“But he’s bringing in the railroad! That’s a good thing.”
“Not if he tramples on people’s rights to do it,” Smoke said.
“You’re loco,” Malone insisted. “All of you. You can’t fight somebody who’s got all the money and power Longacre has. Not for very long, anyway. He’ll crush you.”
Smoke ignored the gunman’s ranting. “Here’s the gap. Don’t even think about calling out a warning, Malone. You’ll die a split second after you do.”
Malone fell silent except for muttering some frightened curses as the four men rode between the ridges.
Smoke and Matt looked calm, but they felt tension grip them as they waited for the ball to start.
They didn’t have to wait long. The crash of gunshots suddenly filled the air.
The shots weren’t aimed at them, though, and they didn’t come from the boulders where Longacre’s men were hidden. The bullets rained down from higher on the ridges, where some of Walking Hawk’s warriors had scaled those almost perpendicular slopes during the night and slowly, silently worked their way into position to ambush the ambushers.
Smoke heard cries of pain and surprise from Longacre’s men as he dug his heels into the ’Paloose’s flanks and sent the horse lunging forward. “Let’s go!” he called to Matt and Pine Tree. Their only hope of saving Maureen and Ferguson was to take their captors by surprise and reach the cave before the gunmen could kill the prisoners.
Puffs of smoke jetted from the rifles of the Paiutes on top of the ridges. Under attack, Longacre’s men tried to fight back. They forgot about the men in the gap and turned to fire up at the Indians. Smoke spotted one of Longacre’s bushwhackers who stepped out from behind the boulder where he had been hidden and sprayed lead toward the top of the ridge as fast as he could work his Winchester’s lever. One of the Paiutes was hit and silently toppled off his perch, clutching his belly where the bullet had ripped into him. He plummeted into the gap below.
Smoke lifted his Colt and snapped a shot at the man who had just killed the Indian. The bushwhacker spun around and dropped his rifle as the slug from Smoke’s gun punched into him. He plunged off the ledge, but he didn’t die silently. He let out a short-lived scream that ended abruptly as he crashed into the rocky floor of the gap.
Smoke, Matt, and Pine Tree galloped past both bodies. Smoke was sorry one of Walking Hawk’s warriors had been killed . . . but unless they were lucky, he wouldn’t be the only Paiute to die that day.
Malone had whirled his mount and fled as soon as the shooting started. Smoke hated to let him go, but there hadn’t been any other choice. If he had tied a lead rope to Malone’s horse, Longacre’s bushwhackers would have noticed it and might have realized something wasn’t going according to plan. Malone would probably head straight for Halltown to warn Longacre and Talley. That couldn’t be helped. Smoke and Matt would have to move fast enough that it wouldn’t matter.
As they stormed out of the gap, Smoke caught sight of the cave up ahead. It was under the huge slab of rock that formed the ridge on the left, about a hundred feet away. Several of Longacre’s men had come running out when the shooting began. Smoke figured it was their job to finish off any survivors who made it through the ambush in the gap.
They could see the ambush hadn’t gone as planned. The rifles in their hands came up and started to spout flame, but the three riders were moving fast and had already closed part of the gap. Smoke drew his second gun and guided the ’Paloose with his knees as he opened fire with both Colts. Matt’s gun was roaring, too, and the whipcrack of Pine Tree’s rifle also blended with the thunder of galloping hoofbeats.
They hoped Maureen and Ferguson were tied up deep enough in the cave that they would be out of the line of fire, but Smoke and Matt both knew the prisoners might already be dead. It was a grim possibility they weren’t going to acknowledge as long as they didn’t have to.
Longacre’s hired killers crumpled under the deadly hail of lead that scythed through them. In a matter of heartbeats, only one man was left on his feet. The others were either dead or kicking out their lives on the ground.
The lone man whirled and dived back into the cave, heading toward a couple of struggling, trussed-up figures deep in the cave. Matt leaped out of the saddle and followed with the .44 in his hand.
“Stay back!” the gunman yelled over his shoulder. “Stay back or I’ll—”
Matt left his feet in a diving tackle that caught the man around the legs and sent both crashing to the ground. The bone-jarring impact jolted the guns from their hands.
