Sal stepped out from his position just as John Steele was rounding a corner.
“Hey, John!” Sal called.
The foreman of the Lightning whirled in a crouch, both hands by his holstered guns.
“You always bragged how good you was,” the newly elected sheriff said, his voice carrying over the din of battle and the whinnying of frightened horses. “You wanna find out now?”
John dragged iron. He was far too slow. Sal put two slugs in his belly before Steele could clear leather.
“I guess now you know,” Sal told him.
“You sorry ...” John gasped the words. He never got to finish it. The foreman fell off the boardwalk and landed in a
horse trough.
“Have to remember to clean that out,” Sal muttered.
Judge Garrison went out the back door of his office and came face to face with Paul Cartwright. The judge smiled at the man. “You used to love to lord it over me, Paul. You have guns in your hands. Use them!”
The deposed sheriffs guns came up. Judge Garrison lifted his Remington Army Model .44’s, and the muzzles blossomed in fire and smoke. Paul Cartwright fell backward, dead.
The judge reloaded and walked up the back of the buildings, conviction and courage in his eyes.
“Gimme all your goddamn money, you heifer!” Frank Norton yelled at Mrs. Marbly.
Mrs. Marbly lifted her shotgun and blew the outlaw out the back door.
“Nice going, mother,” her husband said.
Larry Gayle knew it was a losing cause. He had been thrown from his rearing, bucking horse and was now cautiously making his way out of town ... on foot. He’d find a horse. To hell with Barlow, Max Huggins, and the whole mess. There had to be easier pickings somewheres else was his philosophy.
“Going somewhere, Larry?” the voice spun him around.
Pete Akins stood facing him.
Larry lifted his Smith & Wesson Schofield .45 and got off the first shot. It grazed Pete’s shoulder. Pete was much more careful with his shooting. He shot Larry between the eyes. He walked to the prostrate and very dead outlaw and looked down at him. He shook his head.
“Whoo, boy. You was ugly alive. Dead, you’ll probably come back to haunt graveyards.”
Ted Mercer stood facing Smoke Jensen. The outlaw felt a coldness take hold of him. His Colt was in his hand, but he was holding it by his side. Could Jensen beat him? He didn’t know. He really didn’t want to find out.
“You can drop that iron and walk,” Smoke told him. “Change your life. It’s up to you.”
“You’re only sayin’ that ’cause you know you can’t beat this.”
“You’re wrong, Ted.”
“Your guns are in leather!”
“Drop it and walk, man. Don’t be a fool.”
“I think I’ll just kill you, Jensen.”Ted’s hand jerked up. He felt a dull shock hit him in the belly, another hammerlike blow beat at his chest. Impossible! he thought. No man is that fast. No man is ...
Smoke walked up and looked down at the dead outlaw. “I gave you a chance,” he said.
Fires had been started by the raiders, but they had been quickly put out by the ladies of the bucket brigades. The plans of the outlaws were put out as quickly as the flames. Lew Brooks jumped his horse over the body of a friend and went charging between buildings. Judge Garrison stepped out and gave the outlaw a good dose of frontier justice, not from a law book but from a .44. Lew hit the ground, rolled over, and came up with a .45 in his hand. Judge Garrison imposed the death sentence on the man, then calmly reloaded and walked up the alleyway.
Jake Stringer knew that John Steele was down and dead, along with several other Lightning men. He didn’t know where Red Malone was. He tried to calm a badly spooked horse and climb into the saddle. But the horse was having none of that. The animal jumped away and left Jake on foot.
“Damn that hammerhead!” Jake swore. “I ought to shoot it.”
“Why not try me?” Jim Dagonne said.
Jake turned. Jim’s guns were in leather, as were his own. A smile creased his lips. “I enjoyed whuppin’ you with my fists, Jim. Now I’m gonna enjoy killin’ you.”
Jim was no fast gunhand, but he was a dead shot. Jake cleared leather first and his shot went into the dirt at Jim’s boots. Jim plugged the man just above the belt buckle. Jake sat down on the ground and started hollering.
Jim walked to him. He could see where the slug had exited out the man’s back, right through the kidney. “You ain’t gonna make it, Jake. You got anyone you want me to write?”
“I didn’t even know you could write,” Jake said, then fell over on his face and closed his eyes.
Ella Mae, Tom Johnson’s wife, was struggling with a man who had less than honorable intentions on his mind. He ripped her bodice open and stared hungrily at her flesh. Momentarily free, Ella Mae ran to the kitchen, jerked up the coffeepot from the stove, and threw the boiling contents into the man’s face.
The outlaw screamed and went lurching and staggering through the living room, finding his way out the front door, his face seared from the boiling coffee. He stumbled out into the street and was run down by another
