Bounty Hunter lj-1

by William W. Johnstone

  “They talked,” Sally said. “Baxter denied having anything to do with the trouble we’ve been having. From the way Smoke sounded, it was pretty tense between them for a few minutes, but there was no shooting.”

  “That’s good. Range wars usually don’t work out well for either side.”

  “I know that. Sometimes you have to stand up and fight for what’s yours, though. I know that, too.”

  Luke couldn’t argue with her. Earlier, the exact same thought had crossed his mind. He said carefully, “I’ve heard stories about your husband, Mrs. Jensen. I would think a man would have to be pretty foolish to come in and try to hog Smoke Jensen’s range.”

  “Some men are so arrogant they think they can have whatever they want,” she replied with a shrug. “Baxter has plenty on his payroll who are fast with their guns. Smoke just has our ranch hands, although Pearlie had a reputation as a gunman, too, before he gave that up to be Sugarloaf’s foreman.”

  “How did Smoke leave it with Baxter?”

  “With a warning that nothing else had better happen.”

  Luke thought that was unlikely. He knew what Sally meant about the arrogance of some men driving them on, even when the smart thing to do would be to back off. He counted on the outlaws he hunted having the same attitude. They could usually be goaded into doing something stupid that would give him a chance to bring them down.

  Sally changed the subject, saying she wanted to check the dressings on Luke’s wounds. He let her do so, feeling a little bit embarrassed about having his sister-in-law poking around his body. She didn’t know they were related, and he didn’t tell her.

  “Everything looks fine,” she announced when she was finished. “Those old mountain men who found you probably had plenty of experience patching up bullet wounds. They took good care of you and put you on the road to recovery.”

  “How long do you think it’ll be before I’m up and around?”

  “Not long,” she assured him. “It’s mostly just a matter of getting your strength back.” Sally hesitated. “I noticed a terrible scar on your back . . .”

  “An old war wound,” Luke said, trying not to sound too curt but making it clear he didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Smoke was too young for the war, but just barely. His father and brother fought in it, though.”

  Luke’s interest quickened. “Did they make it through?”

  “His father did . . . but he was killed not long afterward by some men responsible for the death of Smoke’s brother Luke during the war.” She cocked her head to the side as she looked down at him. “You have the same name as him.”

  Luke suddenly worried that he had probed too much. “There are plenty of men around named Luke.”

  “Of course there are.”

  Even though he knew he probably shouldn’t, he risked another question. “What happened to those men? The ones responsible for the deaths of Smoke’s pa and brother?”

  “Smoke found them.”

  The flat sound of Sally’s answer told Luke all he needed to know. Jasper Thornapple’s information had been correct. Smoke had settled that long-standing score.

  Only it was worse than Luke had ever known. From what Sally had just said, Potter and the others were responsible for the death of his father as well. The confirmation that Emmett Jensen was dead, and had died violently at the hands of trash like that, was like a knife inside Luke for a second.

  “Good riddance, I’d say,” he forced out.

  “Yes, indeed,” Sally agreed. She brightened. “You get some more rest now. Let that stew do its work.”

  “I’ll do that,” Luke promised. He leaned his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes. He owed a debt to Smoke Jensen for killing those four no-good thieves. He would find a way to pay that debt, he promised himself.

  Even if it had to be as Luke Smith.

  A couple nights later, Smoke brought him a cup of coffee and a plate of bear sign. Luke was glad to see him. After being unconscious for so long, once he began to get his strength back he wasn’t nearly as sleepy.

  “Need me to break pieces off this and feed ’em to you?” Smoke asked as he settled down in the chair beside the bed.

  “I think I can handle a pastry.” Luke sat up, moved the pillows behind him, and then proved it by taking one of the doughnuts off the plate.

  “You sound like a cultured man, Smith.”

  Luke managed not to laugh. “Far from it. I just have a taste for reading. I suppose I’ve picked up a few things from that. Most of my life has been spent about as far from what people would consider culture as you can imagine.”

