Free Blood of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone Page A

riding in, hell-bent for revenge. But, Club thought, if I ain’t in town, I can’t be held responsible for what happens.
    “You boys go on back to the saloon and cool down,” Club told the JB riders.
    “The boss said to . . .”
    “Did you hear me?” Club’s question was loudly and harshly spoken. “Move.” When the men had gone, Club turned and walked swiftly to the livery.
    “He’s ridin’ out,” Cooper said.
    “Well, we’re in for it now,” Smoke said.
    “That was Dick Miles doin’ all the talkin’,” Ladd said. “He’s a bad one, Smoke. All of Biggers’ men are drawin’ fightin’ wages.”
    Smoke smiled. “I forgot to tell you boys —so are you.”
    The punchers smiled. That extra money would go a long ways toward a new saddle or a gun or a handmade pair of boots, to wear on special occasions.
    “There go the deputies,” Cooper said. “All of them. Hightailin’ it right after Club.”
    “And here comes Dick and a whole bunch of others,” Ladd added. “They ain’t even waitin’ ’til the law gets out of town.”
    Smoke walked to the gun racks and took down three double-barreled shotguns, tossing one each to Cooper, Ladd, and Jenny. He broke open a box of shells and said,    “Load them up. I’m going to open the dance. Stay inside and when I yell, if I yell, open fire.”
    “Mister Jensen?” the shopkeeper said. “I heard that Major Cosgrove has offered a thousand dollars to anyone who kills you.”
    “Is that all?” Smoke asked. “That’s an insult. I’ve had a hundred times that amount on me.” Smoke pulled both guns and stepped out onto the high boardwalk, cocking the ,44s. He’d been doing this since he was a boy, and Preacher had taught him that when somebody’s huntin’ you, why hell, just take it to them and open the dance.
    “Is it a good day to die, boys?” Smoke called, lifting his .44s.
    “Jesus!” one of JB hands said, a rifle in his hands and the words drifting to Smoke. “This ain’t gonna be no tea party.”
    “You can believe that,” Smoke said, and opened fire without warning.
    The street was suddenly filled with rolling thunder, twelve rounds fired so close together it sounded like one long, ragged volley. Smoke jumped from the boardwalk and jerked his rifle from the saddle boot. But there was no one left standing in the street, only a bloody pile of dead and dying and badly wounded Triangle JB hands.
    Cooper and Ladd and Jenny stood in the store and stared open mouthed at the carnage before them. Smoke calmly punched out empties and reloaded, holstering his .44s. A half dozen men, all with guns in their hands, had come after Smoke Jensen. Only two would live past that bloody morning in Red Light, Montana. Dick Miles had taken a round in his rifle butt, the slug’s impact driving the stock into his belly and knocking the wind from him and putting him on the ground, otherwise unhurt. His ridin’ buddy, Highpockets Rycroft, was only slightly wounded. But neither of them wanted any more of Smoke Jensen on this day.
    A doctor ran out into the street and began ministering to the wounded as best he could,'but their wounds were fearsome ones, all belly and chest shots.
    Dick struggled up on one elbow. “You won’t get away with this, Jensen,” he called. “This is one time when your fancy name don’t mean nothin’ to nobody.”
    “Yeah?” Smoke said. “Why don’t you carve that on the tombstones of your buddies?”
    * * *
    “I tell you, boys,” Cooper said, relating the day’s events to the crew, “I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it in my life. Smoke just walks out on the boardwalk, says, ‘Is it a good day to die, boys?’ and started tossin’ lead.”
    “That’s the only way to do it,” Van Horn said. “If you know somebody’s comin’ after you, don’t give ’em no breaks. Just plug ’em.
    “I wish I’d a seen it!” Jimmy said, sitting wide-eyed on his bunk.
    “You’ll see a lot more than that ’fore this