The number 5 was tilted to one side, but Smoke didn’t have any difficulty making it out. He unlocked the door, then went inside. The room was dark, illuminated only by the fact that he had left the door open and some light spilled in from the hall. He saw a kerosene lamp on the bedside table, as well as several matches.
Dooley was frustrated that Smoke had managed to go into the hotel before he was able to take a shot at him. He put his pistol back in his holster while he contemplated what to do next.
Dooley had a room in the hotel himself. Maybe the best thing to do would be to wait until much later, then sneak down the hall into Smoke’s room and kill him in the middle of the night.
Dooley had just about decided to go back to the saloon and have a few drinks while he was waiting, when he saw a lantern light up in one of the windows facing the street on the second floor of the hotel. That had to be Smoke Jensen.
As it happened, the stable was just across the street from the hotel, so Dooley ran back to the alley, then down to the stable, coming in through the back door. Going to the stall where his horse was boarded and his saddle waited, he snaked his rifle from the saddle holster. Then, with rifle in hand, he climbed into the hayloft and hurried to the front to look across the street into the hotel. He smiled broadly when he saw that the shade was up and the lantern was lit. Just as he had thought it would be, the occupant of the room was Smoke Jensen.
He had an excellent view from the hayloft.
It was a little stuffy in the room, so Smoke walked over to the window, then raised it to catch the night breeze. That was when he saw a sudden flash of light in the hayloft over the livery across the street.
Instinctively, Smoke knew that he was seeing a muzzle flash even before he heard the gun report. Because of that, he was already pulling away from the window, even as the bullet was crashing through the glass and slamming into the wall on the opposite side of the room.
Smoke cursed himself for the foolish way he had exposed himself at the window. He knew better; he had just let his guard down. He reached up to extinguish the lantern, and as he did so, a second shot came crashing through the window.
He extinguished the lamp, and the room grew dark.
“Damn!” Dooley said aloud. He jacked another round into the chamber of his rifle and stared across the street into the open, but now dark, window of Smoke Jensen’s room.
Dooley was very quiet, very still, and very observant for a long time, and it paid off. He saw the top of Jensen’s head appear just above the windowsill. He fired a third time.
This bullet was closer than either one of the other two, so close that he could feel the concussion of the bullet. But this time he had seen the muzzle flash from across the way, so he had a very good idea of where the shooter was, and he fired back.
Dooley hadn’t expected Jensen to return fire. For one thing, Dooley was well back into the loft, so he was convinced that he couldn’t be seen at all. He hadn’t counted on Jensen being able to use the muzzle flash of his rifle to locate his position.
The bullet from Jensen’s pistol clipped just a little piece of his ear, and he cried out and slapped his hand to the shredded earlobe.
“You son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath.
“What was that?” Smoke heard someone shout.
“Gunshots. Sounded like they came from down by the . . .”
That was as far as the disembodied voice got before another shot crashed through the window.
“Get off the street!” another voice called. “Everyone, get off the street!”
Smoke heard the command, loud and authoritative, floating up from below. “Everyone, get inside!”
Smoke recognized the voice. It belonged to Deputy Clayton, the man he had been playing cards with but a few minutes earlier. On his hands and knees so as not to present a target, Smoke crept up to the open window and looked out again. He saw the deputy running up the street.
“Clayton, stay away!” he shouted down to him. Clayton headed for the livery stable with his pistol in his hand. “Clayton, no! Get back!”
Smoke’s warning was not heeded. A third volley was fired from the livery hayloft, and Clayton fell facedown in the street.
With his pistol in his hand, Smoke climbed out of the window, scrambled to the edge of the porch, then dropped down onto the street. Running to Clayton’s still form, he bent down to check on him. Clayton had been hit hard, and through the open wound in his chest, Smoke could hear the gurgling sound of his lungs sucking air and filling with blood.
“Damnit, Clayton, I told you to get down,” Smoke scolded softly.
“It was my job,” Clayton replied in a pained voice.
At that moment, another rifle shot was fired from the livery. The bullet hit the ground close by, then ricocheted away with a loud whine.
“He’s still up there,” Clayton said.
“Yeah, I know,” Smoke said.
“What’s going on?” someone shouted.
“What’s all the shootin’ about?” another asked.
“Get back!” Smoke yelled. “Do what the deputy told you! Get back!”
“Is the deputy dead?”
Another shot from the loft of the stable did what Clayton and Smoke had been unable to do. It forced all the curious onlookers away from the street and out of the line of fire.
Smoke fired back, shooting once into the dark maw of the hayloft. Then, taking Clayton’s pistol and sticking it down in his belt, he ran to the water trough nearest the livery, diving behind it just as the man in the livery fired again. He heard the bullet hit the trough with a loud popping sound. He could hear the water bubbling through the bullet hole in the water trough, even as he got up and ran toward the door of the livery.
Smoke shot two more times to keep the shooter back. Then, when he reached the big, open double doors of the livery, he ran on through them so that he was inside.