  “I have some books downstairs. Would you like me to bring a few of them up here for you?”

  “That would be very much appreciated,” Luke said.

  “In the meantime, you can tell me about all those dead men scattered around the place where my friends found you.”

  Luke smiled. “You’ve been wanting to ask me about that ever since I woke up, haven’t you?”

  “That old prospector said they were outlaws. Somebody named Solomon Burke and his gang. Supposed to be pretty bad hombres. Did you kill all of them by yourself?”

  “Seemed like the thing to do, especially since they were trying to kill me at the time.”

  “If they were using that place for a hideout, that means they didn’t ambush you. It was the other way around, wasn’t it?”

  “I was hunting them, yes,” Luke admitted with a nod. “I was after the bounty on them.” He had to laugh. “I’ll bet that old pelican claimed it for himself, though.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Smoke said. “So you’re a bounty hunter.”

  “That’s right.”

  “There was a time I had a price on my head.” Smoke shrugged. “But I suppose a fella’s got to do whatever is necessary for him to get by.”

  “I don’t blame you for not being fond of the idea of having a bounty hunter under your roof. For what it’s worth, all the men I’ve gone after were bad sorts, the kind of men who really need to be behind bars or six feet under.”

  “As far as you know,” Smoke said.

  Luke inclined his head in acknowledgment of that point. “I believe I’m right, but no one knows everything about the other people in this world.”

  “That’s true. For example, you strike me as the sort of man who has secrets of his own, Smith.”

  Luke didn’t like the turn in the conversation. “You already know all that’s worth knowing about me, Jensen.”

  It sounded odd to him, saying his own name like that.

  “I’m not sure,” Smoke said. “There’s something about you . . . something I can’t put my finger on. I feel like I ought to know you. Are you sure we’ve never met?”

  “Positive.” Luke hoped he kept the tension out of his voice. “I know who you are, but I never heard the name Smoke Jensen until a couple years ago.” That was true, as far as it went.

  Smoke made a face. “I never asked for a reputation as a gunfighter. I just wanted to be left alone. But then I found out some men had done my family wrong—skunks who had be dealt with—and I set out to do it. I’d already met an old mountain man named Preacher. He taught me how to handle a gun. Taught me everything worth knowing that my pa hadn’t already taught me. Along the way I got married to a fine woman, even had a son, but some other evil lowlifes took that family away from me. I met a young fella named Matt Cavanaugh and took him under my wing the way Preacher did with me. Matt’s the same as my brother now, even goes by the name Matt Jensen. Then Sally came along—” Smoke stopped and shook his head.

  “I don’t know why I started going on about all of that. You’re not interested in my checkered past, as they say in the dime novels. But it might be boring enough to help you sleep.”

  “I wasn’t bored,” Luke said honestly. In fact, he had a hard time keeping the emotion out of his voice. Hearing about his brother’s life stirred up a lot of feelings inside him. He wished he had
gone home after the war, that he had been at Kirby’s side when trouble came to call. Things might have turned out completely different.

  But he hadn’t been able to return. He’d been a wanted fugitive, and didn’t know Kirby—Smoke—had gone through the same sort of ordeal for a while.

  All that was behind them. Luke couldn’t think of a single reason why he couldn’t tell Smoke who he really was.

  And suddenly that was exactly what he wanted to do.

  I’ve been a damned fool all these years, he told himself.

  As soon as Thornapple told him the gunfighter named Smoke Jensen had killed Potter, Stratton, Richards, and Casey, Luke should have gone looking for him and found out the truth. That blasted prideful stubbornness of his had stolen two more years out of his life, two years he could have spent with his brother ... or at least knowing he had a brother.

  The coffee and the bear sign were forgotten. Luke wasn’t sure exactly how he would go about it, but it was long past time for the truth to come out.

  And it might have, if fate hadn’t chosen that moment for the sudden, harsh sound of gunfire to fill the night.

