William W. Johnstone (16 page)

The old rounder limped off, toward the bunkhouse and a cup of coffee.

Smoke stood for a time by the corral, deep in thought. Maybe Cheyenne was right. Maybe he should just ride over to the Bar V, line up Jud Vale in rifle sights, and end it.

But Smoke knew he wouldn’t do that. At least not yet.

But if one of the boys got hurt... ?

He shook his head. He didn’t even like to think about that.

With his back to the corral rails, he watched the boys ride out, heading back to work; a gutsy bunch of kids.

Smoke wondered where Clint Perkins had gotten off to. The so-called Robin Hood of the West had not been heard from since he had rescued Susie from the Bar V. But Smoke had no doubts about his being near, waiting for that invisible trigger in his brain—always on half-cock—to fire his unstable mind into action.

Smoke went into the house, told Doreen to fix him a bait of food, and with the food-packet in his hand, went to the barn, saddling Dagger. Rusty had ridden in and was seeing to his horse.

“You headin’ out?”

“Yes. Is the herd bunched?”

“And boxed.”

“I want you and the others to stick close to the ranch. I don’t know how long I’m going to be gone. Three days; maybe a week. However long it takes me to cut the odds down some.”

“You goin’ to face Blackjack and them others?”

“Probably. But it will be on my terms, not on theirs. Nobody has to leave the ranch. We’re well-stocked with food; God knows we have enough guns and ammo to stand off a dozen attacks. Keep an eye on the boys, Rusty.” He swung into the saddle.

“I’ll do it. You watch your back trail, Smoke.”

“I’ve been doing that since I was fifteen years old,” Smoke said with a smile.

He rode for the Bar V range, keeping to the timber and the brush, riding slow and stopping often to sit his saddle and listen. He marveled at the size of Jud’s herds. The man was worth a fortune in beef alone; there wasn’t a rancher anywhere who wouldn’t be satisfied with these herds. Only Jud Vale wanted more. But then, Smoke concluded, Jud wanted everything.

Especially Doreen.

Smoke had warned her to stick very close to the ranch, and to stop wandering out into the meadows to pick wildflowers. Jud had made his brags that he would have Doreen, one way or the other. But whether Smoke’s warnings had gotten through to the girl was something only time would prove out.

Smoke steered clear of Jud’s mansion. What he wanted to see was whether anyone was working Jud’s cattle, and after spending most of the afternoon carefully watching from the hills and ridges, he concluded that the cattle had been pretty much left on their own.

So Jud had pulled in all his hands. For what? An attack on the ranch? Maybe. But somehow he doubted that.

He had tried that once, with disastrous results. So if not an attack against the Box T ... then what?

Smoke could come up with no reason for leaving the herd unguarded. Of course, Jud probably felt—and rightly so—that no one would have the nerve to rustle cattle from him, so his herds were safe.

So what was going on? And why had he not run into any of the Bar V hands this day? Odd. Very odd.

With about three hours of good light left and guessing that he was a good ten miles—maybe more—from Jud’s mansion, Smoke rode to near the top of a high ridge. Keeping in the timber, Smoke dismounted and took his field glasses, making his way to the top of the hill. There, on his belly and undercover, he began carefully sweeping the area.

Far in the distance, he picked up the small figures of men, some on foot, some on horseback. They were making a meticulous sweep of the area. Looking for what? Smoke silently questioned. Or for whom? Certainly not him. Jud knew he was at the Box T ... or had been for days.

Had to be looking for Clint. That was all that Smoke could come up with. Had Clint pulled something over the past few days that Smoke did not know about? It was certainly possible.

Smoke studied the tiny figures of searching men through his field glasses. At least twenty-five or thirty. And that brought yet another thought to Smoke’s mind: where were Jud’s other hands and hired guns? That question made him uncomfortable.

He decided to get the hell gone from there.

He mounted up and rode toward the deep timber that lay to the east of the mansion, but still well on Bar V range. As he rode, he began seeing signs that this area had been searched and searched thoroughly. He reined up suddenly, knowing then where the other Bar V men were.

All around him, waiting to see if Clint—if that’s who they were searching for—would double back.

