Women started screaming and men began to shout and dive for cover as the remaining three Mexicans opened fire.
Smoke hit the second man in the stomach with his second shot, doubling him over just in time for Smoke’s third bullet to enter the top of his head and shatter his skull, dropping him like a stone to land face-down in spilled beer and spit and peanut shells.
The other two men began to fire their rifles, shooting and jacking the levers and shooting again. Bullets pocked the wooden floor on all sides of Smoke as he rolled again, first one way, then the other, trying to escape the fusillade of slugs.
As the room filled with heavy layers of gun smoke, making it difficult to see, Smoke leaped to his feet and jumped up on a nearby table, hoping to see over the low-lying cloud of smoke.
He could barely make out the two men, their large Mexican sombreros just visible sticking up out of the smoke.
Whipping out his left-hand gun, Smoke began firing with both hands as rapidly as he could cock and pull the triggers.
The sombreros jerked twice each, then disappeared as the men dropped out of sight into the smoke.
Smoke stepped down off the table and walked toward the men, his guns held waist-high in front of him.
He stepped over the first two bodies, seeing they were dead as dirt, and kept walking, blinking his eyes against the acrid sting of the cordite and smoke in the air.
The third man was lying on his back, open eyes looking upward as if they were trying to see the hole in the center of the forehead that Smoke’s .44 had drilled there. He too was dead.
The fourth man was on his stomach, crawling on hands and knees toward the batwings of the saloon, moaning and cursing in Spanish, his left arm dragging behind him, a trail of blood on the floor between his legs as he crawled.
He’d dropped his rifle, so Smoke used the toe of his boot to kick the man over onto his back. The right side of his head had a deep furrow in it, all the way down to where bits of brain could be seen in the hole.
Smoke knelt next to the man, cocked his Colt, and put it against the gunman’s nose. “Who paid you to do this?” he asked.
The bartender ran up holding a shotgun in his arms, and squatted next to Smoke in time to hear the man say, “Gomez . . . hombre with tres fingers . . . paid us to kill Smoke Jensen.”
Smoke looked at the barman. “You hear that?” he asked.
The bartender nodded. “Gomez, he said.”
Smoke looked back down at the man, whose eyes became unfocused as blood began to pour from his ear.
“Amigo,” Smoke said, “whatever he paid you, it wasn’t enough.”
The man tried to smile, choked once, and died.
25
Smoke stood up and took a deep breath. His heart was hammering and his mouth was dry from the excitement of the gunplay. No matter how many times this happens, he thought, it doesn’t get any easier to kill a man.
He glanced down at the hunks of flesh and blood that only minutes before had been living, breathing human beings, with hopes and aspirations just as real and poignant as those of anyone else in the saloon. No matter the men had taken money to end another’s life. They were still men with souls and minds that to them were the most important things in the world. It was no small thing to take all that a man is or ever hopes to be and change it in the blink of an eye to a lifeless pile of meat, cooling rapidly in the spring evening.
He looked around at the shambles of the saloon, the overturned chairs and tables, men and women coming out from their hiding places, horrified, scared looks on their faces, some openly weeping at the terror they’d experienced just moments before.
He saw several other lifeless bodies scattered around the room, three men and one woman who hadn’t moved fast enough to get out of the way of the murderous onslaught of the four hired killers. People who were dead in some small way because of him and who he was. That also was not an easy thing to live with.
He glanced over to the table where he’d been sitting, looking to see if Dolly was all right, and saw her legs sticking out from under an overturned table in the corner. He holstered his pistols and rushed to her side.
She lay there, curled in a fetal position, with blood on her chest just below her right shoulder. He gently touched her face and her eyes opened, cloudy with pain and suffering.
“Dolly,” he said in a low voice as people began to gather around. “You doing all right?”
She gave the sarcastic smile he’d grown to appreciate over the past two days and shook her head slightly. “No, I’m not all right. I’ve been shot, you big blockhead.”
