Live by the West, Die by the West Page 14

  That set them off again, howling and rolling on the ground while their horses looked at the men as if they were a bunch of idiots.

  * * *

  After a few hours’ sleep, Smoke rolled out of his blankets, noting that Lujan and Beans were already up. Smoke washed his face and combed his hair and was on his first cup of bunkhouse coffee—strong enough to warp a spoon—when Cord came in.

  “I just got the word,” the rancher said. “You and the boys played Billy-Hell last night over to the D-H. Doc Adair was rolled out about three this morning. So far there’s four dead and two wounded who ain’t gonna make it. Several busted arms and legs and heads. Dooley took a six-inch-long splinter in one side of his butt. Adair said the man has gone slap-dab nuts. Just sent off a wire to a cattle buyer to sell off a thousand head for money to hire more gunslicks . . . or rather, he sent someone in to send the wire. Dooley can’t sit a saddle just yet.” Try as he did, Cord could not contain his smile.

  “Hell, Cord,” Smoke complained. “There aren’t any more gunfighters.”

  “Dad Estes,” Cord said, his smile fading.

  Smoke stood up from the rickety chair. “You have got to be kidding!”

  “Wish I was. They been hiding out over in the Idaho wilderness. Just surfaced a couple of weeks ago on the Montana border.”

  “I haven’t heard anything about Dad in several years. Not since the Regulators ran them out of Colorado.”

  Cord shook his head. “I been hearin’ for some time they been murderin’ and robbin’ miners to stay alive. Makin’ little forays out of the wilderness and then duckin’ back in.”

  “How many men are we talking about, Cord?”

  Cord shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know. Twenty to thirty, I’d guess.”

  “Then all we’re doing is taking two steps forward and three steps back.”

  “Looks like.”

  “Did you get a report on damage last night?”

  “One bunkhouse completely ruined, the other one badly damaged. The big house is pretty well shot, back and front. Smoke, Dooley has given the word: shoot us on sight. He says Gibson is his and for us to stay out of it.”

  “The hell I will!”

  “That’s the same thing everybody else around here told me . . . more or less.”

  “Well, it was funny while it lasted.” Smoke’s words were glum.

  Cord poured a cup of coffee. “Personally, I’d like to have seen it. Beans and Lujan has been entertaining the crews for an hour. Did Lanny Ball really have his guns strapped on over his short drawers?”

  Smoke laughed. “Yeah. That was right before the door hit him.”

  Both men shared a laugh. Cord said, “Would it do any good to wire for some federal marshals?”

  “I can’t see that it would. It would be our word against theirs. And they’d just back off until the marshals left, then we’d still have the same problem facing us. If I had the time, I could probably get my old federal commission back . . . but what good would it do? Dooley’s crazy; the gunslicks he’s buyin’ are playing a double-cross and Dooley’s so nuts you’d never convince him of it. I think we’d just better resign ourselves that we’re in a war and take it from there.”

  “The wife says we need supplies in the worst way. We’ve got to go into town.”

  “Then we’ll go in a bunch. This afternoon. We’ve got to show Dooley he doesn’t run the town.”

  * * *

  “Sorry, Mister McCorkle,” Walt Hillery said primly. “I’m completely out of everything you want.”

  “You’re a damn liar!” Cord flushed. “Hell, man, I can see most of what I ordered.”

  “All that has been bought by the D-H spread. They’re coming in to pick it up this afternoon.”

  “Jake!” Cord yelled at his hand driving the wagon. “Pull it around back and get ready to load up.”

  “Now, see here!” Leah’s voice was sharp. “You don’t give us orders, Mister Big Shot!”

  “Dooley’s bought them,” Smoke said quietly. He stood by a table loaded with men’s jeans. He lifted his eyes to Walt. “You should have stayed out of this, Hillery.” He walked to the counter and dug in his jeans pocket, tossing half a dozen double eagles onto the counter. “That’ll pay for what I pick out, and Cord’s money is layin’ right beside mine. If Dooley sets up a squall, you tell him to come see me. Load it up, Jake.”

  The sour-faced and surly Walt and Leah stood tight-lipped, but silent as Jake began loading up supplies.