Smoke found a place which offered deep cover and a good two days’ graze and water for Dagger, picketed him, and slipped into moccasins. He filled any empty loops with .44’s and taking his rifle, began Injuning his way through the brush and timber.

Smoke was under no illusions: these were dangerous men he was surrounded by, and after Smoke’s initial attack against the ranch, and his making fools of the men, they would be doubly alert, with more than one of them mad as hell and looking for blood.

Smoke’s blood.

Making about as much noise as a drifting ghost, Smoke wormed his way under a pile of blown down brush and dead limbs—hoping that a rattlesnake had not made this spot his home—and settled in for a time.

As he waited, Smoke ran some questions through his mind: why the systematic search for Clint? Had the man staged another raid, or had Jud just decided to take out his enemies one at a time? Then Smoke rejected both ideas as another thought came to him.

Clint Perkins was a wanted man, a fugitive from justice. So what better way for Jud to show the people that he was a straight-up, honest, and law-abiding citizen than by killing or capturing the most wanted man in Southern Idaho. That would certainly swing public opinion in his favor.

And there was something else, too: after Clint was taken—and Smoke felt the man would not be taken alive, Jud simply could not risk that—Vale could, and probably would, charge that Walt and Alice and Doreen had been hiding the outlaw. That would further erode Walt’s credibility with his neighbors.

Slick! Smoke thought, as his eyes continued to sweep the terrain from his hiding place. Jud Vale was beginning to think in a more rational way.

And that, Smoke reflected bitterly, was something he had not even considered Jud doing. He had been counting on the man to continue behaving in his usual emotional and irrational manner.

A stick popped not far from Smoke’s hiding place. Smoke cut his eyes, not moving his head. That was no animal, for animals seldom stepped on sticks unless they were running in fear. And Smoke heard no follow-up sounds of any animal in panic.

He waited, motionless, his breathing very shallow and through his mouth to cut down even the slightest sound.

He saw the man move; a fatal mistake on the man’s part, for movement attracts attention much faster than sound in any deadly game of hide or be killed.

The man was dressed in earth tones, blending in well with his surroundings. Smoke concluded that the man was a skilled woodsman, and the stick was the only mistake he had made.

It just took one mistake in this game, and the man had made his.

The manhunter moved closer, moving stealthily through the timber. As he drew closer. Smoke could make out his features. It was one of those he had seen stepping off the train some days before. A bounty hunter.

The man carried a Winchester in his hand, a bandoleer of cartridges slung over one shoulder. The manhunter stopped, tensed, and suddenly dropped to the ground.

Smoke watched through a small space in the pile of brush and dead limbs. What had the man seen? Or had his hunter’s sixth sense alerted him of the unseen danger?

Probably the latter.

Now it was a game of wait and see.

Smoke waited. Several minutes passed. He could detect no other men, so the bounty hunter was probably working alone. But Smoke couldn’t be certain of that, although he believed it to be true.

A bird flew into the timber, started to settle on a branch, then abruptly took once more to the air, its wings flapping furiously.

Smoke’s smile was a grim one. Thank you, bird, he thought. Have a long and happy life.

He had yet to move his head. Only his cold hunter’s eyes had shifted. Now they remained fixed on the dangerous brush where the bounty hunter lay.

The top of the brush moved ever so slightly, the movement indicating the man was coming toward Smoke’s location, making his way very cautiously.

Had he been spotted? Smoke didn’t think so.

Smoke waited for several minutes, watching the slow movement of the man. He wanted him much closer; close enough to use his knife. He did not want to risk a shot; not knowing how many others were within earshot of his location.

Then the bounty hunter rose, all in one fluid motion. He was so close that Smoke could see the hard cruelty in his eyes.

The bounty hunter moved closer, pausing a few feet from the brush pile where Smoke lay.

Smoke exploded out of the brush, his knife in his hand.

The bounty hunter wheeled around, his eyes wide with panic, the rifle in his hands coming up. But Smoke’s forward charge knocked the man sprawling, loosening his grip on the Winchester. The man opened his mouth to yell a warning. With one hard swing of the long-bladed knife, Smoke ended the life of the hunter.