Once inside, he moved quietly through the barn itself, looking up at the hayloft just overhead. Suddenly he felt little pieces of straw falling on him and he stopped, because he realized that someone had to be right over him. That’s when he heard it, a quiet shuffling of feet. He fired twice, straight up, but was rewarded only with a shower of more bits and pieces of straw.
“That’s six shots. You’re out of bullets, you son of a bitch,” a calm voice said.
Smoke looked over to his left to see a man standing in the open on the edge of the loft. It was one of the bank robbers.
“Well,” Smoke said. “If it isn’t the pockmarked droopy-eyed son of a bitch who set me up.”
“How the hell did you get out of jail, Jensen?” he asked. “I figured they’d have you hung by now. I must confess that I was some surprised when I seen you come in the saloon tonight.”
“You’re going to shoot me, are you?” Smoke asked.
“Seems like the logical thing to do, don’t you think?”
“What’s your name?”
Dooley laughed. “What do you need to know my name for?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because I’d like to know the name of the man that wants to kill me.”
“It ain’t just wantin’ to, Jensen. I’m goin’ to kill you. And to satisfy your curiosity, my name is Dooley. Ebenezer Dooley.”
“Since you are in a sharing mood, Mr. Dooley, where are the others?” Smoke asked.
Dooly laughed. “You got some sand, Jensen,” he said. “Worryin’ about where the others are when I’m fixin’ to shoot you dead.”
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know where they all went, but the Logan brothers was goin’ to Bertrand. Not that it’ll matter to you. You got ’ny prayers, now’s the time to say them.”
Slowly, and deliberately, the outlaw raised his rifle to his shoulder to take aim.
Smoke raised his pistol and fired.
Dooley got a surprised look on his face as he reached down and clasped his hands over the wound in his chest. He fell forward, tumbling over once in
the air, then landing on his back in a pile of straw in the stall right under him. The horse whinnied and moved to one side of the stall, barely avoiding the falling body.
Smoke stepped into the stall and looked down at Dooley. The outlaw was gasping for breath, and bubbles of blood came from his mouth.
“How did you do that?” Dooley asked. “I counted six shots.”
Smoke held out the pistol. “This is the deputy’s gun,” he said. “I borrowed it before I ran in here.”
“I’ll be go to hell,” Dooley said, his voice strained with pain.
“I expect you will,” Smoke said as Dooley drew his last breath.
Smoke saw that the horse was still pretty agitated, and he petted it on the neck to try and calm it down.
“I’ll be damned,” he said. “No wonder you are upset. You’re his horse, aren’t you?”
The horse continued to show its agitation.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot you. You can’t help it because your owner was such a bastard.”
As Smoke continued to try and calm the horse, he saw a twenty-dollar bill lying in the straw over by the edge of the stall, just under the saddle.
“Hello, what’s this?” he said, leaving the horse and going over to retrieve the bill. That’s when he saw another bill sticking out of the rifle sheath.
Smoke stuck his hand down into the rifle holster and felt a cloth bag. Pulling the bag out, he saw that it was marked BANK OF ETNA. There were five packets of bills in the bag, each packet wrapped by a band that said $1000. Four of the packets were full, and one was partially full.
Smoke looked back toward the door of the stable to make certain that he wasn’t being watched; then he took the money bundles from the bag and stuck them inside his shirt. After that, he stuffed the empty bag back down into the rifle boot, then walked out into the street.
The street was still empty.
“It’s all right, the shooter’s dead!” Smoke called. “Someone get Doc McGuire to come have a look at the deputy!”
At his call, several people began appearing from inside the various buildings and houses that fronted the street. One of the first to show up was Doc McGuire, who, carrying his bag, hurried to the side of the fallen deputy. Kneeling beside the deputy, Doc McGuire put his stethoscope to the young man’s chest. He listened for a moment, then, with his face glum, shook his head.
“He’s dead,” he said.
One of the others to hurry to the scene was the sheriff. The sheriff, who had gotten out of bed, was still tucking his shirt into his trousers as he came up. His badge gleamed in the moonlight.
“Damn,” he said as he saw his deputy lying on the ground. “Anybody know who did this?”
“His name was Dooley. Ebenezer Dooley, and you’ll find him in the barn,” Smoke said.
“In the barn?” the sheriff said, pulling his pistol.
“It’s all right. He’s dead.”
The sheriff looked at Smoke. “Did you kill him?”
“Yes.”
“And who might you be?”
“The name’s Kirby. Bill Kirby,” Smoke said, continuing to use his alias.
“Tell me, Kirby, did you have a personal grudge with this fella?” Sheriff Fawcett asked.
“No.”
“Then how come it was that you and him got into a shootin’ war?”
“You’d have to ask Dooley that, Sheriff,” Smoke said. “He’s the one that started the shooting.”
“What are you pickin’ on him for, Sheriff?” one of the townspeople asked. “He’s right, the man in the barn started the shootin’ and Deputy Clayton come after him, only he got hisself kilt. Then this fella”—he pointed at Smoke—“went in after him. “I seen it. I seen it all.”
“Did you know this man?” Sheriff Fawcett asked Smoke.
“No.”
“Then, how’d you know his name was Dooley?”
“He told me his name before he died.”
