Brandt rode up then. “Manning, you and Waco ride down there to where he came from and make sure there’s nobody else coming,” he ordered. “We’ve got two or three thousand dollars on the hoof here and I wouldn’t want anything to happen that would keep us from collecting.”
“All right, Major,” Manning said. “Come on, Waco.”
The two men rode at least three miles before they came upon a cow camp. There were three men sitting around a fire. When they heard Waco and Manning approaching, they stood and faced them.
“Quién es usted?” one of them asked. “Dónde ser Juan?”
“Speak English,” Waco said as he swung down from his horse to face the three men. He noticed that all three men were wearing pistols.
“Who are you? Where is Juan?”
“Juan is dead,” Waco answered.
“Muerto?”
“Dead, yes. And I killed him.” That wasn’t exactly true. It was Preston, not Waco, who shot Juan. But for Waco’s purposes right now, it didn’t matter who killed Juan.
“You killed him?”
“Yeah,” Waco said. “What are you going to do about it?
Waco stared at the three men, a mirthless smile on his face.
It took the three men a moment to realize that they were being challenged. But how could that be? Was it possible that one man, with his pistol still in his holster, was challenging all three of them.
“Ahora!” one of them yelled and, as one, all three men reached for their pistols.
The smile on Waco’s face actually grew broader and he watched, almost with detachment, as the three Mexicans started for their guns. He paused for just a second, then with little more than a jump in his shoulder, his gun was in his hand. He fired three times, firing so quickly that the echoes from the gunshots came back as one sustained roar.
All three Mexicans went down, mortally wounded. Not one had managed to get off a shot.
Waco held his smoking gun for a moment as he looked at the bodies of the three men he had just killed; then he twirled the gun a couple of times before putting it back in his holster. Gunsmoke from the three discharges drifted across the area, and some even wisped up from the end of the barrel at the bottom of his holster.
Waco looked up at Manning, who had watched the entire thing unfold. Manning had an expression of shock and awe on his face.
“Mr. Manning,” Waco said. “No scattergun?”
Manning blanched in quick fear.
“You know I could kill you now, don’t you?” Waco said. “I could kill you, and say it was one of these boys who did it.”
“I . . . I reckon you could,” Manning said meekly.
Waco chuckled. “Well, don’t worry. I ain’t goin’ to.” He nodded toward the three bodies. “What did you think of that?”
“Fastest damn thing I’ve ever seen,” Manning agreed.
“Faster’n Smoke Jensen?”
“I don’t see how he could be any faster,” Manning agreed.
“Are you ready to take back what you said earlier about me bein’ scared of Jensen?”
“Yeah,” Manning said. “Yeah, I am.”
“You ain’t sayin’ that just ’cause you know I could kill you, are you?”
Manning shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything faster’n that.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Although King and his party had actually reached the ranch, they did not make it all the way back to the house on the first day of their travel. They camped out on Chilripin Creek that first evening, and the entourage was so well equipped that their supper was anything but the kind of fare one might normally expect while camping.
Two of the men traveling with the entourage were cooks, and one of the wagons was carrying a cooking stove and oven. The cooks prepared salt pork with fried apples and potatoes, sliced cucumbers, and a black walnut chess pie.
“Look at Pearlie,” Cal said. “He is in hog heaven.”
Pearlie didn’t even hear the comment, so intent was he on the food.
During the meal, King entertained the others with the story of his past . . . which Smoke had to admit was as colorful as his own.
“I was born in New York City on July 10, 1824, to Irish parents who didn’t have a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it through,” King began.
“Richard!” Henrietta gasped.
King laughed. “I’m sorry, my dear, but when folks see all this”—he took in the land with a sweep of his hand—“I want them to know it wasn’t given to me.”
King continued his story, telling how he ran away from his indentured servitude, stowed away on a ship, and wound up buying land in Texas.
He chuckled. “But that was during my adventurous years. I’ve calmed down a lot since then. The most exciting thing I do now is develop new breeds of cattle.”
“Yes,” Smoke said. “I’ve heard of your Santa Gertrudis breed. They say it is one of the finest breeds of cattle around.”
“It’s a good breed, if I do say so myself,” King said. “They are as sturdy as longhorns, as meaty as Herefords. And right now they bring top dollar at the markets.”
“Which is why you are being targeted by rustlers, no doubt,” Smoke said.
“Well, you would think so, wouldn’t you?” King said. “But the ones who hit us didn’t steal any cattle. They killed several head, but they didn’t steal any.”
“Why would they kill your cattle and not take them?”
“To answer that question, you would have to understand the minds of the men who did this.”
“Tell me about them,” Smoke said.
“Smoke, do we have to talk about such things tonight?” Sally asked. “The food is delicious, the company good, the night is beautiful . . . couldn’t we just enjoy the moment?”
“Sally’s right. I didn’t mean to bring up any unpleasantness,” Smoke apologized.
“No, no, it’s quite all right. I think it is something you should know, and there is no time better than the present to tell you about it,” King said. He looked at Sally. “That is, with your permission, ma’am. The story does have its terrible moments.”
