“I know, boy, I feel it too.” Smoke neither heard nor saw anything. But, in that sixth sense developed by men who constantly live on the edge of danger, he felt something. Suddenly a bullet whizzed by not six inches in front of his face. It hit a big rock on the other side of the trail, then whined off into space, while the canyon reverberated with the flat crack and high-pitched scream of the missed rifle shot.
With his rifle in his hand, Smoke slid down quickly. “Get back, Seven.”
As the horse whirled around and galloped out of the canyon, Smoke ran toward a nearby line of large rocks, diving for cover just as another shot rang out. Like the first one, it was so close he could hear the bullet passing.
“Jensen, is that you?” a voice called from a position partway up the canyon wall. “Did you kill my brother?”
Like the rifle shots before, the last word echoed back and forth through the canyon.
Brother ... brother ... brother ...
“If Wes Harley was your brother, I killed him.”
Killed him ... killed him ... killed him ...
As soon as he shouted, Smoke rolled to his right to deny them a target. As it turned out, it was the right thing to do. A bullet kicked up sand and pebble at the exact spot where he had been but a second earlier.
Moving to the end of the row of rocks, he studied the canyon wall on the opposite side. He was on one side of the trail and they were on the other. There was no way he could cross the open space unseen.
“We didn’t know the woman we shot was your wife!” the voice yelled.
Wife ... wife ... wife ...
“Besides, she ain’t kilt!”
“Besides, she ain’t kilt!”
Kilt ... kilt ... kilt ...
“No thanks to you,” Smoke shouted.
You ... you ... you ...
He rolled to his left and coming out of the roll, had the rifle to his shoulder, looking out across the barrel at the canyon wall toward the sound of the outlaw’s voice. He saw the puff of smoke from the outlaw’s rifle, then saw the outlaw raise up slightly to have a look. He only stayed up for a second, but that was all Smoke needed. He squeezed the trigger. The Winchester roared and kicked back against his shoulder. A second later the outlaw tumbled down the wall on the other side of the canyon.
“Frank! Frank!” a frightened voice called. “Dinkins, he got my brother! He got Frank!”
Frank ... Frank ... Frank ...
“Yeah? Well, he shoulda kept his head down,” Dinkins replied.
“We shouldn’t have come into this canyon,” Travis said. “We ain’t got no way out!”
Out ... out ... out ...
“Travis is right, Dinkins,” Smoke called up to him. “You boys are in trouble. You have no way out of here, without coming through me.”
Me ... me ... me ...
“Seems to me you’re the one in trouble. We got you trapped down there,” Dinkins replied.
“Uh-uh,” Smoke said. “I’ve got my water and food with me. I’ll just bet you fellas left yours with your horses.”
“He’s right, Dinkins! We ain’t got no water or nothin’ up here.”
“Shut up, Travis. Don’t be such a yellow belly! See if you can get a look at where he’s at.”
“Uh-uh, I ain’t movin’ from here and I ain’t stickin’ my head up, neither,” Travis replied. “I seen what happened to Frank. Jensen kilt my brother.”
“Well he kilt my brother, too.”
“The difference is, you run out on your brother,” Travis said. “Me ’n Frank didn’t run out on each other.”
Dinkins began firing wild and unaimed shots, which gave Smoke a chance to improve his own position without fear of being hit. Crouching over, he ran behind the line of rocks, then darted across the little open gap so he was on the same side of the trail as the outlaws.
“Did you get him?” Travis called.
From the sound of Travis’s voice, Smoke knew he was no more than fifty or sixty yards away. He began looking around for a way up to him.
“I don’t think so,” Dinkins called back. Clearly, Dinkins was farther back in the canyon.
“You musta got him. I don’t see him or hear him movin’ around down there. I think you got him,” Travis said.
Smoke smiled at their confusion.
“Shoot again,” Travis called.
“You shoot,” Dinkins replied. “I’ll keep an eye open and if he returns your fire, I’ll have him.”
“I ain’t got nothin’ to shoot at. He’s like a ghost or somethin’.”
“Take a look, Travis, see if you can see him!” Dinkins called out again.
“I ain’t movin’,” Travis said again.
“Shoot at him, you sonofabitch, or I’ll shoot at you,” Dinkins said angrily.
Smoke saw Travis lift his head up. Unlike the others who had rifles, Travis was armed only with a pistol. He began shooting, wild, unaimed shots at the rocks on the other side of the canyon where Smoke had been earlier. The bullets hit the rocks then careened off, screaming long, descending wails that echoed and reechoed and reechoed through the canyon.
“Do you see him?” Dinkins shouted.
Him ... him ... him ...
“No!”
No ... no ... no ...
Smoke managed to climb up a fissure until he was just a few feet away. He waited until the hammer on Travis’s gun fell on an empty chamber.
“All right, I shot at him,” Travis called. “Now it’s your time to shoot at him. I’m out of bullets! I have to reload!”
“You dumb bastard, you didn’t do nothin’ but waste your bullets,” Dinkins replied.
Smoke stepped out in front of Travis at that moment.
“No!” Travis screamed. He raised his pistol and pointed it at Smoke, snapping the trigger even though his gun was empty.
Smoke took him down with a vertical butt stroke of his rifle.
“Travis! Travis, what’s goin’ on over there? What were you yellin’ about?”
Smoke remained quiet.
“Travis, what is it? Answer me!”
“He can’t answer you, Dinkins,” Smoke said.
“What? What are you talking about? Where are you? Where is Travis?”
Smoke looked down at Travis and could tell by the twist in his neck, and his open, but sightless eyes, still fixed in his last instant of terror, that Travis was dead.
“Where is Travis?” Dinkins called again.
“He’s dead,” Smoke answered. “He’s dead, Frank is dead, and Wes Harley is dead. Now there is only you.”
“I give up!” Dinkins said. “Don’t shoot, I’m comin’ down. I give up! Do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” Smoke said. “Come on out here with your hands high.”
Dinkins came walking down a path that led up to a higher ridge. His hands were up as Smoke had ordered, but he was holding a rifle in his right hand.
Smoke noticed that, though Dinkins was holding the rifle over his head, his hand was wrapped around the narrow part of the stock and the receiver, his finger was inside the trigger guard, and actually on the trigger itself. Smoke also noticed that the hammer was cocked.
“Throw down the rifle,” he ordered.
Dinkins looked up at his rifle, then back toward Smoke, and smiled. “Ahh, no foolin’ the great Smoke Jensen is there? You seen the rifle cocked. Well, you can’t blame me for tryin’, can you?”
“Throw it down,” Smoke ordered.
Dinkins pulled the trigger, firing the rifle. Though as it was over his head and aimed to one side, it represented no danger to Smoke.
“That was just to keep it from goin’ off when it hits the ground. Wouldn’t want that to happen now, would we? It might have gone off on me. Or you.” Dinkins chuckled, then tossed the rifle aside.
“Tell me, Jensen, do you know any good lawyers?” he asked. “Whoever it is, I hope it ain’t the same one that defended Parnell. Poor old Parnell got hisself hung. But I’m sure you know that.”