Whatever was going on outside had drawn several men to the entrance, where they opened the door and stood looking out. Tomlin heard one of them say something about corpses, and that perked up his interest enough to make him climb unsteadily to his feet. He stumbled over to the entrance and rasped, “What’s goin’ on out there?”
One of the cantina’s curious customers looked over his shoulder and said, “Some hombres are leadin’ in a bunch of horses with bodies draped over the saddles.”
“What?” Tomlin pushed into the doorway, then felt sobriety hit him like a bucket of cold water in the face. The sight of Luke, Smoke, and Matt Jensen, along with the old-timer called Preacher and that damned dog, drove the drunkenness right out of Tomlin. He took a quick step back, putting himself in the shadows inside the cantina again.
The Jensens hadn’t warned him that they would kill him if they ever laid eyes on him again, but Tomlin didn’t want to take a chance on that. They had reputations as tough, deadly, unforgiving enemies. He retreated to the table and his bottle and glass, shame burning in him at the knowledge those canvas-wrapped corpses were those of his former friends.
Maybe Shawcross should’ve left well enough alone and not gone after Luke Jensen, thought Tomlin, but what had happened still wasn’t fair.
He knew that if he hadn’t scurried back to the saloon from the livery stable to tell Shawcross what he’d seen, the rest of the gang might still be alive. That didn’t actually make their deaths his fault, but he’d had a hand in the whole mess and he couldn’t stop thinking about that.
What could he do, though, he asked himself as he tipped more tequila into the glass. How could he fix this? He was only one man.
A shadow fell over the table, and a man’s voice said, “You look a mite upset, amigo. What’s wrong?”
Tomlin looked up, saw two men standing there. Their stances were casually arrogant, thumbs hooked in their gun belts and hats pushed back. They had a strong enough resemblance between them for him to guess they were brothers. Just looking at them was enough to make him uneasy, because he sensed that they carried trouble with them.
“It’s nothin’,” he replied with a shake of his head.
“Didn’t look like nothing,” one of the men said. He drew out an empty chair at the table, reversed it, and straddled it. The other man did likewise as the first one went on. “You saw somebody you know out there, and you’re not happy about it. Nate and me, we saw those fellas ride by with those dead bodies. Friends of yours?”
“Hell, no,” Tomlin said. “They’re no friends of mine.”
“What about the dead men?” the one called Nate asked. “Maybe they were your pards.”
The first man nudged the bottle, which had only about an inch of liquor left in it. “Let me get you another bottle of tequila, and you can tell us all about it.”
Tomlin thought about it then licked his lips. “Yeah, sure. Why the hell not?”
It had been a mistake telling the Riordan brothers what had happened in Espantosa, Petey Tomlin thought later that day as an early dusk was settling over Espantosa. At first, he hadn’t seen what it would hurt. Nate and Chuck had been so friendly, grinning and plying him with tequila and assuring him that none of the bloody violence had been his fault.
He hadn’t realized at the time that all they were really interested in was making names for themselves as gunmen.
Standing in the gathering shadows just inside the mouth of an alley, nervously clutching a shotgun while he waited for his quarry to come along, he gave thought to what had happened.
They fancied themselves as being fast on the draw and dangerous, and there could be no better way of proving that than becoming known as the ones who killed the Jensen brothers and Preacher.
“Once we’ve done that,” Chuck said, “it won’t be any time at all before a bunch of hombres are wanting to ride with us.”
“We’ll put together a gang that’ll make everybody in the territory forget about the old Shawcross outfit,” Nate added.
Chuck nodded. “And you’ll be our second in command, Pete, since you’re the one who’s going to help us get the whole thing started.”
Tomlin liked the way they called him Pete. Jack Shawcross and the other members of the gang had always made “Petey” sound like they were looking down on him. Between that newfound respect and the tequila, it was easy for him to smile and nod and agree to whatever they suggested.