He grinned back at her. With his practiced eye, he examined her wound. There was no bright red liquid pumping from the hole in her chest, and there was no foam on her lips or bubbling in her breathing. Evidently, the bullet had missed her lung. She would most probably survive if infection didn’t set in and if she could get medical help soon.
Smoke looked up at a gambler standing over them. “Go and get a doctor . . . now!” he ordered, and the man turned and ran from the room.
The bartender came over and squatted next to Dolly, taking her hand in his. “Don’t worry none, Dolly,” he said. “We’ve sent for the doc.”
She glanced at him and whispered thanks, then looked back at Smoke.
“Mr. Jensen, I gotta tell you something.”
“What’s that, Dolly?” Smoke asked.
“The other night, after you were here, I went to see those men you were looking for.”
Smoke didn’t say anything, but merely nodded. He’d suspected as much.
“You see, I knew where they were staying, but I wanted to see if they’d pay me more not to tell you than you would to know.”
He put his hand on her cheek. “Don’t worry about it, Dolly. Just rest until the doctor gets here.”
She shook his hand off, an earnest expression on her face. “No, I gotta say this, just in case . . . well, just in case.”
Smoke nodded. “Go on.”
“When I was talking to them, I got the idea that the Mexican—name of Gomez, I think—had something to do with the death of that man they’re saying you shot.”
“He tell you that?” Smoke asked skeptically.
She grinned, and there were specks of blood on her teeth, not a good sign.
“Yeah, but only ’cause I took his gun away from him and he didn’t have much choice.”
Smoke remembered something about the night of the killing. “Do you know what kind of gun it was?” he asked.
Dolly’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement at the question. “Sure, it was a Colt . . . a Navy model.”
Smoke nodded. That made sense, since the gun that’d been used to kill the Kid was a smaller caliber than the .44 most men carried, and most of the Navys were .36-caliber.
He put his hand back on her cheek. “Thanks, Dolly. By telling me that you may have saved my life.”
She leaned her face into his hand, then her expression got serious. “Now, you go on and get outta here before the law gets here, Smoke, or you won’t be able to go and find those men.”
She was right, Smoke thought. The town sheriff or maybe even Marshal Thomas would be there shortly after hearing all the commotion.
He glanced up at the bartender. “Will you stay with her?”
The man nodded and squeezed her hand. “Sure, mister. But like she says, if you’re gonna git, you better git fast.”
Smoke stood up just as Sheriff Billy Jackson walked through the batwings and began to look around, a pistol in his hand.
The bartender inclined his head toward the rear of the room. “Out the back door ’fore he sees you. I’ll make sure he knows you had nothin’ to do with all this.”
Smoke touched his shoulder. “Thanks, and make sure the doc takes good care of Dolly. Tell him to spare no expense and I’ll make sure he gets paid.”
“Will do,” the barman said.
As the sheriff began to question the people in the saloon, Smoke du
cked his head and made his way slowly out the back door. Once in the alleyway, he moved at a fast pace toward his hotel room, knowing the sheriff would soon be there to get his side of the story of the gunfight at the Silver Dollar Saloon. He couldn’t afford to be detained, either by the sheriff or by Marshal Thomas if he happened to be in town.
Just before he got to the hotel, he saw three riders coming up Main Street. Two of the figures looked familiar, even at the distance they were down the street.
Cal and Pearlie, he thought. Thank God, I can use some help in this business.
He stepped into another darkened alley and whistled softly as they came abreast of his position.
Pearlie jumped at the sound and whipped his pistol from its holster, twisting in the saddle and pointing it at the barely seen figure in the darkness.
“Who is it?” he said in a harsh voice.
“Smoke,” Smoke called softly.
“Smoke!” Cal said, jerking his horse’s head around and trotting his animal over near the alley. “We got good news for you.”
Smoke inclined his head at the man in the saddle next to Pearlie. “Who’s that?” he asked.
“That’s Rawhide Jack Cummings,” Cal answered, looking back over his shoulder. “He’s one of the men who were ridin’ with the Durango Kid.”
