Free Ordeal of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone Page B

be.” He dropped the bucket to the floor and started for the door. “I’ll be waitin’ for you outside, Jensen.”
    Smoke let him go. He turned to the remaining pair and addressed Big Sam. “You seem to have more sense than your friend. This town is off limits to you and your kind. So, I’ll ask you politely. Gather up whatever you brought with you, mount up and ride out. You have fifteen minutes.”
    Big Sam Peiper made a show of considering that for a moment; then his voice rang with new strength. “I don’t mind you raggin’ Quint some. He needs tooken down a notch. But, you jist asked something we can’t do. Why, we’d be the laughing stock of the whole territory. No, sir, we ain’t gonna go.”
    With that, he and Bert Toller, who had said nothing so far, dropped hands to the grips of their six-guns. Smoke let Sam Peiper, whom he figured more for a mouth than a shootist, get his long-barreled .44 Colt clear of leather, choosing instead to take on Toller first.
    A good choice, he soon discovered as Toller moved with a blur, his six-gun snaked out and on the rise by the time Smoke snapped his elbow to his right side and leveled the .45 Peacemaker in his fist. The hammer fell, and a puff of cloth and dust flew from the front of Toller’s shirt. A dark hole appeared some three inches above the belt Toller wore. A second hole popped into place directly above it a fraction of a second later, to form a perfect figure eight.
    Immediately, Smoke swung the smoking barrel of his Colt to Big Sam Peiper. Big Sam stared at his partner and watched him die. Bert Toller had barely hit the floor when Sam let out a despairing shout and bolted for the door.
    â€œNo!” he screamed. “I ain’t gonna die.” Wildly he threw a shot at Smoke over his shoulder.
    Smoke had dropped to a crouch when Big Sam started his direction, so the shot went high, to spang off the stovepipe and crack the plaster behind. Smoke fired his third round as Big Sam hit the batwing doors. Sam Peiper crashed through the swinging partitions and onto the boardwalk, as blood streamed down his thigh. Smoke Jensen came right behind him.
    Limping, Big Sam Peiper headed toward Quint Cress. “Ga’damn, he shot me, Quint. It hurts real bad.”
    Cress looked surprised. “You ain’t never been shot before? What kinda gunfighter are you?”
    â€œNaw. Ain’t been shot. I always was faster.”
    Quint Cress shook his head. “Sam, Sam, get out of the way, let me finish this amateur.”
    Big Sam staggered in a tight circle, raising his Smith American. “No. I’m gonna do it. Nobody puts a hole in Big Sam Peiper.”
    He faced Smoke Jensen now, who much to the consternation of Big Sam had an amused expression on his face. With careful deliberation, his own visage screwed into a grimace of pain, Big Sam raised his revolver. To his dying instant, he knew he had never seen Smoke Jensen draw his Colt. Yet, all of a sudden he saw the yellow-orange bloom and a thin trail of smoke start from its muzzle.
    Then a bright white light dazzled him, and immense pain erupted inside his head. All feeling left his hands and feet. The alabaster radiance swelled and enveloped him. For a fraction of a second, Big Sam Peiper saw a tiny black dot form at the center of the sphere. Unfeeling, he toppled to the ground, the back of his head blown away, and in a twinkling, the blackness overwhelmed him.
    Quint Cress stared in horror. No one could be that fast. Hell, Big Sam already had his six-gun cocked before this Smoke Jensen drew. For the first time, the bravado deserted Quint. Yet, he knew inexorably that the hand had to be played out to the end. He swallowed hard to remove the lump in his throat and dropped his hand to the grips of his Colt. Jensen, his head wreathed in powder smoke, could not possibly see him draw.
    Wrong. Quint Cress had his Frontier Colt free of leather and on the