Part 6 (1/2)
”You got an undertaker in this town?” Smoke asked.
”Sure. Why?”
”Tell him to dust off his boxes-he's about to get some business.”
Ten miles out of town, they met two hands riding easy, heading into town.
”You boys is on the TC range,” one of the riders warned. ”Get the h.e.l.l off. The boss don't like strangers and neither do I.”
Smoke smiled. ”You boys been ridin' for the brand long?”
”You deef?” the second hand asked. ”You been told to git-now git!” ”You answer my question and then maybe we'll leave.”
”Since '66. That's when we pushed them longhorns up here from Texas. If that's any of your d.a.m.ned business. Now git!”
”Who owns TC?”
”Ted Casey. Boy, are you plumb crazy or jist stupid?”
”My Pa knew a Ted Casey. Fought in the war with him-for the Gray.”
”Oh? What be your name?”
”Some people call me Smoke.” He grinned. ”Jensen.”
Recognition flared in the eyes of the TC riders. They grabbed for their guns. They were far too slow. Smoke's left-hand .36 belched flame and smoke as Preacher fired his Henry one-handed. Horses reared and snorted and bucked at the noise. The TC gunnies dropped from their saddles, dead and dying.
The one TC gunhand alive pulled himself up on one elbow. Blood poured from two chest wounds, the blood pink and frothy, one .36 ball having pa.s.sed through both lungs, taking the rider as he turned in the saddle.
”Heard you was comin',” he gasped. ”You quick, no doubt 'bout that. Your brother was easy.” He smiled a b.l.o.o.d.y smile. ”Potter shot him low in the back; took him a long time to die. Died hard. Hollered a lot.” The TC rider closed his eyes and died.
Smoke and Preacher burned the house down, driving the men from it after a prolonged gunfight. They took only Casey alive.
”What are you figurin' on doin' with him?” Preacher asked.
”I figure on going back to town and hanging him.”
”I don't know how you got that mean streak, boy. Seein' as how you was raised-partly-by a gentle old man like me.”
Despite the death he had brought and the destruction wrought, Smoke had to laugh at that. Preacher was known throughout the West as one of the most dangerous men ever to roam the high country and vast Plains. The old mountain man had once gone on the prowl, spending two years of his life tracking down and killing-one by one-a group of men who ambushed and killed a friend of his, stealing the man's furs.
Smoke tied the unconscious Casey across a saddle. ”'Course you never went on the hunt for anyone, right?”
”Well...mayhaps once or twice. But that was years back. I've mellowed a mite since then.”
”Sure.” Smoke grinned. Preacher was still as mean as a cornered puma.
By the banks of a creek outside of town, a crowd had gathered for the hanging. Marshal Crowell was furious as he watched Smoke build a noose.
”This man has not been tried!” the marshal protested.
”Yeah, he has,” Smoke said. ”He admitted to me what he done.”
The marshal looked at the smoke to the southeast.
”House fire,” Preacher said. ”Poor feller lost everything.”
Casey spat in the direction of the crowd. He cursed them.
”This is murder!” the marshal said. ”I intend to file charges against you both.”
”Halp!” Casey hollered.
A local minister began praying for Casey's poor wretched soul.
Casey soiled himself as the noose was slipped around his neck.
The minister prayed harder.
”That ain't much of a prayer,” Preacher opined sourly. ”I had you beat hands down when them Injuns was fixin' to skin me alive on the Platte. Put some feelin' in it, man!”
The local minister began to shout and sweat. The crowd swelled; some had brought their supper with them. A hanging was always an interesting sight. There just wasn't that much to do in small western towns. Some men were betting how long it would take for Casey to die-providing his neck didn't snap when his b.u.t.t left the saddle.
A small choir had a.s.sembled. The ladies lifted their voices to the sky.
”Shall We Gather at the River,'” they intoned.
”I personally think Swing Low' would be more like it,” Preacher opined.
A local merchant looked at Casey. ”You owe me sixty-five dollars.”
”h.e.l.l with you!” Casey tried to kick the man.
”I want my money!” the merchant shouted.
”You got anything to say before you go to h.e.l.l?” Smoke asked Casey.
”You won't get away with this!” Casey screamed. ”If Potter or Stratton don't git you, Richards will.”
”What's he talkin' about?” the marshal asked.
”Casey was with the Gray-same as my Pa and brother,” Smoke explained. ”Casey and some others waylaid a patrol bringing a load of gold into Georgia. They shot my brother in the back and left him to die. Hard.”
”That was war,” the marshal said.
”It was murder.”