Brotherhood of Evil

by William W. Johnstone

  He clapped the old brown hat back on his head and led Horse across the road and the tracks.

  Once he had the stallion well hidden in the trees again, he tied the reins loosely around a sapling and said quietly, “You and Dog just stay here, Horse. I best go afoot from here on out. If I need you, I’ll whistle, and you two come arunnin’.”

  Horse tossed his head up and down, almost like he was nodding. Preacher grinned and patted him lightly on the shoulder. Dog whined, clearly not happy with Preacher’s decision not to include him, but he would follow orders. As far back as the old mountain man could remember, he’d had an uncanny, almost supernatural ability to communicate with animals, especially horses and dogs.

  Preacher faded into the brush and started back toward the spot where the men were hidden.

  He heard them talking well before he got there. Whatever they were up to, being quiet obviously wasn’t part of it. When he was close, he parted some brush to make a tiny gap and peered through it.

  The three men had dismounted, but their horses stood with reins dangling, ready to ride again at a moment’s notice. It didn’t appear that the men had even loosened the saddle cinches.

  One of them was smoking a stogie. They passed around a silver flask. It was all Preacher could do not to snort in disgust at their lackadaisical attitude. If they were bushwhackers, they were doing a piss-poor job of it.

  But he supposed that when it came to ambushes, the proof was in the killing. As long as they gunned down who they were supposed to, nothing else mattered.

  Question was, who were they gunning for?

  Preacher had taken one look at the men and known they were killers. He had seen hundreds of their stripe over the years. Stripe was the right word, he mused. He knew skunks when he saw ’em.

  Listening to their conversation for the next few minutes did nothing but confirm his initial impression of them. In the crudest possible terms, they talked about women they had known, most of them saloon girls. They talked about bank robberies and train and stagecoach holdups. They talked about killings they had witnessed—and some they had participated in. No matter how sordid or violent, they seemed to find all the stories amusing.

  A bitter taste filled Preacher’s mouth. He wished Smoke and Matt would go ahead and ride up the road, so maybe these varmints would shut up their filthy talk.

  Then one of them said something that made the old mountain man’s ears perk up.

  “I’ve heard a lot of men say Smoke Jensen’s the fastest hombre who ever buckled on a gun belt,” the man declared.

  The one smoking the stogie puffed on it and laughed. “I reckon he’s fast, all right, but there’s only one way of finding out who’s the fastest, isn’t there?”

  The third man said, “Well, it’s not you, Dalby, that’s for damn sure. I swear, I could count to ten in the time it takes you to pull that hogleg.”

  “That’s a damn lie,” Dalby said, scowling. He tossed the cigar butt aside and straightened. “Any time you want to give me a try, Vinton—”

  “Hold on, hold on,” the first man said sharply. “The major sent us out here to watch the road and make sure nobody gets in or out of town, not to shoot each other.”

  Preacher’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like the sound of what he had just heard. He didn’t like it at all. He didn’t know who the so-called major was—not a real military man, surely, or he wouldn’t be giving orders to owlhoot scum like these fellas—but evidently the man had taken over Big Rock. That was the only reason he would want to keep folks from leaving.

  “What if Smoke Jensen himself comes along, Harkness?” Dalby asked the first man. “What are we supposed to do then, if he really is that fast?”

  It’s Smoke they’re after. That revelation came as no surprise to Preacher. Smoke had made enough enemies over the years for a dozen regular men. Maybe two dozen.

  Harkness said, “Jensen’s not going to throw down on us. Not if he wants—” He stopped short and lifted a hand. “Listen. I hear horses on the road.”

  That would be Smoke and Matt, thought Preacher as he bit back a curse. He’d been in a hurry for them to get there and shut up the dirty-talkin’ varmints, but he’d changed his mind, wishing they were coming along a few minutes later. If they were, the men might have inadvertently spilled everything that was going on. He shrugged. Nothing could be done about that.

  The men swung into their saddles and moved quickly toward the road.