“What’re you doing with him?” Smoke asked.
“That’s the news we got to tell you,” Cal answered.
Smoke looked around, up and down the street. “We need to talk, but I can’t go back to the hotel. The sheriff’s gonna be there looking for me shortly.”
Cal thought for a moment, then said, “Why don’t Pearlie an’ me get some new rooms? You can keep this galoot covered an’ bring him up the back stairs after we get settled.”
Smoke nodded. “That sounds good. I’ll just take him down the alley behind the hotel, and you can call down to me and tell me what rooms you’re in.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Smoke took Rawhide Jack up the back stairs to rooms on the same floor as his old room, but down the hall a ways.
Once they were all gathered together, Cal and Pearlie quickly filled him in on their tracking of Gibbons to Jacksboro and his subsequent death at the hands of the disgruntled poker players.
Smoke nodded. “I never figured him to last long in the business of card-sharking. He just wasn’t good enough at it to fool anyone for very long.”
He cut his eyes over at Rawhide Jack, who was sitting in a chair by the window, a hangdog expression on his face. “Tell me about this one,” Smoke said, pulling his makings out of his pocket and building himself a cigarette.
As he took a deep puff and tilted smoke out of his nostrils, Pearlie told him about how they’d trapped Rawhide Jack on the way to Jacksboro.
“And he says he knows who killed the Durango Kid?” Smoke asked.
“Tell him, Jack,” Pearlie said.
“You go to hell!” Jack said defiantly. “I’ve done all the talkin’ I’m gonna. You won’t dare do nothin’ to me here in town.”
Smoke grinned, but the smile never touched his eyes. “Mister,” he said in a voice as hard as ringed steel, “I’ve just killed four Mexican bandidos that said you boys paid them to gun me down. Now,” Smoke added, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and looking at the glowing red end, “I’m not much one for torture, but I do aim to get at the truth. After killing four men, putting a few minor burn holes in your hide don’t sound too bad to me.”
Rawhide Jack stared at the cigarette and sweat popped out on his forehead.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he said, though the fear on his face belied his false bravado.
“Pearlie,” Smoke said as he started to get up out of the chair, “take your bandanna and tie it around Jack’s mouth. We wouldn’t want to disturb the other guests with his screaming.”
When Pearlie got up off the bed, Jack held up his hands. “No, now hold on a minute. I guess it won’t hurt none to tell my side of it.”
Smoke sat back down and crossed his legs. “Go on,” he said, leaning back in his chair.
“The Kid, Curly Bob Gatling, Three-Fingers Gomez, an’ me, we rustled some cattle from some Injuns over in the Nations a couple of weeks back. After we changed the brands, we drove ’em here and stuck ’em in a corral at the edge of town, plannin’ on sellin’ ’em and usin’ the money to pay our way out to California.”
Smoke nodded, finishing his cigarette and stubbing it out on the bottom of his boot.
“While we was tryin’ to find a buyer, the Kid kept raggin’ on Gomez, treatin’ him like dirt an’ tellin’ him he wasn’t gonna get an even share of the loot ’cause he didn’t do the same amount of work in the drivin’ an’ brandin’ of the beeves.”
“So, the Kid was the leader of your gang?” Smoke asked.
Rawhide Jack frowned. “We wasn’t no gang nor nothin’. Just a few men tryin’ to make a livin’.”
“Go on,” Smoke said, a disgusted look on his face.
“Well, when the Kid called you out and followed you out of the saloon, while we were all watching the front of the place, Three-Fingers Gomez snuck out the back door. He said he didn’t know what came over him, but when he saw the Kid standin’ there, he just drew his pistol and plugged him in the back. When everybody else ran out the front door to see what had happened, he came back in the rear door and just walked on out the front with all the other onlookers.”
“And that’s when Gibbons, pissed off ’cause you’d humiliated him on the train, must’ve got the bright idea to get back at you by claimin’ he saw you do the shootin’,” Pearlie said to Smoke.
Just then, they heard a pounding coming from down the hall and a loud voice yelling, “Come on out, Jensen, we know you’re in there!”
