Chapter Six
Dirty cut his eyes as the six outlaws rode slowly past the marshal’s office. His smile was savage.
“We’ll arrest them,” Mills said.
“On what charge? There aren’t any warrants on them that I’m aware of.”
“Then we have no right to interfere with their freedom of travel.”
Smoke chuckled at that. “Deke there, he’s a backshooter, a thief, and a child molester. Dirty has done it all: cold-blooded murder, rape, robbery, torture, kidnapping. I told him years ago that if I ever laid eyes on him again, I’d kill him. And that is exactly what I intend to do.”
“But you said there are no warrants on them!”
“None in Colorado. But I’ve been holding one just for him for years.”
“Where is it?”
Smoke patted the butt of a .44. “Right here in Mr. Colt. Now, Mills, you and I have become friends over the past week or so. But this is personal between Dirty and me. He killed a little girl in Nevada some years back. He bragged about doing it and then left town just ahead of the posse. He’s fixing to come to trial over that killing. Right shortly”
“But . . .”
“Mills, lead, follow, or get the hell out of my way.”
Smoke stepped off the boardwalk just as the outlaws were entering the saloon. Seconds later the saloon emptied of locals.
Smoke pushed open the batwings and stepped inside, Mills right behind him. Smoke heard Dirty asking for a room for the night.
“Not in this town, Dirty,” Smoke called out. “The only room you’re going to get is a pine box. And if there isn’t enough coins in your pocket to buy a box, we’ll roll you up in your blankets and plant you that way.”
Mills gasped at the sheer/audacity of Smoke.
Dirty turned and faced Jensen. The man was big and dirty and mean-looking. He wore one gun tied down and had another six-shooter shoved behind his belt. “You got no call to talk to me like that, Jensen.”
“You ever ridden back to Nevada to put flowers on the grave of that little girl you killed, Dirty?”
Dirty flushed under the beard and the dirt on his face. “I was drunk when that happened, Jensen. Man can’t be held responsible for what he does when he’s drunk.”
“Yeah,” Smoke said sourly. “The courts will probably hold that to be true one of these days. But ‘one of these days’ don’t count right now.”
Mills grunted softly.
“Give him a drink,” Smoke told the barkeep. “On me. Enjoy it, Dirty. It’s gonna be your last one.”
Deke Carey moved away from the bar to get a better angle at Smoke.
“Stand still, Deke,” Smoke told him. “You move again and I’ll put lead in you.”
Deke froze to the floor, both hands in plain sight. “You think you can take us all, Jensen?”
“Yes.”
Mills had moved to one side, one thumb hooked over his belt buckle. Smoke had noticed several days before that the federal marshal carried a hideout gun shoved behind his belt, under his jacket.
“Who’s your funny-lookin’ friend, Jensen?” another of the six asked.
“I am United States Marshal Walsdorf,” Mills informed him.
“Well, la-tee-da,” a young punk with both guns tied down said with a simper. “A U—nited States Marshal. Heavens!” He put a hand to his forehead and leaned up against the bar. “I’m so fearful I think I might swoon.”
Mills was across the room before the punk could stand up straight. Mills hit the smart-mouthed punk with a hard right fist that knocked him sprawling. He jerked him up, popped him again, and threw him across the room. The punk landed against the cold pot-bellied stove. The stove fell over, the stovepipe broke loose from the flue collar, and the two-bit young gunny was covered with soot.
“Show some respect for the badge, if not for me,” Mills said.
“I don’t like your damn attitude!” another gunny said. “I think I’ll just take that badge and shove . . .”
The only thing that got shoved was Mills’ fist, smack into the gunny’s mouth. Mills hit him two more times, and the man slumped to the floor, bleeding from nose and mouth and momentarily out of it.
Mills swept back his coat, put his hand on the butt of his short-barreled Peacemaker .45 and thundered, “I will have law and order, gentlemen!”
“Halp!” the soot-covered punk yelled. “I cain’t see nothin’. Halp!”
“Let’s take ’em, Greeny!” Dirty said.
But Smoke was already moving. He reached Dirty before the man could drag iron and loosened some of Dirty’s teeth with a short, hard right.
Greeny swung at Mills and almost fell down as Mills ducked the punch. Mills planted his lace-up boots and decked the outlaw.
Smoke jabbed a left fist into Deke’s face three times, the jabs jarring the man’s head back and bringing a bright smear of blood to his mouth. He followed the jabs with a right cross that knocked Deke to the floor.
“By the Lord!” Mills shouted. “This is exhilarating.” He just got the words out of his mouth when the punk hit him on top of the head with the stovepipe and knocked him spinning across the room.
Smoke splintered a chair across the punk’s teeth, the hardwood knocking the kid up against a wall.
The barkeep climbed up on the bar and jumped onto Deke’s back just as the man was getting to his boots. Deke threw the smaller man off and came in swinging at Smoke.
Bad mistake on Deke’s part.
Smoke hit him with a left—right combination that glazed the man's bloodshot eyes and backed him up against the bar. Smoke hit him twice in the stomach and that did it for Deke. He kissed the floor and began puking.
Dirty hit Smoke a sneak punch that jarred Smoke and knocked him around. Smoke recovered and the men stood toe to toe and slugged it out for a full minute.
Mills was smashing Greeny’s face with short, hard, brutal blows that brought a spray of blood each time his big fists impacted with the outlaw’s face.
The soot-covered kid climbed to his boots and decided to take on the barkeep.
Bad mistake on the kid’s part. The barkeep had retreated to the bar and pulled out a truncheon, which he promptly and with much enthusiasm laid on top of the punk’s head. The punk’s eyes crossed, he sighed once, and hit the floor, out cold.
Dirty backed up and with Smoke’s hands still balled into fists, grinned at him and went for his gun.
Smoke kicked the man in the groin, and Dirty doubled over, coughing and gagging. Smoke stepped forward and kicked the murderer in the face with the toe of his boot. Dirty’s teeth bounced around the floor. He screamed and rolled away, blood dripping from his ruined mouth.
Deke grabbed for his guns, and Smoke shot him twice in the belly, the second hole just an inch above the first. Deke tried to lift his pistol, and Smoke fired a third time, the slug hitting the man in the center of the forehead.
Dirty rolled to his boots and faced Smoke, a gun in each hand, his face a bloody mask of hate.
Smoke had pulled both .44s and started them thundering. He was cocking and firing so fast it seemed a never-ending deadly cadence of thunder. Puffs of dust rose from Dirty’s jacket each time a .44 slug slammed into his body. Dirty clung to the edge of the bar, his guns fallen to the floor out of numbed fingers.
“Jesus!” the barkeep said. “What’s the matter with him? Why don’t he say something?”
“Because he’s dead,” Smoke said.
Dirty Jackson fell on his face.
Greeny was moaning and crawling around on the floor. The kid was beginning to show some signs of life. The other two had wisely decided to stay on the floor with their hands in plain sight.
“You others, get up!” Smoke told the two outlaws, wide-eyed and on the floor. “And haul the kid and that jerk over there to their boots.”
Greeny and the punk were jerked up. “The punk goes to jail,” Smoke said. “The others get chained to that tree by the side of the office.”
“Hey, that ain’t right!” Greeny said. “What happens if it rains?”
“We give you a bar of soap.”
