Because of that, whenever Luke was in Colorado, he was always careful to steer well clear of the Sugarloaf Ranch and the nearby town of Big Rock, the same way that he had never returned to the Ozarks of southwestern Missouri. It was entirely possible there weren’t any Jensens left back there, but he didn’t want to take that chance.
It was better for Luke Jensen to just stay dead.
He was in northern New Mexico Territory, in the town of Raton, with the Sangre de Cristo Mountains and Raton Pass looming to the north, when he heard a rumor that Solomon Burke and his gang had been spotted in the area.
Luke had been trailing Burke for a couple weeks, so he took a keen interest in what he heard and finally located the old-timer who was the source of the rumor. He bought the man a drink in the High Hat Saloon and asked him about Burke.
The garrulous old man was glad to talk. “I seen ’em while I was out huntin’ one day. I got me some diggin’s up there, so I keep a pretty close eye on all the comin’s and goin’s thereabouts.”
Luke didn’t figure the old-timer’s mining claim amounted to much, but that wouldn’t stop him from being fiercely protective of it.
“I heard riders comin’ and took cover in some trees,” the wizened, bearded oldster continued. “Seen ’em ride right past me, no more ’n fifty yards away. I seen reeward dodgers on Burke with his picture on ’em before, so I recognized him right away. Had a couple o’ big Mexicans with him, so I figured they had to be Hernandez and Cardona. I’ve heard mighty bad stories about them two. Don’t know who all the other hombres were, but they was prob’ly Burke’s regular bunch of owlhoots.”
Luke didn’t doubt that. “Could you tell where they were going?”
The old prospector hesitated, licking his lips, and Luke signaled for the bartender to bring another round. That got the old-timer talking again.
“I don’t know for sure, no, but they rode on outta the valley where my diggin’s are and over the pass into the next valley. They’s an old abandoned cabin over there they could be usin’ as a hideout, right on the banks of Bluejay Creek. I can tell you how to get there”—a shrewd look appeared on the man’s whiskery face—“And I will, if you swear to give me a cut of the bounty you collect on ’em.”
“How do you know I’m a bounty hunter?” Luke wanted to know.
“Well, you don’t really look like a star packer, and I can’t think of nobody else who’d be trailin’ a bunch of hydrophobia skunks like Solomon Burke and his gang. Gimme your word you’ll cut me in?”
Luke nodded his agreement and then added, “If I come back alive, that is.”
“Yeah, it’s kind of a sucker bet on my part, ain’t it? But here’s how to get to that cabin . . .”
Luke had followed the old-timer’s directions. The valley was a two-day ride from Raton. He thought he was still in New Mexico Territory, but up in the high country it was difficult to be sure. He might have crossed over into Colorado without realizing it.
Colorado . . . the place where Smoke Jensen lived. It wouldn’t take but a few days to reach Big Rock, Luke mused as he trailed the Burke gang. He might be able to get a look at Smoke without having to introduce himself. Would he recognize his own brother, if that’s who Smoke turned out to be?
That question still lurked in the back of Luke’s mind as he dismounted and crept forward through some trees to spy on the old cabin where he thought the outlaws might be hiding.
Then bad luck cropped up again, as José Cardona, out hunting or taking a leak or just looking around, stumbled on him, tackled him, and tried to kill him. Nothing could ever just be easy. Not for Luke Smith.
He’d wiped out the gang, but he’d taken three bullets in return. His efforts to patch himself up hadn’t done much good. He wound up passing out and crashing to the floor in the cabin.
Just like fifteen years earlier, when he’d been left for dead on the banks of a shallow river in Georgia, as blackness claimed Luke he was sure he would never wake up again, that it was the end.
BOOK FOUR
CHAPTER 29
Luke winced a little as light struck his eyelids. He turned his head away and felt something soft and smooth against his cheek. A pillow? Light?
He was alive. Like the other times over the years when he had come awake after being convinced he was going to die, he struggled to grasp the concept that he wasn’t dead after all. Once again, his stubbornness had somehow kept him breathing . . . although he was sure he’d had help, too. Someone had found him in that cabin after he’d passed out from losing so much blood.