Chuck got the shotgun and gave it to Tomlin, telling him, “You’ll just be the distraction, Pete. When you step out and confront the Jensens, they’ll be looking at you, so it’ll be easier for us to take them from across the street.”
“But that’s not really the same as outdrawin’ ’em, is it?” Tomlin asked with a frown. “It’s almost like bush-whackin’.”
For a second, anger flickered across the brothers’ faces, then Nate said, “No, it’s not the same thing at all. You’ve got to remember, they’ll all be dead and we’ll be the only ones left alive to tell the story. So we can tell it any way we want, can’t we?”
“Well . . . I reckon that’s true . . .”
“As far as the rest of the world’s concerned, it’ll be a straight-up shootout,” Chuck said. “You know, if that’s how we wanted to play it, we could take them that way, too. This way is just simpler and quicker, that’s all.”
Tomlin wasn’t sure about that. He had seen the way guns had appeared in the Jensens’ hands as if by magic, their movements way too quick for the eye to follow.
He shook his head to get rid of the memory and his uncertainty. Maybe Nate and Chuck were right.
Anyway, it was how Tomlin came to find himself standing in the gathering shadows just inside the mouth of an alley, nervously clutching the shotgun, too late to back out. He had followed the Jensens as they left the hotel, walked a couple blocks to a restaurant for supper, and were on their way back to the hotel. He had thought they might go to one of Taos’s saloons and have a drink after they’d eaten, but that didn’t appear to be their plan.
As they walked out of the restaurant, Luke took a thin black cheroot from his shirt pocket and put it in his mouth. He didn’t set fire to the gasper, just left it there unlit. He was pleasantly full from the meal they had just enjoyed, and while the weather was a little raw, at least it wasn’t raining anymore.
Despite that good feeling, he hadn’t changed his mind about his future plans, and he figured it was as good a time as any to broach the subject. “I guess you boys will be starting north for Colorado tomorrow.”
“We don’t mind waiting here until your money comes in, Luke. That shouldn’t take more than a few days.” Smoke paused, then added, “But that’s not what you were talking about, is it?”
Luke chuckled around the cheroot. “Nobody could ever put anything over on you, Kirby, even when you were a kid.” He was the only one who used Smoke’s given name, and then only when something put him in mind of their childhood back in Missouri.
“What are you getting at, Luke?” Matt asked. “Aren’t you coming back to the Sugarloaf with us?”
Luke shook his head. “No, I don’t think I am. I believe once my money has come in, I’ll head on over into Texas.”
“And do what?” Smoke asked. “Look for more outlaws you can bring in dead or alive?”
“That’s what I do,” Luke replied, his voice a little sharp.
Tomlin saw the four of them a block away, walking at a deliberate pace and talking among themselves as they passed in and out of blocks of light coming from the windows of the buildings they passed.
He used his thumb to cock both of the scattergun’s hammers. The Riordan brothers had told him he didn’t really have to shoot. They would take care of that, they claimed.
But he wasn’t going to let them do everything, he vowed. He wasn’t going to threaten the Jensens and spew a lot of bravado. No, he was just going to throw down on them and feed them a double load of buckshot. Maybe if he did that, he could forget about ever
ything that had happened back in Espantosa. . . .
He swallowed hard, glanced across the street to where Chuck and Nate were hidden behind a parked wagon, and tightened his grip on the shotgun. The Jensens were close enough he could hear them talking. He took a deep breath and steeled himself to step out and start the ball.
“Are you sure you’re in good enough shape to be hunting up outlaws?” Smoke asked.
“I’m fine,” Luke insisted. “I’ll be back up to my fighting weight before you know it.”
“Sally won’t be too happy if you don’t come back with us,” Smoke warned him. “She knew we were going off to give you a helping hand, and when I wired her after that whole business was over that you were all right, she replied that I should bring you home with me. She said she’d fatten you up in no time.”
Preacher added, “And Miss Sally’s bear sign ’ll sure do it, too.”
“My mouth’s watering just thinking about it,” Matt put in.