  CHAPTER 31

  Smoke was on his feet instantly, blowing out the lamp on the bedside table and stepping to the window to flick back the curtain so he could look out without being silhouetted. “Masked raiders shooting up the place,” he snapped, dropping the curtain.

  Luke opened his mouth to say he wanted to help, but it was too late. Smoke was through the doorway and gone, leaving Luke sitting in the bed listening to the sounds of battle as gunmen attacked his brother’s ranch.

  Not while I can do anything about it, by God, Luke thought as resolve stiffened his muscles. Especially since his revolvers were within reach.

  Earlier, he had asked Sally where his guns were. She’d tried to tell him not to worry about that, but he had persisted, learning his gun belt and the twin Remingtons were in a wardrobe at the side of the room, along with his clothes. His Winchester was downstairs.

  He didn’t think he could handle stairs, but he could get to his revolvers. He pushed the covers aside, swung his legs out of bed, and stood up.

  A wave of dizziness swept through him. He fought it off as his eyes adjusted to the moonlight filtering through the curtains. Tightly bandaged as he was, he found he could move around without his wounds hurting too much. Wearing only those bandages and the bottom half of a pair of long underwear, he made his way to the wardrobe and opened it.

  It had been too long, he thought as his hands closed around the smooth walnut grips of the guns. For a decade and a half, the weapons he carried had been the closest friends he had. That might not be true anymore—he had a brother again—but it still felt mighty good to heft the Remingtons as he turned around and walked back to the open window.

  The night breezes were tainted with the acrid bite of powder smoke as Luke thrust the curtains aside and looked out. Riders with bandannas tied over their faces galloped through the open area between the ranch house and the bunkhouse. The guns in their hands spat flame and lead as they sent shots in both directions.

  Return fire came from the Sugarloaf’s defenders, but they were heavily outnumbered. Luke figured there were at least thirty raiders in the yard.

  He could improve the odds a little, he thought as he thrust the right-hand Remington out the window, drew a bead on one of the riders, and fired. The masked man rocked back in his saddle and had to drop his gun and grab the saddle horn to keep from toppling off his mount.

  One low-down sacker out of the fight, Luke told himself. He eared back the Remington’s hammer and shifted his aim to another of the masked men.

  He got off several rounds, dropping a couple more men, before the raiders noticed the shots coming from the second-floor window of the ranch house. A few twisted in their saddles and flung their guns up to fire in that direction. Luke was forced to reel back from the window as glass shattered and bullets whipped through the opening.

  He waited until the barrage stopped and then moved forward again, kneeling at the window so the wall gave him some cover. It looked thick enough to stop most bullets.

  Still galloping back and forth, the raiders continued their barrage, but the deadly accurate fire of the defenders was starting to take a toll. Luke added to it by triggering both revolvers and spraying bullets among the marauders. Gun thunder rolled from the Remingtons.

  The masked killers finally had enough. The one who seemed to be in command wheeled his horse and yelled, “Let’s get out of here!”

  Those still mounted—some badly wounded—followed him as he galloped off into the darkness, leaving seven or eight bodies scattered on the ground.

  Luke didn’t stand up immediately. He didn’t want to catch a final wild slug thrown through the shattered window.

  Also, he was tired. When he was sure they were all gone, he placed his left-hand gun on the floor and used that hand to brace himself as he leaned forward and drew in several deep breaths. The bandages around his midsection prevented him from breathing too deeply, but he did the best he could.

  The door opened behind him. Sally Jensen stood in the doorway, wearing a nightdress and a coat slung around her shoulders. “Mr. Smith! Are you all right?”

  Luke looked back over his shoulder at her, noticing immediately the rifle in her hands. He figured she had been right in the middle of the fight downstairs. “I’m fine.”

  Feeling a little stronger, he picked up the gun and pushed himself to his feet.

  “Smoke said he thought he heard shots coming from up here. You really shouldn’t have gotten out of bed.”

  “After all you folks have done for me, I wasn’t going to just lie there while you were under attack,” Luke argued. “That’s not the way I’m built.”

