It was to be the start of the bloodiest day in that part of Idaho Tenitory.
They reached the trading post, coming in from the back of the long building, dismounting and tying their horses in the rear of the store. Jackson had pointed out the bounty hunters’ horses in front of the saloon.
“Jackson and me will handle this,” Smoke said. “The rest of you stay here.”
The shopkeeper’s wife rushed out the back door. “They got my husband and Bendel all trussed up like hogs,” she whispered hoarsely. “They’re waitin’ on you, Mr. Jensen. And there’s eight or ten more gun hands just over that ridge,” she said, pointing.
“Thank you. Hunt some cover, ma’am.” He looked at Jackson. “First things first,” he said, then pushed open the back door and stepped into the gloom of the storage room.
Smoke had made up his mind that this battle and as many others as he could arrange would not be stand up, face, and draw. The odds were just too high.
He had both hands full of Colts, hammers back, when he kicked in the door to the saloon and went in shooting, Jackson right behind him, doing the same.
Lefty went down with the front of his shirt stained with blood and smoking holes. Smoke dropped to one knee, partly to give Jackson better shooting room and partly to show a smaller target, and put two slugs into the head of Shorty Watson. Jackson had knocked John Wills and Dave Bennett spinning. Bennett went down to the floor, blood leaking from his mouth, dying and cursing as Wills staggered out the batwings and fell off the porch, landing on his back.
Smoke stepped outside just as Wills was lifting his guns. Smoke shot him between the eyes just as the sounds of galloping horses reached him.
Walt, Rusty, and Matt stepped around the corner of the building, rifles in their hands, and emptied some saddles. The charging gun hands did not slack up.
Smoke lifted his Colts and let the hammers down just as a hired gun galloped past the trading post. The .44’s knocked the man from the saddle. Jackson was beside him on the porch, guns blazing. The badman turned good man emptied two more saddles.
The early morning became eerily quiet as Smoke and Jackson began punching out empties and reloading. The shopkeeper’s wife untied her husband and Bendel. The saloonkeeper was furious as he joined Smoke on the porch.
“By God, I’ve had it!” he yelled. “I’ll not tolerate anymore of Jud Vale’s highhandedness.”
“Nor will I,” the shopkeeper said, taking the shotgun his wife offered him. “From now on, I see a Bar V brand, I blow the rider out of the saddle.”
“That goes double for me,” Bendel said, stripping the guns from Wills and loading them full.
Matt led the horses around front.
“Let’s ride!” Walt said.
Three miles from the trading post, Smoke and his little force rode right into a group of Bar V riders. There was nothing gentlemanly or honorable about the fight. Smoke just dragged iron and started shooting, Walt and the others doing the same.
They looked up from the body-littered road as Clint Perkins rode up, a wild glint in his eyes. It is time, is it?’ he called. “Very well. I recall an Indian saying: Itisagood day to die.” He turned his horse’s head and rode off toward the Bar V.
“I didn’t know we was just gonna ride up to Jud’s front door and start shootin’,” Rusty said.
“I didn’t either,” Smoke said. “But maybe that’s the way it’s got to be.” He put Dagger into a gallop and the others followed, leaving the bodies in the road without a second glance.
One hired gun groaned and rolled over in the road. Finally he sat up, his head bloody and throbbing. He gingerly touched the wound and winced. It was painful, but not serious. He got to his boots, found his horse, and crawled into the saddle.
“Hell with this!” he said. “It’s gone sour.” He reined up when the trading post came into view, and watched Bendel and the shopkeeper and wife digging holes in the back. The gun hand wisely changed his mind about having a drink and carefully skirted the trading post. He thought California ought to be a real good spot to head for.
He knew there had been four or five men at the trading post, about ten more lying in ambush out from the post, and five with him. That was twenty men dead or dying at the hands of Smoke and them others, all in one morning— and the morning wasn’t even half over! Yeah, California sounded real good.
“Move, horse. Jud Vale’s number is comin’ up this day, I’m thinkin .”
Cisco Webster, the Texas gun hand whose teeth had been knocked out by Rusty back at the crick, looked up at the road, just at the point where it crested the hill. He felt a touch of fear clutch at his belly.
Six men sat their saddles, looking down at the mansion, and Cisco didn’t need a crystal ball to know who they were.