Wondering where he was and how much time had passed, he tried to open his eyes, but the light was too bright. Sunlight, he thought, but it didn’t seem like he was outside. He didn’t feel any wind. Moving his hands, he felt crisp fabric. He was lying on a mattress covered with clean sheets. So . . . he was in a bed, inside a house somewhere, and the sun was shining on him through a window.
Keeping his eyes closed, he turned his head back and heard a sweet sound that puzzled him. It reminded him of the music of a mountain stream.
It was music, all right, he realized. What he heard was a woman humming softly to herself.
His tongue felt twice as big as it should have as he licked his dry, rough lips. He had to swallow a couple times before his throat loosened enough for him to speak. All he could manage was to rasp, “H-hello . . . ?”
“Oh, my!” the woman exclaimed.
Luke heard the rapid patter of her footsteps as she crossed the room. The mattress shifted a little, and he figured she had rested a hand there as she leaned over him. Even through his closed eyes he felt the light change as she came between him and the light, so he tried opening them again.
For the second time in his life, he found himself looking up at what seemed to be an angel. This woman was older than Emily Peabody had been, but she had the same sweet, dark-haired beauty.
She smiled. “You’re all right. You’ve been wounded, but you’re going to be just fine. You’re among friends.”
“F-friends?” Luke repeated, his voice weak. “I don’t . . . have any friends.”
That wasn’t strictly true. He considered Jasper Thornapple to be a friend, and Marcy, too, of course. But Thornapple was nowhere around, as far as Luke knew, and he was a long way from Deadwood.
“You’re wrong,” the woman told him, still smiling. “Anybody who’s in trouble has friends here.” She straightened. “You just lie there and rest. I’ll go tell Smoke you’re awake.”
Once again Luke felt a shock go through him. As the woman turned away she moved out of the sunlight, causing him to flinch as the brilliant rays fell on him again. But he was able to say, “Wait . . . Did you say . . . Smoke?”
She paused, still smiling down at him, although it was hard for him to see her with the light filling his eyes.
“That’s right. Smoke Jensen. He’s my husband. I’m Sally Jensen. You’re on the Sugarloaf Ranch, near Big Rock, Colorado.”
That was loco, Luke thought. Smoke Jensen’s place was days away from where he’d fought that battle with Solomon Burke and the rest of those outlaws. How in the world had he gotten to the Sugarloaf?
Someone had brought him, of course, he realized as he forced his brain to work and struggled to put his thoughts in order. But why had they brought him to the ranch of a man who might well be one of his relatives? How had they known?
“I’ll be right back.” Sally hurried out of the room, leaving a very confused Luke lying there.
He continued wrestling with his thoughts. He must have been unconscious for days since he was far north of where he’d been the last time he knew where he was.
Slowly, he became aware of something tight around his torso, and moved his hand to his chest. Someone had wrapped bandages around him. He moved his hand upward and discovered his shoulder was bandaged, too, and so was his arm. The wounds he’d received during the shootout had been tended to.
With a sigh, he tuned into his wounds. They ached
, but not too bad. With the instincts of a man who lived somewhat like a wild animal, Luke knew he wasn’t going to die from his injuries after all. For that, he could thank whoever had come along and found him in that old cabin.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside the room. Sally came back in, followed by a tall man with very broad shoulders. She stepped over and pulled the curtains over the window, shielding Luke’s eyes from the bright light. “I’m sorry, I should have thought to close these before I left. The sun must be blinding you.”
Luke was looking at the man who stood next to the bed, but cleared his throat and managed to squeak out a few words. “That’s all right. The sun was warm. Felt good.”
The man’s face was too rugged to call handsome, although it was the sort of face women usually found attractive. The strong features were topped by close-cropped, ash-blond hair. In him, Luke saw both his mother and his father, the resemblance vivid enough to almost take his breath away.
