It wasn’t the first time Smoke had been wounded. He took off his bandanna and wrapped it around the wounded arm. Using his good hand and his teeth, he tied it tightly so that it would slow down the bleeding, maybe even stop it. Reloading was awkward, but he managed to fill the chambers of his right-hand Colt before he went back to the gully and found his horse waiting where he had left it.
He swung up into the saddle and got moving again, listening for the sound of shouts or horses moving in the brush. He heard the latter behind him as he reached the upper end of the gully. He rode into a field of boulders that stretched for half a mile before he came to another timber-covered hillside. There had been a fire there in the distant past, and a lot of deadfalls littered the slope. Smoke let his horse have its head, and the animal picked its way through the debris. Smoke heard a distant shout, then a sudden spattering of gunfire.
He hoped that when he finally made it to the towering bluff that was his destination, Matt and Preacher would be there, waiting for him.
Chapter 32
Preacher sent Horse up a slope consisting of loose shale. The animal struggled quite a bit. That Horse was a good mount, but not a patch on some of the other Horses he’d ridden over the years.
He wished he could find a good Dog. A man in the wilderness needed a dog. Of course, there wasn’t really that much actual wilderness anymore. Too damn many towns, too many people, stagecoaches, railroads, and telegraph wires every damned place you looked.
And nobody left who knew what it had been like in the Shining Times. Nobody who remembered how it felt to stand on a mountaintop and look out over the country and know that you were the only white man within a hundred miles or more, and you might even be the only man, period, within fifty miles. Nobody but him. Maybe there were some other old-timers still out there who shared memories like that, but if there were, Preacher didn’t know them. He had lived past his time.
But that was all right. It sure as hell beat the alternative, he thought. As long as a fellow could still get around a little, it was better to be old and breathin’. He’d have plenty of time to rest when he was dead.
The sound of a bullet whipping past his ear brought him out of his reverie. Echoes of the shot rolled up the slope and washed over him. He jabbed his heels into Horse’s flanks and sent the animal lunging over the top of the ridge. He heard the flat whap! of another slug as it went by him. Wheeling his mount around, he brought the Winchester to his shoulder and opened fire at the four men who had ridden up to the base of the slope.
They scattered as Preacher sprayed lead among them, but one of them was too slow. He threw his arms up and pitched out of the saddle as a round from the Winchester blew a big chunk of his head away.
While the rest of the varmints were busy hiding, Preacher turned Horse and rode hard along the crest of the ridge, hoping that the rangy gray had good footing. More bullets kicked up dirt and rocks behind him, but after a moment Preacher came to a place where he could get down the other side. Horse took the slope in a half-slide, half-run. Preacher swayed in the saddle, keeping his seat with the expert grace of a much younger man.
Just as he reached the bottom, two more men rode out of some trees just a few yards to Preacher’s right. The old mountain man never slowed down. He angled straight toward them as he gripped the reins in his teeth, shifted the rifle to his left hand, and drew the .44 on his hip with his right.
Taken by surprise, the two men yanked their guns out and fired, but they hurried their shots. Preacher extended the rifle one-handed and fired when the barrel was almost touching the chest of the man on his left. The close-range blast blew the man out of the saddle and burning powder set his shirt on fire. At the same time, Preacher triggered the Colt and hammered two shots into the man on his right, sending him flopping lifelessly to the ground as well.
The old mountain man kept going, disappearing into the trees almost as if he had never been there, leaving behind the bodies of two dead gunnies to prove that he had been.
Matt caught glimpses of the tall bluff through the trees and kept working his way toward it. As a young man, he had learned from Smoke how to use every bit of cover he could find, and he put that talent to good use, dodging through gullies and around hills and along dry washes. He hadn’t heard any sounds of pursuit for a while, and it was beginning to look like he had given Bannerman’s hired killers the slip.
He knew he shouldn’t think like that. It was bound to jinx things. And was the first thing that went through his head when the three riders came out from behind a boulder and blocked the trail ahead of him.
