Smoke paused for a moment, standing by his horse. “Waymore, you and Malvern pull the wagons around to the rear of the store. Let’s get our horses off the street while we’re at it.” Smoke walked down to the sheriff’s office. He pushed open the door and told Lucas, “Pass the word to get the women and kids off the streets, Deputy. I think it’s going to explode this day. Where’s Harris?”
“Him and the others are out chasing a double murderer. And it’s no joke this time.”
“All right. Lucas, we’re not going to open this ball. But when the music starts, we won’t be wallflowers about hitting the dance floor.”
“I understand. I’ll start spreadin’ the word.”
Within minutes, the street was cleared of horseflesh and humans. The sun beat down; already it was a hot day. A wind devil spun around in the center of the street, then vanished, whirling like a dervish. Dr. Garrett began laying out bandages and instruments.
Smoke and the Double D hands had fanned out, all up and down the street. They stood in the shadows of buildings and alleyways and watched and waited. Inside the saloon, the Circle 45 hired guns were sipping rye, working up their courage to try to do what so many others had attempted and failed. To kill the legendary Smoke Jensen.
A drifting cowboy rode slowly into town. He stopped at the edge of town and took in the scene. Nothing was moving. Not a horse or man, woman, or kid in sight. Even the dogs had cleared the street. He turned into the livery and swung down.
“What’s goin’ on here?” he questioned the hostler.
“The Double D hands and the Circle 45 riders are gettin’ ready to settle some old scores.”
“Who’s your money on?”
“Let’s put it this way: the Double D is bein’ bossed by Smoke Jensen.”
“Smoke Jensen!” the cowboy exclaimed. “Here?”
“Durn sure is. In the flesh. You’d be showin’ some smarts if you just stood right here ’til this is over.”
“I ain’t never been known to be real bright,” the cowboy said. “I think I’ll go find Mr. Jensen and ask for a job.”
“Now?”
But the cowboy was gone, walking up the boardwalk. He stopped at an alleyway and grinned at Waymore.
“Git in here, Conny,” Waymore said. “You damn fool. I thought you was lookin’ at the rear end of cows down in Kansas?”
“I quit ’em after me and the foreman had a slight disagreement.”
“You mean, you punched him in the mouth and he fired you.”
Conny grinned. “Yeah. After he beat the stuffin’s out of me.”
“You never did have no sense. What happened?”
“He called me a bad name and I busted him on the nose. Your boss hirin’?”
“Now I know you ain’t got no sense. You know who’s ramrodin’ this outfit?”
“Man down at the stable told me.”
“And you still want to sign on?”
“Why not?”
“Now I’m sure you’re crazy. Yeah, as a matter of fact, we could use another hand or two. You got a horse?”
“How the hell do you think I got here from Kansas—walked?”
Before he could reply, boots sounded on the boardwalk. “Yonder comes the boss,” Waymore said.
Conny whistled softly. “He sure is a big’un, ain’t he?”
“And hell on wheels with them guns.” He waited until Smoke had calmly strolled up as if on a Sunday walk. “Boss, this here terrible-lookin’ saddle bum is Conny. He ain’t to be trusted around food nor whiskey, and he likes to fight—even though he don’t never win—but he can ride anything with hair on it and he’ll give you a good day’s work. He needs a job.”
Smoke smiled and shook hands with the man. “You’re hired. Can you use that gun you’re wearing?”
“I ain’t no fast gun. But I generally hit what I’m shootin’ at.”
“You’re stepping into the middle of a war. I want you to know that up front.”
“If you’re fightin’ that damn Clint Black, I’d ride for nothin’ but bunk and board.”
“Don’t hire him on them terms, Boss.” Waymore said. “He can eat more’n any two men you ever seen.”
Smoke chuckled. “You’re a pretty good hand at the table yourself, Waymore. All right, Conny. Clint’s hired a lot of gunhands. Some of them are pretty good. He’s got nine men in town right now. Including Weldon Ball, Tex Mason, and Austin Charles. They’re all over at the saloon. We wait for them to start the show.”
“It’s a good thing I ain’t eat in a day,” Conny said. “Eatin’ makes me sleepy.”
“If that was the truth you’d be asleep all the time,” Waymore remarked. “You ridin’ the line, Conny?”
“I ain’t got a dime to my name.”
Smoke handed the puncher a twenty-dollar gold piece. “That might make you feel better.”
“Durn sure does, Boss,” Conny said, pocketing the money. “Now if them bad’uns over there will just get this party goin’, we can get it over with and I can get me something to eat ’fore I fall over from the hungries.”
“You better get you some boots first,” Waymore told him. “I can see your dirty socks on both feet.”
“Conny,” Smoke said, after looking at the cowboy for a moment. “You stay here with me for a moment. Waymore, use the alleys and tell the boys to move this thing to the edge of town. Up next to the bridge. I don’t want a stray bullet to kill some innocent person.”
“Right, boss.”
“Conny. You follow Waymore and stop in at the general store and get you a hunk of cheese and a handful of crackers. You’re staggering on your feet, man. How long’s it been since you’ve eaten?”
Conny grinned. “Several days, boss. It just ain’t in me to beg. And times is hard out here.”
“All right. Go get something to eat and meet me behind the store in a few minutes.”
Smoke gave Conny enough time to reach the store; then he rolled a cigarette and smoked it down, always keeping his eyes on the saloon batwings. There was no sign of the Circle 45 hands. Smoke ground out the butt with the toe of his boot and walked up the alley. Conny was sitting on the loading dock, wolfing down a huge sandwich and drinking a bottle of sarsaparilla. The puncher grinned at him. He was missing two front teeth, and Smoke suspected they’d been knocked out in a brawl.
“After three of these sandwiches, I could take on a mama bear with cubs,” Conny said.
“Three!” Smoke said.
“I eat quick when they’s shootin’ to be done.”
Sally appeared at the back. “I’m laying in extra supplies,” she said with a smile. “Your new hand can put away the food.”
Smoke shook his head and Conny brushed a few crumbs off his patched shirt and drained the sarsaparilla. He checked his Colt and loaded up the empty chamber. He hopped off the loading dock. “Now let’s go see your varmint, boss.”
As they walked, Smoke brought Conny up to date.
“I know Clint Black,” Conny said. “He’s as lowdown as they come. No mercy or feelin’s for nobody in him. If you have to shoot a rabid animal, you’re scared of it, but you can feel sorry for it. ’Cause he didn’t want the disease. But I could shoot Clint Black or Jud Howes and not feel nothin’. I tried to work for them. Man, I can’t harm no woman or child. Until farmers just got so many around here, there wasn’t no stoppin’ them, Clint burned out and killed many of them. I worked one week for him and then hauled my ashes. And don’t feel sorry for no hand that hires on with the Circle 45. After they’ve been there a week, they know what’s goin’ on.”
Smoke turned toward the street and the boys fell in with him.
“Are we goin’ out in the street and face them gunhandlers, boss?” Malvern asked.
“No. You men aren’t gunfighters. We’re going to make them come to us and meet them around these shacks here. We’ll step out into the street and then, at my word, dive for cover and start shooting.”
“I like your style!” Conny said, just as one bootheel came off and he started limping along.