“They got their nerve comin’ back here,” Cooter said as they dug shallow graves for the outlaws.
“And we’ll keep comin’ back,” the outlaw trussed up on the ground said. “Until all you hog-farmers are dead.” He had regained his courage, certain he was facing death and determined to face it tough.
“You’re wrong,” Smoke told him, stepping out of the hole and letting one of Cooter’s boys finish the digging. “Take a look at these men around you, hombre. Even without my guns, they’d have stopped the attack. I don’t know whose idea this was, but I doubt if it was Max’s.”
The young man on the ground glared at him but kept his mouth closed.
Smoke had an idea. “Can you read and write, punk?”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. Can you read and write?”
“Naw. I never learned how. What business is that of yours?”
Smoke walked to his horse, dug in the saddlebags, and found a scrap of paper and the stub of a pencil. He wrote a short note and returned to the outlaw. Folding the paper, he tucked it into the raider’s shirt pocket and buttoned it tight.
“That’s a note for Big Max. You give it to him, and to him alone. I’II know if you’ve showed it to anyone else.”That was a lie, but Smoke figured the outlaw wouldn’t. “You understand?”
“You turnin’ me loose?”
“Yeah. With a piece of advice. And here it is: Get gone from this country. Give the note to Max and then saddle you a fresh horse, get your kit together, and haul your ashes out of Hell’s Creek. We know Max and Red are going to attack the town. That is, if the old arrest warrants on his head don’t catch up with him first. And they might.” Another lie. “The town is ready for the attack, hombre. Ready and waiting twenty-four hours a day. We know the bank is tempting. But don’t try it; don’t ride in there with them. The townspeople will shoot you into bloody rags. There’s nigh on to six hundred people in and around Barlow now. Six hundred.” That was also a slight exaggeration. “And there are guards standing watch around the clock, ready to give the call. It’s a death trap waiting for you.”
“You say!” the outlaw sneered, but there was genuine fear in his voice that all around him could detect.
Smoke jerked the man to his feet, untied his hands, and shoved him toward his horse, who had wandered back toward its master after running for a time. Pistols and rifle and all his ammo had been taken from the raider.
“Ride,” Smoke told him. “And give that note to Max.”
The man climbed into the saddle and looked down at Smoke. “I might take your advice. I just might. I got to think on it some.”
“You’d be wise to take it. I’m giving you a break by letting you go.”
“And I appreciate it.” He tapped the pocket where Smoke had put the message. “All right, Smoke. I’ll give this to Big Max, and I’m gone. You’ll not see me again unless you come around a ranch. That’s where you’ll find me ... punchin’ cows.”
“Are there any kids in Hell’s Creek? Any decent women?”
The man shook his head. “None at all. There ain’t nothin’ there ’ceptin’ the bottom of the barrel—if you know what I mean.”
“Good luck to you.”
“Thanks.” The man rode north, toward Hell’s Creek.
Smoke swung into the saddle. “Before you boys bury that crud, go through their pockets and take whatever money you find. You earned it.”
“Don’t seem right, takin’ money from the dead,” Bolen said.
“They won’t need it,” Smoke assured the man. “Near as I can figure out from reading the Bible, there aren’t any honky-tonks in hell.”
Big Max Huggins opened the folded piece of paper and read. He read it again and began cussing. He ripped the small note into shreds and did some more fancy cussing. All of the cussing leveled at and centered around Smoke Jensen.
The note read: MAX, YOU STUPID, HORSE-FACED PIECE OF HOG CRAP. MEET ME TOMORROW AT THE WEST SIDE OF THE SWAN RANGE BY THE CREEK. NO GUNS. I’M GOING TO STOMP YOUR FACE IN WITH FISTS AND BOOTS. COME ALONE IF YOU HAVE THE GUTS-WHICH YOU PROBABLY DO NOT HAVE, BEING THE COWARD THAT YOU ARE.
Max let his temper rage for a few moments, then began to calm himself. He sat back down behind his desk and smiled. Max had killed men with his fists and felt very confident that he would do the same with Smoke Jensen.
This is what you’ve been training for, isn’t it? he thought. Yes, of course it is. How to play it? The fight will be rough and tumble, kick and gouge. That isn’t what you meant and you know it! he mentally berated himself.
Jensen had slighted his courage, for a fact.
Max folded his hamlike hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. How to play it? Well, there was only one way: He would play it straight. He would go alone.
Jensen had tossed down the challenge; Jensen had implied that he did not have the courage to meet him alone. Well, he’d show that damn two-bit gunfighter a thing or two about courage.
Jensen had chosen well, Max thought. He knew exactly where Smoke would be: on the flats just above the creek. Good level place for a fight.
Max would go in alone, but he would be armed; to do otherwise would be foolish. Once there, both men would shuck their guns together, each in plain sight of the other. Then, Max smiled, I will beat Smoke Jensen to death with my fists.
Smoke camped on the flats. On the afternoon before the fight—if Max showed up, and Smoke felt confident he would—Smoke prowled the area, picking up and throwing
