Smoke nodded. The big ’Palouse was pretty much a one-man horse, but he’d been around Pearlie and Cal Woods, another of the Sugarloaf’s regular hands, enough that he would tolerate being saddled by them, at least most of the time.
“Who brought the word about the rustlers hitting us again?” Smoke asked.
“Ollie Simms. He brought Barstow in to get that bullet hole patched up, too. Slewfoot, Dave Taggart, Billy Doyle, and Chet Burns are still out there, guardin’ the rest of the herd in case the varmints come back.”
Smoke shook his head and said, “Since they’ve already made one raid tonight, I doubt if they’ll come back for more. They’re bound to know that we’d be ready for them if they did.”
The lanky foreman let out a disgusted snort.
“After raidin’ the herd twice in the past month, you’d think they’d figure we were ready for ’em anyway. And we were. We had six men out there watchin’ the critters, and still they got in, ventilated Barstow, and took off with nigh on to a hundred cows. Smoke, I ain’t tryin’ to tell you your business, but we got to put a stop to this!”
“We will,” Smoke replied with a grim edge coming into his voice. “We’re going to track them down and end it.”
As Pearlie had said, this was the third time rustlers had hit the Sugarloaf herd in recent weeks. Each incident had escalated from the previous one. The first night, about fifty cattle had disappeared with no warning. No one had been riding night herd. There hadn’t seemed to be any reason to, since everything had been peaceful lately. Anyway, wideloopers tended to avoid the Sugarloaf, since the ranch was owned by one of the deadliest gunmen in the West. Nobody with any sense wanted Smoke Jensen on his trail.
The second time the rustlers struck, shots had been fired, but no one was wounded. The thieves had made off with about a dozen more cattle than they had stolen the first time.
Now, according to Pearlie, around a hundred head of stock had been driven off, and a man who rode for Smoke’s brand had a bullet hole in him.
Neither of those things sat well with Smoke. He asked himself if he was getting soft for letting things go on this long.
If anybody had a justifiable reason for wanting to sit back and enjoy a quiet life, it was Smoke Jensen. Although relatively young in years, only in his mid-thirties, he had packed several lifetimes worth of living into those years. Fairly early on, he had known tragedy, losing first his father and then a wife and infant son. Falsely accused of crimes, he had ridden the owlhoot trail with every man’s hand against him until he was able to clear his name. He had been shot, knifed, beaten . . . and he had given back even more punishment than he had suffered. Slugs from his guns had sent more badmen than he could count straight to hell.
So he could be forgiven for it if he had wanted to leave that wild, dangerous existence behind him and enjoy the life of a prosperous rancher with a beautiful wife and a circle of staunch friends.
Problem was he had lived for so long with the tang of gun smoke in his nose that the air didn’t smell right without it. He had spent so many years as a fiddle-footed drifter with his old friend Preacher that he often got the urge to sit a saddle and go see what was on the far side of the nearest hill he could find. He had realized that, deep down, action and adventure were like water and air to him. He couldn’t live without them.
A dozen men led horses from the barn before Smoke and Pearlie got there. Smoke saw young Calvin Woods leading not only his own mount but also the big Appaloosa that Smoke normally rode. The ’Palouse tossed his head, clearly anxious to get out and stretch his legs on the trail.
The punchers were all wearing guns and had grim expressions on their faces. Smoke knew as he looked from each man to the next that they were all angry the rustlers had dared to strike at the Sugarloaf again.
“Where’s Steve Barstow?” Smoke asked. He wanted to make sure Sally didn’t need to tend to the wounded cowboy. Over the years she had had more than her share of experience at patching up bullet holes.
“I’m right here, Mr. Jensen,” a voice came from the group. A couple of men moved aside, and a young freckle-faced, redheaded cowboy stepped forward. He had a bloodstained rag tied tightly around his upper left arm to serve as a bandage. “I’m ready to ride with you and the rest of the fellas.”
“You don’t have to do that, Steve,” Smoke said.