The gunman kicked free of Matt’s grip, rolled over, and came up flailing punches at him. Matt ducked under the wild blows and sunk his left fist in the man’s belly, causing the man to gasp and bend forward in perfect position for the short right cross that Matt smashed to his jaw. The perfectly timed punch sent the man sprawling on the floor of the cave again.
Unfortunately, he landed next to the gun that had gone skittering out of his hand a moment earlier. He snatched it off the ground, rolled again, and brought the weapon up. Flame spouted from its muzzle as he fired at Matt.
Matt had already spotted his .44 and threw himself toward it, feeling the wind-rip of the hired killer’s bullet as it whipped past his ear. He scooped up the .44, fitting the grip in his palm with an easy familiarity and his finger went to the trigger with pure, swift instinct. The gun roared and bucked in his hand. The bullet drove into the gunman’s chest and rocked him back. The man’s eyes bulged from the pain and the realization he was about to die. He struggled to get off another shot, but the gun slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers. His head dropped back, and with a grotesque rattle his last breath escaped from his body.
Matt scrambled to his feet and ran to Maureen and Ferguson. “Are you all right?” he asked as he dropped to his knees next to them. Ferguson had an ugly, scabbed-over gash on his forehead, a souvenir of the pistol-whipping he had suffered the night before when Judd Talley kidnapped him from the hotel, but Maureen appeared to be unharmed.
“Uncle Colin’s hurt, but I’m fine,” she said.
“That little scratch is nothing to worry about,” Ferguson insisted. “My head’s too hard for a gun barrel to do much damage to it.”
Matt tried to untie them, but Smoke appeared and used his knife to cut their bonds. “Pine Tree’s making sure, but it looks like all of Longacre’s men are dead.”
“Pine Tree?” Ferguson repeated.
“One of Walking Hawk’s warriors,” Smoke explained. “He pretended to be Preacher.”
“The old mountain man?” Maureen asked.
“We’ll explain the whole thing later,” Matt said. “Right now, we need to get back to the Paiute village. The cavalry’s on their way out there this morning, and things could get bad.”
“If Longacre has anything to say about it, they will get bad,” Ferguson said. “He’d like nothing more than to have the soldiers come in and do his dirty work for him by wiping out those Indians.”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that.” Smoke straightened to his feet and sheathed his knife. “I reckon there’s a good chance Longacre will try to hedge his bets.”
“How’s he going to do that?” Matt asked.
“I don’t know,” Smoke said, “but whatever it is, I reckon it’s up to us to stop it.”
Chapter 33
The horses of Longacre’s men were picketed nearby. Pine Tree selected a couple for Maureen and Ferguson, and Matt helped them mount up. The group rode out through the gap, where they were joined by the Paiute warriors who had thwarted the ambush. The man who had been shot off the top of the ridge was the only fatality, and his body was draped over the back of his pony.
The corpses of Longacre’s men were left where they had fallen. If the scavengers got to them before somebody could collect them for burial, Smoke and Matt weren’t going to lose any sleep over it.
They headed for Walking Hawk’s village, but they hadn’t gone very far when Matt po
inted to their left. “Look over there.”
Smoke had already spotted the odd, dark shape on the ground a couple hundred yards away. Although he didn’t like the idea of delaying their return to the Paiute village, he wanted to see what it was. “Let’s check it out.”
As they rode closer, Smoke realized it wasn’t one shape, but two: a horse, and a man pinned underneath it.
“Oh, my God, help me!” the man called when he heard the approaching hoofbeats. “Somebody help me!”
Smoke swung down from his saddle. The trapped man was Grady Malone. The fallen horse rolled its fear-crazed eyes at Smoke and tried to get up, but one of its front legs was badly broken. When the horse moved, Malone screamed.
Smoke hunkered on his heels next to Malone and stroked the horse’s quivering flank, speaking to it in a soft, calming tone. The horse’s head dropped back to the ground as it settled down.
“You look like you’re in a bad fix, Malone,” Smoke said.
