snubbed out his third cigarette and stretched, not bothering to come to his feet. Out of the gloom he saw the silhouettes of cattle? And he heard the sound of voices. It would be Hank and Ben Trabert returning from some lawlessness. They would be very tired and hungry, while he was well fed and rested. That would be to his great advantage. Should he go into the cabin and greet them, or allow them to go inside and then discover the bloodstains under the burlap sack? Once that happened, they would come rushing outside, shouting for their dead father. And Smith would be waiting to gun them down in the lamplight now spilling from the cabin.
He played out the showdown in his mind using both scenarios while the brothers penned their stolen cattle. He decided it would be more interesting and possibly even safer to wait inside the cabin. Hank and Ben would not be expecting trouble and they would be easy to catch off guard. He would then feed them bullets instead of their father’s chili beans.
Smith came to his feet, stretched, and then kept to the shadows until he reached the corner of the cabin. There would be a moment of danger, when he had to duck through the brightly illuminated doorway, so he paused and stared out toward the pens where Hank and Ben were finishing up their work. He could hear them talking and knew that they were well occupied. Taking a deep breath, Smith ducked low and slipped back into the cabin. He glanced all around and decided to use the darkest corner of the room for his ambush position.
Turning the wick of the lantern down ever so slowly, he grabbed a chair and went to that corner to wait, rather like a spider waiting in its web.
He did not have long to wait. The Trabert brothers came stomping across the yard. Their boots sounded on the front doorsill and they pushed inside.
“Pa?” one of the brothers called. “Where …”
“Which one are you?” Smith asked softly.
Both brothers swung around to face him, squinting and grabbing for their weapons. Smith drilled the larger of the pair in the belly, slamming him into the smaller one, who shouted in alarm and managed to get off a stray bullet. Smith took careful aim and shot the smaller man in the head, causing him to drop like a rock.
“So,” Smith said, slowly easing out of his chair to stand over the bigger one, who was writhing about in agony, “which one are you? Ben … or Hank?”
The man looked up and cursed. He was holding his leaking stomach with one hand while the fingers of his other hand were stretching for his gun. Smith waited until those fingers brushed the gun, and then he stomped them with the heel of his boot, mashing the finger bones like dry twigs.
“Ahhhh!” the man screeched, tearing his hand away. “You sonofabitch! Who are you?”
Smith picked up the dying man’s gun. It was worth at least ten dollars in any pawnshop. He stuffed it in his pocket, turned, and went to retrieve his chair as he listened to the big man moan and thrash about. Returning with the chair, he sat down on it backward so that he could rest his chin on his forearms.
“I’ll ask you once more,” Smith said, noting the gray pallor that was already beginning to etch its way across the man’s stricken face. “Are you Hank … or Ben?”
“Hank!” the big man screamed, trying to focus. He was sweating profusely, still looking for a weapon.
“Good,” Smith answered, quite pleased that the right man was going to suffer.
“I killed your father,” Smith said matter-of-factly. “But quick, like your brother Ben.”
“Who are you!” Hank screeched, raising his broken hand to shakily touch his pale, perspiring face.
“My name is James Smith.”
Hank choked and his eyes dilated with terror.
“You’re The Assassin!”
“I’ve been called that,” Smith said mildly.
“I should have known.”
Smith came to his feet. He kicked the chair over and then squatted on his heels, just out of Hank’s reach. “If you had only tried to kill me instead of my family, I would now put you out of your misery. But you and the others chose to burn down my house and murder my wife and son.”
Smith began to shake with uncontrollable rage. “A beautiful woman and boy who never hurt anyone!”
“Shoot me!” the man whimpered.
“No,” Smith hissed, lips drawn back from his teeth.
“Too easy. Way too easy!”
“Please!”
But Smith shook his head, stood up, and took several deep, steadying breaths. “Does it hurt bad?”
“Kill me!” Hank Trabert pleaded.
“Tell me about the Marble Gang. Tell me all about them and then maybe I’ll Put YOU Out of your misery.”
Trabert gasped, “All right. Just tell me what you want to know!”
“Names. I think I have them all, but I want to be very sure. I wouldn’t have killed your father and brother if I’d had any other way.” Smith sat down again. “You see, Hank, I’m not like you and the Marble brothers.”
“You’re worse!” Hank sobbed, looking down at the bullet hole in his gut. “You’re enjoying this!”
“Maybe a little,” Smith conceded. “Give me names and where I can find the others.”
“Red Skoal has a little spread over in South Park. He’s … he’s the closest one.”
“Does he live alone?”
