CHAPTER 31
Smoke saw Snake Bishop stiffen in apparent shock as the outlaw realized who he faced. Smoke didn’t expect that revelation to make Bishop back down; not for a second did he think that. But he did feel a certain satisfaction in knowing that Bishop was aware of who he faced.
Then Bishop growled, “I don’t give a damn,” and the hand with the gun in it flashed up. Muzzle flame split the overcast dawn gloom.
Even though Bishop’s gun was already drawn, Smoke almost beat him to the shot. The Colt that had leaped into Smoke’s hand as if by magic crashed so closely on the heels of Bishop’s that the two reports blended into one.
Neither shot found its mark, however. Bishop’s bullet was a clean miss that flew past Smoke and chipped brick from the bank’s front wall. Smoke’s slug tore through the right side of Bishop’s coat and narrowly missed his body. Still firing, Bishop broke into a run to his left. As he triggered, he yelled to his men, “Get in there! Kill him! Kill anybody you find!”
Guns roared from both sides of the street. With that storm of lead clawing at the air around him, Smoke had to duck back into the bank and slam the door behind him.
“Here they come,” he called to the defenders. “Give them a warm welcome!”
Men with rifles crouched at the loopholes, ready to open fire. Glass shattered as bullets struck the windows from outside, but the thick planks stopped the slugs from penetrating into the lobby. When that first volley from Bishop’s gang was over, the men inside the bank returned the fire, spraying lead along the boardwalks on both sides of the street.
At the same time, riflemen in the rooms on the bank’s second floor opened the windows there and joined the battle. Tommy Spencer was up there with her carbine, among others.
Smoke had a loaded Winchester waiting for him. He picked it up and joined Windy Whittaker at one of the windows. The old-timer cackled as he blasted shot after shot at the outlaws through a loophole.
“Look at the varmints hop!” he crowed. “They look like horned toads who wandered onto a hot skillet!”
Nearby, Edward Warren and Apple Jack did their part, as well. Beyond them, Sarge Shaw manned one of the shooting positions, sitting on a tall stool from the tellers’ cages so he could fire through one of the openings.
The women and children had withdrawn into the vault. The door wasn’t completely closed, but it was pushed up enough that a bullet couldn’t go through the gap. Ralph Warren hadn’t wanted to go, but his parents had insisted and the deep-voiced youngster had complied grudgingly.
For long minutes, the bullets went back and forth so thickly in the street that a bee couldn’t have buzzed through them without being hit. Some of the outlaws’ shots either found a loophole or punched through the boards over the windows. Inside the bank, a couple of the defenders cried out and fell backward as they were wounded.
Outside, the outlaws didn’t have enough good cover, so the barrage from the bank took a heavier toll. Men toppled off the boardwalk with blood welling from the bullet holes that had sprouted in them. Other outlaws collapsed where they were to twitch away what little was left of their ill-spent lives.
All the bank’s windows were broken now, so the cold, early morning wind blew through the lobby, carrying with it a shouted command from Snake Bishop.
“Everybody at them! Now!”
Even though Smoke and the other defenders had inflicted a lot of damage on the gang, there were still plenty of outlaws eager to spill their blood. If they managed to reach the bank itself and poured bullets through the loopholes, the ricochets alone might make the lobby a killing ground.
“We have to stop them!” Smoke called to his new-found friends.
But even as the remaining members of Bishop’s gang leaped from cover and charged toward the bank with their guns blazing insanely and spouting flame and lead, an unexpected volley raked them from behind. Several of them stumbled and fell as slugs ripped through them. Smoke raised his eyes from his rifle’s sights and peered through the clouds of powder smoke to see a new group of Salt Lick’s citizens attacking the outlaws from the rear, catching the gang in a crossfire that was tearing it apart with every second that ticked past.
And leading that second band of citizens, Smoke saw as his spirits leaped, was Jonas Madigan.
“Come on, boys!” Madigan roared to the men with him. “Give ’em hell!”
The gun in Madigan’s fist slammed out shot after shot as he and his allies cut down the outlaws. With the gang disoriented, Smoke knew this was the time for the finishing stroke.
“Follow me!” he shouted to the other men in the bank as he leaped to the entrance and slammed the doors aside. He came out shooting, swiveling left to right and back again as he cranked rounds from the Winchester. Every time the rifle cracked, another outlaw fell, drilled cleanly.
A few members of the gang acted like they wanted to throw their guns down and surrender, but then they continued fighting, no doubt realizing that nothing was waiting for them but a hangrope. One by one they fell . . .