“Yes, sir, no offense, but I reckon I do,” Barstow insisted. “One of those no-good night riders put a hole in me, and I aim to do something about that. He made a bad mistake when he didn’t kill me, or at least ventilate my gun arm.”
Smoke had to chuckle at the young man’s attitude. He said, “I don’t blame you a bit for feeling that way, but you’d better be sure that you’re up to some hard, fast riding.”
“I’m up to it. If I ain’t, I’ll turn around and come back by myself. You won’t have to waste a man by sendin’ him with me.”
“Fair enough,” Smoke said. “Since you and Ollie were up there tonight where the rustlers hit us, the two of you can lead the way.”
Of course, Smoke knew where the herd was and could have ridden straight to it. He knew every foot of this ranch better than any man alive.
But he was also a natural leader of men and knew how they responded to challenges. At Smoke’s words, Steve Barstow jerked his head in an enthusiastic nod and declared, “We sure will, Mr. Jensen.”
“Let’s mount up, then,” Smoke said as he returned the nod.
The men swung into their saddles. They all carried handguns, and rifle butts stuck up from saddle sheaths strapped to every horse. They were armed for bear . . . or in this case, armed for rustlers.
When they left the ranch, they headed northwest, toward the mountains that loomed over the Sugarloaf. At this time of year, Smoke kept his herd in the high pastures that were thick with grass, vast parklike areas surrounded by stands of pine, juniper, and aspen. It was beautiful country, and never more so than when the deep green of those pastures was dotted with the darker shapes of grazing cattle.
After the rustlers had struck the first time, Smoke had sent a couple of hands up the slopes to stay at an old stone line shack that originally had been a trapper’s cabin. Smoke had spent some time there himself, back in the early days when he had first come to this part of the country, before he was a successful rancher.
His hope was that the raid was a fluke, that some hardcases drifting through the area had come upon the cattle and decided to help themselves to a small jag. If that was the case, the loss of the stock angered him, but it was over and not worth tracking down the thieves, even though a part of him wanted to. Practicality and reason had prevailed on his mind for a change.
The two men keeping an eye on the herd hadn’t been enough to keep the rustlers from coming back, but this time shots were fired. The two punchers were forced to retreat to the line shack and hole up there until the rustlers were gone. It was a bitter pill for them to swallow, but they were outnumbered three to one and Smoke wouldn’t have wanted them to throw their lives away against those odds.
Smoke hadn’t taken this second outrage lying down. He had taken Pearlie and several of the men and set out to trail the thieves. Unfortunately, a fierce thunderstorm had broken and washed out all the tracks before they could go very far.
Unable to find out where the rustlers had gone, Smoke had asked for six volunteers and had gotten twice that many ready to move up to the high pastures. They worked in shifts, two men sleeping in the line shack while the other four were out riding herd on the stock. That way they were able to keep someone with the cattle around the clock.
That hadn’t worked, either. The rustlers had bushwhacked the night herders, wounding Steve Barstow and keeping the other men pinned down while the cattle were driven off.
While they were riding, Barstow told Smoke about what had happened and concluded by saying, “There had to be at least a dozen of ’em, Mr. Jensen. Probably more than that, considerin’ how many were shootin’ at us and how m
any it must’ve taken to drive off those cows.”
“The gang’s getting bigger every time,” Smoke said, “just like they’re getting more daring with each raid, too. If this keeps up, there’ll be an army stealing our whole blasted herd.”
“But it won’t keep up,” Barstow said. “Because we’re gonna track down those varmints and give ’em their needin’s.”
Smoke chuckled and said, “That’s right, Steve. We should’ve done it before now, I reckon. I’m getting too plumb peaceful.”
Beside him, Pearlie let out a disbelieving snort and said, “Smoke Jensen, peaceful. That’ll be the day. I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Smoke appreciated that sentiment from his foreman, but he knew there was some truth to what he’d said. The day would come when he would have to settle down some. Now, Preacher had never settled down, no, sir, mused Smoke, and that old mountain man had a lot of years on him. But Preacher wasn’t married and didn’t have a ranch to run, either. Responsibility and that old codger had always been strangers.