  “Grind the damn coffee, Walt,” Cord ordered. “As a matter of fact, double my order. That way I won’t have to look at your prissy face for a long time.”

  “I hope Mister Hanks kills you, McCorkle!” Leah hissed the verbal venom at him. “And I hope you die hard!”

  Cord took the hard words without changing expression. “You never have liked me, Leah, and I never could understand why.”

  She didn’t back down. “You don’t have the mental capability to appreciate quality people, McCorkle . . . like Dooley Hanks.”

  “Quality people? What in the name of Peter and Paul are you talking about, Leah?”

  But she would only shake her head.

  “Money talks, Cord,” Smoke told him. “Especially with little-minded people like these two fine citizens. They’re just like Dooley: prideful, envious, spiteful, hateful . . . any and all of the seven deadly sins.” He walked around the counter and stripped the shelf of all the boxes of .44 and .45 rounds. “Tally it up, storekeeper.”

  Cord walked around the general store, filling a large box with all the bandages and various balms and patent medicines he could find. “Might as well do it right,” he muttered.

  If dark looks of hate could kill, both Cord and Smoke would have died on the spot. Not another word was exchanged the rest of the time spent in the store except for Walt telling the men the amount of their purchases. All the supplies loaded onto the wagon, both Cord and Smoke experienced a sense of relief when they exited the building to stand on the boardwalk.

  “Quality people?” Cord said, shaking his head, still not able to get over that statement.

  “Forget them,” Smoke said. “They’re not worth worrying about. When this war is over, and we’ve won—and we will win, count on it—those two will be sucking up to you as if nothing had happened.”

  “What they’ll do is do without my business,” Cord said shortly.

  The men walked over to Hans for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie. Beans and Lujan, with Charlie Starr and his old gunslinging buddies, had dropped into the Pussycat for a beer. There were half a dozen horses wearing the D-H brand, among others, at the hitchrail in front of the Hangout.

  “You any good with that six-gun?” Smoke asked the rancher.

  “Contrary to what some believe, I’m no fast gun. But I hit what I aim at.”

  “That counts most of all in most cases. I’ve seen so-called fast guns many, many times put their first shot in the dirt. They didn’t get another shot.” Then Smoke added, “Just buried.”

  They sipped their coffee and enjoyed the dried apple pie with a hunk of cheese on it. They both could sense the tension hanging in and around the small town; and both knew that a shooting was more than likely looking them in the face. It would probably come just before they tried to leave Gibson.

  Nothing stirred on the wide street. Not one dog or cat could be seen anywhere. And it was very hot, the sun a bubbling ball in a very blue and very cloudless sky. A dust devil spun out its short frantic life, whipping up the street and then vanishing.

  Hilda refilled their cups. “And how is Ring?” she inquired, blushing as she asked.

  “Fine.” Smoke smiled at her. “He sends his regards.”

  She giggled and returned to the kitchen.

  Smoke looked at Cord as he scribbled in a small tally book most ranchers carried with them. “Eighteen dead,” the rancher muttered. “Near as I can figure. May God have mercy on us.”

  “They’ll be fifty or
sixty dead before this is over. If Dooley doesn’t pull in his horns.”

  “He won’t. He’s gone completely around the bend. And you know,” Cord said thoughtfully, some sadness in his voice, “I don’t even remember what caused the rift between us.”

  “That’s the way it usually is. Your rider who talked to Doc Adair, he have any idea when Dad Estes and his bunch will be pulling in?”

  “Soon as possible, I reckon. They’ll ride hard gettin’ over here. And I’d be willing to bet they’d already left the wilderness and was waitin’ for word; and I’d bet it was Jason or Lanny who put the bug about them into Dooley’s ear.”

  “Probably right on both counts.”

  Both men looked up as several riders rode into town, reining up in front of the Hangout.

  “You know them, Smoke?”

  “Some of No-Count Victor’s bunch.”

  “Daryl Radcliffe and Paul Addison are ze zwo in der front,” Hans rumbled from behind the counter. “Day vas pointed out to me when day first come to zown.”