“Stupid horse . . . stepped in a damn prairie dog hole,” Malone panted. “Fell on me . . . I couldn’t jump clear . . . because my feet were tied.”
“That’s a shame,” Smoke said coolly. “Anybody who signs on to work for a man like Longacre has to figure he might come to a bad end. From the looks of it, you’re pretty busted up inside.”
“Blasted horse . . . wallowed all over me . . . I couldn’t get away from it . . . Get it off me, Jensen. My leg’s broke, I know, but if you’ll just get this horse off me—”
Malone broke off as a fit of coughing seized him. Bloody foam bubbled from his mouth. When Smoke saw that, he knew at least one broken rib had pierced a lung. Malone was drowning in his own blood, and from the curiously flattened look of his midsection, that wasn’t all the damage the horse had done to him. Smoke was a little surprised the man had lasted so long.
“Moving the horse isn’t going to do you any good,” Smoke said bluntly. “You’re dying, amigo. There’s nothing we can do.”
Malone let out a groan. “Damn . . . Longacre,” he managed to say. “Damn . . . Talley.” He gave a bitter laugh. “But I knew it was gonna . . . be like this someday . . . like this . . . or worse. Like you said, Jensen . . . a man who lives by the gun . . .” More blood bubbled past the man’s lips. “It’ll catch up with you . . . someday, too.”
“More than likely,” Smoke agreed. He debated what to do next. Before they rode off, he would put a bullet in the horse’s head to end its misery. Maybe he ought to do the same for Malone.
The dying gunman laughed again. “You’re gonna be . . . too late. The soldiers are gonna . . . wipe out those dirty Paiutes.”
Smoke frowned and leaned closer. “How do you know? The captain might listen to reason when Preacher talks to him.”
“Longacre’s not gonna . . . leave it to chance. Talley and some of the other boys . . . they’re gonna bushwhack the troopers . . . so they’ll think . . . the redskins did it. Even if the cavalry . . . loses the battle today . . . nobody can . . . stop the war. They’ll just send . . . more soldiers . . . until all the Paiutes . . . are dead.”
Smoke felt a chill go through him at Malone’s words. He knew the gunman was right. If Longacre and Talley could provoke a fight between the army and the Paiutes, nobody would listen to reason. One way or another, the killing would continue until Walking Hawk and his people were wiped out.
And just like that, Cyrus Longacre would win.
Smoke stood up and drew his gun. A shot blasted out, hammering into the injured horse’s head. The animal’s suffering was over.
As Smoke turned away, he slid a fresh cartridge into the cylinder to replace the one he had just fired. “Come on,” he told his companions. “There’s no time to waste.”
“Jensen!” Malone screeched behind him as Smoke swung up into the saddle. “Jensen, don’t ride off ... you can’t . . . Jensen!”
The hoofbeats of the galloping horses drowned out the agonized pleas that faded into the distance behind them. Smoke didn’t look back.
A man who lives by the gun, Malone had said. He didn’t have to finish the thought.
Dies by the gun.
Only Malone hadn’t, not exactly.
Close enough, Smoke thought.
It was the first set of new buckskins Preacher had had in a while. Felt pretty good, too, the old mountain man thought. The round-faced, middle-aged woman who had brought the clothes to him had been all smiles. Preacher was too old for any frolicking, but he still enjoyed flirting a mite, he thought as he smiled back at the Paiute woman. That put him in mind of Helena Markova. He wouldn’t mind seeing her again, even though it was highly doubtful that would ever happen. Any woman who handled a shooting iron like that Russian gal was worth spending some time with.
He was sitting on an Indian pony next to Walking Hawk, a short distance back from the edge of the northwestern bank of Big Bear Wash where the main trail from Halltown crossed it. Off to the left was a long, low ridge in which the wash cut a chasm. The morning sun painted the sandstone of the ridge blood-red. Preacher hoped that wasn’t an omen.
More than fifty Paiute warriors accompanied him and Walking Hawk. Some of the men had been left back at the village to guard it, and they were guarding Joseph Spivey as well. Walking Hawk had made sure they understood how important it was to keep the pale-faced hotel clerk alive.