The second thing was the shock of recognition as he realized one of the men was Lew Torrance.
The other two reached for their guns, but Torrance called out sharply, “Hold it!”
The two hardcases looked surprised, but their hands froze on the butts of their guns.
Matt stiffened in the saddle and his muscles were tense with the urge to draw, too, but he held off. He waited to see what Torrance was up to.
“What’s the idea, Lew?” one of the men demanded. “You know the boss told us to shoot these bastards on sight.”
“Yeah, but this hombre and I have some history,” Torrance said coolly. His eyes watched Matt intently and never strayed. “After that dustup last year, I didn’t figure I’d ever see you again, Jensen.”
“You saw me yesterday,” Matt shot back, “when you and some of Bannerman’s other hired killers chased Smoke and Preacher and me into that cabin and tried to kill us.”
“Yeah, well, I thought that was you, but I wasn’t sure.” Torrance shrugged. “You shouldn’t have come back to the valley. There are things going on here that are none of your business.”
Matt shook his head. “I’m making them my business, and so are Smoke and Preacher.”
The third gunman said, “Nobody told us that Smoke Jensen was part of this, Torrance. From what I hear, that hombre’s hell on wheels with a gun.”
“Any man can be beaten,” Torrance said. “Any man can be killed. If you’re afraid of dying, Hobbs, you in the wrong line of work.”
“Maybe I am,” Hobbs said. “But I took Bannerman’s money, so I guess I’ll stick.”
“How about you, Wick?”
The other man sneered at Matt. “I’m faster than this ranahan. I can tell that by lookin’.”
Torrance nodded and said, “I reckon you’ll have a chance to prove that, because I’m sitting this one out.”
“What are you talking about?” Matt asked.
“I don’t want to kill you, Jensen. We fought side by side, and I’d just as soon not be the one to send you to hell. So I’m going to ride away and leave you to these two boys. If by some chance you happen to survive…well, I reckon there’ll be another day for the two of us to settle things.”
“Count on it,” Matt said, biting the words out hard.
Torrance smiled lazily and turned his horse. Matt was wary of a trick. Maybe Torrance thought he could pretend to withdraw from the fight and then make his draw while Matt was concentrating on the other two gunmen.
But Torrance spurred his horse into a gallop and rode off, disappearing down a wash. Matt sat there stiffly as the hoofbeats faded.
“Well,” Wick said to his companion, “let’s kill this son of a bitch and get it over with.”
Their hands stabbed toward their guns.
Matt’s Colt seemed to leap out of its holster by magic and rose with blinding speed. Five shots blasted out in a matter of two seconds, the explosions blending together in a rolling roar of gun thunder. Hobbs rocked back in the saddle as one of Matt’s slugs punched into his chest, right where the tag from his tobacco pouch dangled from his shirt pocket. Wick hunched his shoulders and doubled over from the bullet that penetrated his mid-section. Matt fired again, knowing that Wick might still be capable of firing another shot. The final slug blew the gunman’s brains out and knocked him to the ground.
Matt was untouched. Each of his opponent
s had gotten off a shot, but the bullets had whined past him, close but not close enough. Hobbs, shot in the heart, swayed for a second on his horse before toppling off. Like Wick, he was dead when he hit the ground.
After replacing the three shells he had fired, Matt holstered his gun and got Spirit moving again. He rode around the dead men and continued on toward the bluff. He had heard a few shots in the distance and figured they meant Smoke and Preacher had run into trouble, too. He hoped they were all right, but he didn’t worry. Worrying didn’t do any good. Either they were alive, or they weren’t.
Knowing Smoke and Preacher the way he did, Matt would have bet a fine new hat they were still alive and kicking.