  Maybe with any luck, he and Smoke and Matt wouldn’t have to kill all three of them, Preacher told himself. If they could get their hands on a prisoner, he could convince the hombre to talk. He was sure of that.

  For the moment, all he could do was glide through the trees after them.

  Smoke and Matt had taken their time, making sure that Preacher had the chance to get in position. As they approached the spot where they had seen the men lurking in the trees, neither of them doubted that the old mountain man was right where he was supposed to be.

  “I’m starting to feel a mite antsy,” Matt commented as they walked their horses along side by side. “Like somebody’s looking at me over the barrel of a gun right now.”

  “Could be they are,” Smoke said with a faint smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”

  “Well, no, not hardly. But don’t tell me you’ve gotten used to the feeling.”

  Smoke shook his head slightly. “You never do.”

  His eyes moved constantly, seeking out signs of danger. Every sense was on high alert. He was expecting it when three men on horseback suddenly burst out of the brush and blocked the road.

  “Let them start the ball,” Smoke quietly told his adopted brother. “We want to find out as much as we can.”

  One of the men called, “Hold it right there!”

  The outlaws hadn’t drawn their weapons, but their hands hovered close to gun butts.

  Smoke and Matt reined in.

  Smoke asked in a deceptively mild tone of voice, “What’s this all about, mister?”

  “We’ll ask the questions,” the man snapped. “Where are you two headed?”

  Smoke nodded down the road. “On into Big Rock.”

  “Got business there, do you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, you don’t anymore. The town’s off-limits, and our orders are to arrest anybody who tries to ride in.”

  “Arrest?” Smoke repeated. “You’re lawmen?”

  “That’s right. Now, are you comin’ along peacefully?”

  Smoke didn’t believe for one second that the men were officers of the law. He had seen too many hardcases not to recognize that sort when he saw them. They were gunmen, pure and simple, hired killers more than likely . . . but they wanted to take Smoke and Matt into Big Rock, and that was where they wanted to go.

  “Follow my lead,” he said to Matt from the corner of his mouth. Then he raised his voice. “Take it easy, deputy. We’re not looking for trouble. If you want us to come with you—”.

  “Damn it, Harkness, I’ve seen that hombre before! That’s Smoke Jensen!” Dalby clawed at the gun on his hip.

  Chapter 29

  Harkness yelled, “Damn it, Dalby, don’t—” but it was too late.

  Dalby’s gun was already in his fist.

  Smoke and Matt were on the move instantly, as soon as Dalby reached for his gun. Smoke yanked his horse to the right while Matt went to the left. Spreading out in the face of danger was pure instinct for them.

  Dalby’s bullet whipped through the air between them as they separated. He didn’t get a chance to fire again. His shot had barely sounded when two shots crashed from Matt’s Colt. The bullets slammed into Dalby’s chest and slapped him backwards, out of the saddle. His right foot hung in the stirrup as his horse bolted. The spooked horse dragged the dead man along the road as it galloped between Smoke and Matt.

  On the other side of the wagon road, Smoke had palmed out both revolvers. The hardcase called Harkness may not have
wanted a fight, but it had gone too far to stop and all the men knew it.

  Harkness yanked his gun from its holster, but he didn’t get a shot off. Smoke’s right-hand Colt boomed. The bullet tore through Harkness’s throat. As he bent backwards from the impact, blood fountained from the torn arteries in his neck.

  The third outlaw screamed like a madman and kicked his horse into a run just as Preacher emerged from the trees behind him and fired both guns. The unexpected move threw off the old mountain man’s aim and both slugs whistled through the air.

  The hardcase thundered toward Smoke and Matt, spraying lead at them as fast as he could jerk the trigger. From the looks of it, he was trying to blast his way past them so he could flee.

  The tactic might have worked if he hadn’t been facing enemies as coolheaded under fire as Smoke and Matt Jensen.

  As it was, they fired at the same time. Their bullets tore through the man at different angles and corkscrewed him out of the saddle. He thudded facedown to the ground.