Of course, thinking about how things might be in the future assumed that he would live long enough to get there, Smoke reminded himself. The way bullets had a habit of flying wherever he was and whatever he was doing, that was a big assumption.
Wait and see, he thought. His life was a long way from peaceful and boring, and he didn’t foresee that changing any time soon.
Right now, he had some rustlers to catch.
When they reached the high pastures, a voice called out from some trees in a challenging tone, “Who’s there? Better hold it right where you are!”
Smoke would have answered, but before he could, Barstow said, “Take it easy, Dave. We’ve brought Mr. Jensen and some of the men from the ranch.”
“Steve? Is that you?” A rider emerged from the shadows under the pines, holding a rifle. “Last time I saw you, you were bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”
“I’m fine,” Barstow said. “I got enough blood left to go chase down those rustlers.”
Smoke asked, “Did you see which way they went, Dave?”
“They headed north along Gunsight Ridge,” Dave Taggart replied. “Slewfoot’s trailin’ the bastards.”
Smoke drew in a sharp breath.
“By himself?”
“We wanted to go with him,” Taggart said, “but he told us to stay here and keep an eye on the herd. Since he’s been workin’ for you longer than me or Billy or Chet have been, we figured we’d better do what he said.”
Smoke understood that, but he didn’t like the idea of Slewfoot going after the rustlers by himself. Clearly, the cattle thieves didn’t mind shooting, and if they dropped off a couple of men to keep an eye on their back trail, Slewfoot might be riding right into big trouble.
Taggart went on, “We’re coming with you now, though, aren’t we, Mr. Jensen?”
“No, the three of you stay here,” Smoke told him. “I don’t want to leave the herd untended. We’ll go after Slewfoot and maybe catch up to him before he gets himself into a fix—”
Smoke stopped short and lifted his head. He didn’t have to go on, because all the men heard the same thing he did.
Drifting down from the north through the night air came the faint popping and crackling of distant gunfire.
Chapter 10
The cowboy called Slewfoot had ridden for spreads all over the West, but he had never found a better place to work than the Sugarloaf, or a better man to work for than Smoke Jensen. Any cowboy worth his salt rode for the brand to start with, but Slewfoot felt an extra level of loyalty to Smoke.
Not everybody would have taken a chance on a man most would have regarded as a cripple. It was true that when he wasn’t on horseback, Slewfoot had a little trouble getting around. Years earlier, a horse had stepped on his right ankle and busted the hell out of it, and when the bones healed back together, they weren’t in exactly the right places anymore. As a result that foot sat at a funny angle, and while he could still walk, he had to take it easy and his gait was a mite odd to see.
But put him in a saddle and he was as good as he ever was. He had to rig the right stirrup a little different, that’s all. He could work just as hard as always, was still a sure hand with a lasso, and knew the ways of cattle frontwards and backwards.
He could shoot when he had to, as well, and if he got any of those dadblasted rustlers in his sights, that was exactly what he intended to do.
He was tall and lanky, with a long face that reminded people of a horse. Stick a hat on his head and he looked like a beanpole wearing a Stetson. He paused now and took off that hat so he could scratch his head in puzzlement. He had been trailing those stolen cows by moonlight. A hundred head left a pretty big trail, one that could be seen even at night.
However, he had come to a place where the cattle seemed to have turned straight toward the ridge, and that didn’t make any sense.
Gunsight Ridge loomed about half a mile to the west, a tall, blocky barrier with a V-shaped notch in it that gave it its name. That notch was distinctive, but it didn’t serve as any sort of pass. It was too high for that, with no trail leading to it.
There were a few places where men on horseback could get over the ridge, but you couldn’t drive a herd of cattle over it, even a small bunch like the one Slewfoot was pursuing. The closest place you could push a herd like that was still a good five miles ahead of him.
