“Oh, you’re going back all right,” Wheeler said. “Either sitting in your saddle, or belly-down over it.”
Realizing that a gunfight was very likely, the others who had been sitting at the table jumped up and moved out of the way, a couple of them moving so quickly that their chairs fell over.
The marshal pulled his gun and pointed it at Pardeen. “Now, shuck out of that gunbelt, slow and easy-like,” he ordered.
Pardeen shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I think maybe I’m just goin’ to call you on this one.”
“Whatever you say, Pardeen. Whatever you say,” the marshal replied.
Smoke, like the others, was watching the drama unfold, when he heard a soft squeaking sound as if weight were being put down on a loose board. The sound caused him to look up toward the top of the stairs. When he did so, he saw a man standing there, aiming a shotgun at the back of the marshal.
“Marshal, there’s a gun at your back!” Smoke shouted. Concurrent with Smoke’s warning, the man wielding the shotgun turned it toward Smoke.
“You sorry son of a bitch!” he shouted.
Smoke had no choice then. He dropped his beer and pulled his pistol, firing just as the man at the top of the stairs squeezed his own trigger. The shotgun boomed loudly. The heavy charge of buckshot tore a large hole in the top and side of the bar, right where Smoke had been standing. Some of the shot hit the whiskey bottles in front of the mirror, and one of the nude statues behind the bar. Like shrapnel from an exploding bomb, pieces of glass flew everywhere. The mirror fell except for a few jagged shards, which hung in place where the mirror had been, reflecting distorted images of the dramatic scene playing out before it.
Smoke’s single shot had not missed, and the man with the shotgun dropped his weapon. His eyes rolled up in his head and he fell, twisting around so that he slid down the stairs on his back and headfirst, following his clattering shotgun to the ground floor. The wielder of the shotgun lay at the foot of the stairs, with his head on the floor and his legs splayed apart stretching back up the bottom four steps. His sightless eyes were open and staring up toward the ceiling.
The sound of the two gunshots had riveted everyone’s attention on that exchange, and while their attention was diverted from him, Pardeen took the opportunity to go for his own gun. Suddenly, the saloon was filled with the roar of another gunshot as Pardeen fired at the marshal who had confronted him.
Marshal Wheeler had made the fatal mistake of being diverted by the gunplay between Smoke and the shotgun shooter. Pardeen’s bullet struck the marshal in the forehead and the impact of it knocked him back on a nearby table. The marshal lay belly-up on the table with his head hanging down on the far side while blood dripped from the hole in his forehead to form a puddle below him. His gun fell from his lifeless hand and clattered to the floor. Pardeen then swung his pistol toward Smoke.
“Mister, this isn’t my fight,” Smoke said. “We can end it here and now.” Smoke put his pistol back in its holster.
As he realized that he now had the advantage, a big smile spread across Pardeen’s face. “Oh, it’s goin’ to end all right,” Pardeen said. “’Cause I aim to end it right now.” Pardeen cocked his pistol.
Those who were looking on in morbid fascination were surprised by what happened next, because even as Pardeen was cocking his pistol, Smoke drew and fired. His bullet caught Pardeen in the center of his chest and Pardeen went down. He sat up, then clutched his hand over the wound as blood spilled between his fingers.
“How the hell did you do that?” he asked. He coughed once—then he fell back dead.
“What’s goin’ on in here?” a voice asked. “What’s all the shootin’?”
When Smoke turned toward the sound of the voice, he saw a man dripping water onto the floor as he stood just inside the open door. Because the man was standing in the shadows, Smoke couldn’t quite make out his features.
“Step into the light so I can see you,” Smoke said.
“Mister, do you know who you are talking to?” the man in the door asked.
Smoke pulled the hammer back, and his pistol made a deadly metallic click as the sear engaged the cylinder. “Doesn’t much matter who I’m talking to. In about one second you’ll be dead if you don’t step into the light.”
This time the man moved as ordered. Doing so enabled Smoke to see the badge on the man’s shirt, and he let the hammer down on his pistol, then dropped it back into his holster.
“Sorry, Sheriff,” Smoke said. “I didn’t know you were the law.”
“What happened here?”
“I’ll tell you what happened,” one of the other cardplayers said.
“Who are you?”
“The name is Corbett.” Corbett pointed to Smoke. “This here fella just kilt three men. He kilt the marshal, Eddie Phillips, and Emerson Pardeen.”
The sheriff made a grunting sound. “Now you tell me, Corbett, just why would this fella kill the marshal
“Hell, Sheriff, I don’t know why he done it. Maybe you need to ask him.”
“All right, I’ll ask him,” the sheriff said. “Did you kill all three of these men, mister?”
“No. I only killed two of them,” Smoke replied.
Inexplicably, the sheriff chuckled. “I see. You just killed two of them. So that makes you what? One-third innocent?”
“One-hundred-percent innocent,” Smoke replied. “I only killed the ones who were trying to kill me. And in my book that is self-defense.”