  Sally smiled. “I know. We haven’t been acquainted for long, Mr. Smith, but you remind me a little of my husband. He can’t turn his back on a fight, either.”

  It was the Jensen blood, Luke thought, but he couldn’t say that. Instead he asked, “Was anybody hurt?”

  Sally’s smile was replaced by a look of grim anger. “We’re fine in here, but Smoke’s gone out to the bunkhouse to see about the men. I’m worried some of them were wounded.”

  Luke became uncomfortably aware that he was standing in his underwear with a pair of empty guns in his hands. He wasn’t sure which of those things bothered him more. He didn’t think the masked raiders would double back and launch another attack, but the possibility couldn’t be ruled out entirely. First things first, he decided. “I’d better reload. Just in case.”

  “No, what you’d better do is get back in that bed and let me check your dressings. I want to make sure none of your wounds have broken open again.”

  Luke thought about it for a second, then chuckled. “I always try not to argue with a woman, especially one holding a loaded rifle.”

  “That’s a good policy,” Sally told him, smiling again.

  He was back in bed and she had taken a look at his bandages, determining that none of the wounds were bleeding again by the time Smoke came into the room with a Colt in his hand. Sally turned toward him with a worried frown on her face.

  “Two men were killed,” Smoke reported. “Steve Rankin and Charlie Moss.”

  Sally cringed. “Oh, no. What about the wounded?”

  “A bullet busted Phil Weston’s arm. Other than that just some nicks and scratches.” Smoke’s face was set in hard, bleak lines. “But they killed two men who rode for me, and I’m not going to let Baxter get away with that.”

  “You don’t know they were Baxter’s men,” Sally maintained.

  “Yes, I do. I took a look at the bodies of the men they left behind. I remember seeing all of them at Baxter’s place when I was over there a couple days ago.”

  “Then you can go tell Monte about it and let the law handle this,” Sally suggested.

  Smoke shook his head. “I’ll send a rider to Big Rock tomorrow to tell Monte what happened, but Pea
rlie, the rest of the men, and I will be heading for Baxter’s ranch.”

  Sally opened her mouth, and for a second Luke thought she was going to argue with her husband. But then she nodded. “You’re right, Smoke. We need to stomp our own snakes.”

  Smoke grunted. “Damn right we do.” His expression eased a little as he looked at Luke. “Are you all right, Smith?”

  Luke nodded. “I’m fine.”

  “You were burning some powder up here, weren’t you? I heard the shots.”

  Luke grinned. “Like I told your wife, I owe you folks too much to sit by and do nothing. If you’ll let me borrow a horse, I’ll ride over to Baxter’s with you in the morning for the showdown.”

  “Oh, now, I don’t think that would be a good idea at all,” Sally protested. “You’re not in good enough shape to ride yet, Mr. Smith.”

  “I agree with Sally,” Smoke added. “But I appreciate the offer. I’m obliged to you for taking a hand tonight, too. You’re probably responsible for some of those men we downed.”

  Luke knew he was, but didn’t say anything. He’d never been one to boast.

  Smoke went on. “You just keep recuperating. I’ll handle Baxter.”

  Luke nodded. “All right.” He looked at Sally. “I’d be obliged, though, if you’d bring my gun belt over here. I sure don’t like having empty guns.” He smiled. “Gives a man the fantods.”

  Pearlie, Calvin Woods, and the rest of the Sugarloaf hands were so upset about the deaths of their friends they had wanted to charge over to Simeon Baxter’s ranch right away and settle the score. But Smoke had decided to wait for daylight, thinking Baxter might have an ambush set up for them.

  He mentioned that reasoning to Luke early the next morning, before dawn actually, when he stopped by Luke’s room.

  “That’s good thinking,” Luke agreed. “I’ve ridden into more ambushes than I should have, just because I was too eager or too careless. Gunfighting is almost as much about thinking as it is about shooting.”

  “You sound like a man speaking from bitter experience,” Smoke commented.

  “Is there any other kind?”