Until the only member of Snake Bishop’s gang still on his feet was Snake Bishop himself. As the shooting died away, Bishop found himself standing alone with the bloody corpses of his men scattered around him. Either they had protected him inadvertently, or some bizarre providence had, because Bishop appeared to be unwounded as he stood there, gazing around in shock.
Smoke handed his empty Winchester to Windy and strode forward.
“Drop your gun, Bishop,” he said. “It’s over.”
“You . . . you . . . you’re Jensen,” Bishop snarled.
“That’s right.”
“Famous gunfighter. Well, you’re not faster than my whip—!”
With his left hand, Bishop lashed the whip at Smoke’s face, trying to make him flinch. At the same time, Bishop jerked up the gun in his right hand.
Smoke never moved, except to drop his hand to his Colt, pull the iron with smooth, blinding speed, and squeeze the trigger as the barrel came level with Bishop’s chest. The roar of Smoke’s shot and the crack of the whip blended together.
Smoke lifted his left hand, touched the tip of his index finger to his cheek. It came away with a tiny spot of crimson on it.
That was as close as Snake Bishop had come.
Bishop staggered, dropped the whip and his gun, and pressed his left hand to his chest. Blood leaked between the splayed fingers. He stared at Smoke for a moment, eyes wide with shock and pain.
Then those eyes glazed over in death and he pitched forward, face down in the bloody snow.
“We done it!” Windy said. “It’s over!”
It was, Smoke thought as he slid his Colt back into leather.
He turned to Jonas Madigan, who walked toward him with a big smile on his leathery face.
“You did it, son,” he said. “You saved Salt Lick.”
“No,” Smoke said, “the people of Salt Lick saved the town, Jonas, including you.”
“And it felt mighty good, too. Mighty good.”
With that, Madigan broke stride and his gun suddenly slipped from his hand. His coat swung aside enough to reveal the dark red stain on his shirt. Smoke sprang forward to catch his old friend as Madigan started to fall.
“Yes, sir,” Madigan whispered. “Mighty good . . .”
* * *
“I won’t go through with this if there’s gonna be a bunch of cryin’.”
“Yes, you will go through with it,” Smoke said firmly, “and if anybody cries, especially Miriam, well, I reckon she’s earned the right.”
Jonas Madigan chuckled and said, “Yeah, I guess so, for puttin’ up with me, anyway.”
Windy Whittaker said, “There durned well better be a weddin’, after I done got myself all slicked up to be the best man.” He licked his gnarled old fingers and wiped them over his unruly white hair. The brown tweed suit he wore was dusty and a little moth-eaten, but Windy thought he looked downright spiffy and Smoke wasn’t going to contradict him.
“Never heard of a weddin’ where the groom got hitched while layin’ in bed,” Madigan grumbled. “Somebody help me up so we can go out to the parlor. It’ll be crowded enough in there.”
Smoke glanced at the doctor, who nodded his approval. Madigan’s wound had looked bad, but it wasn’t fatal, and he still had some time left, according to the physician. Maybe not a whole lot . . . but some.
Enough to make Miriam Dollinger his wife.
Smoke and Windy helped Madigan into the parlor. The former lawman was right: it was crowded. Edward Warren was there, along with his son; Tommy Spencer and her father; Apple Jack; Sarge and Charlotte Shaw, Sarge using an actual crutch now; and of course, Smoke and Windy, the doctor, and the pastor of the local Baptist church, who would be presiding over the funerals of the half-dozen citizens killed in the gang’s occupation of the town and the ensuing battle. The preacher had a joyous task to carry out, though, before attending to those grim chores.
“Are we ready?” the minister asked.
“Ready as we’ll ever be, I reckon,” Madigan said. He stood between Smoke and Windy, both of whom were ready to prop him up if need be. Madigan seemed to have found some new strength, however, and he stood tall and straight as he turned toward the parlor door and watched the entrance from the hall leading to the back of the house.
Miriam Dollinger appeared there, wearing a beautiful blue dress, her hair put up, as lovely as could be as she smiled at the man she was about to marry.
She made Smoke think about Sally, and how happy he would be to return home to his own wife. That would have to wait for a spell, because he knew he would need to stay on here until arrangements for a permanent marshal could be made.
One thing had already been decided: whoever took the job would have to be all right with the deputy who came with it.
Windy Whittaker had earned that badge.
And as Miriam stepped up beside Madigan and took his hand, the clouds finally began to break up outside. A ray of sunlight slanted through, and in its glow, a few final snowflakes danced as they settled to the earth.