  Preacher hurried forward and exclaimed, “Dadgum it! I wanted to take one of them varmints alive.”

  “No way for us to know that,” Matt said. “And once the shooting started, there wasn’t time to do anything fancy.”

  The horse dragging Dalby had vanished around the bend. Harkness was clearly dead with blood pooling darkly around his head where he lay after toppling off his mount.

  Preacher hooked a boot toe under the shoulder of the third man and rolled him onto his back. His bloody chest still rose and fell, and they could hear his harsh breaths as he struggled to draw air into his lungs.

  Smoke dismounted and joined Preacher at the wounded man’s side.

  Preacher hunkered on his heels. “Son, you ain’t got far to go ’fore you cross the divide. How come you and those other fellas were waitin’ out here for Smoke Jensen?”

  Smoke frowned as he heard that question.

  The dying man rasped, “You . . . you go to . . . hell . . . old man! . . . The major . . . he’ll see to it . . . the doctor . . . the devil . . . Ahhh!”

  The man’s back arched and his boot heels drummed briefly on the hard-packed dirt. Then he slumped as his final gasp rattled in his throat.

  Preacher stood and thumbed his hat back. “Well, if that don’t beat all. What’d he mean by the devil? And who’re the major and the doctor?”

  “What did you overhear, Preacher?” Smoke asked. “Did they give you any hint as to what’s going on here?”

  “A hint’s all they did give me,” Preacher replied. “From the sound of it, their bunch has taken over Big Rock.”

  Matt said, “We got the same idea when they started talking about arresting us.”

  Preacher let out a disgusted snort. “These varmints weren’t real deputies. Monte Carson never would’ve pinned badges on owlhoot scum like them.”

  “You’re right about that,” Smoke agreed. A grim feeling began to grow inside him. “That means Monte must be their prisoner—or worse.”

  “Yeah,” Preacher said with a nod. “It’s you they was really after, Smoke. They were supposed to capture you, not kill you. They acted like they had somethin’ they could hold over you, to make you do whatever they wanted.”

  “Like hostages in town,” Matt suggested.

  “Yep. That fella Dalby lost his head and went for his gun. That was all the spark it took.”

  Smoke’s heart slugged harder in his chest at the mention of hostages. His enemies had tried that before. “Did they mention anything about Sally or the ranch?”

  Preacher shook his head. “Not a dang word. The same thing occurred to me, Smoke, but there ain’t no reason to think Sally’s in danger.”

  “There’s no reason to think she’s not, either.”

  Preacher just shrugged. He couldn’t argue with Smoke’s logic.

  Matt said, “It might be a good idea to hash this all out somewhere else. We’re close enough to town that somebody could have heard those shots, and if these fellas’ friends are running things in Big Rock now, they might send somebody to see what the commotion was all about.”

  Smoke’s face wore a bleak expression as he nodded. “You’re right. Let’s move higher in the hills where it’ll be harder to find us.”

  “What about these carcasses?” Preacher asked.

  “Might as well leave them where they fell. I suppose we could hide them, but even if they vanish, their friends will still know that something happened out here.”

  “That’ll make ’em be on the lookout for trouble,” Preacher warned.

  Smoke nodded. “Good. Because trouble’s on the way.”

  Chapter 30

  Half an hour later, Preacher, Smoke, and Matt stopped in a clearing high enough that in the distance, they could see the steeple on the church in Big Rock, along with the roofs of a few buildings. They dismounted.

  Smoke propped a foot on a fallen tree and peered intently at the distant settlement. “If the owlhoots are guarding the roads into town, they’re liable to have patrols out, too, but it’s not very likely any of them will come this high.”

  Matt asked, “Who do you think they are, Smoke?”

  “I don’t have any idea.” Smoke shook his head. “I’ve got plenty of enemies, I suppose.”

  Preacher grunted. “Not that many who are still alive and kickin’.”

  Smoke smiled humorlessly. “I suppose that’s true, but most of the men I’ve had to kill are bound to have friends and relatives.”

