“I believe Mr. Jensen is very upset,” Larry muttered to Sharp, who had joined him.
“I wholeheartedly agree,” the U.S. Marshal said.
In the saloon, Rod and Randy giggled insanely, Rod saying, “Come, brother. We’ll put an end to this nonsense.”
Johnny North was waiting on the boardwalk. As soon as the brothers stepped through the batwings, Johnny started shooting, cocking and firing in one long continuous roar of thunder and smoke. The Karl Brothers did a macabre dance of the dying on the boardwalk as they soaked up lead. Randy fell into a horsetrough and died with both arms hanging over the sides. Rod lay draped over a hitchrail.
He giggled as he died.
Dewey and Gooden, freshly released from jail, stepped out into the street and yelled at Johnny, knowing his guns were probably empty.
Louis stepped out of his gambling hall, his eyes hard. He emptied his guns into the pair. They lay in the dust, their outlawing days over.
Reporters were scribbling and photographers’ flashpans were puffing as they recorded it all for their readers back East.
The foreman of the Seven Slash stepped into the alley and faced Smoke, both hands hovering over the butts of his guns. “You ain’t got the balls to drop that Greener and drag iron with me, Jensen.”
“Courage has nothing to do with it,” Smoke told him. “But time is of the essence.”
He pulled the triggers on the express gun, and the foreman’s earthly cares and woes were a, thing of the past.
Smoke walked up the alley to stand in the cool shadows, looking out into the street.
In the saloon, Luttie looked at Lee. “It’s been a good, long run, Lee. Now it’s over.”
Lee swore. “It may be over for you, but it ain’t over for me. I’m gonna kill that damn Jensen oncest and forever.”
“I wish you luck,” his brother said, lifting a shot glass in salute.
Lee walked out the back of the saloon.
“You’re a fool, brother. But then, I’ve always known that.” Luttie drank his whiskey and turned around, his back to the bar, facing the batwings.
Smoke heard the hammer cocking behind him and dropped to his knees in the alley just as the slug hammered the pine boards above his head. Smoke leveled the shotgun, and gave Curly a gut-full of buckshot. Curly’s boots flew out from under him, and he smashed down to earth, lying on his back; the charge had nearly cut him in two.
Smoke was out of shotgun shells. He laid the Greener down and pulled his Colts, jacking the hammers back. He scanned the street for trouble. He couldn’t see it, but knew it was there, waiting for him.
Smoke eased back down the alley, a .44 in both hands. He was facing south, the sun just beginning its dip toward the west. A thin shadow fell across the end of the alleyway. Smoke paused, pressing against the outside wall of the building.
“You see him, Milt?” someone called in a hoarse, softly accented whisper.
“Naw,” the voice carne from just around the corner, hack of the building, belonging to the shadow that was still evident on the weedy ground.
Milt stepped out and Smoke drilled him, the slug snapping his head back as it hit him in the forehead.
Smoke hit the ground and rolled under the building.
Pedro jumped out, a puzzled look on his face. Smoke shot him twice in the belly, and the puzzled look was replaced by one of intense pain. The outlaw fell to his knees, both .45s going off, blowing up dirt and dust and rocks. He cursed for a moment, then fell over, still alive, but for how long was something that only God could answer.
Dan Diamond and One-Eye were walking boldly down the boardwalk, toward the sounds of shooting when Cotton stepped out of a doorway and faced them.
“I told you it’d be someday, One-Eye,” Cotton said. “Why not now?” He jerked iron and shot the manhunter in the belly.
Dan fired just as Cotton stepped to one side, the slug knocking a chunk out of the building. He missed but Cotton didn’t. Dan folded and sat down heavily on the boardwalk for a moment. He looked up at Cotton.
“Is Pickens really your last name?”
“That it is.”
“Cotton Pickens,” Dan said, then died with a smile on his lips.
Smoke was standing in the alley when the manhunters Davy and Val rode out. He nodded at them and they nodded at him and then were gone. Smoke let them go. They just came after the wrong man, that’s all.
Smoke stepped out and walked up the steps to the boardwalk. The town was eerily quiet. Most of the citizens were either inside looking out of windows, or had locked themselves behind doors. The reporters and photographers were the only ones other than the combatants on the street, crouching behind horsetroughs and peeking out of open alleyways. Smoke had always figured that reporters didn’t have a lick of sense.
A man stepped out of the shadows. Lee Slater. His hands were wrapped around the butts of Colts, as were Smoke’s hands. “I’m gonna kill you, Jensen!” he screamed.
A rifle barked, the slug striking Lee in the middle of his back and exiting out the front. The outlaw gang leader lay dead on the hot dusty street.
Sally Jensen stepped back into Louis’ gambling hall and jacked another round into her carbine.
Smoke smiled at her and walked on down the boardwalk.
“Looking for me, amigo?” Al Martine spoke from the shadows of a doorway. His guns were in leather.
“Not really. Ride on, Al.”
“Why would you make such an offer to me? I am an outlaw, a killer. I hunted you in the mountains.”
“You have a family, Al?”
“Si. A father and mother, brothers and sister, all down in Mexico.”
“Why don’t you go pay them a visit? Hang up your guns for a time.”
The Mexican smiled and finished rolling a cigarette. He lit it and held it to Smoke’s lips.
“Thanks, Al.”
“Thank you, Smoke. I shall be in Chihuahua. If you ever need me, send word, everybody knows where to find me. I will come very quickly.”
“I might do that.”
“Adios, compadre.” Al stepped off the boardwalk and was gone.
Smoke finished the cigarette, grateful for the lift the tobacco gave him. His eyes never stopped moving, scanning the buildings, the alleyways, the street.
He caught movement on the second floor of the saloon, the hotel part. Sunlight off a rifle barrel. He lifted a .44 and triggered off two fast rounds. The rifle dropped to the awning, a man following it out. Zack fell through the awning and crashed to the boardwalk. He did not move.
Rich Coleman and Frankie stepped out of the saloon, throwing lead, and Smoke dived for the protection of a water trough.
“I got him!” Frankie yelled.
Smoke rose to one knee and changed Frankie’s whole outlook on life—what remained of it.
Rich turned to run back into the saloon, and Smoke fired, the slug hitting him in the shoulder and knocking him through the batwings. He got to his boots and staggered back out, lifting a .45 and drilling a hole in the water trough as he screamed curses at Smoke.
Smoke finished, it with one shot. Rich staggered forward, grabbing anything he could for support. He died with his arms around an awning post.
The thunder of hooves cut the afternoon air. Sheriff Silva and a huge posse rode up in a cloud of dust.
“That’s it, Smoke,” the sheriff announced. “It’s over. You’re a free man, and all these other yahoos are gonna be behind bars.”
“Suits me,” Smoke said, and holstered his guns.
Luttie Charles stepped out of the saloon, a gun in each hand, and shot the sheriff out of the saddle. The possemen filled Luttie so full of lead the undertaker had to hire another man to help tote the casket.
