Bounty Hunter lj-1

by William W. Johnstone

  Smoke hefted the rifle he had carried into the room. “I brought your Winchester up. I don’t expect you to need it, but I thought you might feel better having it close at hand.”

  Luke smiled. “Thanks. You’d better not put it on the bed, though. Mrs. Jensen wouldn’t like it if you got gun oil on her sheets.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Smoke said with a grin as he placed the rifle on the floor next to the bed. He didn’t look like a man who was about to ride off and fight a battle to the death with a ruthless enemy. But like Luke, life on the frontier had taught Smoke how to live in the moment.

  “Still wish I was going with you,” Luke said.

  “I know that.” Smoke stuck out a hand. “And I appreciate it.”

  They shook. Again, Luke wished he could tell Smoke who he really was, but he had decided that could wait. Smoke already had enough on his mind without the shock of finding out the brother he had thought to be dead for the past fifteen years was really alive.

  “Sally will be up with some breakfast in a little bit.” Smoke lifted a hand in farewell and left the room.

  Luke looked at the holstered revolvers and coiled shell belt on the table beside the bed, then pushed the covers back and swung his feet to the floor. He stood up, feeling a lot steadier than he had the night before. Getting back into action seemed to have had a bracing effect on him.

  With the approach of dawn, the sky outside was lighter. He went over to the wardrobe, opened it, and could see his clothes hanging on hooks inside the wardrobe. As he pulled on the black shirt and buttoned it up he realized it was clean. Sally had cleaned and patched his clothes. He took the black trousers off the hook, braced himself with one hand on the wardrobe and hung the pants as low as possible with his other hand. Gingerly, he put one leg, then the other into the pants and pulled them up around his hips.

  He picked up his boots and clean socks from the floor of the wardrobe and carried them to the chair. Carefully, he lowered himself down. Taking a big breath, he crossed one leg over the other and pulled on a sock. He grimaced. One sock, and he needed to rest before crossing the other leg and pulling on the other sock. It had taken more effort than he had anticipated. After another moment or two, he stood and stuck his feet into his boots. It wasn’t easy, but he managed without doing any damage to his wounds.

  Being dressed made him feel even better, but he wasn’t fully dressed yet, he thought with a wry smile as he turned toward the bedside table. He picked up the cross-draw rig and buckled it on.

  A footstep sounded at the doorway. “What in the world are you doing, Mr. Smith?” Sally stood with her hands on her hips.

  Luke turned toward her. “I was thinking I might come downstairs for breakfast for a change.”

  “I’m not sure that’s wise.”

  “I’ve got to get up and start moving around again sometime. The sooner I do, the sooner I’ll get better.”

  She gave him a stern look for a moment, then shook her head and laughed. “I’ve seen Smoke act exactly the same way, and arguing with him never did any good, either. I swear, if I didn’t know better—” She stopped short, and a puzzled frown came over her face.

  To keep her from thinking too much, Luke said hurriedly, “If you’d just pick up that rifle and hand it to me . . . I’m not sure I’m ready to do a lot of bending yet.”

  “All right.” She went over to the bed, picked up the Winchester, and gave it to him. “You want your hat, too? It’s in the wardrobe.”

  “A gentleman doesn’t wear his hat indoors. I know I may not look like one, but I strive for a certain standard of civilized behavior.”

  “No offense, Mr. Smith, but you’re an odd man.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Keeping the rifle in one hand and the other on the wall for support, Luke followed Sally down the stairs. As they reached the kitchen, he heard the sound of numerous horses leaving the ranch.

  Her face tightened at the sound. Smoke and the other men were riding off for the showdown with Simeon Baxter and his hired gunmen. She knew her husband was going into danger, but what woman ever truly got used to it?

  Sally brought Luke a cup of coffee and a plate of flapjacks, bacon, and eggs, and he dug in with gusto. His appetite had come back as strong as ever, and Sally’s good cooking had already put some meat back on his bones.

  As he ate, he asked, “Did Smoke get any sleep last night?”

