Massacre Canyon by William W. Johnstone Page A

another ambush. But they would deal with that when the time came, if they had to.
    Smoke didn’t see any activity around the buildings, nor were there any wagons parked in front of them or horses tied up at the hitch racks. Pearlie and Cal noticed the same. Cal said, “Looks like a ghost town.”
    â€œYeah,” Pearlie said, “but I don’t recollect hearin’ anything about the place bein’ abandoned.”
    â€œCould be everybody’s still asleep,” Smoke said. “It’s still early.”
    â€œMaybe. I don’t have a good feelin’ about this, though.”
    Smoke couldn’t argue with his foreman. He didn’t have a good feeling about the situation, either.
    When they were within a hundred yards of the nearest building, which was the blacksmith shop, Smoke said quietly, “We’re going to split up. Cal, you head left. Pearlie, go right. I’m going straight up the middle. When you go, take off in a hurry.”
    â€œYou reckon on drawin’ their fire, if they’re waitin’ for us,” Pearlie said.
    â€œThat’s right. Ready . . . now!”
    He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and sent the animal leaping forward. At the same time he leaned forward in the saddle, pulled his Winchester from its sheath, and worked the repeater’s lever to throw a cartridge into its chamber.
    The flat crack of a shot sounded in the early morning air.
    Smoke spotted the puff of powder smoke from a corner of the blacksmith shop. He returned the fire, cranking off two quick rounds. Shooting from the back of a galloping horse, he didn’t expect to hit anything unless it was by sheer, blind luck, but he knew he could come close enough to make the bushwhacker duck for cover.
    More shots rang out. Smoke glanced to the right and left and saw Pearlie and Cal riding hellbent-for-leather. They were throwing lead toward the settlement, too. Smoke hoped any innocent folks kept their heads down.
    The horses belonging to the men they were pursuing had to be hidden inside the livery barn. As Smoke charged into the settlement, he saw a man lean out from the opening into the hayloft and fire a rifle at him. Guiding the horse with his knees, he snapped the Winchester to his shoulder and pressed the trigger. The rifle went off with a wicked crack, and at this range it was a different story. The man in the hayloft doubled over and dropped his rifle as the slug punched into his belly. He toppled out of the opening.
    Smoke had already flashed past by the time the bushwhacker hit the ground in the limp sprawl of death.
    He couldn’t see Cal and Pearlie anymore. His friends were around behind the other buildings. Smoke knew he could trust them to take care of themselves, and besides, he had his own problems to handle. More shots blasted from the front porch of the trading post. Smoke’s gaze swung in that direction and spotted a man crouched behind a rain barrel, firing a six-shooter at him.
    Smoke’s Winchester spouted flame again. The high-powered rounds tore through the upper part of the rain barrel and into the man behind it. If the barrel had been full of water it might have slowed down the slugs enough to stop them, but a recent dry spell had left the level low. Smoke had figured that would be the case when he aimed his shots.
    The force of the bullets threw the man back against the trading post’s front window. The glass shattered and sprayed glittering shards into the air. The bushwhacker landed with his legs still hanging over the window sill and didn’t move again.
    That was two of them down, Smoke thought, and from the sounds of gunfire echoing from other parts of the settlement he figured Pearlie and Cal were doing some damage as well. He would have liked to take one of the enemy alive in order to question him and find out more about who was responsible for the theft of the horses, but that might not turn out to be