The buckshot took half the roof off as it tore through Carlton, shredding his left arm to bloody pulp and flinging him out off the roof. He landed on his back on a water trough, his spine snapping with an audible crack.

  In the saloon, Blackie Jackson leaned over and whispered to Lazarus, "It don't look good, boss. Let's hightail it out of town and live to fight another day."

  "Have you got the horses tied out back like I told you?"

  Jackson nodded.

  Lazarus jumped to his feet and hurried toward the door. "Then let's make tracks."

  Curly Joe Ventrillo, Tom "Behind the Deuces" Cartwright, and Jeremy Brett were left to face Smoke and Joey alone in the saloon.

  Smoke and Joey slipped through the batwings and stepped to the side, each with their backs against the wall, letting their eyes adjust to the gloom in the room.

  Ventrillo, Brett, and Cartwright walked out onto the second floor landing, looking down at Smoke and Joey over the railing.

  "I don't suppose you chaps would allow us to ride out of here, would you?" Brett asked, a sardonic smile on his face.

  "Not likely," Joey growled, his hands hanging next to his pistol.

  Ventrillo spread his hands wide. "But, we have you outnumbered. You don't have a chance of killing all three of us before one of us gets you."

  "You fellows called this dance, now someone's got to pay the band. Jerk that six killer and go to work."

  The five men drew, Smoke and Joey's hands moving so fast it was almost a blur.

  Four shots rang out before any of the outlaws on the landing cleared leather.

  Smoke put one in Brett's chest and another in Carlton's neck. Joey put a slug in Ventrillo's face and another in Carlton's stomach.

  As smoke billowed and the men fell to the floor, Smoke heard hoofbeats from the back of the saloon.

  "Cain's getting away," he said.

  Smoke and Joey ran toward the livery to get horses to follow the outlaw leader.

  Thirty-two

  Pearlie and Cal were watching the sky over Fontana turn orange and red in the reflected glow of burning buildings.

  "Dammit, Pearlie," Cal said, "we oughta be there to help Smoke out."

  "Yeah, I know, Cal, but I aim to do what Smoke said, as hard as it is to miss the action."

  "Sh-h-h," Cal whispered. "I hear horses comin'."

  The two men got down off the buckboard where they'd been sitting and slipped the hammer thongs off their pistols.

  Four riders came galloping up, reining in when they saw the road blocked by the wagon, and the two men standing in front of it.

  Walter Blackwell called out, "Get your wagon outta our way!"

  Cal gave a low laugh. "You know who that galoot is, Pearlie?"

  "No," Pearlie shook his head.

  "It's the man who shot his friend, Bloody Bill Anderson, in the back, to save his own skin."

  Pearlie nodded. "Looks like he's turning tail and runnin' from another fight, don't it, Cal?"

  "Sure does," Cal answered.

  Sweat began to form on Blackwell's forehead. "You men get out of our way or we'll be forced to gun you down!" he yelled.

  Both Cal and Pearlie grinned. "Let's dance!" Pearlie said.

  Six men went for their guns simultaneously.

  Cal was a shade faster than Pearlie and got off the first shot, hitting Blackwell in the chest before he cleared leather.

  Pearlie shot a fraction of a second later, his slug taking Johnny Samson in the left eye, blowing out the side of his skull and breaking his neck.

  Floyd Devers fired once, just as Cal's second shot hit him in the stomach, doubling him over his saddle horn with a grunt of pain. Cal fired again, into his right ear, knocking him out of the saddle and onto the ground.

  Tad Younger and Pearlie fired at the same time, Younger taking one in the neck and Pearlie taking one in the left shoulder.

  As cordite and gunsmoke swirled in a thick cloud and echoes of gunfire reverberated off distant mountains, Pearlie and Cal looked at each other.

  "Well, I'll be darned," Pearlie muttered, glancing down at his shoulder. "Looks like some of your natural attraction for lead has rubbed off onto me."

  Cal removed his hat and stuck his finger through the hole Devers's bullet had left in it. "Yeah, thank goodness." He sighed.

  Blackie Jackson and Lazarus Cain slowed their horses to a walk, letting them blow after their long ride from Fontana.

  "You think any of the boys got out alive?" Jackson asked.

  Lazarus shook his head. "Doubtful. Not if Jensen's as good as they say he is."

  A voice came from the darkness behind them. "He is, and they didn't," Joey Wells said.

  Jackson and Cain whirled around to find Smoke Jensen and Joey Wells sitting on horses just behind them.

  "Well, well," Lazarus said. "So it comes down to this, huh?"

  "That's right," Smoke said. "You came after me, and now you've found me. Let's settle this."

  Blackie Jackson, thinking Smoke's attention was fixed on Lazarus, went for his pistol. Two shots rang out almost as one, both hitting Jackson in the chest an inch apart, right over his heart. When he hit the dirt his gun was still in its holster, untouched.

  Lazarus eyed the tall figure dressed in buckskins as they faced each other across the mountain meadow. His hands tensed above the walnut grips of his holstered revolvers, pistols that had killed dozens of times before.

  "You're no match for me, Jensen. I'll kill you before you can clear leather."

  "That hasn't been decided yet," a stony voice replied, a cold stare fixed on Lazarus. "You reach for them guns, an' one of us is gonna die."

  Something stirred inside Lazarus Cain, a chilly feeling he'd never known before, forming a knot in his belly. He looked down at Blackie Jackson, lying dead as a stone where Smoke Jensen and Joey Wells had killed him as casually as swatting a fly.

  "You can't be that good," Lazarus spat at the mountain man. His mouth went dry as he said it, yet he refused to believe the taste on his tongue might be fear.

  "Only one way to find out," Smoke Jensen replied evenly, no change in his tone or expression. "Go for your guns and we'll settle this. I'm tired of all this banter. You're wastin' a helluva lot of my time."

  Lazarus gave Jensen a false grin, ready to make his play. "I never was one to let a feller back me down . .

  As he grabbed for his gun he saw Jensen's hand move almost faster than his eye could follow.

  His gun was half out of his holster when Lazarus heard an explosion and felt as if he'd been kicked in the chest by a mule.

  The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back looking up at stars and a moon half hidden behind scurrying clouds.

  He reached into his coat pocket, over his heart, and took out the Bible his father had given him. Just above the bullet imbedded in it was a hole. He smiled grimly, then died.

  On the way back to Fontana, Joey glanced over at Smoke. "We're gonna have to get together more often, Smoke," he drawled. "Life's been gettin' plumb dull without you around."

 

 

  William W. Johnstone, Guns of the Mountain Man

 

 

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