Sally nodded. “Of course you can tell the story. If Smoke is going to help you, he is going to have to know as much about these people as he possibly can.”
“Thank you. I will . . . uh . . . tell the story in as delicate a fashion as I can.”
“Oh, nonsense,” Sally replied. “Smoke will tell you, I am not faint of heart.”
Smoke laughed. “She’s telling the truth there,” he said.
With supper finished and pipes and cigars lit, King began his story, telling of the raid against his ranch during the war.
“I suppose that the ranch was a legitimate target,” he conceded. “I was running the Union blockade to sell Confederate cotton to the British . . . and I was buying arms and ammunition to sell to the South. I didn’t know I had done that much for the Southern war effort, but it did catch someone’s attention because we were the target of a raid by Union troops.”
King paused for a few moments and took several puffs from his pipe before he went on, obviously trying to compose himself.
“Unfortunately, the leader of that attack was a man named Jack Brandt. Major Jack Brandt had a particularly nasty habit of using his sword to decapitate his victims.” Again he paused. “But not until he let his men rape the women and young girls. In all, he killed twenty-three innocent men, women, and children.”
“What happened to Brandt?” Smoke asked.
“He went to prison,” King said. “I thought he would be hanged, or at the very least, given a life sentence.”
“But he is out now?” Smoke asked, anticipating where the story was going.
“He’s out,” Kleberg said, answering for King. “I checked with the authorities. He and Wiley Stone were released at the same time.”
“I take it Stone was one of the men with him,” Smoke said.
“Yes. Stone was his sergeant,�
�� King said. He sighed. “I believe these same two men have come back to plague me,” King said.
“Do you have any proof of that—that he is the one who attacked your men?” Pearlie asked.
King shook his head. “No. All I have is a gut feeling.”
“I’ve known a lot of good men in my life,” Smoke said. “And I’ve learned to trust their feelings. So that’s good enough for me.”
“I appreciate that,” King said. “But what bothers me now is the fact that we are having cattle roundups back at the ranch. I’ve told Ramon to get as many cattle moved to the north end of the range as possible. I intend to cut ten thousand head out and drive them north.”
“How long will it take you to have your roundup and get your herd under way?” Smoke asked.
“I think we should be able to get the drive started within two weeks,” King said. “And during those two weeks we will be pretty vulnerable.”
“Maybe we can figure out a way to make you less vulnerable,” Smoke said.
“Mr. Jensen,” King began.
“Please, call me Smoke.”
“Smoke,” King corrected. “I want you to know how much I appreciate this . . . especially when I was so dumb as to refuse to accept your help.”
“Ah, think nothing of it,” Smoke said. “Just consider it one rancher helping another.”
Later that night, two large tents were erected, one for Richard King and his family along with Bob Kleberg, and the other for Smoke, Sally, Pearlie, and Cal. The tents were well ventilated, and furnished with canvas cots so that the occupants didn’t have to sleep on the ground.
The ranch hands who were riding with the entourage slept on the ground, or in the wagon.
“Captain King is a very rich man, isn’t he?” Sally asked that night as they settled into their cots.
“He’s rich, I guess. But he’s no richer than I am,” Smoke replied.
“What?” Sally replied in surprise. “How can you say that? Captain King has thousands of acres of land . . . hundreds of thousands of acres. And who knows how many head of cattle? Now, unless Sugarloaf is a lot bigger than you have told me, Captain King is a lot richer than you are.”
Smoke chuckled. “Well, my dear, I suppose it is all in how you measure wealth.”
“What do you mean? How many ways are there to measure wealth?”
“Well, you could say that because I have you, and my freedom to enjoy you, that I am the wealthiest man in the world,” Smoke said.
Sally gasped, then was quiet for a long moment.
“Are you all right?” Smoke asked.
“Yes,” Sally answered. She was quiet for another long moment before she spoke again, her voice coming from the dark, filled with awe.
“Smoke. I do believe that is the nicest thing you have ever said to me.”
In the predawn darkness, several riders appeared. Their leader held up his hand and, like the precision military formation they were, the riders came to a halt.
“There they are,” Preston said, pointing.
“You are sure that is King?” Brandt asked.
“Yes,” Preston said. “I seen his coach while I was in town. That’s it, right there. And who else would be travelin’ with a coach, three wagons, and two big tents?”
“I think you are right,” Brandt said. “I believe it is King.”
“What are we going to do, Major?” Stone asked.
“We’re going to attack,” Brandt replied.
“I thought you didn’t want to kill him yet.”
“Sergeant Stone, you were in the war, same as I was,” Brandt replied. “You know as well as anybody that battle plans are fluid, and always subject to change.”
“Yes, sir,” Stone replied.
“Spread the men out and commence shooting upon my first shot,” Brandt ordered.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Even before the fusillade that followed Brandt’s signal shot, Smoke was out of his cot with his gun in hand. He heard bullets popping through the canvas wall of the tent.
“Out of your cots!” he shouted. “Everyone get down on the ground and stay low!”
