the Civil War. Preacher had been lean, leathery, and white haired even then, and he hadn’t seemed to age a day in the years since.
It was Preacher who had first called him Smoke, after seeing young Kirby Jensen handle a gun. So fast that the sight of his draw was as elusive as smoke, Preacher claimed. The young man’s hand was empty, and then there was a gun in it spitting fire and lead, and there seemed to be no step in between. Preacher had predicted then that Smoke would become one of the fastest men with a gun the frontier had ever known, and he was right.
But Smoke was one of the few men who had overcome his reputation as a gunfighter and built a respectable life for himself. Marrying the beautiful schoolteacher Sally Reynolds, whom he had met while he was living the life of a wanted outlaw under the name Buck West, probably had a lot to do with that. So had establishing the fine spread known as Sugarloaf and settling down to become a cattleman.
Despite that, trouble still had a way of finding Smoke. He had to use his gun more often than he liked. But he hadn’t been raised to run away from a challenge, and anybody who thought that Smoke Jensen wasn’t dangerous anymore would be in for an abrupt awakening if they threatened him or those he loved.
An abrupt and usually fatal awakening.
Preacher wasn’t the only visitor headed for Big Rock. He and Matt Jensen had agreed to meet in Denver and come on to the settlement together. In the same way that Preacher was Smoke’s adopted father, Matt was his adopted brother, although there was nothing official about it in either case. Smoke had taken Matt under his wing when the youngster was still a boy, the only survivor from a family murdered by outlaws, and with Preacher’s help had raised him into a fine young man who took the Jensen name when he set out on his own.
Although still relatively young in years, Matt had gained a wealth of experience, both while he was still with Smoke and afterward. He had already drifted over much of the frontier and had worked as a deputy, a shotgun guard, and a scout. He had tangled with outlaws, renegade Indians, and badmen of every stripe.
Twice in the fairly recent past, Smoke, Matt, and Preacher had been forced by circumstances to team up to defeat the schemes of a group of crooked politicians and businessmen that had formed out of the ashes of the old Indian Ring. This new Indian Ring was just as vicious as the original, maybe even more so, and even though they seemed to be licking their wounds after those defeats, Smoke had a hunch they would try something else again, sooner or later.
He hoped they wouldn’t interfere with this visit from Preacher and Matt. It would be nice to get together with his family without a bunch of gunplay and danger.
Those thoughts were going through Smoke’s mind as he realized that Monte Carson had asked him a question. He gave a little shake of his head and said, “What was that, Monte?”
“I just asked what time Matt and Preacher are supposed to get here,” the sheriff said.
“I don’t know for sure. They’re riding in, and I figure they’ll be moseying along. Preacher doesn’t get in a hurry unless there’s a good reason to. I thought I’d go over to the cafe, get something to eat, then find something to occupy my time while I’m waiting for them.”
Monte grinned.
“Come on by the office,” he said. “We’ll have us a game of dominoes.”
Smoke was just about to accept that invitation when gunshots suddenly erupted somewhere down the street.
CHAPTER 2
There were several customers in the bank when Clete and his men walked in, but they didn’t appear to be the sort to give problems. The men looked like storekeepers, and a woman stood at one of the teller’s windows, too, probably some clerk’s wife depositing butter and egg money.
The two tellers were the usual: pale, weak hombres not suited for doing a real man’s work, or anything else. At a desk off to one side sat the bank president, fat and pompous in a suit that wasn’t quite big enough for him.
Clete hated all of them, just by looking at them. They were sheep, and he was a wolf. They deserved to have their money taken away from them, to his way of thinking.
And their lives, too, if they got in his way.
The banker glanced up from his desk as the men entered the bank, then looked again with his eyes widening in shock and fear as he obviously realized what they were and what was about to happen. He started to get to his feet, but Clete already had his gun out and pointed it at the man.
“Stay right where you are, mister,” Clete ordered. “We’re just here for the money, not to kill anybody.”
What he left unsaid was that he and the others wouldn’t hesitate to kill anybody who interfered with them getting that money.
The other five men spread out and closed in around the customers. Ed Garvey swung his sawed-off toward the tellers, both of whom raised their hands in meek, fearful surrender.
Clete raised his voice and said, “Everybody just take it easy. No trouble here, no trouble. We just want the money. Tellers, clean out your drawers. Put everything in the sack.”
With practiced efficiency, Tom Murdock had taken a canvas bag from under his coat. He shouldered aside the townie at one of the windows and thrust the bag across the counter toward the stunned teller.
“In the sack,” Tom snarled at the teller, who swallowed hard and started plucking bills from his cash drawer and stuffing them into the bag.
Denny approached the female customer, who was fairly young and pretty. She was pale and trembling at the moment. She tried to shrink away from Denny as he stepped up to her, but she had her back against the counter and there was no place for her to go.
“Pretty,” Denny said. His gun was in his right hand, but his left was free. He raised it and started to take hold of her neck. There was nothing he liked better than caressing a pretty woman’s neck.
Chick said, “Not now, Denny, we ain’t got time for that.”
“Pretty!” Denny insisted, as if that explained everything.
“I know that, but—”
The woman screamed as Denny’s hand was about to close around her throat.
Chick exclaimed, “Dadgum it, Denny!”
And on the other side of the counter, the teller shouted, “Leave her alone, damn you!”
His hand dropped below the counter, and when it came up, there was a Colt Lightning in it. The teller jerked the trigger three times fast, and the double-action revolver sent all three .41-caliber rounds crashing into Denny’s face. The bullets turned the big man’s features into a hideous red smear as his head rocked back.
“Denny!” Chick cried. Enraged, he started firing. His bullets sprayed the woman and the teller, knocking them both off their feet as blood welled from their wounds.
“Son of a bitch!” Clete bellowed. “Tom, grab all the money you can!” He turned back to the bank president, who had started impulsively to his feet, and shot the man in the belly.
Grant looked around wildly, unsure what to do. He had taken part in several robberies with his brothers, but none of them had gone this bad, this quickly. None of the gang had even been wounded in those jobs, let alone killed. Denny wasn’t dead yet—he had fallen to the floor, where he was thrashing around—but he couldn’t last long, shot in the head like that.
The other teller had thrown himself on the floor and lay there behind the counter with his arms held protectively over his head, as if that would stop a bullet. Tom Murdock didn’t take the time to shoot him. Instead, as Tom leaned over the counter, he reached into the cash drawer and grabbed as many greenbacks as he could, stuffing them into the canvas sack. They would get
But who could have predicted that that meek little teller would try to turn into Wild Bill Hickok? The fella must have been sweet on the woman, and all he had thought about was protecting her from Denny.
The air inside the bank was thick with gunsmoke now. The sharp tang of it stung Clete’s nose as he swung toward the doors.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” he called. He was confident that Otter would be covering their retreat.
“But Denny—” Chick began.
“He’s done for!” Clete yelled. “Come on!”
The five men charged out through the double doors, guns up and ready for trouble.