Sheriff Fawcett had a handlebar mustache, and he curled the end of it for a moment. “Seems to me like I’ve heard that name before. There may be a wanted poster on him. Are you a bounty hunter?”
“I’m not a bounty hunter. I just happened to be here when this all started happening.”
“Mr. Kirby would you be willing to stop by my office tomorrow and answer a few questions for me?”
“I don’t mind,” Smoke said.
“In the meantime, if some of you fellas would get these bodies over to the undertaker, I’ll go see Mrs. Clayton and tell her about her husband.” Sheriff Fawcett sighed. “I’d rather take a beating than do that.”
Smoke hung around until the two bodies were moved; then he walked back across the street and into the hotel. The hotel clerk was standing at the front door when Smoke went inside.
“Mister, that’s about the bravest thing I ever seen, the way you run into that barn like that. It was the dumbest too, but it sure was brave.”
“You’re half right,” Smoke said with a little chuckle. “It was dumb.”
When Smoke went up to his room, he took the money out of his shirt, counted it, then put it in his saddle bags. He’d counted 4,910 dollars, which was nearly half of what had been stolen. He wasn’t exactly sure how he was going to handle it, but he had it in mind that, somehow, returning the money might help him prove his innocence.
But this was only half the money. For his plan to work, he would have to track down every remaining bank robber and retrieve whatever money was left.
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning Dooley’s corpse was put on display in the front window of Laney’s Hardware Store. He was propped up in a plain pine box, and was still wearing the same denim trousers and white shirt he had been wearing at the time of his death.
Dooley’s eyes were open and opaque, and his mouth was drawn to one side as if in a sneer. When the viewers looked closely enough, they could see that, although the undertaker had made a notable effort, he had not been able to get rid of all the blood from the repaired bullet hole in the shirt.
A sign was hanging around the corpse’s neck.
EBENEZER DOOLEY
THE MURDERER OF
DEPUTY GIDEON CLAYTON
SHOT AND KILLED BY BILL KIRBY
ON THE SAME NIGHT
After the money was divided, the five remaining bank robbers went their separate ways. Dooley went off by himself, but the Logan brothers left together, and so did Fargo Masters and Ford DeLorian, who were first cousins.
Ford was relieving himself while Fargo remained mounted, his leg hooked around the saddle horn.
“Hey, Fargo,” Ford called up from his squatting position. “You know what I been thinkin’?”
“Ha,” Fargo teased. “I didn’t even know you could think, let alone what you were thinkin’.”
“I’m thinkin’ it don’t do no good to have this here money if we ain’t got no place to spend it.”
“Yeah, I’ve give that a little thought myself,” Fargo replied.
Ford grabbed a handful of leaves and made use of them. “So, how about we go into the next town and spend a little of this money?” he said as he pulled his trousers back up.
“Sounds fine by me,” Fargo replied. “Where is the closest town?”
“Closest town is Dorena,” Ford said, “But we can’t go there.”
“Why not?” Fargo asked.
“’Cause that’s where Dooley was goin’.”
“So?”
“I thought he said it wouldn’t be good for us to all go to the same place.”
“We won’t all be in the same place,” Fargo said. “Just you’n me and Dooley.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Ford said as he remounted. “Ain’t no reason he gets to go to the closest town and we got to ride over hell’s half acre, just to find us a place to spend some money.”
“That’s what I was thinkin’. You been to Dorena before?” Fargo asked.
“Yeah, once, a long time ago.”<
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“I’ve never been there. What’s the best way to get there from here?” Fargo asked.
“It’s just on the other side of that range of hills there,” Ford said, pointing. “We should be there by noon.”
“First thing I’m goin’ to do when we get there is get me a big piece of apple pie,” Ford said. “With cheese on top.”
Fargo laughed. “You just give me an idea about what I aim to get me.”
“What is that?” Ford asked.
“A cold piece of pie and a hot piece of ass,” Fargo called back over his shoulder as he slapped his legs against the side of his horse, causing it to break into a trot.
Ford laughed, then urged his horse into a trot as well.
The sun was high in the sky as Fargo and Ford reached Dorena. A small, hand-painted sign on the outer edge of the town read:
Dorena
Population 515
Come Grow With Us
No railroad served the town, and its single street was dotted liberally with horse apples. At either end of the street, as well as in the middle, planks were laid from one side to the other to allow people to cross over when the street was filled with mud.
The buildings of the little town were as washed out and flyblown up close as they had seemed from some distance. The first structure they rode by was a blacksmith’s shop.
TOOMEY’S BLACKSMITH SHOP
Ironwork Done.
Tree Stumps Blasted.
That was at the east end of town on the north side of the street. There, Ford and Fargo saw a tall and muscular man bent over the anvil, the ringing of his hammer audible above all else. Across the street from the blacksmith shop, on the south side of the street, was a butcher shop, then a general store and a bakery. Next were a couple of small houses, then a leather shop next door to an apothecary. A set of outside stairs climbed the left side of the drugstore to a small stoop that stuck out from the second floor. A sign, with a painted hand that had a finger pointing up, read:
Betrayal of the Mountain Man Page 14