“It’s time to tell your story to the sheriff, Jack,” Smoke said, getting up from his chair. “And if you don’t, then either I or my friends here will kill you dead before you can get out of town.”
“But they’ll arrest me for stealin’ those beeves,” Jack said, his eyes wide with fright.
Smoke walked up to him. “I don’t care about the cattle. You can leave that part out, for all I care. But you’d better be real clear when you tell them Gomez admitted to you he shot the Kid in the back, or you’re a dead man as sure as I’m standing here.” Smoke paused. “You can also tell him that Gomez was the one hired the Mexicans to shoot me down.”
He gave a small smile. “After all, Gomez isn’t here to dispute your story.”
Rawhide Jack nodded, his mind working over the possibilities that he might get out of this with his hide intact. Finally, he looked up and nodded. “All right,” he said, knowing he really didn’t have any other choice.
It was almost midnight by the time Fort Worth Sheriff Billy Jackson had the stories all straight. He’d taken Smoke, along with Rawhide Jack, Cal, and Pearlie, over to his office under armed guard.
True to his word, Rawhide Jack told the sheriff the same story he’d told Smoke, leaving out the part about the rustled cattle.
Jackson finally leaned back in his chair and told his deputies to give Smoke and Cal and Pearlie their guns back. “An’ lock that sumbitch up in a back cell till I can talk to Marshal Thomas ’bout him in the morning,” he added.
After Rawhide Jack was escorted to a cell, Smoke asked the sheriff, “When is Marshal Thomas due back in town?”
“I don’t know,” the sheriff said. “Right now, he’s out traipsin’ around to all the ranches in the area lookin’ for some beeves stolen from the Indian Nations a few weeks back.”
“Was anyone hurt in the theft?” Smoke asked.
The sheriff nodded. “Yeah, seems three young braves was gunned down. Evidently, they never stood a chance.”
Smoke’s face became hard. “Sheriff, Rawhide Jack left out some details in his story. You might want to ask him about some cattle he and his friends sold to a Mexican vaquero night before last. If you hurry, you might even be able to cat
ch up with the herd before it gets to Mexico.”
“You mean that sumbitch . . . ?”
Smoke nodded. “And, if you get a chance to talk to Marshal Thomas, would you be sure to tell him I’m innocent? I don’t want him out looking for me on the old warrant.”
“Will do, Mr. Jensen. And thanks for your help, boys. I know the marshal will be glad to get this cleared up.”
“Come on, Cal, Pearlie,” Smoke said, standing up and grabbing his hat. “We need to get some shut-eye if we’re gonna head down to Galveston after Gomez and Gatling.”
“Why don’t you boys let the law handle this?” Sheriff Jackson asked.
“’Cause the law doesn’t move fast enough to catch them before they sail off to God knows where,” Smoke said. “And since I have to go down that way to the King Ranch anyway, I might as well kill two birds with one stone.”
The sheriff laughed. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want you on my back trail, Jensen.”
Smoke’s face was serious when he said, “No, Sheriff, I don’t believe you would.”
26
Smoke came instantly awake to a light tapping at his hotel room door. Reaching over, he pulled his Colt from its holster hanging on the bedpost and walked on tiptoe over to the door.
When he eased it open, his heart began to beat wildly. Sally was standing in the hall, smiling demurely at him.
“Is this the room of the famous gunfighter Smoke Jensen?” she asked, a teasing tone in her voice.
Smoke grinned widely and stepped back to let her enter.
“How did you get up here?” he asked. “I would have bet that Jason fellow at the front desk wouldn’t approve of a woman calling on a male guest in his hotel.”
“He didn’t,” Sally said, her lips curling slightly, “until I showed him this.” She opened her purse and let Smoke see the shiny surface of her short-barreled Smith and Wesson.
He slammed the door closed, threw his gun on the bed, and wrapped his arms around her, hugging her so tight she almost couldn’t breathe.
Justice of the Mountain Man Page 16