Luke said, “I appreciate all that, but I still think it’s time for me to go my own way again. No offense, but I’m used to being by myself—”
He didn’t have a chance to say any more. At that moment, a figure scuttled out of the alley mouth ahead of them and swung the menacing twin barrels of a Greener in their direction.
Chapter 7
Instinct took over for all four men. Hands blurred to gun butts. Weapons sprang free of their holsters and roared together in a deafening crash of gun-thunder. Tongues of flame leaped from the muzzles pointed at the shotgun-wielding hombre.
Whoever he was, the fella never had a chance. At least six slugs smashed into his chest, all of them within inches of each other. The bullets tore through his body and burst out his back. He wound up with a hole all the way through him that a man could have almost put a fist through.
The impact of that many bullets tossed him backwards like a rag doll. The Greener’s twin barrels were pointed almost straight up when his finger jerked the triggers and touched off the loads. The blast lit up the street for a split second.
Man and shotgun alike thudded to the dirt street next to each other. Barely three heartbeats had gone by since he had lunged out of the alley to threaten Smoke and the others.
Echoes from the pistol volley and the shotgun’s double discharge still filled the air, but Smoke heard fresh gunfire anyway and was aware of the wind-rip of a bullet as it whipped past his ear. From the corner of his eye he spotted a muzzle flash and whirled in that direction.
The shots were coming from behind a wagon parked across the street. It looked like a bushwhacker was crouched at each end of the vehicle, firing over the sideboards.
Acting out of instinct again, the four men scattered as bullets whined through the air around them. As they split up, they returned the shots, sending a storm of lead at the wagon.
Smoke drifted to his right. Something began striking lightly against his hat and shoulders as he moved, feeling like big drops of rain or small hailstones. After a second, he realized it was the buckshot fired from the Greener, falling back to earth as gravity claimed it.
The buckshot didn’t pose a real threat. It was more of an annoyance than anything else. The real danger came from the men behind the wagon, who were still stubbornly spraying bullets across the street.
Smoke dropped to a knee behind a water trough. To his left, Matt had taken cover behind a rain barrel. Preacher had ducked into the alcove of a store’s entrance where he was still relatively exposed, but he pressed his whip-like thinness into a small angle, which gave him some protection.
Luke was the only one still out in the open, and he was sliding sideways toward a parked buggy as the Remingtons in his hands spat fire and lead. Suddenly, he stumbled and went down.
Fury filled Smoke at the thought that his older brother might be badly wounded, or even worse.
They hadn’t pulled Luke out of that tight spot in Massacre Canyon only to have him gunned down in the crooked, narrow streets of Taos. Yelling, “Pour it on!” to Matt and Preacher, Smoke sprang up again and dashed toward Luke.
As he approached, he saw Luke struggling to get up, which was a relief of sorts. At least he was still alive. Smoke holstered his guns and grabbed his brother under the arms from behind. As he started dragging him toward the buggy, Luke demanded, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Hunt some cover, Smoke!”
“Not without you,” Smoke grunted as he pulled Luke, a big, rangy man, and certainly no lightweight. Smoke’s broad shoulders and long arms held enormous strength. He heaved and backed up until both of them sprawled on the ground behind the buggy.
It wasn’t the safest place in the world. The would-be killers could still fire through the gaps between the spokes of the buggy wheels. A slug kicked up dust only a couple feet from Smoke as he knelt next to Luke. “How bad are you hit?”
“I’m not hit at all!” Luke answered surprisingly. “One of those guys shot one of my boot heels off!”
That was even more of a relief. Smoke chuckled. “Well, I’m glad you’re not about to bleed to death. Since you can’t move very well while you’re missing a heel, stay here and help Matt and Preacher cover me. I’m going to cross the street so I can come at those varmints from a different direction.”
“Let me take my other boot off and I can come with you. I can run in my sock feet.”
“Be better if you can make those fellas keep their heads down for a few seconds,” Smoke told him. “Reload those Remingtons and let me know when you’re ready.”