  “Not much,” Sally admitted. “He was upset about the men who were killed. He was up early this morning, well before dawn, digging graves for them in the little graveyard we have here on the ranch. Pearlie went out to help him, but Smoke would have done it by himself.”

  “He’s a good man,” Luke said.

  “The best I’ve ever met, by far,” Sally agreed. “And I thank God every day that the two of us found each other.”

  Luke would have liked to think he had something to do with the way Smoke had turned out, but that wasn’t likely. Kirby had been only twelve years old when Luke went off to war, so he hadn’t had much chance to mold the boy into the man he had grown up to be. Their father had more to do with that, along with the old mountain man called Preacher. Luke hoped to hear a lot more about him before his visit to the Sugarloaf was over.

  And it was only a visit, no doubt about that. Even if he told Smoke the truth and Smoke invited him to stay at the ranch, Luke knew that wasn’t going to happen. Smoke sure as hell didn’t owe him a home, and after all the years of drifting, Luke didn’t think he was even capable of settling down.

  After breakfast, he said, “I think I’ll go sit out on the front porch for a while, and take the rifle with me. I believe the sun might be good for me.”

  “You’re probably right. I’ll clean up in here, and then I might come out and join you.” Sally paused, then added, “I’m really curious about something, Luke . . . but we can talk about that later.”

  He frowned as he made his way to the porch. He had an idea what Sally wanted to talk about, and it wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have just yet. Not until he’d discussed it with Smoke, anyway.

  She might not give him any choice, though, he thought as he carefully sat down in one of the rocking chairs on the porch and slowly cocked his right ankle on his left knee. After the way she had taken care of him, he didn’t think he could bring himself to lie to her.

  His head was so full of those thoughts he almost didn’t notice the wink of sunlight on something metal in the trees about two hundred yards away from the ranch house. But his instincts still worked and shouted a warning to him. He hadn’t stayed alive by ignoring what his gut told him.

  He threw himself forward, landing on the porch on his knees, just as a rifle cracked in the distance. He felt the wind-rip of a bullet passing close beside his ear.

  CHAPTER 32

  Two hundred yards was too far for a handgun, so Luke drew his rifle and fired a shot in the direction of the hidden rifleman, aiming high so the bullet would carry a little farther. Ignoring the pain lancing through his side, he rolled toward the doorway as another shot blasted. He didn’t want the wound on his side to break open and start bleeding again, but that pain was better than being a sitting duck.

  The slug struck the rocking chair he’d been sitting in, and a chunk of wood flew off the back of it.

  “Mr. Smith!” Sally cried as she jerked the door open. “Luke!”

  He dived at her, tackling her around the knees and taking her down as a bullet plowed into the door. They scrambled farther into the house, and Luke kicked the door closed behind them.

  “Luke!” Sally gasped. “I heard shots! What—”

  A rumble of hoofbeats sounded outside, and Luke knew Smoke had miscalculated . . . and so had he. Neither had realized Baxter’s attack on the ranch the night before was just a feint. Baxter had counted on some of his men being killed, and on Smoke recognizing them. He’d been trying to goad Smoke into rushing over to the neighboring spread and taking most, if not all, of t
he Sugarloaf crew with him.

  “It’s Baxter,” Luke told Sally in a taut, grim voice. “He’s come for you. He figures with you as his prisoner, Smoke won’t have any choice but to do what Baxter tells him.”

  “Men have tried that before,” Sally informed him. “Smoke killed them. He’ll kill Baxter.”

  “More than likely,” Luke agreed as the rush of hoofbeats came to a stop outside the house. “If I don’t kill him first.” He jerked his head toward the stairs. “Get up there. I’ll stop them.”

  “You’re one man against two dozen, and you’re wounded!” Sally protested. “You can’t—”

  “Go!” Luke told her as he climbed to his feet. He didn’t have anything to lose, making him more dangerous than any number of men Baxter could muster.

  Sally didn’t understand that. She stood up beside him, and suddenly threw her arms around him and came up on her toes to brush a kiss across his gaunt cheek. “Luke,” she whispered, “I don’t know how it’s possible, but I think I know—”

  “Just go,” he cut in, “while you still can.”