Yet there was no mistaking what he saw from the back of his horse. The rustlers were driving those cows straight toward the ridge.
Sugarloaf range ran all the way to the ridge. Slewfoot didn’t think the thieves would hold those stolen cattle on Smoke’s land. They would want to put as much distance as they could between them and Smoke Jensen, at least to Slewfoot’s way of thinking. They ought to still be lighting a shuck north, the way they had started. There were some passes up there leading higher into the mountains, then down into the valleys beyond. Some of the isolated settlements in that direction were no better than outlaw towns, where the rustlers could dispose of those cows and get some quick cash in return.
Well, puzzling or not, that was the way the trail led, so Slewfoot hitched his horse into motion and commenced following it again. As he rode, he loosened the six-gun in its holster on his hip, and he checked the Winchester in the saddleboot as well. Those wideloopers were ruthless. They had proven that by shooting young Steve Barstow. Slewfoot hoped the kid was all right.
As he drew closer to the ridge, he kept a wary eye on the trees that grew thickly along its base. He wouldn’t put it past those varmints to leave behind a couple of bushwhackers.
Because of that suspicion, Slewfoot was alert when his horse suddenly pricked up its ears and tossed its head a little. That told him the animal had caught the scent of another horse. Following his instincts, Slewfoot hauled hard on the reins and jabbed his heels into his mount’s flanks, causing the horse to leap to the right.
At that instant, muzzle flame spurted from the shadows underneath the trees, accompanied by the sound of two rifle shots. Slewfoot wasn’t hit, but he sensed the bullets slicing through the air not far to his left. He rode hard toward the nearest clump of trees that would give him some cover.
More shots cracked from the bushwhackers’ position. Slewfoot leaned low over his horse’s neck to make himself as small a target as possible. He pulled the Winchester from its scabbard, and when he reached the pines, he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and vaulted from the saddle.
He landed awkwardly but caught his balance right away. He knew he looked pretty funny when he ran, but right now how he looked didn’t matter. Dragging his right foot, he scurried the few yards to the trees and dived behind them, even as more slugs whipped around him and chewed big pieces of bark from the trunks. The smell of pine sap seeping from those wounds was strong as he lay there in the darkness.
His hat had flown off when he went diving for cover. He edged his head around the tree and looked toward the growth at the base of the ridge. He saw
several more muzzle flashes as the riflemen hidden there kept throwing lead at him. Bullets thudded into tree trunks and cracked through the branches around him.
Their mistake had been not waiting for him to get a little closer so they could make sure of him, he thought. Once his horse warned him, the bushwhackers had lost their best chance. For that he would always be grateful to the animal . . . for however long the rest of his life lasted, which was a pretty good question at the moment.
Those muzzle flashes gave him some targets. Lying on his belly, Slewfoot nestled the Winchester against his shoulder and drew a bead on one of the spots where he’d seen a spurt of flame. He waited until there was another orange flash, then pulled his own trigger. With a whipcrack of sound, the rifle kicked against his shoulder.
As soon as he fired, Slewfoot rolled to his right, moving fast. He wound up behind another tree and paused there. He heard slugs plowing into the ground near the tree where he had been a moment earlier. Both ambushers were still firing, he realized with a grimace, so either he had missed with his shot, or it hadn’t done enough damage to put one of the riflemen out of the fight.
He was safe enough where he was, but he was pinned down in these trees. It was possible that one of the bushwhackers would try to keep him here while the other worked around for a better shot at him. That was what he would do if the tables were turned.
He had one bit of hope that lifted his spirits. Ollie Simms had headed for the ranch headquarters, taking the wounded Steve Barstow with him, to let Smoke know the rustlers had struck again. Slewfoot had a hunch that Smoke would hit the trail in a hurry. If Smoke hotfooted it up here and brought some of the Sugarloaf hands with him, that would change everything.
So now, Slewfoot thought as bullets continued to sizzle through the trees around him, all he had to do was wait for Smoke Jensen to show up. . . .
And hope that he could stay alive until then.
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