Luke looked like he wanted to argue, but he thumbed fresh cartridges into the two long-barreled revolvers, then gave Smoke a curt nod. “Go ahead. Matt and Preacher ought to pick up on what you’re trying to do.”
“We can hope so. Now!” Smoke dashed out from behind the buggy as Luke stood up and began emptying the Remingtons diagonally across the street toward the wagon where the ambushers lurked. Farther along the street, Matt and Preacher followed suit. Bullets chewed into the wagon’s frame and threw a shower of splinters into the air.
Smoke was lucky. He didn’t step in any holes or slip in any horse manure as he sprinted across the street. When he reached the other side he drew his guns again and angled toward the wagon. The bombardment from Luke, Matt, and Preacher was coming to an end as their weapons began to run dry, but it had served its purpose. Smoke’s keen eyes could see the two bushwhackers as they crouched behind the wagon.
They seemed to be aware of the deadly danger in which they suddenly found themselves. They let out alarmed yells as they whirled to face the charging Smoke. He dove forward to the ground as more Colt flame bloomed in the darkness ahead of him. Landing on his belly as bullets tore through the air a couple feet above him, he triggered both Colts.
His shots possessed an uncanny, almost supernatural accuracy. One bushwhacker screamed, dropped his gun, and doubled over as two slugs punched into his guts. The other managed to keep firing, but only for a second longer before a bullet drove deep into his chest and exploded his heart. He dropped straight down, dead even as he collapsed.
The gut-shot man was still alive, writhing on the ground next to the wagon as blood poured between his fingers. Smoke surged up, hurried closer, and kicked the man’s gun well out of reach. He holstered his left-hand gun, fished a lucifer from his pocket, and set the match afire with a snap of his iron-hard thumbnail.
The sudden glare revealed the faces of two young men, reasonably handsome and looking enough alike that they had to be related. They were strangers to Smoke. He was sure he had never seen either of them before.
The mortally wounded man was curled up on his side. Smoke toed his shoulder and rolled him onto his back. Keeping the gun trained on the young man, he asked, “Who are you, mister, and why did you try to kill us?”
“Go to . . . hell, Jensen!” the dying man gasped. “We woulda been . . . famous . . .”
That told Smoke all he needed to know as the stranger’s final breath rattled in his throat. The gatherin
g pool of dark blood around him told Smoke that one of the bullets must have nicked an artery. The bushwhacker was fortunate to have died quickly. Belly wounds usually meant a slow, agonizing finish, but he had bled to death in moments.
Luke, Matt, and Preacher approached, Luke limping because of the ruined boot on his right foot. As the match burned down and Smoke dropped it in the street, Preacher asked, “Who in tarnation are those fellas?”
“I don’t know their names,” Smoke said, “but I know what they wanted. They figured on being famous as the men who killed the Jensens.”
“And now all they get is a hole in the local graveyard,” Matt said. “What about the other one?”
“Let’s go take a look,” Smoke suggested.
They crossed the street, where he lit another match to reveal the slain gunner’s face.
“Petey Tomlin!” Luke exclaimed. “I’d hoped he would have more sense than that.”
“Well,” Preacher said, “I reckon you can collect the bounty on him, too.”
“And that makes it a clean sweep on the Shawcross gang,” Matt pointed out. “Ought to be a big enough payday you won’t have to work for a while, Luke.”
“The money’s not the only reason I do what I do,” Luke grumbled. “After all these years, it’s the only thing I know. And this doesn’t change my mind. I’m still not going back to Sugarloaf.”
“Sally will be disappointed,” Smoke said again as he started reloading his guns. “Things have probably been boring enough on the ranch that she’s looking forward to having all of us around again.”
Chapter 8
Sally Jensen was perched on the seat of the Sugarloaf’s buckboard, giving her a good view of what was going on inside the corral next to it. A part of her would have preferred to climb up on the fence’s top rail and sit there, but that wouldn’t have been very ladylike. She had hitched up a team and driven over from the barn, instead.
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