Highpockets noticed the direction the man’s eyes were taking and looked up. Like Cisco, the gunfighter felt a slight lash of dread touch him at the sight.
The yard crowded with bounty hunters and gunslingers, all looking at the crest of the hill.
Smoke urged Dagger forward, riding with the reins in his teeth and his hands filled with Colts.
“What the hell are they goin’ to do?” Hammer asked.
“It’s over,” Buck Wall told him. “I woke up with a bad feelin’ about this day.”
“You quittin’?” Chato Di Peso asked.
“I shore am.” Buck walked toward the bunkhouse just as Jud appeared on the front porch.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Jud yelled at him.
“I’m quittin’,” Buck called over his shoulder. “Like right now.”
Jason had appeared on the porch beside his boss. “The hell you are!” he said, and shot Buck in the back.
The gunfighter pitched forward, dead before he hit the ground.
Smoke picked that time to charge. They split up, with Smoke and Clint riding right into the front yard, the reins in their teeth and hands full of Colts.
Matt and Walt went to the right, Jackson and Rusty to the left.
Hammer grabbed for his guns. Smoke shot him down, the slug taking him in the chest. Hammer died sitting on his butt in the road, his hands by his sides. After a few seconds, he slowly toppled over.
Shorty DePaul came out of the bunkhouse just as Walt and Matt were galloping past. Shorty sighted in Walt. Matt’s gun crashed and Shorty felt the sledgehammer blow take him in the belly, about an inch above his belt. Matt fired again, his second slug striking the gunfighter in the chest and knocking him down.
“Kilt by a punk kid,” were Shorty’s last words.
Rusty and Jackson rode right into a knot of startled gun slicks. Pike and Becket went down under bullets fired at almost pointblank range. Molino stepped out of the barn and put a slug into Rusty’s shoulder. Rusty border-rolled his Colt and shot the man in the throat. Molino hit the ground, coughing and gurgling.
Jaeger and Chato Di Peso saw very quickly the outcome of the fight and slipped through the dust and confusion to the bunkhouse, quickly gathering up their possessions. They grabbed horses—neither one of them giving a damn whose horse it was—and pulled out.
Cisco Webster watched as Smoke jumped from the saddle, and ran behind a building, reloading as he ran. Dagger trotted to the corrral and began harassing the mares.
Cisco ran to the storage shed, flattening out against a wall. He stuck his head around the corner just in time to catch a bullet right between the eyes. He sank to the ground, a very curious expression on his dead face.
Clint, out of the saddle and down on one knee, doubled over the Colorado gun hand, Barstow, with two .44 rounds to the belly, then shifted his Colt and ended the career of Highpockets.
Jackson had helped Rusty out of the saddle and left him behind good cover with a half-dozen Colts taken from the dead and dying. Jackson went headhunting. He walked right up to Rim Reynolds and several of his men and began shooting as fast as he could cock and fire. Rim went down screaming in pain with two slugs in his belly
. Jackson was burned on one arm and took the loss of part of one ear but he was still standing when the others were down. He calmly and swiftly reloaded, shook the blood from his face and stepped back out in the fracas.
Walt and Matt were standing side by side, the old and the young, their guns taking a terrible toll. Crazy Phil was down on his knees, with four of his men on the ground with him. Old Walt winked at young Matt as they reloaded.
Clint was working his way closer to the house. He had but one thought in his demented mind.
The Pecos Kid and Glen Regan—Glen was walking slow due to the gunshot wounds in his butt from back at the creek—tried to make the corral and get away. Rusty dropped them both midway. .
Blackjack Morgan stood with legs spread wide, his hands over the butts of his guns, facing Smoke, who still held his Colts in his hands. “I’m faster, Jensen!” he called over the din of battle.
“No. You’re just dead,” Smoke told him. He lifted his right hand and shot the gunfighter. There was a time for discretion and a time for valor, but at no time was there a moment to be wasted on fools.
Smoke stepped over the dying man and walked on.
A searing pain in Smoke’s left leg turned him around and slammed him up against a wall. Gimpy Bonner and Scott Johnson faced him. Smoke lifted his Colts and let them bang. When the dust and gunsmoke cleared. Smoke was bloody but still standing.
