“What the hell?” Slim said. He rode his tired horse over to the spot where he’d seen the movement and dismounted. There were tracks, and the print was about the same size as those he’d seen back at that little crick. But this man was wearing moccasins. And it hadn’t been no Injun, neither.
Slim was sure of that. This man seemed to have some sort of black bandanna tied around his head, and his hair had been cut short.
He walked back to where he’d left his horse reined. The damn horse was gone!
“Shotgun!” Slim called. “Come on, Shotgun. Come to Slim, boy.”
Silence greeted him from the high country timber.
Slim began to worry. He could make it back to the road; he wasn’t worried about that. But all his possessions were in the saddlebags or tied in his bedroll.
“Shotgun! Now come on, boy. Come to Ol’ Slim, Shotgun.”
Slim spun around, a Colt leaping into his hand as the voice came out of the timber. “Shotgun was tired. He needed a rest.”
“Who the hell are you, mister? You gimmie back my damn horse, you thief!”
“A back-shooting murderer calling me a thief.”
The voice laughed. “That’s very funny.”
Slim cussed him.
Smoke said, “You looking for Smoke Jensen?”
“That ain’t none of your concern, mister.”
“I can lead you to him.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. I get half the reward money, though.”
“You go suck an egg, mister.” Slim thought for a moment. “Tell you what I’ll do, mister. You step out so’s I can see you, and we’ll talk.”
“You put that gun up, and I’ll do that.” The voice was closer, and coming from a different location each time.
Damn, Slim thought. The man moves like a ghost. And I know that voice from somewheres. “Deal.” Slim holstered his gun, thinking that if the man was planning to kill him, he’d have done so already.
“Turn around.” The voice came from behind him.
Slim turned, and felt his stomach do a slow rollover. He was facing Smoke Jensen. “Hello, Smoke. It’s been a long time. Years.”
“You should have stayed home, Slim,” Smoke told him.
“Man’s got to make a livin’, Smoke.”
“You know damn well those warrants out on me are bogus. You’re a man-hunter, Slim. Out for the money I got no use for scum like you.”
“You ain’t got no call to talk to me like that, Smoke. This ain’t nothin’ personal ’tween us. You’ve kilt more’un your share of men. You ain’t no better than I am.”
“We’ll let God be the judge of that, Slim. You came looking for me, now you’ve found me. Make your play.”
Slim began to sweat. He hadn’t planned on this. He’d planned on back-shootin’ Smoke. His tongue snaked out to wet dry lips. “We can deal, Jensen. I can just ride on out of here and not look back.”
“That’s the same deal you made with the breed, Cloudwalker. Then you shot him in the back, all the time knowing he was an innocent man.”
“Hell, Smoke, he was a damn Injun!”
“He was an innocent man. I’ve stayed with Crows and Utes and Sioux and Cheyenne. I have a lot of good Indian friends. It doesn’t make any difference to me if a man is red, white, Negro, or Oriental.”
“Don’t preach to me, Jensen!” Slim got his dander up. “I don’t need no goddamn gunslick sermonizin’ to me.”
“Draw, Slim!”
Slim grabbed for iron. Smoke’s .44 slug caught him dead center in his chest and knocked him back against a tree. He finally managed to pull iron, and Smoke’s second shot tore into his belly.
Slim screamed as the .44 slug ripped through his innards like a white-hot branding iron. His .44 dropped from dying fingers. He slumped to the cool ground.
“You gonna bury me proper, ain’t you, Jensen?” he gasped the question.
“I’ll toss some branches and rocks over you, Slim.
I don’t have a shovel.”
“I hate you, Jensen!”
“I don’t understand that, Slim. What did I ever do to you to cause you to hate me?”
“Jist . . . bein’ . . . you!” Slim closed his eyes and died.
Smoke went through Slim’s pockets before he piled branches and rocks over the body to discourage smaller animals, all the while knowing that a bear could, and probably would, rip it apart in seconds. He would give the money to some needy family. There was no indication that Slim had a family. Smoke shoved one of Slim’s .445 behind his gunbelt and kept the other one in leather, hanging on his saddle horn. He inspected the late Slim’s Winchester .44-.40. It was in excellent condition, and this one had an extra rear sight, located several inches behind the hammer, for greater accuracy. He found three boxes of .44-.40s in the saddlebags. Slim also had a nice poke of food: some bacon and bread and biscuits and three cans of beans that would come in handy on the trail.
Smoke hesitated, then carved Slim’s name on the tree that towered over the man. He put the date below the name and mounted up and pulled out, knowing that shots carry far in the high thin air of the lonesome.
He stopped once, looking back at Slim Williams’ final resting place. “You should have picked another line of work, Slim. That’s, about the best I can say for you. God’s gonna have the final word anyway.”
Chapter Twelve
“Them was shots,” Crocker said. “Come from over yonder.' He pointed. “Let’s go!”
“That’s Horton’s assigned area,” Graham said.
“Hell with Horton,” Crocker blew away the myth about honor among thieves. “Don’t you want that money? Man, that’s five thousand apiece if we cut it up.”
“What’d you mean: if we cut it up?” Causey asked.
“All right, when we cut it up. Does that make you feel better?”
“Let’s ride!” Woody said. “Damn all this jibber-jabber. Smoke’ll be in the next county ’fore we get done talkin’.”
They found where Smoke had carved Slim’s date of death in the tree.
“Knowed him,” Dale said. “He was good with a gun.”
“Not good enough,” Haynes summed it up. “Let’s drag him out and go through his pockets.”
The men tore away the rocks and branches and searched the stiffening form of Slim. They found nothing of value. Woody did take the man’s boots, putting them on and throwing his worn-out boots by the body. They left Slim sprawled on the ground, one big toe sticking out of the hole in his dirty sock.
A bear came lumbering out of the timber and sniffed the dead man. He dragged Slim off a few hundred yards and covered him up with branches. When Slim ripened some he would be back for a meal.
“Hey, old man!” the young man called out to Charlie Starr, as Charlie sipped his whiskey prior to hitting the saddle for the high lonesome.
Charlie ignored him.
“I’m talkin’ to you, old shaggy-haired thing you!”
Most of the men in the crowded saloon were chance-takers and gamblers and gun-hands and bounty hunters. None of them knew the gray-haired man with the tied down guns, the wooden handles worn smooth, but they could sense danger all around him.
Charlie took a small sip of his whiskey—holding the glass in his left hand—and decided to wait it out. He'd been around for a long time, and knew there was a chance—albeit a small one—that he could avoid having to deal with this young smart-mouth. Maybe his friends would sit him down. Maybe.
