William W. Johnstone (25 page)

Chuckie got sick.

A torch hit the roof of the bunkhouse and lodged there, soon catching the roof on fire.

Smoke lit the fuse on a stick of dynamite and tossed the bomb into the milling and panicked scene below him. The explosion knocked several horses to the ground, busting a couple of riders’ legs and creating even more confusion in the fire-lanced night.

Smoke began tossing stick after stick of dynamite from loft to the ground, as his eyes spotted Rusty and the boys running from the bunkhouse to a storage shed. A Bar V rider turned his horse as he spotted the boys, lifting his pistol. Smoke shot him out of the saddle. His boot hung in the stirrup and the frightened horse took off at a gallop, dragging the screaming, flopping,’ and helpless man.

All the steam seemed to leave the Bar V men at once. Those still mounted wheeled and raced from the fire-lit ranch. Those on foot ran away into the darkness.

“Cease firing!” Smoke yelled. “Hold your positions!”

The crackling flames from the bunkhouse became the only sounds in the bloody night.

“I’m gonna let it burn itself out!” Walt yelled from the house.

“You ail right, Jackson?” Smoke called.

“I’m okay. How about the boys down below?”

“We’re all right,” one called. “Chuckie got sick, is all.”

Smoke climbed down the ladder. He stopped as his eyes saw the pitchfork-impaled gun hand, the man’s hands still gripping the handle in death.

“I had to do it, Mr. Smoke,” Chuckie said. “I didn’t have no choice.”

“You did fine, Chuckie,” Smoke assured him. “You boys stay down behind those bales of hay.”

Smoke found a sack and then eased his way out of the barn. Staying close to whatever cover he could find, he began working his way to the storage shed. On the way, he passed men who were moaning and twisting in pain. He took their guns from them and dropped them into the sack. Rusty saw what he was doing and stepped out to begin calming and corralling the milling Bar V horses. Jackson stayed where he was, keeping a sharp eye out for any return raiders.

But Jud’s hired guns had apparently had enough for one night. No more hostile fire came.

Susie and Doreen rolled the dead man out of the living room and off the porch. A couple of the boys dragged the man out of the front yard.

“Rusty, at first light, I want you to ride for Montpelier and get that reporter and then find Sheriff Brady. Bring them both here. If Sheriff Brady won’t come, send a wire to the governor’s office and one to the Army up at Fort Hall. But I think Brady will come.”

“Right. What do we do with the bodies?”

“Lay them over by the side of the barn and cover them with whatever you can find. Use their own bedrolls and ground sheets if they were carrying any. We’ll put the wounded in the barn.”

Walt walked up. “I count twenty dead and twelve wounded. Some of them aini gonna make it.”

“I guess you better bring Doctor … what’s his name, Walt?”

“Evans. He’s a good man. He’ll come.” Walt looked up at the sky. “I hope they come quick. It’s gonna be a warm day and these bodies’ll start to bloat in a hurry. Flies will be awful.”

Sheriff Brady took one look at the lined-up bodies and paled under his tan. Doctor Evans and his assistant began working on the wounded.

“I’m filing charges against all these men,” Walt told the sheriff. “And I’m filing charges against Jud Vale. They worked for him, they acted under his orders.”

“Can you prove that in a court of law?” Brady challenged. “And I ain’t tryin’ to be a horse’s butt about it, Walt. Just askin’ what the judge will ask.”

“I understand. We can prove it if some of these men will talk.”

“Fat chance of that,” Brady said. “But we’ll give it a try. Wall, I’m going to call in the U.S. Marshals. It’ll take them about two days to get in here by train. I just don’t have the men to handle this by myself.”

“Then why not deputize all the farmers and such around here?” the rancher suggested. “Form a posse. We’ll go in and arrest Jud and his men.”

“First I got to find a judge to sign them papers authorizing such a move. I think it’s best if we let the marshals handle it. And I ain’t tryin’ to back out of my duty, neither.”

“I understand. All right, Sheriff. Well play it your way.”

Brady looked around him at the carnage, the burned-out bunkhouse. “This has got to end. I just ain’t gonna tolerate it no more. I’ll be back with the marshals, Walt. And that’s a promise.” He looked at the doctor. “You need some help with these wounded, Doc?”