He knew he was looking at his brother. He almost said Kirby’s name, but stopped himself in time.
The man gave him a friendly smile. “Welcome to the Sugarloaf. Sally was afraid we were going to lose you, but I took one look at her and told her not to worry. I know a stubborn varmint when I see one.”
“He ought to,” Sally put in. “He sees one looking back at him from the mirror every morning.”
The man chuckled. “I’m Smoke Jensen. This is my ranch.”
“L-Luke. Luke Smith.”
“Pleased to meet you. We’ll shake and howdy later, when you’re feeling better. Right now you need some rest, Mr. Smith. You lost a lot of blood. Stubborn or not, it’s a miracle you survived the trip up here from the Sangre de Cristos.”
“How . . . how did I . . .”
“How’d you get here?” Smoke asked. “An old prospector heard a bunch of shooting and decided to go investigate.”
The old-timer had been trying to protect his potential payoff, Luke thought.
“He had a couple friends visiting him at the time,” Smoke went on, “a pair of old mountain men. They all went looking and found you still alive in a cabin with a bunch of dead men outside. It must have been quite a battle.”
Luke managed to nod slightly. “It was,” he whispered.
“Anyway, you’d been shot up and were running a fever. You were out of your head and did a lot of ranting and raving while they were taking care of you. You mentioned my name several times, and those mountain men knew who I was. I have a lot of friends among those old-timers. They figured I might know you, and when they thought you were strong enough, they decided to bring you up here.” Smoke paused and gave Luke an intent look. “Do we know each other, Mr. Smith?”
Luke forced himself to shake his head. “S-sorry. Never saw you before.” Those words practically broke his heart. He knew he was looking at his own flesh and blood.
Nearly twenty years had passed since he’d seen his little brother, and he couldn’t even acknowledge that. Kirby—Smoke—had built a fine life for himself. Why ruin that by admitting the shot-up stranger was really his disreputable, bounty-hunting failure of a brother?
Smoke frowned. “Then why were you talking about me while you were feverish?”
“Hell . . . I don’t know. Like you said . . . I was out of my head. Maybe I heard somebody else talking about you . . . before I got shot. I know the name . . . You’re some sort of . . . gunfighter.”
“That’s a reputation I never set out to get.” Smoke’s face settled into grim lines.
The moment passed quickly, and he smiled again. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t really matter. What’s important is that you’re safe here, and your wounds are starting to heal. Now that you’re awake again, you can concentrate on resting and getting better.”
“Why would you ... go to so much trouble for me?” Luke asked. “For a . . . stranger?”
Sally answered his question. “Nobody who needs help is a stranger on the Sugarloaf, Mr. Smith. That’s just the way we are around here.”
“I can’t . . . pay you.”
Smoke’s face hardened again. “You don’t know Sally and me, so we’ll let that pass. Are you hungry?”
Luke suddenly realized he was ravenous. It had probably been quite a while since he’d had any solid food. “Yeah. I could . . . sure eat.”
“I have a pot of stew on the stove downstairs,” Sally said. “I’ll bring some up to you, although it’ll be mostly broth starting out.”
“That sounds . . . mighty good, ma’am. I’m . . . obliged to you.” Luke looked at Smoke. “And to you.”
“De nada,” Smoke said, then before he could go on, somebody knocked on the open door.
Luke cut his eyes in that direction and saw a tall, gangling cowboy standing in the doorway, holding a battered black hat in one hand.
Smoke looked toward the doorway and asked, “What is it, Pearlie?”
“Hate to bother you, Smoke, but Cal just rode in and told me somebody caved in a bunch of boulders on the Fortuna Ridge waterhole. Covered it up completely. We’ll have to move the cows on that range, since they won’t have any water.”
“Could it have been a natural rockslide?” Smoke asked with a troubled frown.
“Didn’t sound like it from what Cal said. He told me he rode up to the top of the ridge and found a place where a bunch of horses stopped this mornin’. He figured some of Baxter’s men dabbed their loops on one of them boulders and used their horses to start it rollin’. That’s all it would’ve took. But you can ride up there and take a look for yourself, if you want.”