By now there were so many guns being fired that the shooting made one sustained roar. In addition to the sound of the gunfire, there was the buzzing of bullets as they punched in through one side of the tent, then poked out the other side.
Smoke crawled to the edge of the tent, then lifted the canvas up from the bottom. He could see flashes in the night as a veritable army was firing toward them. He didn’t know how many were out there, but from the number of flashes, and the rapidity of the firing, he knew that there were quite a few.
Smoke chose one of the flashes and, taking a chance on the shooter being right-handed, fired just to the right of the flame pattern. He didn’t hear anything, nor could he see anything, but he was gratified to see that there were no more muzzle flashes emanating from that particular location.
By now, Pearlie and Cal had also poked their heads and shoulders from under the tent and, like Smoke, they were returning fire. Smoke could hear other gunshots coming from King’s party, a very good demonstration coming from the cowboys who were accompanying the train, but also, he was gratified to hear shots from Captain King’s tent. That meant that they were not above carrying the fight themselves.
Bullets continued to whistle through the night. Many of them made little fireballs as they struck stone, then whined off into the darkness.
The firing continued very intensely for nearly a full minute.
“Right flank, continue to put down covering fire!” Smoke heard a commanding voice shouting from the darkness. “Left flank, pull back in an orderly withdrawal!”
The incoming fire decreased by about half. Then that firing halted, to be replaced by shooting from further away. Smoke was surprised by the orderliness of the withdrawal. After a few minutes, there was no more incoming fire at all, though people within King’s party were still shooting.
“Cease fire!” Smoke called. “Don’t waste any more ammunition, you are shooting into the dark!”
The firing eased off, not sharply, but raggedly.
“Cease tiroteo!” King called. “Cease tiroteo!”
The last shot was fired.
“Is anyone hurt?” Smoke called into the dark.
“Sí, señor. Mi amigo, Vincente, he is hurt.”
“I’ll see to him,” Sally said.
“Wait,” Smoke said. “Let me check out the area first. Pearlie, you go around to our people and tell them not to move around yet. All we need now is for someone to kill one of our own people.”
“What are you going to do?” Pearlie asked.
“I’m going to go out there and have a look around,” Smoke said as he began poking out the spent cartridges from his cylinder and replacing them with fresh shells.
“You’re the one who had better be careful then,” Pearlie said.
Smoke snorted, which may have been a laugh.
“You’re right,” he said. “Look, stop by everyone’s post. Tell them that I’m going to be out there, so don’t get itchy.”
“All right,” Pearlie said.
“Hold up, Pearlie, I’ll come with you,” Cal said. “With both of us going, we can get to everyone twice as fast.”
The two young men slipped through the front flap of the tent, then, running bent over, started along the line of wagons.
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” Pearlie shouted as he approached the others. Cal was doing the same thing while running in the opposite direction.
Smoke waited until both Pearlie and Cal were gone before he slipped out under the tent wall. He crawled through rocks, sand, and various types of cactus—his way covered by darkness—closing his mind to the pricks and stabs of everything from sharp-edged stone to long, very pointed cactus needles.
As Smoke moved through the night toward where he had heard the sound of guns, he could see puffs of white gun smoke hanging in the black night air over where the raiders h
ad been. He could also smell the acrid bitterness of burnt powder.
He moved closer, his unobserved approach as silent as the moon shadows. Then, by the light of the moon, he saw two men waiting, staring toward the King encampment. The pullback had been a ruse.
“Did you two men get left behind, or what?” Smoke called out.
“What the hell?” one of them shouted in alarm. Both men turned toward Smoke and fired; though, as Smoke had moved after he called out to them, they were shooting toward the sound of where his voice had been.
Smoke had a better target, and it took him only two shots to take care of both of them. As soon as he fired, he moved from his location again, knowing that the muzzle flashes would give him away to anyone else who might be hiding out. There was no more shooting, but Smoke remained quietly in his new location, sheltered behind a rock, hidden by the deep shadows of predawn darkness.
Gradually, the black turned to gray . . . then the first pink fingers of dawn touched the mesquite, and the light was soft and the air was cool. The last morning star made a bright pinpoint of light over a line of mountains, lying in a ragged line far to the west.
A rustle of wind through feathers caused him to look up just in time to see a golden eagle diving on its prey. The eagle swooped back into the air, carrying a tiny desert mouse kicking fearfully in the eagle’s claws. A Gila monster scurried beneath a nearby mesquite tree, which was itself dying under the burden of parasitic mistletoe.
Smoke stayed where he was. Then, as the sun reached two fingers above the eastern horizon, nearly every shadow was eliminated and he could see two bodies lying on the ground. Then something caught his eye . . . a movement behind a low-lying mesquite tree. He saw someone raise up and aim a rifle, and when Smoke looked in the direction the man was aiming, he saw that Alice King was standing just outside the King tent.
The son of a bitch was about to shoot a woman!
“Drop that gun!” Smoke called.
Instead of dropping his rifle, the man swung it toward Smoke and fired. The bullet was uncomfortably close, so close that it actually left a burn mark on Smoke’s neck. Smoke returned fire, and the man threw up his rifle as he tumbled backward.
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