William W. Johnstone (13 page)

“What for?”

“I robbed a store. I was down on my luck and needed some cash.”

Smoke grabbed him by the hair and jerked his head back, exposing his throat even more. “Tell it all!”

“Nebraska! I robbed a bank, kilt a teller! You gonna turn me in?”

“Not if you level with me.”

“Anything you want. Jist anything at all, Mr. Jensen. You want me to git down and howl lak a dog, you jist say so.”

“Is there any puncher on Vale’s payroll who isn’t wanted by the law?”

“Lord, no! Jud laks to hire people on the hoot owl trail. He’s got more control over ‘’m. They’s more outlaws down yonder than at Robber’s Roost.”

“And Jud Vale wants to be king of this part of the state?”

“Mister Jensen, he
is
king!”

“Huh?”

“Shakespeare wrote that.”

“I ain’t never heard of him. What outfit does he ride for?”

“Forget it.” Smoke stuffed a gag into the man’s mouth and tied him to a tree. He picked up his rifle and began making his way toward the creek that ran behind the mansion of Jud Vale. He wasn’t worried about being spotted by any ranch hands; there weren’t any hands left on the ranch, except those gunslingers and bodyguards in the house with Jud. Every hand, including the cook, was out looking for Clint Perkins and the girl. According to the tied-up and gagged Bar V hand, no one believed Smoke was within thirty miles of the mansion. And by this time, there wouldn’t be a puncher, bounty hunter, or hired gun within ten miles of the ranch.

The day had turned cloudy along with the coolness, and any gunfire would be muffled by the humidity, not carrying nearly as far as on a fair, sunshiny day.

Smoke followed the creek to the rear of the house and then made his way to a pile of wood stacked behind the great two-story mansion. He poked his rifle through a good-sized crack in the stack and let a few shots bang.

The first shot tore through the kitchen wall and ricocheted upward, shattering a chandelier in the fancy dining room and sending bits of glass and coal oil from the expensive lamps spraying. Jud Vale and his men hit the floor, yelling and cussing. The second .44 round whined off the polished wood of the dining room table and stopped in the china hutch, destroying several plates and cups. The third round bounced off a kettle in the kitchen and whined wickedly around the stove before rolling across the floor and coming to rest about three inches from Jud Vale’s nose.

The men began crawling across the floor, toward the rear of the house. Smoke anticipated that move, and

“Somebody get around to the side of the house!” Jud yelled. “Try to get him in a crossfire.”

But Smoke was off and running, coming to rest behind the gazebo in the side yard. He saw the bodyguard come chugging around the corner and knocked a leg out from under him. Dragging his limb, the man crawled back around to the front of the mansion.

Jud and his men moved to the side of the house, but by this time, Smoke had again changed locations, back to the rear of the house. He decided he’d pressed his luck enough for this day, and took a stick of dynamite out of his pocket, capping and fusing the thunder stick. He lit it and let it fly and was heading for the creek before the sputtering stick landed.

The charge landed on the ground and rolled under the porch. When it blew, it tore the whole porch off the rear of the house and busted most of the windows in the back of the mansion.

Smoke stopped at the creek bank long enough to empty his rifle into the back of the house and then ran toward the ridge and his horse.

Inside the mansion, their hearing momentarily impaired from the booming of the giant stick, Jud and his men hugged the floor until the rifle fire stopped. Their ears ringing, the men crawled to their knees.

“That wasn’t Clint Perkins,” Jud said, his voice seeming to come out of a well. “That was Smoke Jensen. Bet on it!”

Chuckling, Smoke cut the Bar V hand loose, laid the barrel of his pistol on the back of the man’s head, insuring that he would be out for some time to come, and mounted up, riding off.

He had a full day of headhunting to do.

The hand Smoke had busted on the noggin finally found noggin the size of a hen’s egg.

“Jensen,” he told Jud.

“Which way did he ride out?”

“Don’t know. He busted me on the head. I just now come to my senses. I don’t know how long I’ve been out.”

Jud cussed and stomped and paced up and down behind the mansion and the ruined porch. He fought to keep his anger under control and managed it.

“Get the boys in,” he told Jason. “Jensen was raised by Preacher. Probably the best Injun fighter the West ever seen. He’s gone headhunting, bet on it. If the boys stay out, he’ll do us some more damage. Get them back here, pronto.”

