Absaroka Ambush

21

“They’re all lined up across the street up yonder,” Fatso said. “They got a sixth man with ’em.”

“Who is it?”

“I can’t tell from here. But it looks like one leg’s shorter than the other.”

Weldon pushed away from the bar. “All right, let’s do it.” He walked out of the saloon and into the light and heat of the street. He cussed as he realized Jensen and his men had their backs to the sun and were forcing the Circle 45 hands to walk east, into the morning sun.

“Slick,” Austin Charles said. “I figured they’d be waitin’ for us right outside the saloon.”

“Thinkin’ never was your strong point,” Tex told him.

“They must think we’re stupid,” Eli said. “They really think we’re gonna just stand here and get plugged?”

Stony and Waymore were to Smoke’s right; Malvern, Eli, and Conny to his left. “Steady now,” Smoke cautioned in a very low voice. “If they’ve got any sense at all, they’ll have it in their minds to wait until there’s about fifty feet between us before they pull. But that fat one is getting nervous already. See how stiff he’s walking?”

“That’s Fatso Ross,” Stony said. “I want him.”

“You can have him,” Waymore said. “Bad as you shoot, you need a wide target.”

“Art Long’s had his eyes on me for a spell,” Malvern said. “Me and him’s had words more’n once. Even at this distance, I can see that he’s got his eyes straight on me.”

Behind the windows of stores and homes, the citizens of Blackstown were lined up, watching the slow walk toward death.

“Why, hell,” Ballard said. “That’s Conny Larsen. No-good saddle bum. He’s mine.”

“Ballard,” Conny said in low tones. “He fancies himself a gunslick. He’s in for a surprise. I always could outshoot, out-fight, and outdrink that lowlife.”

“Couple of more seconds,” Smoke said. “Get ready. I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to open this dance and get it over with.”

“Mason!” Smoke called over the ever-shortening distance. “It’s a good day to die. Are you ready? Or have you lost your guts?”

Tex Mason’s hands lifted and closed around the butts of his guns.

“Now!” Smoke yelled, and the street erupted in muzzle flashes and gunsmoke.

The Double D hands jerked iron, fired, and scrambled for cover. The move took the Circle 45 guns by surprise. They had not been expecting that and were caught flat-footed and in the open. Fatso Ross was down in the street and so were Tex Mason and Art Long. Nick Ballard was trying to hunt cover, dragging a busted leg as he scurried off to the side of the street and dropped down in a shallow ditch.

“Oh, Christ!” Fatso hollered. “It hurts!” His gun was in the dirt and both hands holding his bloody belly. He roared in pain and fell over on his face as the lead started whining and whistling all around him. Tex Mason was down but not out. Smoke’s bullet was true, but the gunhand still had fight left in him. Sitting in the dust, he filled both hands with Colts and eared the hammers back and let them bang. Smoke, down on one knee, leveled a .44 and ended the bloody career of Tex with one shot. Tex fell over dead in the dirt.

Waymore coolly put a slug in John Wood and the hand doubled over, dropping his pistol. Waymore had a bullet burn on his left arm.

George Miller got a slug into the leg of Eli that knocked the puncher down. Cussing, Eli leveled his .45 and drilled George neat, right through the brisket.

Fatso staggered to his boots, cussing, both hands filled with guns. Conny plugged him and Fatso tumbled to the dirt of the wide street.

Art Long panicked and started to limp toward the boardwalk. He got as far as the deserted building that once housed Nadine’s Dress Shoppe before six-guns roared. Art was slammed against the old door. The door gave it up and Art died on the dusty and trashlittered floor.

Smoke’s hat was blown off his head just as he turned his guns on Austin Charles. The gunfighter was snarling and shooting at Smoke as Smoke’s bullets found him and turned him around, spinning like a top. Austin tried to lift his guns, but they were too heavy. The fancy engraved Colts fell from his numbed fingers and Austin collapsed to the street. The last words from his mouth were curses, directed at Smoke Jensen.

Ballard had dragged himself off behind Nadine’s and was slowly staggering toward the saloon, hoping to get to his horse and get the hell gone.

He lurched past the rear of the leather shop just as the owner stepped out and conked him on the head with the butt of a shotgun. Ballard slumped to the ground, a swelling knot on his noggin.

Weldon Ball and Roy Cantrell made a dash for safety and jumped into the saddles of the first horses they reached. They fogged it out of town on stolen horses.

Smoke and the Double D hands slowly stood up. Stony had a cut on his face, Waymore’s arm was bleeding, Eli’s leg was throbbing with pain and he was supported by the strong arm of Conny. No one else was hurt.

Smoke quickly reloaded and stepped over to view the carnage. Fatso was dead in the dirt. Tex Mason was dead. George Miller was alive, but not for long. Eli’s bullet had punched right through him, high up, nicking a lung. Austin Charles was dead. John Wood was badly wounded.

“He’ll probably make it,” Dr. Garrett said, panting from his run up the street.

“I got one over here,” the shop owner hollered. “Wounded in the leg. I busted his head for him.”

“I want a posse formed up right now,” Lucas said. “Weldon Ball and Roy Cantrell stole them horses in plain sight of everybody. You stay in town,” he said to Smoke.

“I’ll be right here,” Smoke replied. He looked at his bullet-torn hat. “Shopping for a hat.”

The dead were hauled off to be measured for a box, and the wounded escorted to Doc Garrett’s office. The doctor worked on the Double D men first, while the Circle 45 hands hollered and complained about it.

Smoke went to the store for a new Stetson. He picked out one with a lower crown. “Presents less of a target,” he told Sally and the Duggan twins. “Maybe this one will last me longer.” He looked around as his men came in. Doc Garrett wanted to keep Eli for a day just for insurance.

