CHAPTER 30
Tommy’s head jerked up when she heard the gunshots, close by outside. Right on the heels of those blasts, a man started shouting obscenities and challenges for Bishop to come out and fight. She recognized the leather-lunged tones of old Windy Whittaker.
Evidently, so did Snake Bishop. The boss outlaw sprang to his feet as an angry snarl twisted his mouth.
“That loco old pelican must’ve crawled into a bottle of whiskey and crawled back out full of courage,” he said as he drew his gun. “Cover those two, Paco. I’ll deal with Whittaker.”
O’Shannon stood up and drew his gun, but he had a worried frown on his face as he said, “Be careful, Snake. It could be a trap.”
“I’m not a damned fool,” Bishop snapped. “I’ll only open the door enough to plug that idiot.”
He stalked toward the double doors and shoved one of them back just wide enough to thrust his gun through the gap. Shots blasted from the weapon.
Then something suddenly sailed down from the loft, and Tommy gasped in surprise.
* * *
Smoke’s jump was perfect. The outlaw holding a gun on Rufus and Tommy Spencer barely had time to glance up before Smoke’s boot heels smashed into his chest. The man let out a strangled scream as the impact drove him to the ground.
Over at the entrance, the other outlaw—Snake Bishop himself?—twisted around in shock, but his surprise vanished in an instant. The gun in his hand spouted flame, causing Smoke to duck as the slug whipped past his head.
That gave the man enough time to throw himself backward and ram a shoulder against the door behind him. It opened more and the outlaw darted out into the storm.
Smoke’s gun rose and fell in a flash of metal, thudding against the head of the man he’d knocked down. That hombre wasn’t going to be getting up for a while. He lay there senseless as Smoke threw himself to the side and rolled.
The other outlaw’s gun crashed again and again as he fired back into the barn from outside. Bullets kicked up dirt from the stable’s floor. Smoke came to rest on his belly and triggered twice at the partially open door. From outside came the dull roar of Windy Whittaker’s old cap-and-ball pistol. For a second, the outlaw was caught in a crossfire.
The shooting stopped. Maybe they had gotten him, Smoke thought. He surged to his feet and ran to where Spencer and Tommy lay, still staring at him in surprise.
Smoke reached under his coat, drew his knife from its sheath, and slashed the ropes between their ankles and said, “Both of you get in the blacksmith shop. You’ll be safer there.”
He didn’t take the time to free their hands.
Spencer had been tied up for so long that his legs didn’t want to work. Smoke helped him up, and then Tommy, who had made it to her feet on her own, leaned against her father to support him as they stumbled toward the door into the adjoining blacksmith shop. Once they were in there, Smoke swung back toward the stable’s front doors.
His gun came up as the partially open door dragged through the snow and the gap got bigger. A familiar voice called, “Hold your fire, Smoke! It’s me!”
“Come on in, Windy,” Smoke told the old-timer.
Windy appeared, holding the heavy revolver. “Bishop’s gone,” he reported. “I seen him run off into the snow and threw another shot after him, but he didn’t stop.”
“Did we hit him at all?”
“Don’t know for sure, but I think he had a little hitch in his get-along when he run off, so we might’ve winged him.”
Smoke nodded. “Mr. Spencer and Tommy are in the blacksmith shop. I think they’re all right, but we need to check and make sure.”
“I’ll do that,” Windy said.
“That was Bishop who got away? You’re sure?”
Windy made a face. “Yeah. That other fella ain’t him, so it had to be. The other one is—Holy cow! Dead, from the looks of it.”
Smoke turned his head and saw the blood pooling around the man he had knocked down and then out. Smoke knew he hadn’t shot the outlaw, so it must have been one of Snake Bishop’s wild shots that had killed his own man.
Smoke wasn’t going to lose any sleep over that. He moved closer to make sure and saw the man’s sightlessly staring eyes. Smoke kicked the fallen gun well out of reach, just to be sure, even though the outlaw was done for, no doubt about that. The bullet that had found him had torn away most of his throat.
Windy came back to report, “I cut Rufus and Tommy loose the rest of the way. They’re all right. Shaken up a mite, but they’ll be fine. We can take ’em back to the bank.” The old-timer grimaced. “Tommy told me that Bishop still plans to get his men together and loot the town, startin’ with the bank, as soon as the storm lets up enough. He figures on burnin’ things down, too, and usin’ dynamite to blow up anything that won’t burn. The varmint’s plumb loco, Smoke. He always was, I reckon, but he’s worse’n ever now. He wants to destroy the whole settlement.”