Smoke reloaded, checked his wounds, and bound a bandana around the leg wound. He walked on as the sounds of galloping horses came to him over the shooting. About a dozen men were hauling their ashes away from the ranch. Smoke lifted his right-hand Colt and ended life for Ben Lewis who had lined up Jackson with a rifle. Ben danced for a moment, his spurs jingling his death chant, then slumped to the ground.
“Jensen!” the voice turned Smoke around to face Luddy.
Smoke didn’t hesitate. Just lifted both guns and began firing and walking toward the man. He stood over the bloody outlaw, their eyes meeting.
“I thought you’d give me fair chance, Jensen!” Luddy gasped.
“Did you ever give anyone a fair chance, Luddy?”
Luddy laughed humorlessly. “Can’t say that I ever did, come to think of it.” He shivered once. “Cold. Mighty cold all of a sudden.” He closed his eyes and died.
Smoke turned away.
The gunfire had all but faded away. The grounds around the great mansion were littered with bodies. Jason was sitting on the steps, his shirt front bloody, but he was holding on to life long enough to see the outcome of what was about to take place in front of him.
Clint and Jud faced each other, both of them with the same wild light in their eyes.
“Hello, Daddy!” Clint said sarcastically.
“You son of a bitch!” Jud snarled at him.
“You sure got that right,” the son told the father, then grabbed iron.
Father and son stood ten feet apart and put lead in each other. Both went to the ground on their knees at the same time. Both continued firing. Jud toppled over and Clint was only about one second behind him.
Walt walked up, one arm dangling useless from a .45 slug. He looked at the scene in front of him then lifted his eyes to Jason.
“I reckon it’s over and done, ain’t it, Walt?” the man gasped. “I reckon it is, Jason.”
“I reckon Jud just tried to toss too big a loop. Is that the way you see it?”
“Why did you and Jud kill my son?”
Jason laughed, a nasty bark of dark humor. “ ’Cause we wanted to, you old bastard!” Jason closed his eyes as the pale rider came closer.
Walt lifted his Colt and earred the hammer back. Then he slowly lowered the weapon as Jason tumbled down the steps to lie on the ground.
“Ride for Doc Evans and the sheriff, Matt,” Smoke told the boy.
“They’re comin’ up the road now, Smoke,” Matt told him, pointing. “And it looks like the Army is with them.”
28
Smoke had to hang around for the hearings—both state and federal government, since the Army had finally gotten involved—but that was all right, his wounds needed the time to heal. He watched as Rusty and Doreen, then Jackson and Susie got married. Since Walt was Jud’s sole living survivor, Walt took possession of the Bar V. He signed over the Box T to Rusty and Doreen and gave the Bar V to Jackson and Susie. Matt stayed on as a hand for Rusty. Walt and Alice were going to build a little place on Bear Lake and retire.
Jackson was having the great mansion torn down on the day Smoke rode out. The couple planned to build a smaller, much more practical ranch house.
Smoke stopped by the trading post for a beer and to say good-bye to Bendel.
He was halfway through his beer when Jaeger and Di Peso pushed open the batwings. Smoke sighed and set the mug down.
“Your time to die, Jensen,” Di Peso told him. “I don’t think so,” Smoke replied, turning and drawing both guns.
Smoke stepped over the bodies and walked to Dagger, swinging into the saddle and pointing Dagger’s head south, toward Arizona and Sally and the kids. Bendel’s voice stopped him. “Smoke!”
He twisted in the saddle.
“If you ever plan a return visit, do me a favor, will you?” Bendel yelled. “What’s that?”
“Please bring a damn shovel!”
William W. Johnstone is the USA Today and New York Times bestselling author of over 220 books, including THE FIRST MOUNTAIN MAN, THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN, BLOOD BOND, EAGLES, A TOWN CALLED FURY, SAVAGE TEXAS. MATT JENSEN, THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN; THE FAMILY JENSEN, SIDEWINDERS, THE LAST GUNFIGHTER. and the stand-alone thrillers Vengeance is Mine, Invasion USA, Border War, Remember the Alamo, Jackknife and Home Invasion. Visit his website at www.williamjohnstone.net or by email at [email protected].
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Copyright © 1989 William W. Johnstone
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