“You boys get the supplies loaded up and escort the ladies back to the ranch. I’ll wait around for the sheriff and give a statement. Get a few more boxes of ammo. After this, there is no telling what Clint Black might do. Stay close to the ranch and no riding alone with the herd.”

Clint Black was furious when the deputy and the posse thundered into his front yard, but he had sense enough to know that to fight would be stupid.

“Get Weldon Ball and Roy Cantrell out here right now,” Lucas told him. “They’re under arrest for horse-stealin’.”

“Deputy…” Clint started to bluster.

Lucas lifted the muzzle of the Winchester. The posse members had fanned out and circled so they could cover in all directions. Twenty rifles were lifted. The sound of hammers being eared back was very loud in the stillness of the morning.

“I said right now, Clint,” Lucas told the rancher.

“Or you’ll do what?” Clint said, anger taking over his mind.

“I’ll place you under arrest for interfering with a peace officer and then kill you right where you stand.”

“Lucas!” Jud called from the bunkhouse. “I’m bringin’ the men out. Just calm down. Everybody calm down.”

“Tell one of your men to saddle horses for them, Clint,” Lucas said. “And bring out those horses they stole from town.”

“Do it, Tom,” Clint said, his voice heavy with rage and his big hands clenched into fists.

Jud walked up. Weldon Ball and Roy Cantrell were with him, shuffling along behind. Lucas stepped down and handcuffed the two men then waited until Tom brought up two horses. “Up,” he ordered the Circle 45 men. Back in the saddle, he looked at Clint Black. “You won’t break these two out. There’s been some cell changes at the jail…while we were repairing the other damage. Be seein’ you, Mr. Black.”

The posse left in a cloud of dust. Weldon and Roy did not look happy at all.

“You boys get busy doin’ something,” Jud ordered the hands. “You might get together the gear of the men who ain’t gonna be comin’ back and see if they got clean clothes to get buried in.” He turned to Clint. “We got to talk, boss. Right now.”

“In the house,” Clint said. Once inside and seated, with whiskey poured, he said, “Speak your piece, Jud. You know you can shoot straight with me.”

“It’s got to stop, Clint,” the foreman implored. “This just can’t go on. We gonna be buryin’ six men tomorrow. Six more men. We…”

“…Have had this talk before. I thought we settled it then.” Clint drained his whiskey glass and slopped more booze in.

“We settled nothing, Clint. Clint? Did you see the looks on the faces of the men in that posse? Did you really see them? They’re not going to ever bow and scrape for you. Not ever again. You’ve got to understand that. You’ve been the big bull in the woods for years and you’re gonna have to settle for it being over. Cleon’s got a newspaper from Helena; got it from the stage driver. This war is front-page news. Smoke Jensen’s name is like bees to honey. There’ll be reporters in here ’fore long, and they’ll dig and pry to see what started all the ruckus and find out about the ambush and the kids gettin’ killed and all of it. Then what kind of a light will you be under? I’ll tell you what kind: a real bad light. We got to stop this and stop it right now!”

Clint had paused in the lifting of glass to his lips. He frowned and set the glass down on the table. “Go on, Jud. You’re not through.”

“Just like I said to you before, the last time we talked. We fire all these gunhands and get back to the raisin’ of beef. We live and let live, and mind our own business.”

“And live with the knowledge that a damn gunfighter and a bunch of weak-livered, two-bit ranchers and saloon keepers and storekeepers beat us? Not me, Jud. Not me.”

Jud left his whiskey untouched. He stood up and plopped his hat on his head. “All right, Clint. If that’s the way you want it.” He turned and headed for the door. Clint’s voice stopped him and turned him around.

“Is this it, Jud? It is over for you?”

“Yeah, Clint. For me, it’s over. I won’t stay in the game with a stacked deck. See you, Clint.” He walked out.

Clint sat for a long time in his study. He did not drink. He’d been drinking far too much of late, and for him to come up with any sort of plan, he needed to be clear-headed. He heard the sounds of a horse trotting away and knew it was Jud. Jud! He and the man had been together for years. And now his foreman and best friend had lost his guts. He rose and walked to the front porch and waved to a hand.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Was that Jud riding out?”

“Yes, sir. He packed his duds, got him a packhorse, and was gone in fifteen minutes. I never thought Jud would turn his back to you.”

“Neither did I,” Clint said with a sigh. “Tell Bronco Ford I want to see him.”

“Right away, boss.”

Clint sat down on the porch. Bronco walked over and Clint waved him to a seat. “How many men do we have still around, Bronco?”

“Eighteen, last count. And that includes you and me and the cook.”

Clint’s laugh was short and bitter. “God, a month ago I had fifty!”

“Some just rode off and didn’t look back, boss. I reckon Smoke Jensen read some scriptures to them that we busted out of the jail. They sure cut out. We got some with busted legs and busted arms and knotty heads. You want I should send out some wires and see what I can drag up?”

“Yes. Today. I don’t care where you get them or what they’ve done in their past. The meaner, the better. You’re now foreman of this ranch, Bronco. Move your gear into the foreman’s house. You get rid of Smoke Jensen for me, and you’ll have a job for the rest of your life. That’s a personal promise—from me.”

“Might be best if I flag down the stage and send them wires out of Helena.”

“Good idea. Do that. Get packed to go. I’ll have money for you when you’re ready.”

“Buckskin Deevers is around. He busted out of Yuma some months back. I know where he’s hidin’.”

“Get him. Get all you can find. I’ll turn this country red with the blood of any who dare stand up to me.”

“Sounds like my kind of war, boss. I’ll be ready to go in fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll be here,” Clint said grimly. “Right here. And I’ll be here when all those who oppose me are buried!”