The bartender saw him and nearly had a heart attack. This barkeep was about the most timid Smoke had ever seen. He put a finger to his lips, shushing the man, and moved to a corner of the room, near a table that was shrouded in shadows. He loosened his guns.
Donovan, and a hired gun from over Kansas way named Lessing, entered the bar. They failed to see Smoke standing in the shadows. Tom Clark, George Miller, and Ed Burke faced Al Martine. Carbone was walking up the center of the street toward Danny O’Brian and Yukon Golden. Slim King and Grub Carson had slipped down an alleyway, looking for Smoke.
“You, ah, boys want a drink?” the nervous barkeep asked.
“Shut up,” Lessing told him. “If we want a drink we’ll ask for one.” He looked around him, his eyes finally picking out the shape of a man standing in the gloom. “Who the hell are you?”
“The grim reaper,” Smoke told him.
“The what?” Donovan asked.
“The pale rider.”
“Don’t give me no lip, boy,” Donovan said. “I want a straight answer.” He stepped away from the bar and walked slowly toward Smoke. “Damn!” the word left his mouth as he finally recognized the man in the shadows. He jerked iron.
Smoke’s .44 roared and spat flame and lead. Donovan doubled over and slumped to his knees, his belly on fire and his lips spewing painful screams. His six-gun slipped from his fingers. Lessing’s guns roared just as Smoke dropped to one knee. The slugs went over his head and slammed into the wall. Smoke leveled his .44 and drilled Lessing clean, the lead taking him in the center of the chest.
Out on the street, guns were roaring and men were dying. Lessing cussed Smoke once and then fell forward, no longer able to stay on his feet. Donovan was out of it, stretched out full length on the floor, screaming in pain. Smoke picked up Donovan’s gun and shoved it behind his belt. He walked toward Lessing as the man was fumbling to lift his six-shooter. Smoke took it away from him and tossed it on the bar. He loaded up his own .44 and then loaded up the gun he’d taken from Donovan. He sensed more than heard movement in the storage room. Smoke stepped back and waited. The barkeep was nowhere in sight. He had laid down on the floor behind the long bar.
Out on the street, Burke was down and dead with a bullet in his brain and Tom Clark was on his knees, both hands holding his bloody belly. George Miller had dashed down an alleyway.
Danny O’Brian was sprawled in the street and Yukon and Carbone had taken cover behind watering troughs and were exchanging shots.
Slim King pulled open the storage room door and cautiously stepped into the salon, both hands filled with guns. Grub was right behind him, holding a sawed-off shotgun. Both of them saw the bloody body of Lessing and looked around until their eyes found the source of the screaming. Donovan was jerking on the floor, just moments from death. Smoke gave no warning. He just lifted both .44s and started firing as fast as he could cock the hammer and pull the trigger.
One slug hit the shotgun just as Grub had turned and was lifting the weapon. Both barrels fired, the full charge taking Slim in the back at a distance of no more than two feet. The man was blown apart and dead instantly. Horror in his eyes at what he had done, and his fingers numbed from the unexpected discharge, Grub dropped the shotgun and clawed for his pistols.
Smoke let him clear leather and then shot the man twice, both .44 slugs striking him in the chest. Grub would no longer have to worry about his next meal. Reloading, Smoke carefully avoided the mess by the storage room door and walked out the rear door of the saloon.
A slug knocked out chips of wood by Smoke’s head. He flattened against the wall, then edged back in the direction from which he’d come and slipped under the saloon, hoping he would not disturb any rattler who might be seeking shelter from the hot sun. He worked his way toward the front of the building and after carefully checking the rear of the alley, he slipped out near the mouth and stood for a few seconds, watching the action in the street. Yukon’s back was to him.
“Hey, Yukon!” he called.
The gunfighter spun around and stood up. Smoke and Carbone fired as one. Yukon Golden lifted himself to his full height. He wore a very curious expression on his face. His guns clattered to the boardwalk and he pitched forward.
“How many left?” Martine called.
“Two, I think,” Carbone shouted back.
“Clark and Miller,” someone shouted from behind walls. “They’re down near the smithy’s shop.”
The sound of galloping horses thundering out of town followed the shout.
“The bastards stole my horses!” a man yelled.
“That’s it then,” Smoke said, walking up to where Tom Clark lay in the street. Ed Burke lay dead a few feet away. Tom was still alive, but not by much. Smoke knelt down behind the mortally wounded gunhand.
“If you have anything to say, you’d better say it quick,” Smoke told him.
“Go to hell,” Tom gasped.
“I am thinking you will be there before us,” Carbone said, punching out empties and reloading.
“You the one that shot me?” Tom asked.
“I did,” Martine said. “I think.”
“You go to hell, too!”
The Mexican gunfighter shrugged his shoulders philosophically. “All in due time, pistolero. But I have friends down there you might look up and say hello to.”
Tom cussed them all and then closed his eyes. His fingers clawed at the dirt for a moment; then he relaxed.
The undertaker and his assistant ran up, both of them smiling. Business had never been this good. People began crowding the streets, eyeballing all the dead and congratulating the Double D men. But Smoke, Carbone, and Martine all knew the congratulations were hollow. They were welcome now, but whenever the shooting finally stopped and Clint Black was either dead, gone, or in jail, the welcoming would cease and the citizens would begin to drop hints that perhaps it was time for the gunfighters to leave. They had all been through it many times in the past.
“Somebody come in here and help me clean up all this mess!” the barkeep squalled. “I’m gettin’ sick to my stomick. I never seen such a terrible sight.”
The two deputies walked up, along with Dr. Garrett.
“Harris just opened his eyes,” the doctor told them. “When all the shooting started,” he said, ‘Smoke Jensen must be in town.’”
26
Three of Clint Black’s hands disappeared while out rounding up the last of the horses. Horses and riders just vanished. No trace of them was ever found.
“Them ol’ men got them,” Bronco opined. “They’re camped all around the edge of the range. Brazen about it, too. They don’t make no effort to hide their cookfires. They’re darin’ us to come get them.”
“Hell with them,” Clint said. “They’re not our main problem.” He was still shaken by the news that eight of his best gunhands had gone face down in town. Now it looked like his brother was going to live, and that irritated him. Everything was going sour. He’d lost two more of his hired guns. They had just saddled up and ridden out. Didn’t even ask for any pay. They just left.
What made matters even worse was that not a single reply had been received on his latest bid to hire more men. No one wanted to tangle with a dozen or more living legends. Including the cook, he had twenty-six men. At one time, Clint had boasted he could field seventy-five of the toughest hands in the territory. Now he didn’t have a single working cowboy left. Not that it mattered, for he personally had ridden his range and found that he didn’t have a steer left. They had all been rustled, probably by the mountain men. His house and all the outbuildings were in a shambles from hundreds of rounds being pumped into them; the roofs all leaked. He could not find any workmen to repair the damage. No one would work for him. And he had even put ads in the Helena paper.