There was a broad clearing in the pines at the base of the bluff. Up close, Smoke could see the big seams and cracks that split the face of the rock, and at the bottom of it lay several giant slabs of rock that had broken off and fallen over the years. An hombre would have to think twice about getting too close up there, he mused. Having all that rock looming over him was bound to make him a mite nervous.
Smoke’s mouth tightened when he looked around and didn’t see Matt or Preacher. He reined in and studied the clearing. It was empty, sure enough. No sign that anyone had been there.
The hills were quiet. No shots had sounded for a while. Smoke hadn’t seen any of Bannerman’s men since the shootout with the three he had killed.
He shifted his wounded left arm to ease the ache in it. The numbness had worn off, which was a mixed blessing because while he could use that arm again, it hurt like blazes. He thought he could draw and fire with his left hand if he had to, but it wouldn’t be fast.
Smoke thought about Sally, missing her as he always did whenever fate drew him away from the Sugarloaf Ranch. It seemed he could smell the fresh scent of her hair, taste the sweetness of her lips, feel the warmth of her body. One of these days, he told himself, he was going to settle down and not let the call of adventure lure him away from his home. Yes, sir, he vowed. One of these days.
He thought about his friends Cal and Pearlie. They’d had his back in more than one fight, and he would have given a lot to have them with him. But it was worth more to know they were back in Colorado, looking after the ranch and Sally. Not that Sally needed much looking after. She was a better shot than most men and wouldn’t hesitate to use a gun if trouble came calling.
Movement in the trees on the other side of the clearing caught his eye. He pulled his horse back into the timber and drew his rifle from its sheath, relaxing as Matt rode into sight. Smoke moved into the open, and waved the Winchester over his head. Matt trotted the sorrel over to him.
“Man, it’s good to see you, Smoke,” the younger man said. “I figured you’d be here, but after hearing all those shots scattered over the hills, I’m glad to lay eyes on you.”
“Same here,” Smoke said. “Have you seen Preacher?”
Matt shook his head. “No, but I’m sure he’ll turn up. That old-timer’s made of whang leather and barbed wire. He’ll still be around when you and I are pushing up daisies.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Smoke replied with a grin. “Still, it’ll be good to see him—”
He stopped short as Preacher rode out of the trees behind him. “Go on,” the old mountain man said. “Tell some more about how glad you’ll be to see me. I was startin’ to feel plumb sentimental. Want me to take my hat off so’s you can plant a kiss on this ol’ bald head o’ mine?”
“As I was sayin’,” Smoke went on, “it’ll be good to see him because that way we’ll know the old rapscallion hasn’t gone and gotten himself in some sort of trouble we’ll have to rescue him from…again.”
Preacher bristled. “You rescue me? When was the last time you had to pull my bacon outta the fire, boy?” He rode closer and frowned as he looked at the bloody bandanna tied around Smoke’s arm. “Hell, you’re hurt.”
“It’s not much to speak of,” Smoke said. “I ran into some of Bannerman’s bunch, and one of them creased me with a lucky shot. It’ll be fine.”
Preacher reached into his saddlebags and pulled out a flask. “Best let me douse it with some panther piss. Matt, keep an eye out whilst I tend to doctorin’ this stubborn young cuss.”
“Since when did you become a sawbones?” Smoke asked.
Preacher snorted. “Since I started patchin’ up my own bullet wounds nigh on to seventy years ago!”
Smoke knew that Preacher was right, but he couldn’t agree with the old-timer without giving him a little amiable grief first. While Matt kept a lookout, Smoke and Preacher dismounted and the mountain man cleaned the wound on Smoke’s arm. Then he bound a clean bandanna from Smoke’s saddlebags around it.
“That’ll do for now,” Preacher pronounced.
“What’s our next move?” Matt asked.
Smoke considered the question for a moment, then said, “Some of Bannerman’s gunhawks are probably still between us and Crazy Bear’s village. Instead of going back there, why don’t we head for Buffalo Flat?”
“What’re we gonna do there?” Preacher asked.
