The reports of the .44 were enormous in the room. Smoke fired six times, the shots seeming to be as one long, thundering roar. Valdes took two slugs in his chest and fell back against a wall, his hands empty. Smoke’s draw had been so swift that the Mexican gunfighter had not even seen the initial move.
Pat Gilman took a round in his chest and another slug in the hollow of his throat as he was stumbling backward. He went crashing through the window to fall on the feet of those gathered on the boardwalk.
Jerry Watkins did not have to worry about his birdshot-peppered face any longer. He had a bigger hole right in the center of his forehead and another hole in his cheek.
The barroom was very quiet after the thunder of the deadly gunfight. Smoke ejected the empties and they fell tinkling to the floor. He reloaded calmly. No one spoke. No one even moved. Outside, the minister was shouting to the heavens.
“Sweet Jesus,” a cowboy breathed. “I never even seen his pull.”
The rancher, western born and western reared, shook his head in disbelief. Up to this point, he thought he’d seen it all.
The barkeep stood rooted to the floor, his mouth hanging open, his hands on the bar.
Smoke holstered his .44. “They have plenty of money on them,” he said to no one in particular. “Von Hausen was paying them well to kill me. You can either give them a fancy funeral, or roll them up in a blanket and dump them into a hole. I don’t give a damn.” He looked at the rancher. “I’ll take my horse over to the stable and see to his needs. Then I’ll be back for that beer.”
The rancher nodded his head. “My pleasure. Jim, take his horse and see to it, will you?”
“Right now, boss,” a cowboy said, and stepped gingerly around Smoke.
“Grain, hay, and have him rubbed down good.”
“Yes, sir, Mister Jensen,” the cowboy said. “I’ll see to it personal.”
“Get that crap outta my saloon!” the barkeep finally found his voice. It was high and shrill with excitement. “Drag ’em over behind the barber shop.”
Some of the good ladies of the town started singing church songs, still standing on the bloody boardwalk.
“When we heard about this von Hosensnoot feller,” the rancher said, “I sent a hand down to the nearest wire office and telegraphed the sheriffs office. Told him I’d be glad to round up some boys and tend to this matter personal. He wired back and told me that couldn’t nobody arrest this feller. Is that right?”
“I’m afraid so,” Smoke said, sitting down just as the bodies of Valdes and Watkins were being dragged past his table. “I don’t really understand it all. Something about being immune from prosecution.”
“Well, that don’t make a damn bit of sense to me!”
“It doesn’t me either. But I guess it’s the law.” The barkeep sat his mug of beer down on the table, gave Smoke a nod, and quickly backed off.
The church ladies were singing the Lord’s praises loudly, as they all trooped across the street, following the men dragging the bodies. The minister, when he’d heard Smoke telling about the dead outlaws having lots of money, was really pouring on the shouting and preaching and planning an elaborate funeral. He followed the singing ladies. A giggling gaggle of young boys and girls followed the minister. A pack of the town’s dogs followed the kids, barking and playing and rolling in the dirt. All in all it was quite a parade.
“The sheriff said that you’d probably be in trouble if you killed this von Hossenhoof,” the rancher said.
“Well, I’ll just have to get in trouble then. ’Cause I’m damn sure going to kill him.”
“What about them women?”
Smoke shook his head. “I don’t know. I’d sure hate to hurt a woman. If I can help it, I won’t.” Then he told the rancher about Andrea killing her husband, and how she shot him and left him to die.
“You don’t mean it!”
“Sure do. I talked with the fellow for a few minutes before he died. He was a real prince.”
“I seen ‘em when they come in this mornin’. Them was some hard ol’ boys ridin’ with the no-bility. I recognized John T. and Cat Brown. Funny thing, Smoke, that von Hossenheifer and them folks with him all dressed up like nothin’ I ever seen ... they didn’t none of them look crazy.” He thought about that; took off his hat and scratched his head. “Well, them hats looked sort of stupid.”
“Pith.”
“Oh. Sure.” He pointed. “It’s out back.”
“No,” Smoke said. “That’s what they call those hats.”
“You got to be jokin’!”
“No. Pith helmets. P-I-T-H. I think that’s the way it’s spelled.”
“Well, that makes it some better,” the rancher said.
“I’ve got to rest my horse,” Smoke said, after draining his mug. “Then get something to eat and rest.”
“They may try to recruit more men at the Hole.”
“Yeah. They probably will. These people seem to have money to burn. I’ll just have to deal with that problem— if it arises-when I come to it.” He pushed back his chair and stood up.
The rancher sized him up. ’Bout six, three, and probably two hundred and twenty or thirty pounds. One hell of a big fellow.
Smoke smiled at the man. “Thanks for the beer.”
