “When is this carnage going to end, Jensen?”
“Whenever Red Malone and Max Huggins call it off,” Smoke told him. He spotted the undertaker. “Haul them off,” he said. “OK, folks, show’s over. Let’s break it up.”
“No, it isn’t,” Tom Johnson said, walking up. “Melvin Malone just rode into town. He’s calling you out, Smoke.”
“Damn!” the word exploded from Smoke’s mouth. “I knew that kid would cut his wolf loose someday.” He punched out his empties and loaded up full. “Sal, clear the streets.”
“I demand an end to this barbaric practice of justice at the point of a gun!” Dr. Turner said. “Just arrest him, Marshal. You don’t have to kill him. You have the manpower to overwhelm him.”
Smoke looked at the man in the dim light. “You ... demand, Robert? Who in the hell do you think you are, anyway? Demand? Overwhelm him? How? He’s come to kill, Robert, not talk. He’ll shoot anyone who tries to disarm him.”
“You don’t know that, Smoke. That’s just conjecture on your part. Law and order must prevail out here. It’s past time.”
“Why don’t you go disarm him, then, Doctor?” Sal suggested.
“I ... uh ... I’m not a lawman,” the doctor said, his face coloring. “That’s your job.”
“Yeah, right,” Sal’s reply was dour. “I think that was the reason I hung up a badge the last time I wore one.”
Smoke turned his back to the doctor and walked away, his deputies moving with him, the crowd following along.
“He’s in the saloon,” Tom called. “You goin’ to kill the punk, Smoke?”
“I hope not,” Smoke muttered.
“There might not be any other way, Smoke,” Jim pointed out.
“I know. But 1 can always hope.”
Smoke stepped up onto the boardwalk and pushed open the batwings. The piano player stopped his pounding of the ivories when he spotted Smoke. The waitresses moved as far away from the bar as they could get. The long bar was already void of customers. Only Melvin stood there, a whiskey bottle in front of him, his right hand close to the butt of his Colt.
“Come on in, Jensen,” Melvin said. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