Jason looked confused. “Jesus, Boss. How? They’re scattered all forty miles.”

Jud Vale sat down on a stump and cussed. Smoke Jensen planned all this, he concluded. He didn’t know how, or even the why of it, but it was all Smoke Jensen’s fault. He convinced himself of that. Damn Smoke Jensen to the pits of Hellfire!

Jud again calmed himself and did a little mental figuring. As of last evening, he had 18 hands on the payroll. He had hired 25 men at fighting wages—God knows they hadn’t earned a penny of it—and he was giving another 15 or 20 men—he forgot the exact number—money just to hang around. Three riders had deserted him last night, thanks to that damn Clint Perkins; or had it been Perkins? And two more had been so badly beaten they were out of it for several days. Maybe a week. So savagely mauled that they hadn’t even been able to leave the bunkhouse when Perkins and then Jensen attacked the house. He had lost two of his most trusted men to the guns of Perkins. Jensen had busted the leg of another. And a third had his head busted open.

“Damn!” he muttered. He looked up at Jason. “You boys stick close to home. I reckon them forty-odd men out A gunslick whose Christian name was Wilber Hammersmith—his friends called him Hammer—thought a damn puma had done jumped onto his back, knocking him from the saddle. Then he looked up into the eyes of Smoke Jensen, sitting on top of him, and suddenly felt an urgent need to relieve his bladder.

He cut his eyes as Jensen balled his right hand into a huge fist. “Aw, hell, man!” he managed to say before his whole head exploded in pain.

And speaking of his head ... when he finally awakened, he had a whale of a headache, his whole world was upside down, and his head was unnaturally cold.

Hammer figured out why his world was upside down. It wasn’t the world—it was him! Jensen had taken Hammer’s rope and strung him upside down from a tall limb. After stripping him down to his long handles and taking his boots and socks and guns.

But how come his head was so cold? He had always been right proud of his blond hair. He finally managed to get his hands free and to his head.

He screamed as if he’d been mortally wounded, the sound echoing around the hills and ridges.

That damn Smoke Jensen had taken his knife and shaved his head!

“Halp!” Hammersmith started hollering as he swayed in the breeze at the end of the rope. His own rope. “I’m a-gonna kill you, Jensen!” Hammersmith squalled. “Damn your eyes, you heathen! This ain’t right. Halp!”

Buck Wall thought he heard someone hollering. He pulled up and listened. Yep. Someone was sure hollering all right. Coming from over that next ridge, he thought. He eased over that way and found the source of all the noise.

“Boy,” he said to Hammer. “How come you got yourself all tied up like that there?”

“Cut me down, damnit!” Hammer squalled.

“All right, all right.” Buck was in the process of dismounting when the loop settled over-his shoulders and he felt himself jerked from the stirrups. He landed heavily on the rocky ground.

Then Smoke Jensen was all over him, fists flying. The last thing Buck recalled, for a few moments, was that getting the living hell beat out of you was not a very pleasant experience.

When he woke up, his world was also upside down. And his clothes were gone, right down to his socks and boots and guns. And there was not a horse to be seen anywhere.

“Hammer,” he managed to speak through battered lips.

“The next time you get in trouble, I wish you would please keep your mouth shet!”

“Halp!” Hammer hollered.

“Will you stop that! You’re makin’ my head hurt!”

“Halp!”

“Who said that?” Hammer asked.

“Well, it damn shore wasn’t me!”

By twisting around, they could just see a newly hired gunny name of Ben Lewis. Someone—Jensen for sure— had peeled him buck naked and tied him backwards in the saddle. And from the looks of him, he’d been sitting in that saddle for some time. Looked worn to a frazzle.

“I’m a-gonna kill that crummy Smoke Jensen!” Ben hollered.

“Yeah,” Buck said drily. “Right. Shore you are. Me, too. But furst I’d like to get shut of this damn tree limb!”

The hired guns and bounty hunters and would-be toughs began drifting back to the ranch one by one, and they were a sorry sight to behold. Jud Vale sat on the front porch sipping whiskey and viewed the unfolding scene with disgust in his eyes.

Glen Regan, the punk who fancied himself fast with a gun was the first back. Hoofing it. Naked, except for his fancy silver conchoed gun belt, all the shells shucked out of the loops. He wore his empty holsters in strategic locations.

“Plumb pitiful,” Jud said mournfully.