Smoke nodded as he listened to the wind outside. “It’ll probably be dawn, or close to it, before the storm really settles down. I hope Bishop does come for the bank first.”
“You do?”
“That’s right,” Smoke said, “because that’s where we’re going to be waiting for him.”
* * *
Everyone at the bank was excited to see Rufus and Tommy Spencer when they arrived there with Smoke and Windy a short time later. After greeting them warmly, though, Edward Warren frowned at Tommy and said, “You worried us half to death, young lady.”
“Well, I was worried about my pa,” Tommy answered with a defiant jut of her chin. “And I was right to be, too, because he was in a heap of trouble.”
“I would have been all right,” Spencer insisted. “And even if I hadn’t been, it wasn’t worth your life to try to rescue me, Tommy. You think I’d ever forgive myself if anything happened to you because of me?”
She shrugged. “I don’t reckon I thought about that. I just wanted to help you if I could.”
He put a brawny arm around her shoulders and said, “I know that, girl. And I appreciate it.” He looked at Smoke and Windy. “Just like I appreciate the two of you risking your necks to save us.”
“I just wish we’d been able to corral that durned Bishop,” Windy said. “Or ventilate him, one or the other! If he was out of the way, the rest of that bunch might decide the best thing for them to do is light a shuck outta here, as soon as the weather cooperates enough.”
Smoke said, “With Bishop still on the loose, though, they won’t do that, will they?”
Windy shook his head. “I reckon they’re more afraid of him than anything else. If he wants to destroy the town, they’ll do their best to accommodate him.”
“Destroy the town?” Warren echoed as his eyes widened in concern.
To the men who had gathered around, Smoke explained what Spencer and Tommy had overheard Snake Bishop saying to the other outlaw, whose name, evidently, had been Paco O’Shannon. That explanation turned into an informal council of war as the men began to discuss how they should meet this threat. Tommy wanted to stay and take part, but her father told her to go sit with the women and children.
“That didn’t work out so well last time, did it?” she retorted.
Spencer glared, but she wouldn’t budge. Finally, he relented and jerked his bushy-bearded head in a nod.
“She’s a good shot with that carbine of hers,” he told the other men. “Reckon we can probably use her help in holding off those outlaws, even though I don’t like it.”
Warren asked Smoke, “Should we go out and try to recruit some other defenders before dawn, Marshal? Even with the men he’s lost, Bishop’s gang probably outnumbers those of us in here.”
“Probably,” Smoke agreed, “but we’ve risked enough. We can’t afford to lose anyone, so I think the smart thing to do is wait here and let Bishop come to us. This is a good strong building, and I think we can hold it.”
“What if he decides to attack somewhere else in town first?” Apple Jack asked.
“Then we’ll have to go out and stop him,” Smoke replied with a grim cast to his features.
“He won’t,” Windy declared. “He’s mad now, and when Snake Bishop gets mad, he goes plumb loco and pizen-mean. He’s got his sights set on this bank, and he won’t let nothin’ stop him from tryin’ to take it.”
Apple Jack frowned and said, “You almost make it sound like you know this Bishop fella, Windy.”
The old-timer glanced at Smoke, the only other person here who knew the truth about his background. Windy took a deep breath and blew it out, causing his mustache to flutter a little.
“I do know him,” he declared. He looked around at the other men. “I reckon it’s time you fellas knew the truth. There was a time when I rode with Snake Bishop and his bunch. Not for long, mind you, and not from any choice o’ my own. I kinda blundered into the deal and then didn’t have a good way out right away. But I never took part in any of his raids, and I got away from that dadgum sidewinder as soon as I got the chance.” Windy regarded them solemnly and pushed his lips in and out for a second before he went on, “If you want me to leave, just say the word.”
“We’re not going to banish you into that storm, Windy,” Warren said. “You’ve never been anything but trustworthy since I’ve known you.”
“Yeah, I feel the same way,” Apple Jack put in. “I believe you, Windy. Shoot, you’ve already shed blood fighting Bishop tonight.”
Murmurs of agreement came from the others.
Smoke put a hand on Windy’s shoulder and said, “It’s settled, then. You’re one of us, Windy, and nothing more needs to be said about it.”
“That’s right,” a new voice put in. They all looked around to see Sarge Shaw standing there, leaning on a chair he was using as a makeshift crutch to keep the weight off his bandaged leg.