  “What about the major and the doctor?” Matt asked. “Either of those ring any bells?”

  Smoke shook his head again. “Not really. Those men we shot it out with weren’t regular army, any more than they were deputies.”

  “I’d say that’s right,” Preacher agreed.

  Smoke frowned in thought for a moment, then asked, “When you were eavesdropping on them, Preacher, did they happen to mention you or Matt?”

  The mountain man pursed his lips as he considered the question. “Nope, I don’t believe they did. I’m sure of it. They didn’t.”

  Smoke rubbed his chin. “Then maybe they don’t know the two of you are with me. Maybe they think I was coming into Big Rock alone.”

  “What difference does that make?” Matt asked, clearly puzzled.

  “It means they won’t be looking for the two of you.”

  “They’re grabbin’ ever’body who tries to get into town,” Preacher pointed out.

  “That’s right. And they don’t know who you are.” Smoke looked back and forth between his two companions. “With all three of those men dead, the others have no way of knowing that there’s any connection between the two of you and me.”

  Matt let out a low whistle. “So there’s nothing stopping us from getting into town and finding out exactly what’s going on.”

  Smoke nodded. “That’s the way it looks to me.”

  Preacher said, “Problem with that idea is that we’d be prisoners. Wouldn’t be able to do nothin’ to help matters.”

  “I might be able to slip in without them knowing I’m there,” Matt said.

  “And I know dang well I could,” Preacher added.

  Smoke agreed. “That’s what I was thinking. The two of you find out exactly what sort of odds we’re facing, and we can rendezvous later to figure out what to do about them.”

  “Where should we meet?” Matt asked.

  Smoke considered the question for a moment, then said, “How about Knob Hill? It’s closer to Big Rock than Sugarloaf, but it’s pretty handy to both of them.”

  Matt and Preacher nodded. They knew where the rocky hill was located.

  “Where’ll you be in the meantime?” Preacher asked.

  “I’m heading for Sugarloaf,” Smoke declared. “I’m not going to do anything else until I’m sure that Sally is all right.”

  Chapter 31

  Pearlie sat motionless in the sun with his back against a rock. He was at the top of the ridge above the line shack, having climbed there ear
lier to relieve Cal. For the past two days, one of them had been up there all the time during daylight hours, keeping an eye on the valley hundreds of feet below and the lower slopes that led up.

  If any of Trask’s men started poking around in the vicinity, the fugitives wanted as much warning as they could get.

  Down below, a thin tendril of smoke curled from the shack’s stone chimney. Sally kept the fire small, just enough to boil coffee, fry salt pork, and bake biscuits from the small cache of supplies left in the line shack. They were trying to make those provisions last as long as possible.

  Pearlie was careful to keep his rifle and pistol where the sun couldn’t hit them. A reflection of sunlight off metal from the ridge would be a dead giveaway that a man with a gun was up there. A pair of field glasses might have come in handy, but he wouldn’t have risked using those, either. His eyesight was good, so he was willing to rely on it.

  Inside the line shack, Sally poured herself another cup of coffee while Cal dozed in one of the bunks. The men took turns standing guard at night, as well as watching from the ridge during the day, so they grabbed what sleep they could, when they could.

  The shack had only two bunks. Cal and Pearlie traded off in one of them and Sally had the other.

  Some people would consider it scandalous that a married woman was sharing the crude cabin with two men, neither of whom was her husband, but she had long since stopped caring about narrow-minded folks and their hidebound notions of propriety. If somebody wasn’t brave enough to say to her face what they thought, she didn’t care about their opinions.

  She sat down at the rough-hewn table. She wore the flannel shirt and denim trousers that one of the ranch hands had left behind, along with a pair of thick socks. The shirtsleeves and trouser legs were rolled up quite a bit, but the socks fit surprisingly well. The puncher who had left the clothes must have rather small feet, she had thought when she’d first pulled on the socks.

  They were all right as long as she was at the line shack, but if she was going to be riding or moving around much, she needed a pair of boots. She didn’t know where she would get them.