  “I’ve heard of them,” Smoke said. “They’re scum. Bottom of the barrel but good with a pistol.”

  “Maybe ve vill get lucky and day will all bite demselves und die from der rabies,” Hans summed up the feelings of most in the town.

  They all heard the back door open and close and Hans turned as Olga came to his side and whispered in his ear. She disappeared into the kitchen and Hans said, “Four men she didn’t know have hitched dere horses at der far end of town and are valking dis vay. All of dem vearing zwo guns.”

  “Is that our cue?” Cord asked.

  “I reckon. But I’m going to finish my pie and coffee first.”

  “You always this calm before a gunfight?”

  “No point in getting all worked up about it. Stay as calm as you can and your shootin hand stays steady.”

  “Good way to look at it, I suppose.” Cord finished his pie and took a sip of coffee. “I hate it that we have to do this in town. A stray bullet doesn’t care who it hits.”

  Smoke drained his coffee cup and placed it carefully in the saucer. “It doesn’t have to be on the street if you’re game.”

  “I’m game for anything that’ll keep innocent people from getting hurt.”

  “You ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be. Where are we going?”

  “Like Daniel, into the lion’s den. Or in this case, the Hangout. Let’s see how they like it when we take it to them.”

  NINETEEN

  Beans and Lujan and Charlie Starr and his old buddies were waiting on the boardwalk.

  “The beer is on me, boys,” Smoke told them. “We’ll try the fare at the Hangout.”

  “I hope they have tequila,” Lujan said. “They didn’t a couple of weeks ago. I have not had a decent drink in months.”

  “They probably do by now, with Diego and Pablo hanging around in there. But the bottles might be reserved for them.”

  “If they have tequila, I shall have a drink,” Lujan replied softly, tempered steel under the liltingly accented words.

  The men pushed through the batwing doors and stepped inside the saloon. For all but Lujan and Cord, this was their first excursion into the Hangout. The men fanned out and quickly sized up the joint.

  They realized before the first blink that they were outnumbered a good two to one. Surprise mixed with irritation was very evident on the faces of the D-H gunfighters. This move on the part of the Circle Double C had not been anticipated, and it was not to their liking. For in a crowded barroom, gunfights usually took a terrible toll due to the close range.

  Smoke led the way to the bar, deliberately turning his back to the gunslicks. The barkeep looked as if he really had to go to the outhouse. “Beer for me and the Moab Kid and Mister McCorkle, please. And a bottle of whiskey for the boys and a bottle of tequila for Mister Lujan.”

  The barkeep looked at the “boys,” average age about sixty-five, and nodded his head. “I got ever’thing ’cept the tequila. Them bottles is reserved for my regular customers.”

  “Put a bottle of tequila on the bar, partner,” Smoke told him. “If a customer can see it, it’s for sale.”

  “Yes, sir,” the barkeep said, knowing he was caught between a rock and a hard place. But who the hell would have ever figured this bunch would come in here?

  Smoke and his men could watch the room of gunfighters in the mirror behind the bar, and they could all see the D-H hired guns were very uncertain. It showed in their furtive glances at one another. Smoke kept a wary eye on Radcliffe and Addison, for they were known to be backshooters and would not hesitate to kill him should Smoke relax his guard for just a moment.

  Several D-H guns had been standing at the bar. They had carefully moved away while Smoke was ordering the drinks.

  “Diego finds out you been suckin’ at his tequila bottle,” a gunny spoke, “you gonna be dead, Lujan.”

  “One day is just as good as the next day to meet the Lord,” Lujan replied, turning to face the man. “But since Diego is not present, perhaps you would like to attempt to fill his boots, puerco.”

  “What’d you call me?” the man stood up.

  Lujan smiled, holding his shot glass in his left hand. “A pig!”

  Radcliffe and Addison and half a dozen others stood up, their hands dangling close to their guns.

  The town’s blacksmith pushed open the batwings, stood for a moment staring at the crowd and feeling the tension in the room. He slowly backed out onto the boardwalk. The sounds of his boots faded as he made his exit.

  “No damn greasy Mex is gonna call me a pig!” the gunny shouted the words.

