Absaroka Ambush

28

The hired guns—now out of a job—stood and listened to Lucas’s words. The words were familiar; they had all heard them before. The gunslingers were surrounded by fifty heavily armed and grim-faced men. “You got one minute to get clear of this town,” the deputy said. “And don’t you ever show your faces around here again. At one minute plus one second, we all start shooting. And no, you don’t get your guns back. Now, move!”

Thirty seconds later, the pounding of hooves was fading into memory.

Harris Black motioned for Lucas to come into the general store. He handed him his sheriff’s badge. “I’m through. When I get on my feet, I hope I never have to use a gun against another man as long as I live.”

Smoke took a long hot bath behind the barber shop and dressed in fresh clothing. Before leaving the Double D that morning, they had packed for the ride back home. Smoke, Sally, and the three Sugarloaf hands stepped up into the saddles and looked at the crowd, watching them. The townspeople filled the street, standing in silence.

“We’ll never forget you.” Toni spoke for the twins and the town. The sisters had tears in their eyes as they watched the riders fade into the distance.

Harris, listening from his bed in the store front, muttered, “You can damn sure say that again.” He lay his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. He tried to work up some degree of sorrow and pity for his brother. He could not. “Hell with it,” he said, and went to sleep.

The townspeople stood in the streets and on the boardwalks and cheered and applauded as the Sugarloaf riders headed south, back to Colorado.

Swede the blacksmith tossed a shovelful of dirt over the dark, bloody spot in the street where Clint Black had lain. He walked back to his shop and picked up his tongs. The undertaker’s hammer could be heard, nailing the coffin lid shut on Clint Black. The old mountain men and the famed gunfighters slipped quietly back into history. Felker, at the feed store, hung a sign in his window: Open For Business.

The last depositor at Clint Black’s bank withdrew his money and the manager shut the door, hanging a Closed sign in the window.

Denver and the former cook at the Double D, Liz, hunted up a preacher. They had a new life to begin.

Two traveling salesmen, riding in the stage, passed the five riders heading south. “Say,” one of the drummers said. “That was Smoke Jensen!”

“That’s balderdash,” his companion replied. “Smoke Jensen is just a myth. He doesn’t exist.”

“Maybe you’re right. There’s Blackstown up ahead. Say, look at that sign. The name’s been changed. Canyon City. Well, I’ll be darned. I bet there’s a story behind that.”