Smoke shook his head. “I trust Cal’s opinion. He’s a good hand, even if he is pretty young. But there’s no way of knowing it was Baxter’s men who ruined the waterhole.”
“We don’t know they were the hombres who took them potshots at us the other day, or ran off that jag of cattle, but who else could it be? You got any other enemies around here right now?”
“Simeon Baxter claims he just wants to be neighbors with us.”
Pearlie let out a disgusted snort, then glanced at Sally. “Sorry for almost sayin’ what I almost just said,” he apologized.
“Don’t worry about it,” Sally told him with a smile. “I was probably thinking the same thing about Simeon Baxter. All I had to do was look at the man to know he can’t be trusted . . . and I think you know that, too, Smoke. You just want to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Yeah, well, that’s starting to wear a little thin,” Smoke admitted. “Pearlie, tell the boys to saddle up. We’re going to take a ride over to the Baxter spread.”
“Now you’re talkin’,” Pearlie said with undisguised enthusiasm. “I’ll tell ’em to oil up their smoke poles, too.”
“We’re not going to ride in shooting.”
“No, but we may have to ride out that way.”
Smoke didn’t dispute that speculation.
Luke saw the worried glance Sally directed in her husband’s direction as Pearlie hurried away down the corridor.
“Is this going to turn into another range war, Smoke?” she asked.
“I hope not. I’ve had my fill of those, and I know you have, too. But I’m not going to let Simeon Baxter bull his way in and take over. You know me better than that.”
“Yes. I do.”
“And you wouldn’t want me to be like that, anyway.” Smoke went to her and kissed the thick dark hair on top of her head.
“No, I don’t suppose I would,” she agreed. “But I wish you’d be careful, anyway.”
“Always,” Smoke said with a grin. He hugged her and then hurried out after Pearlie.
“Sounds like . . . you folks have some trouble around here,” Luke acknowledged.
“It’s nothing for you to worry about, Mr. Smith,” she assured him. “Just some range hog who moved in recently. He’s got the loco idea in his head that he can bully Smoke Jensen.”
“Sounds like ... a pretty foolish thing to do.”
“It is.�
�� Sally sighed. “I just hope this isn’t the time Smoke’s luck finally changes.”
“It’s not . . . luck.” Luke knew it was the Jensen blood. The sheer determination to do the right thing and stand up for yourself. He had failed in that respect so long ago, and he’d been trying to make up for it ever since. He could take another step on the long road back . . . if he could strap on his guns and stand beside his brother as Smoke faced down this trouble.
But that wasn’t possible, at least not at the moment. Luke had lost too much blood, been unconscious for too long, grown too weak. All he could do was lie there and regain his strength.
When he was stronger, he could offer to help Smoke with his troubles. He wouldn’t have to reveal who he really was. He’d just be a grateful stranger returning a favor.
Time enough for that later. He could barely keep his eyes open.
Sally recognized his weariness. “I’ll bring you some of that stew later, Mr. Smith. I think you need to rest a bit more before you eat.”
“Maybe . . .” Luke murmured, trying to fight off the exhaustion threatening to wash over him. Realizing he couldn’t, he gave in and let it claim him.
His last thought was that he wasn’t passing out. It wasn’t unconsciousness, it was good honest sleep. Healing sleep—just what he needed.
And when he woke up next time, he would be that much closer to being able to help his brother.
CHAPTER 30
The stew Sally Jensen brought up to him tasted as good as it smelled, Luke discovered after the delicious aroma roused him from his slumber. It seemed to possess some magical power, as well, he decided, because after one bowl of it, he felt strength coursing back into his body.
She sat in a chair beside his bed and fed him, and when the bowl was empty, Luke asked, “Did your husband get back from talking to that fellow Baxter?”
Sally had been smiling and cheerful when she came into the room, but a shadow passed over her face at his question. Luke didn’t like that he had caused her distress, but he needed to know what was going on.
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