  A man shouted orders outside. The gunnies knew Baxter wanted Sally alive, but they also knew at least one man with a gun was inside. Luke figured they wouldn’t come in shooting for fear of hurting her, but they would rush the place, counting on the force of numbers to overwhelm any opposition.

  Sally squeezed his arm and turned to run to the stairs. As she started up, Luke faced the door, squaring himself to the opening and bracing his feet. He had both guns drawn and pointed at the doorway, waiting grimly to start their thunderous song.

  He didn’t have long to wait. Something crashed against the door and it flew open. Hard-faced men with guns in their hands rushed into the room, and at the sight of the tall, lean man dressed in black waiting for them, they raised the weapons to open fire.

  They were too late. The revolvers in Luke’s hands were already spouting flaming death.

  As it always did at such moments, everything else faded away for Luke. The world receded until there was nothing left in the universe except him and the men he was trying to kill . . . the men who were trying to kill him. The roar of guns was like the bellow of great primordial beasts, the clouds of powder smoke rolling through the room like the eruption of ancient volcanoes, and the blood flowing the bright crimson of man like going all the way back to the dawn of time.

  Luke didn’t feel the smash of bullets like he expected. He was still on his feet and fighting, and that was all that mattered to him. Men fell before his guns like wheat before a scythe.

  Vaguely, he became aware of shots pealing out from other places. There seemed to be a battle going on outside the ranch house, as well as a rifle blasting somewhere close by.

  Suddenly, as the hammers of both Remingtons clicked on empty chambers, only one enemy faced him, a tall, burly man with a rough-hewn face and silver hair under a black Stetson. The man’s clothes were better and more expensive than those of the others, and Luke had a hunch he was facing Simeon Baxter.

  That was confirmed a second later when the man pointed a fancy, nickel-plated revolver at Luke and yelled, “I don’t know who you are, you lousy interloper, but you’ve ruined all my plans! Now you’re gonna die, you and that skirt both!”

  Luke glanced over and realized Sally was standing beside him, holding the Winchester. “I’m empty. You?”

  “Me, too.” But she was smiling, unafraid.

  Luke realized why when a powerful voice bellowed from outside, “Baxter!”

  The would-be cattle baron whirled around. A shot blasted from his gun, soaring harmlessly into the air, and was answered by a pair of crashing reports from a Colt. The bullets drove Baxter through the doorway and spilled him onto his back, almost at the feet of Luke and Sally. He writhed in pain, pawing at his chest with blood welling through his fingers, and ended up on his side looking up at Luke. “Who . . . who are you?” he gasped.

  Smoke appeared in the doorway. “His name’s Luke Jensen. He’s my brother.”

  Baxter’s head sagged back, an ugly rattle came from his throat, and he died.

  Normally the first thing Luke did when he held empty guns was reload them, but he was just too tired. He slid both guns back into their holsters and looked himself over, expecting to see more blood on his clothes. It was a shock to realize he didn’t seem to be hit. With all the lead that had been flying around the room, he didn’t see how it was possible, but he didn’t feel any new pains, just a dull ache in his side from that old wound.

  Smoke pouched his iron and rushed across the room to draw Sally into his arms. He cupped a hand behind her head and kissed her. “Are you all right?” he asked when he lifted his mouth from hers a moment later.

  “I’m fine . . . thanks to Luke. Smoke, he’s—”

  “My brother. I know. I can’t figure out how it’s possible, but there’s no doubt in my mind.” With his arms still around Sally, Smoke turned his head to look at Luke. “All I had to do was see him standing there with the dead men he’d killed defending you heaped at his feet, and I knew.” He shifted so that he could hold out a hand to Luke. “Welcome home . . . brother.”

  Luke didn’t hesitate. Reaching out, he clasped his brother’s hand.

  Pearlie and the other hands had dragged the corpses out of the living room and dumped sand on the floor to soak up the blood. Cleaning it all up was going to take a while.