“A few of them can sit a saddle. Walt’s lending us a wagon to transport the rest. Help me load them up and we’ll be on our way.”

The wounded bounty hunters and hired guns were loaded into a wagon, and not too gently either. With Sheriff Brady leading the way, the wagon rolled out, those sitting saddles doing so with their hands tied to the saddle horn. Smoke didn’t hold out much hope of any of the hired guns talking.

And as for the U.S. Marshals coming in … Smoke didn’t think they’d be coming in anytime soon, although he believed that Sheriff Brady would certainly try to get them in. The U.S. Marshals’ force was a small one, with a lot to do. They would probably look at the sheriff’s request as just another flare-up between ranchers over water or graze, and promptly forget it.

The reporter had indeed written his story about the kidnapping of Doreen and her rescue, but nothing had come of that report. This was still the raw West, with lawmen few and far between. Communities were still expected to handle their own problems without crying for outside help.

Smoke said as much to Walt and the others.

Jackson was the first to agree. “I’ve seen this happen time and again. In the end, it’s all gonna boil down to men facin’ men with guns. That’s the way it’s always been, and that’s the way it’s gonna be … for a while yet.”

“I’ll cling to a small hope that the marshals will come in,” Walt said.

“Cling to a gun with your other hand,” Smoke told him.

Chuckie and other smaller boys went down to the creek, looking (or more small stones for their slingshots. None of them had ever seen a U.S. Marshal and didn’t expect to see one anytime soon.

Jud Vale took his afternoon coffee on the front porch of his mansion. He was feeling much better—physically and mentally. But he had enough sense to know that his mind could flip him back into madness at any moment, without warning.

He sucked at his coffee cup, with some of the hot brew trickling out of his mouth and dribbling onto his shirt front. Jud didn’t pay it any attention. He hadn’t gone on the past night’s raid against his brother; Blackjack and Molino had assured him they could handle it. They handled it, all right. Came straggling back in with half their men either dead or wounded and captured, talking about kids with slingshots—
slingshots,
for Christ sake— and dynamite and all kinds of other excuses for having failed.

Jud shook his big head. Slingshots!

He mentally laid aside his burning hate for his brother and forced himself to think rationally.

A frontal attack, a mass attack of the Box T had failed for the second time, so Jud had to discard any further thoughts along that line. He knew that at one time, and not that long ago, a couple of weeks back, maybe a month, he’d had several plans in mind. Now he couldn’t think of a single one, and that scared him. Was he losing his marbles again?

He thought hard; sweat broke out on his forehead. Then it came to him. Burn the damn nesters out. Yeah, that had been one of them. There had been other plans, but the burning out of the nesters was the only one he could think of at the moment. Pretty good plan. Instead of striking at
the head of the beast, the head being his brother and Smoke Jensen, start chopping away at the arms and legs.

He called for Jason and told him of the plan. Jason thought that it might work.

“No one will be expecting any trouble this soon after the raid on the ranch. Send some boys out this afternoon. Start with that damn interferin’ Chester and his old woman. He was one of them at the creek, wasn’t he?”

“Sure was.”

“Kill them and burn them out.”

“We won’t even have to send any of the top guns to do this,” Jason pointed out. “I’ll send them three punks that come in on the train with some of Perry’s bunch.”

“Sounds good. Do it.”

The six hired guns were in good spirits as they rode out of the Bar V range, heading for Chester’s farm. This was going to be good fun. And maybe the nester had a good-lookin’ daughter … that would be even more fun. They’d hogtie the farmer and his old woman and make them watch while they had their way with the girl.

The punk kid who called himself Tucson Bob vocalized his plan.

The outlaw known as Cline grinned, exposing a mouthful of rotted teeth. “I like that idea, Tucson. You all right.” Then he sobered. “But what if they ain’t no young girl?”

“Then we’ll hang the nester slow; make it last and watch him kick and choke.”

“I’d druther have me a young girl who don’t want to give it up, but the second idea is a right good one. How far did Jud say this pig farm was?”

“It’s just up ahead. Do we ride through the garden first and tear it up?”

“Might as well. They’ll get ’em so scared they won’t know what to do.”

The six hired guns hit the small farm at a gallop, whooping and hollering and firing into the house, riding right through the neat garden.