“Should you be up and about, Sarge?” Apple Jack asked.
“I’m feelin’ better now,” Shaw replied. “And if there’s going to be a fight, just try keeping me out of it!”
His wife came up behind him and said, “You’ll be wasting your time if you argue with him. This man’s head is harder than any rock I’ve ever seen!”
That drew several chuckles, even in this perilous situation. Smoke was glad to see that the men could still laugh. That relieved the tension a little.
“Right now the storm is still too bad for Bishop to make a move,” he said, “and once it lets up, if it does, he’ll still need some time to gather his men and get them ready to attack. I don’t think anything is likely to happen until dawn. So most of you might as well get some rest while you can.”
“Because things are liable to get a mite busy after a while,” Windy added.
* * *
Snake Bishop tried not to limp as he led the group of men along the street. After one of the bullets thrown at him had creased the outside of his right thigh, he had broken into an empty store, cut up a shirt to make bandages, and wrapped the bindings tightly around his leg. That was enough to stop the bleeding and brace his leg so he could still use it.
He had spent the next several hours roaming around Salt Lick, finding his men in the various places they had taken shelter from the storm. Some were in businesses, others in houses that had been abandoned by their occupants. Bishop didn’t know where those townies had gone, but he didn’t care as long as they didn’t get in his way.
As the gang regrouped, Bishop sent other men out to hunt for the outlaws he hadn’t come across yet. He and the rest of the bunch went back to the livery stable. Bishop was ready to fight if the blacksmith, the girl, that old reprobate Windy Whittaker, and whoever Whittaker’s ally had been were still there, but the place was empty except for Paco O’Shannon’s body.
“Look at that,” Bishop had growled to his men. “They murdered poor Paco in cold blood! You can see why I want to leave this town in nothing but ruins when we ride away.”
In reality, he knew there was a good chance it was one of his bullets that had ripped O’Shannon’s throat out, but he didn’t see any need to go into that. He wanted to get his men stoked up into a killing frenzy, and O’Shannon’s death helped serve that purpose.
The rest of the gang answered Bishop’s summons and filtered in during the night, until he had thirty-two men gathered in the barn. He assumed that the ones who hadn’t shown up yet wouldn’t be coming. The skirmishes during the previous evening had claimed more men than Bishop thought, but he believed he still had more than enough guns to wipe out the town.
The men were hungry, cold, and wanted whiskey and women. They could take care of all of that . . . once they had wiped out Salt Lick’s defenders.
Bishop stepped over to the barn’s doors and opened one of them enough to peer out into the street. The gray light of approaching dawn filled the air. The wind had dropped down to little more than a breeze. Snow still fell, but only in soft flurries. The white stuff was piled up close to a foot deep in the street and deeper than that where it had drifted. It wasn’t enough to cause them any trouble, though.
After studying the street for several minutes, Bishop had decided it was time to make his move. He was too filled with rage to wait any longer. He led the men out of the barn, and now they moved up the street toward the bank.
Before they got too close, however, Bishop ordered, “Split up and spread out. It’s possible some of those townies may have forted up in there. We don’t want to give them one big target. No more than two or three men in a group. Stay behind cover as much as you can.”
For a gang of outlaws, they were actually fairly well-disciplined. They did as Bishop said, breaking up into small groups that advanced up both sides of the street toward the bank, darting from place to place, using parked wagons, water barrels, and building alcoves for cover.
Bishop advanced alone, gun in his right hand and whip in his left. The whip writhed and coiled and left serpentine patterns in the snow.
With the gray light strong enough now to reveal him as he strode along, he knew he was making a target of himself, but he didn’t care. He didn’t think any of the settlers would have the guts to shoot him. If some of them were holed up inside the bank, they were probably thinking about the best way to beg for mercy . . . mercy that he would never deliver to the likes of them.
He was about half a block away when one of the bank’s double doors abruptly opened and a lone man stepped out. Bishop expected him to throw his hands in the air, surrender, and plead for his life.
Instead, the man stood there, tall and broad-shouldered and giving off an almost visible air of calm strength. Bishop stopped short and glared at him, figuring he would cow the man with his fierce expression.
But as if he were just asking an idle question, the man drawled, “I reckon you’re Snake Bishop?”
Taken aback by the man’s casual attitude, Bishop’s scowl became even darker.
“That’s right,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”
Even at this distance, Bishop could see the faint smile that curved the man’s lips.
“I’m Smoke Jensen,” he said.