“What do you want done with him, Boss?” Jason asked.

“Get him out of my sight. And, Jason? Get ready for a lot more of the same. Jensen’s playing games.”

Barstow, the no-good from Colorado way was the next to come limping in. Barefoot and clad only in a bush he had uprooted. Jensen hadn’t even left him his guns. Jud just pointed to the bunkhouse and poured another drink.

Three of Jud’s own regular hands came staggering in about fifteen minutes later. They were drawerless and had been tied together in such a way so they had to move in a circle to get anywhere. They were sodizzy they fell down in a heap in the front yard.

Jud looked at the pile of struggling flesh in his front yard. “Jason?”

“Boss?”

“Get me a headache powder, will you?”

“I believe I’ll join you,” the foreman said. “But it cain’t get much worse than this.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

Jaeger, the German gunhand, came in riding his own horse and wearing clothes. But he had a bloody bandage lied around his big head and a very grim expression on his broad face. “Jensen shoot ear off,” he said, and rode on toward the bunkhouse.

“Least he left you your britches,” Jud told him.

“I vould ratter have me in ear!” the German called.

The bounty hunter, John Wills, came riding in without his clothes, his hands tied to the saddle horn. But Smoke had neatly wrapped him up, from neck to waist and both his legs, in poison ivy. He was already breaking out and swelling.

Jud pointed to the bunkhouse. “Ointment in the cabinet over yonder,” he said with a sigh.

Hammersmith and Buck had found their horses and came riding in with Ben Lewis, the last two in their birthday suits. No guns or rifles. Jensen was going to have quite a collection before this was over.

Of course, Jud knew what he was doing: arming the kids to the teeth.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Jud told the three, and pointed to the bunkhouse.

It just got worse. But the numbers were fewer. Hazelhurst came in draped over his saddle. His partner explained. “He wanted to make a fight of it. Stupid thing to do with Jensen. I figured my life was worth more than my britches and guns. Jensen said the shirts and jeans was gonna have to be altered some—and shore washed—but the kids would have work clothes a-plenty.”

“Get a shovel and some boys and plant Hazelhurst,” Jud told him, a weary note to his voice.

Vale got up and walked into the house, closing the door behind him. He just did not want to see any more of this.

Smoke stampeded the Bar V horses that night. He jerked down the corral bars and tossed a stick of dynamite outside the corral so no horses would be hurt—just scared half to death.

It was a move that no one expected. After the damage he had done all that day, all thought he would head back to the Box T.

Smoke put an end to those thoughts by emptying his six guns into the bunkhouse, then grabbing two more hung on the saddle horn and blasting away at the mansion, sending Jud Vale jumping out of bed, skinning his knee, banging his big toe on the chiffonier and ultimately falling down his own fancy curving stairs. In his long handles.

“You son of a bitch!” Jud hollered, holding his aching head where he’d banged it on his way down the stairs, head over butt. “I’ll get you, Jensen. I swear by my mother’s grave—I’ll kill you for this!”

But Smoke was smiling as he crossed over the series of ridges that would lead him out of Bar V range, leading a Bar V pack horse carrying clothes and guns.

“Don’t you look like the cat who licked the cream,” Cheyenne told him when Smoke rolled out of bed and walked outside to wash and shave.

When Smoke had finished telling him what he’d done, the old mountain man and gunfighter was cackling and slapping his knee.

“By God, I’ll just bet that was some sight to see! I’d have give a month’s wages to seen ’er.”

“Well, it was fun,” Smoke admitted with a smile. “Most of it. But there is no telling what Jud will do in retaliation.”

“And Clint Perkins come up and stole the girl away, huh?”

“Yes.” Walt and Rusty had walked up, to stand listening. “He’s a tough one. Don’t ever sell him short on courage. He’s got his share and more of that.”

Smoke had collected thirty pistols and fifteen rifles and more than five hundred rounds of .44 and .45 caliber ammunition. He distributed the weapons and ammo and gave Alice and Doreen the clothes to wash and alter for the boys. He had tossed the boots in a pile in the barn for the boys to prowl through.

“Argood has gone to Utah,” Walt told him. “Begone for a month or more.”

“Then Jud will throw everything he’s got at us,” Smoke said. “It’ll be open warfare from this point on.” He smiled. “And after what I did to the Bar V, I sure can’t blame them.”