“I’d sort of like to see if any of those visits Matt and I made before we started up here have done any good. I’ve got a hunch that beating Bannerman is gonna take more than bullets.”
Chapter 33
The telegraph lines had reached Buffalo Flat in the months since Matt had been there. It wasn’t the only change in the town, which had grown quite a bit since Smoke had been there last, but it was the one that interested him the most at the moment. As soon as he spotted the telegraph office, he headed straight for it. He had told his lawyers in Denver that he could be contacted there if they had any news about their investigation into Bannerman’s dealings.
Matt and Preacher stayed outside while Smoke went into the office. He had to wait while a man in a town suit talked to the clerk. He couldn’t help overhearing when the man said, “Are you sure Mr. Jensen hasn’t been in to check for messages?”
“Sorry, mister,” the clerk said from the other side of the wicket. “I ain’t seen the fella.”
Smoke tensed when he heard the name Jensen. He didn’t know whether the man in the suit was looking for him or Matt or some other Jensen entirely…although that last seemed unlikely. As the man turned away from the window with a scowl on his face, Smoke stayed right where he was, planted directly in the stranger’s path.
“Excuse me,” the man said. “I need to get by.”
“No, you need to tell me which Jensen you’re looking for,” Smoke said.
The man regarded him coolly. He was wearing an expensive town suit, but he had a rough-hewn look about him, as if he hadn’t always sported such fancy duds. He was tall and brawny, with a shock of red hair under his hat.
“What business is it of yours who I’m looking for?” he asked.
“Because my name is Jensen. Kirby Jensen, usually called Smoke.”
The man took a deep breath—the only sign he gave of being surprised. “Mr. Jensen,” he said. “My name is Halliday. I was sent up here from Denver by your lawyers to find you.”
“You’re an attorney?”
Halliday shook his head. “An investigator. I have some news for you regarding—” He stopped short and gave a curt shake of his head. “Not here. Can you come with me to my hotel room?”
Smoke glanced at the telegraph operator and thought quickly. If Halliday had news for him, it had to be something to do with Bannerman that he didn’t want to discuss in front of the telegrapher. He was afraid the man might tell Bannerman about it, which was certainly a possibility. Bannerman was maybe the richest and most powerful hombre since Jason Garrard had given up his ambition to run everything in that corner of the territory.
“All right. Matt and Preacher are with me.”
Halliday nodded, obviously knowing who Smoke was talking about. “Bring them along. All of you need to hear this.”
Matt and Preacher looked puzzled when Smoke walked out of the telegraph office with Hal
liday. “Who’s this hombre?” Preacher asked.
“Name’s Halliday,” Smoke explained. “He works for my lawyers down in Denver. Says he came all the way up here to tell us something, so I figure it must be important.”
“It certainly is,” Halliday said. “If you gentlemen will come with me…”
They left their horses tied in front of the hotel and followed Halliday up to his room on the second floor. When they got there, the detective offered them a drink.
“Never mind that,” Smoke said. “Just tell us what the investigation found out.”
“Nothing good, I’m afraid,” Halliday said as he hooked his thumbs in his vest. “The trail of Bannerman’s connections runs all the way back to Washington.”
“To the Department of the Interior?” Smoke guessed.
“Among others, including the Capitol. Gentlemen, Mr. Bannerman has some friends in high places…very high places. I’m talking about politicians, judges, bankers, railroad men…the sort of men who believe they actually run this country. Unfortunately, in most cases they’re right. Have you heard of the Indian Ring?”
Smoke tensed. “I’ve heard of them. A bunch of damn crooks who took over the Bureau of Indian Affairs for a while. They had some high-powered political backing, but they were broken up several years ago, weren’t they?”
Halliday nodded. “That’s right. Some of the principals managed to avoid indictment, and they’ve never forgotten how much money there is to be made off the Indians. It appears they’re trying to put together a new Indian Ring…and Reece Bannerman has been selected as their first standard-bearer.”
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