up, waiting for the action to start.
He looked back up the wide street. It was void of any kind of life. The horses were stabled safely and the children’s pets were in the house, out of harm’s way.
Smoke watched as a water wagon rolled down the street, then back up, watering the wide street to keep down the dust. He clicked open his watch: eight-thirty. He walked on down the street, coming to a nearly collapsed old building; a relic of a business of some sort that had failed. This was the last building on either side of the street. Smoke stepped up on the porch and pushed open the door. Rusty hinges howled in protest. He stepped inside and looked in both rooms of the structure. He tried the back door, working it several times to make certain he could exit that way. There was not a windowpane intact in any frame, so he did not have to worry about being cut by flying glass. He sat down on the dusty floor and waited.
At eight-forty-five, Jim came fogging into town from his post. Smoke heard him yell, “Here they come, folks. And there’s plenty to go around.” He rode into the livery stable and disappeared.
Smoke eared back the hammers on the sawed-off and knelt by the window. Moments later, he could feel the vibration through the floor, the faint thunder of hundreds of hooves striking the ground.
As the pack of outlaws drew closer, Smoke stared in amazement. Robert was leading the bunch. He wore a pith helmet, the leather strap tied under his chin, and was waving a sword. God knows where he had found either article in Hell’s Creek.
The raiders, more than a hundred strong, thundered into town. Smoke let Robert and a few behind him gallop past, then he gave both barrels of the sawed-off to the outlaws.
The hand-loaded charge of nails and buckshot cleared a bloody path in the middle of the outlaw horde. Smoke dropped the shotgun and jerked out his Colts, cocking and firing as fast as he could; deadly rolling thunder erupted from the small collapsing building on the edge of town. Horses began milling around, confused and frightened and riderless. Bodies lay in the street.
A wounded outlaw, his hands filled with guns, staggered up on the porch. He spotted Smoke and leveled his guns. Smoke gave him two .44 slugs in the chest and the man’s days of lawlessness were over.
Smoke quickly reloaded his Colts, shoved fresh shells into the express gun, and ran out the back door, turning to his right.
“Red and his bunch are attacking from the south!” he heard the faint shout over the roar of battle.
Smoke ducked into the space between a home and a business and ran to the street. A hatless and bearded man stepped off the path and turned to face Smoke. Smoke pulled the trigger of the sawed-off, and the force of the charge lifted the outlaw off his boots and knocked him out into the street. Smoke ran to the edge of the street and gave the other barrel to a cursing raider. Blood smeared his saddle and the man hit the street, dead.
Smoke filled both hands with Colts and began emptying saddles. From the sounds of shotgun fire coming from the bank building, and the number of bodies littering the street in front of the bank, the Easterners were having a duck shoot and doing a damn fine job of holding their own.
Smoke stepped back and reloaded the pistols and the shotgun.
“Forward, men!” he heard Robert shout, the cry coming from behind him. “Slay the Philistines.”
Smoke turned around. Robert was charging him on horseback, waving his sword. Smoke ducked the slashing sword that could have taken his head off and swung up behind Robert as the frightened horse reared up, dumping both men on the ground. Robert lost his sword and Smoke gave him a one-two combination that dropped the man to the ground, out cold. Smoke tore the pith helmet off and used the leather chin strap to bind Robert’s hands behind his back. He used the man’s belt to securely bind his ankles, then rolled the doctor under a building. Smoke picked up his shotgun and stepped back into the fray.
Two raiders, apparently having lost their appetite for any further battle,came racing up the street, heading north. Smoke stepped out and gave them both barrels of the sawed-off. Two more saddles cleared.
Smoke stepped up on the boardwalk and ran toward the center of town, reloading the shotgun as he went. He turned down an alleyway and entered the hotel through the back door, muttering curses because the rear of the building was not guarded.
Just above him, on the second floor, Warner Frigo had kicked open the door to the presidential suite and was looking down at Lisa, huddled on the floor, holding her puppy close.
“Well, now,” the outlaw said with a sneer. “Won’t you just be a juicy little thing to have.”
He holstered his guns and reached down for her, lust in his eyes.
“You’ll hurt no more children and kill not another child’s pet,” Warner heard the woman say.
He looked up. Sally stood in the foyer, holding a sawed-off in her hands, both hammers eared back.
Warner’s lips peeled back in an ugly smile. “I’ll have you after I taste little-bit here.”
“I doubt it,” Sally said, then pulled both triggers. The force of the blast knocked Warner off both boots and sent him flying into the hall. He hit the hall wall and slid down to the carpeted floor. The wall behind him was a gory mess.
Smoke looked up as the shotgun went off. If anyone had tried to mess with Sally, they picked the wrong woman. He went up the stairs to check it out.
He saw Warner’s body and stuck his head into the foyer. “Everybody all right in there?” he called.
“Just dandy,” Sally said. “Would you please remove that garbage from the hall, darling?”
“Sure.” Smoke dragged Warner’s body down the hall and threw him out the second-story window. The downward hurtling body hit Sid Yorke and knocked him out of the saddle. The outlaw stared in horror at what was left of Warner Frigo.
He looked up at Smoke, standing behind the shattered window, grinning down at him. Sid lifted his pistol, and Judge Garrison, standing in his office, fired both Remington .44’s, the slugs knocking the man to his knees. The outlaw died in that position, his hands by his side. His hat fell from his head. The wind picked it up and sailed it down the street.