  In the kitchen, Smoke filled Sally and Luke in on what had happened after he left the ranch. “I figured out what Baxter was up to when we were about halfway to his ranch. We turned around and got back here as fast as we could, with me kicking myself for being a damned fool the whole way.”

  “You were upset about your men being killed last night,” Luke said. “It’s understandable you wanted to have a showdown with Baxter.”

  “And that’s what he was counting on.” Smoke shook his head. “I’m just glad we got back in time.”

  “So am I,” Luke said with a wry smile. “I didn’t have enough bullets to kill all of Baxter’s men.”

  “Maybe not, but from the sound of it I expected to find a small army trying to fight them off inside the house, not just the two of you.”

  “Luke did most of it.” Sally gave credit where credit was due. “I never saw anybody handle guns like that, Smoke . . . well, nobody but you, that is.”

  “It’s a skill that seems to run in the family.” Smoke took a sip of his coffee and fixed Luke with an intent look across the table. “I heard you were killed fighting Yankees in the wilderness, and then told later you were murdered by those varmints who stole that shipment of Confederate gold. What’s the real story, Luke?”

  “I suppose if anyone has a right to hear it, it’s you.” Luke looked away. “Some of it’s not too pretty, though.”

  “I want to know anyway.”

  “Of course.”

  For the next half hour, Luke told them everything that had happened since that fateful night in Richmond with the Yankee artillery pounding away at the city. He didn’t leave out anything. When he was finished, he glanced at Sally and saw tears shining in her eyes.

  “You considered yourself a failure because those terrible men ambushed you?” She wiped at a tear.

  “They stole the gold I was supposed to protect. They killed my friends.”

  “And they nearly killed you! My God, Luke, that wasn’t your fault. You could have gone back home to your family.”

  He shrugged. “I saw it differently.” He knew from the look in Smoke’s eyes that his brother understood.

  “That wasn’t all. I was wanted for murder in Georgia.”

  “Well, that just wasn’t right,” Sally declared. “You were only trying to protect that girl and her grandfather.”

  “Yes, but I figured I’d caused enough trouble for them.”

  “You didn’t cause the trouble.” Sally was starting to sound a little exasperated with him. “You saved them from it!” She blew out her breath and shook her hea
d. “You stiff-necked Jensen boys! Matt’s the same way, and he’s not even a blood relative. You all think you have to be perfect and that you can never let anybody down.”

  “Well, that’s something to aspire to, isn’t it?” Smoke asked with a faint smile.

  “Maybe ... but it’s not human.” Sally took Smoke’s hand, then reached across the table and clasped Luke’s hand, too. “At least the two of you are back together, after all these years. Now I understand why you seemed so familiar to me, Luke. Even though you and Smoke don’t look that much alike, I was seeing him in you. I knew there was something special about you all along.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” he told her as he squeezed her hand.

  “And you have a home again at last,” Sally added.

  Luke didn’t say anything. Glancing at Smoke, he saw the knowledge in his brother’s eyes and realized Smoke knew he wasn’t going to stay on permanently. Luke could never adjust to that sort of life. The wanderlust was just too strong in him.

  Anyway, he still had outlaws to hunt down.

  But not right away.

  At that moment, he was content to sit in a quiet kitchen with his family and know that, while the place would never be his home, it was as close to one as he would ever come.

  EPILOGUE

  Three weeks later, on a cool morning with streamers of fog hanging around the mountain peaks in the distance, Luke saddled the fine horse Smoke had insisted was his and led the animal out of the barn, leading a packhorse behind him. He had thought he might be able to slip away from the ranch without anybody noticing until he was gone, but he supposed that was too much to hope for.

  Smoke stood waiting for him. “You don’t have to go, you know.”

  “Yeah, I do.” Luke checked the cinches one more time. “I’ve been talking to Monte Carson, and he tells me that Badger McCoy was spotted up in Laramie a few days ago.”

  Monte Carson was the local sheriff in Big Rock, and he had a whole desk drawer full of wanted posters he had let Luke look through.

  “Badger McCoy,” Smoke repeated.