Chester’s wife stuck a shotgun out of a window and blew the would-be gunfighter called Randy out of the saddle just as Chester came out of the barn with a Winchester and emptied another saddle, ending the life and career of the outlaw called Fox. The farmer’s wife let loose with the other side of the double-barrel and the punk who should have stayed home and learned his father’s dairy business back in Wisconsin hit the ground, landing hard amid the green beans and cabbage, half of his left arm torn off from the buckshot.

Cline leveled his pistol at Chester just as the farmer pulled the trigger. Cline felt a hard blow to his chest and slipped from the saddle, his world dimming just as neighbors galloped up, all armed.

“Don’t shoot!” Tucson Bob yelled, his eyes wild with fear.

A neighbor knocked him out of the saddle with the butt of his shotgun just as a gun hand tried to jump the fence and get away.

A half-dozen guns barked and the outlaw hit the ground, right into the pigpen. The hogs moved toward him.

Chester walked up, his eyes hard and his face grim. He stood over the scared punk. “Somebody shoo them hogs away from the body ’fore they eat him. And then get a rope,” Chester added.

Tucson Bob started screaming.

“Where’d you hang him?” Walt asked.

Chester and a few of his neighbors had ridden over to the Box T with the news of the attack, after they had returned from the creek.

“Down at the line separating your range from Jud’s.
Right at the crick so’s he can be found. We dumped all the bodies there, too.”

“Kinda bothered me hangin’ that kid,” a fanner said. “He sure blubbered and hollered and begged, callin’ for his ma. But then I had to think about what he told us they was gonna do if Chester’s girl had been found. Then it didn’t bother me so bad.”

“How about the kid with his arm shot off?” Jackson asked.

“He didn’t make it to the crick ’fore he died.”

“After he died,” Chester said, “the other kid started talkin’ his head off, tellin’ us ’bout what they had in mind to do with any girl they found at fanners’ homes they was plannin’ to raid. He said that’s what Jud’s men was goin’ to do from now on out. I guess he thought by tellin’ us ever’thing he knew we would spare him from the rope. He thought wrong.”

Walt told the men about Sheriff Brady’s try to get U.S. Marshals in.

Chester shook his head negatively. “You been out of touch too long, Walt. And I ain’t sayin’ that it’s all your fault. Brady is a good man, and he’ll make his request for help. But it ain’t gonna come in. Somebody higher up will block it. We done tried to do what you’re tryin’ early last year. We sent Jim Martin to see the governor. He didn’t get in to see him and was ambushed on his way back home.”

“I remember,” Walt said, shaking his head. “Another good idea shot all to hell.”

Smoke cut his eyes to Jackson, remembering the gunfighter’s words: “In the end, it’s all gonna boil down to men facin’ men with guns. That’s the way it’s always been, and that’s the way it’s gonna be… for a while yet.”

Smoke couldn’t agree more.

Several days drifted by, and it was as Chester had predicted: nothing was heard from Sheriff Brady. One week after the night raid by the gunmen, Brady rode slowly up to the Box T. He looked like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Walt waved him onto the porch, where the rancher was sitting with Smoke, Jackson, and Rusty. Brady took a chair and the cup of coffee that Susie brought out to him.

“You look like a man whose best horse just died,” the rancher remarked. “What’s the matter, Sheriff?”

“It’s worse than that, I’m here to tell you. There ain’t gonna be any help comin’ in from the government, Walt. And that’s just the beginning of it.” He sighed and took a sip of coffee. “I been ridin’ all over this county. I can’t find a judge who’ll sign papers against Jud. One of them outright laughed at me. And I had to turn all them gun hands loose. Judge’s orders. He says that since you didn’t personal come in and swear to the truth of the raid, I can’t hold them.”

“Judge Monroe?” Walt asked.

“You got it.”

“I always knew he was takin’ money from my brother.”

“I don’t think it would have made a whit of difference if you had come in and signed them papers,” the sheriff said. “I’ve had to open my eyes these past few days and look at things I guess I been avoiding over the years.” He sighed. “The mainest thing being that Jud Vale’s got a lot of people with their hands in his pockets … and some of them hands has been there for a long time. I’m finding out, really finding out, what it means to butt your head up against a stone wall.”

“I hate to be the one to ask you this, Sheriff,” Walt said, “but how about your deputies?”