The chief wanted the confrontation with the cavalry to take place away from the village, away from the women and children. Preacher would handle the talking, if it came down to it. The old mountain man still hoped that Smoke and Matt would get back from their little chore in time to take care of that.
From the looks of the dust rising into the air on the other side of the wash that wasn’t going to happen.
The cavalry was coming.
Preacher spat, then wiped the back of his left hand across his mouth. “You and your men stay here, Chief, I’ll talk to them soldier boys.”
“I will come, too,” Walking Hawk declared. “I will be beside you, Ghost Killer.”
Preacher nodded. “Suit yourself.”
Walking Hawk turned and called commands to his warriors in the Paiute tongue, then he and Preacher moved their horses up to the very edge of the wash. Preacher could see the soldiers at the base of that dust cloud. They came on at a steady trot.
The troopers were about fifty yards from the wash when their captain held up his hand and the sergeant bellowed, “Company . . . halt!”
The soldiers brought their mounts to a stop and formed a fairly regular line facing the Indians on the other side of the wash. Leaving the noncom with the men, the captain rode forward alone. The officer wasn’t lacking for courage, Preacher thought. Though the captain was doing Cyrus Longacre’s dirty work for him, he might not realize it. Preacher hoped he could talk some sense into the man.
Holding up a hand in greeting, Preacher called, “Howdy!” across the wash.
“You’re a white man,” the captain said, sounding a little surprised.
“That’s right. They call me Preacher.” The old mountain man waited a second to see if the officer recognized his name. When the man didn’t give any sign of it, Preacher went on, “I’m a friend to the Paiutes and come here today to speak for them.”
“There’s no need for any discussion. I’m Captain Edward McKee, and my orders are to remove those hostiles from their current habitation and accompany them to a more suitable location pending a review of the terms of the treaty they’ve violated.”
Preacher shook his head. “No offense, Cap’n, but somebody’s done told you wrong. Walkin’ Hawk and his people ain’t hostiles, and they ain’t done anything to violate the treaty.”
McKee gave a contemptuous snort. “No? Then what would you call rustling cattle and attacking railroad surveyors, Mister . . . Preacher, was it?”
“They ain’t done those things. It’s the other way around. They’re the ones who’ve been attacked, by Cyrus Longacre’s hired guns.”
“Mr. Longacre i
s a well-respected businessman,” McKee shot back. “You open yourself up to trouble when you start making baseless accusations against him, sir.”
“They ain’t baseless, and I got proof!”
McKee’s eyebrows went up. “Oh? What sort of proof?”
“Back at the Paiute village, there’s a fella who can tell you just what a no-good skunk Longacre is. If you’ll just come with me, Cap’n, you can talk to him and hear the truth for yourself.”
“You mean you want me to come with you to the Paiute village?”
For a second Preacher began to hope that he was getting through to McKee. He nodded. “Yep, that’s right.”
“Where I can be taken prisoner and used as a hostage?” McKee shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Blast it, Cap’n!” Preacher struggled to control his anger and impatience. “You don’t know it, but you’re bein’ used by that varmint Longacre—”
“That’s enough!” McKee snapped. “Are those savages going to comply with my orders . . . or do I have to force them to comply?”
Walking Hawk and some of the other Paiutes understood enough English to know what the captain was saying. Preacher sensed a stirring in the ranks of warriors behind him. The troopers on the other side of the wash looked just as nervous and angry. The tension, the sense of impending violence, was so thick in the air Preacher could practically smell it. All it would take to set off a frenzy of killing would be a single shot from either side.
Smoke, Matt, and Pine Tree held a discussion as they and the others galloped toward Big Bear Wash, raising their voices to be heard over the pounding hoofbeats.
“Where could Talley and his men hide to ambush the cavalry?” Matt asked. “The area where the trail crosses the wash is pretty open.”
“Bloody Ridge,” Pine Tree said. “My people call it that because of the way it looks early in the morning.”
Smoke said, “You’ve been around here more than I have, Matt. You remember the place?”
The Family Jensen Page 25