  Lujan smiled, half turning as he placed the shot glass on the bar. He expected the D-H gunny to draw as he turned, and the man did. Lujan’s Colt snaked into his hand and the beery air exploded in gunfire. The D-H gunny was down and dying as his hand was still trying to lift his pistol clear of leather.

  Radcliffe and Addison grabbed for iron. Smoke’s right hand dipped, drew, cocked, and fired in one smooth cat-quick movement. A second behind his draw, Cord drew and fired. Radcliffe and Addison stumbled backward and fell over chairs on their way to the floor.

  The room erupted in gunsmoke, lead, and death as Beans and the old gun-handlers pulled iron, cocked it back, and let it bang.

  Two D-H riders, with more sense than the others, jumped right through a saloon window, landing on the boardwalk and rolling to the street. They were cut in a few places, but that beat the hell out of being dead.

  The bartender had dropped to the floor at the first shot. He came up with a sawed-off ten-gauge shotgun, the hammers eared back, and pointed it at Pistol’s head. Cord turned and shot the man in the neck. The bartender jerked as the bullet took him, the barrels of the shotgun pointed toward the ceiling. The shotgun went off, the stock driving back from the recoil, smashing into the man’s mouth, knocking teeth out.

  Cord felt a hammer blow in his left shoulder, a jarring flash of pain that turned him to one side for a painful moment and rendered his left arm useless. Regaining his balance and lifting his pistol, the rancher fired at the man who had shot him, his bullet taking the man in his open mouth and exiting out the man’s neck.

  Beans felt a burning sensation on his cheek as a slug grazed him, followed by the warm drip of blood. He jerked out his second pistol and added more gunsmoke and death to the mounting carnage.

  Lujan twisted as a slug tore through the fleshy part of his arm. Cursing, he lifted his Colt and drove two fast rounds into the belly of the D-H gunhawk who stood directly in front of him, doubling the man over and dropping him screaming to the floor.

  The barroom was thick with gunsmoke, making it almost impossible to see. The roaring of guns was near-deafening, adding to the screaming of the wounded and the vile cursing of those still alive.

  Smoke jerked as a bullet burned his leg and another slug clipped the top of his ear, sending blood flowing down his face. He stumbled to one side and picked up a gun t
hat had fallen from the lifeless fingers of a D-H gunslick. It was a short-barreled Colt Peacemaker .45. Smoke eared the hammer back and let it snarl as he knelt on the floor, his wounded leg throbbing.

  The old gunfighters seemed invincible as they stood almost shoulder to shoulder, hands filled with .44s and .45s, all of them belching fire and smoke and lead. This was nothing new to them. They had been doing this since the days a man carried a dozen filled cylinders with him for faster reloading. They had stood in barrooms from the Mississippi to the Pacific Ocean, and from Canada to the Mexican border and fought it out, sometimes with a tin star pinned to their chests, sometimes close to the outlaw trail. This was as familiar to them as to a bookkeeper with his figures.

  Several D-H hired guns stumbled through the smoke and the blood, trying to make it to the boardwalk, to take the fight into the streets. The first one to step through the batwings was flung back into the fray, his face missing. Hans had blown it off with a sawed-off shotgun. The second D-H gunny had his legs knocked out from under him from the other barrel of Hans’s express gun.

  Through the thick choking killing haze, Smoke saw a man known to him as Blue, a member of Cat Jennings’s gang of no-goods and trash. Blue was pointing his Smith & Wesson Schofield .45 at Charlie.

  He never got to pull the trigger. Smoke’s Peacemaker roared and bucked in his hand and Blue felt, for a few seconds, the hot pain of frontier justice end his days of robbing and murdering.

  The gunfire faded into silence, broken only by the moaning of wounded gunslingers.

  “Coming in!” Hans shouted from the boardwalk.

  “Come on, partner,” Hardrock said, punching out empties and filling up his guns.

  Hans stepped through the batwings and coughed as the acrid smoke filled his nostrils. His eyes widened in shock at the human carnage on the floor. Widened further as he looked at the wounded men leaning up against the bar. “I vill get the doctor.” He backed out and ran for Doc Adair’s office.