He took the man’s rifle, pistol, and ammo, and then dragged the body into the pile of brush. Smoke made his way back to Dagger, using a different route, stashed the weapons, patted the big stallion on the neck, and once more headed out into the woods.

This time out, he was going to show Jud Vale what he thought of a man who would declare war on women and young boys.

And he would write the message in blood.

Smoke stayed near the top of a ridge, working his way along, keeping to the brush and timber, not skylining himself. At the highest point of the ridge, Smoke bellied down and made his way to the crest.

A Bar V hand chose that lime to stick his head up and look Smoke right in the eyes. Smoke recovered from his shock before the puncher and clobbered the cowboy right between the eyes with the butt of his Winchester, sending the man sprawling backward, his forehead bleeding.

Smoke was over the crest and on top of the hand before the man could recover. Smoke busted the man on the side of the jaw with the butt of the rifle and the hand’s eyes rolled back in his head. He was out for a long time, with a broken jaw.

Smoke tossed the man’s pistol into the brush and smashed the man’s rifle useless against a tree trunk. He moved down the ridge, mad and on the warpath. A Bar V gunny spotted him and raised his rifle to fire. Smoke leveled his Winchester and shot the man in the belly, doubling him over and bringing a scream of pain.

Now the fire had reached the hot grease and the war was on.

The landscape seemed to erupt with ugly and very hostile gun hands as Smoke dived for cover just as unfriendly fire began zinging and popping and ricocheting all around him.

Jumping behind a fallen log, Smoke wriggled his way to the other end and rolled into a small depression in the earth. Below him, the Bar V gunnies were shouting and cussing.

Smoke leveled his Winchester and put an abrupt and permanent halt to one gunfighter’s swearing. The .44 slug caught the man in the chest. The hand’s rifle went flying as blood stained the front of his shirt.

Smoke lunged out of the depression and made the timber before the others could get him in gun sights; shooting uphill was just as tricky as shooting downhill.

On the crest of the ridge, in deep timber, Smoke settled in for the siege. He dusted one Bar V gunny’s position, sending the man hugging the earth and losing his hat. Just for spite, knowing what value Western men put on their hats, Smoke lifted his rifle and knocked the hat spinning, ventilating the Stetson.

The gunny cussed Smoke, loud and long.

Smoke ducked down as the lead began whining wickedly all around him, bringing the thought to his mind that now would be just a dandy time to haul his ashes out of that particular location.

During a break in the firing, Smoke eased back, clearing the crest of the ridge, and began making his way west, working in a slow, careful semicircle until coming to a better, if temporary, area in which to work.

He lifted his Winchester, sighted in a foot sticking out from behind a large rock, and squeezed the trigger. The yowl of pain that followed told him he had taken another gunny out of the fight. The man was screaming in pain from his bullet-shattered ankle.

Another gunny, with more guts than sense, left his safe position to move to what he felt was a better one.

Smoke shot him, the bullet going in his left side and tearing out the right side, spinning the man like an out-of-balance top and dropping him to the hard, rocky ground. He did not move.

Smoke punched more .44’s into his Winchester and made life miserable for a gunhand who was crouched behind a tree. The man decided to seek better cover and made a run for it. Smoke knocked a leg out from under him and the man rolled down the hill, hollering and cussing. He finally managed to break his downhill rolling by grabbing onto a small tree and painfully work his way behind it. Smoke let him be, and concentrated on the others.

But the fight was gone from this bunch. Smoke watched without firing as they began working their way down the hill, staying in cover, carrying and helping the wounded back out of range of Smoke’s deadly rifle fire.

He left his position and worked his way back into deep timber, paralleling the gunnies’ retreat, sensing from their urgency and the direction of their travel that they were heading for their horses. He was waiting for them when they reached the picket line.

Smoke shot one badman in the belly and dusted another gunhand before they all left in a confusing and disorderly retreat, some of them losing their weapons as they stumbled and ran away.

Smoke ran into the camp, grabbed up the fallen weapons, and stuck them in empty saddle boots. He grasped as many reins as he could, swung into a saddle, and led the horses back to where he had left Dagger. There, he tied and grouped the horses and headed back for Box T range.