put up with another gunfight than have to listen to her,” the barkeep said, standing up and brushing off his apron.
"I need a doctor,” one of the gunhands moaned.
The sounds of marching feet hammered on the boardwalk. The batwings were flung open and a crowd of men and women marched in. A tuba had joined the bass drum and the trumpet.
“Good God!” Smoke said.
Violet Laymon was slightly over six feet tall and rawboned. She looked like she could wrestle steers. She marched up to Smoke and damn near met him eyeball to eyeball. The man beside her was maybe five-feet-five and about as big around as he was tall.
“Help!” one of the gunmen on the floor hollered.
“Are you saved, you poor misguided wretch?” a woman hollered at the man. “Have you been washed in the blood?”
“Hell, he’s got it all over him,” Van Horn said.
“Shut up,” the woman told him
“Yes, ma’am.”
The tuba player oom-pahhed, the bugler tooted, and the drummer pounded the skins
Club Bowers and one of his deputies stepped into the saloon. “I’ll handle this!” the sheriff said.
“You shut up, too,” a woman told him.
Violet Laymon looked Smoke square in the eyes and thundered, “Are you the infamous Smoke Jensen, the man who has cold-bloodedly killed five thousand men and who had a place reserved in Hell by the time he was fifteen years old?”
“I really don’t know how to respond to that,” Smoke told the woman.
“I do!” Sally yelled from the batwings. She stepped inside, followed by Clementine Feathers and half a dozen other Soiled Doves from the Golden Cherry. “That’s my husband, and a better man you’ll not find anywhere!”
“Cover yourself with proper attire for a lady” Violet yelled at the jeans-clad Sally. “You shameless hussy!”
“Oh, hell,” Smoke muttered.
“Somebody get me a doctor!” a wounded gunhand moaned weakly.
Doc White came pushing and shoving through the crowd, followed by Major Cosgrove, Jack Biggers, and the mayor of the town, Fat Fosburn.
The band started up again, a sort of ragged rendition of “A Mighty Fortress.” “Sing it with vigor!” Preacher Lester shouted.
A dozen voices lifted in song.
Smoke looked at Van Horn. He was holding his glass of rye in one hand and leading the choir with the other, humming along.
Another badly wounded gunhand lifted himself up on one elbow and pointed a shaking finger at Cosgrove. “You said . . . you said it would be . . He fell back and died, his statement unfinished.
“I hope you didn’t tell him it would be easy,” Van Horn said, over the singing of the choir.
“I didn’t tell him anything,” Cosgrove snapped. “I never saw that man before in my life.”
“Of course, you didn’t,” Barrie said. “He surely mistook you for someone else.”
“Yeah,” Van Horn said. “Maybe he thought you was some sort of an angel.”
“Jeff,” Madam Clementine Feathers said, “get the swampers in here and clean this place up.” “Yes, ma’am.”
Cosgrove cut his eyes and found the eyes of Smoke Jensen hard on him. It was not a particularly enjoyable sensation. Major turned abruptly and left the saloon.
“Knock off this damn singin’!” Sheriff Bowers hollered. “This ain’t no church. Brandt, Reed, get these people out of here. Where the hell is the undertaker?”
Violet Laymon huffed past Sally, still standing near the batwings, and hissed, “Hussy!”
Sally replied with a smile. Her reply sounded similar to “hitch”
“Well!” Violet threw back her head and marched out, her husband, the choir, and the band right behind them. Oom-pah-pah, toot, boom!
“What the hell happened in here?” Club Bowers asked, when the place had quieted down.
“We’ll never know from this side,” Doc White remarked, standing up. “The last one just died.”
At the Golden Cherry, Smoke and Sally sat in the comfortable and spacious kitchen and drank coffee and ate pie. Van Horn and Barrie sat in one
"I need a doctor,” one of the gunhands moaned.
The sounds of marching feet hammered on the boardwalk. The batwings were flung open and a crowd of men and women marched in. A tuba had joined the bass drum and the trumpet.
“Good God!” Smoke said.
Violet Laymon was slightly over six feet tall and rawboned. She looked like she could wrestle steers. She marched up to Smoke and damn near met him eyeball to eyeball. The man beside her was maybe five-feet-five and about as big around as he was tall.
“Help!” one of the gunmen on the floor hollered.
“Are you saved, you poor misguided wretch?” a woman hollered at the man. “Have you been washed in the blood?”
“Hell, he’s got it all over him,” Van Horn said.
“Shut up,” the woman told him
“Yes, ma’am.”
The tuba player oom-pahhed, the bugler tooted, and the drummer pounded the skins
Club Bowers and one of his deputies stepped into the saloon. “I’ll handle this!” the sheriff said.
“You shut up, too,” a woman told him.
Violet Laymon looked Smoke square in the eyes and thundered, “Are you the infamous Smoke Jensen, the man who has cold-bloodedly killed five thousand men and who had a place reserved in Hell by the time he was fifteen years old?”
“I really don’t know how to respond to that,” Smoke told the woman.
“I do!” Sally yelled from the batwings. She stepped inside, followed by Clementine Feathers and half a dozen other Soiled Doves from the Golden Cherry. “That’s my husband, and a better man you’ll not find anywhere!”
“Cover yourself with proper attire for a lady” Violet yelled at the jeans-clad Sally. “You shameless hussy!”
“Oh, hell,” Smoke muttered.
“Somebody get me a doctor!” a wounded gunhand moaned weakly.
Doc White came pushing and shoving through the crowd, followed by Major Cosgrove, Jack Biggers, and the mayor of the town, Fat Fosburn.
The band started up again, a sort of ragged rendition of “A Mighty Fortress.” “Sing it with vigor!” Preacher Lester shouted.
A dozen voices lifted in song.
Smoke looked at Van Horn. He was holding his glass of rye in one hand and leading the choir with the other, humming along.
Another badly wounded gunhand lifted himself up on one elbow and pointed a shaking finger at Cosgrove. “You said . . . you said it would be . . He fell back and died, his statement unfinished.
“I hope you didn’t tell him it would be easy,” Van Horn said, over the singing of the choir.
“I didn’t tell him anything,” Cosgrove snapped. “I never saw that man before in my life.”
“Of course, you didn’t,” Barrie said. “He surely mistook you for someone else.”
“Yeah,” Van Horn said. “Maybe he thought you was some sort of an angel.”
“Jeff,” Madam Clementine Feathers said, “get the swampers in here and clean this place up.” “Yes, ma’am.”
Cosgrove cut his eyes and found the eyes of Smoke Jensen hard on him. It was not a particularly enjoyable sensation. Major turned abruptly and left the saloon.
“Knock off this damn singin’!” Sheriff Bowers hollered. “This ain’t no church. Brandt, Reed, get these people out of here. Where the hell is the undertaker?”
Violet Laymon huffed past Sally, still standing near the batwings, and hissed, “Hussy!”
Sally replied with a smile. Her reply sounded similar to “hitch”
“Well!” Violet threw back her head and marched out, her husband, the choir, and the band right behind them. Oom-pah-pah, toot, boom!
“What the hell happened in here?” Club Bowers asked, when the place had quieted down.
“We’ll never know from this side,” Doc White remarked, standing up. “The last one just died.”
At the Golden Cherry, Smoke and Sally sat in the comfortable and spacious kitchen and drank coffee and ate pie. Van Horn and Barrie sat in one
Similar Books
