The gunshots they heard could have all sorts of explanations, but Smoke’s gut told him there was only one that was likely.
Slewfoot had either caught up to the rustlers, or some of them had lain in wait for him. Either way, Smoke was convinced that was his rider trading shots with the varmints they were after.
He wasn’t going to waste any time in getting to Slewfoot and giving him a hand. He shouted, “Come on!” at his punchers and urged the ’Palouse into a run.
The shots came from the north, the direction Slewfoot had gone. The dark, looming bulk of Gunsight Ridge to the west made it impossible to get lost, even at night.
Smoke couldn’t let his stallion run flat out, although the ’Palouse would have been happy to. There was too much danger of the horse stepping into a hole or running into some unseen obstacle. Smoke kept his mount moving pretty fast, though, and the other riders trailed closely behind him.
Even though they were hurrying, time seemed to pass with agonizing slowness as they rode north. A few minutes could be an eternity in a gun battle. Not only that, but Smoke had to call a halt every so often to listen for the sound of shots. If the guns fell silent, that would send an ominous message indeed.
Every time he reined in and the other men followed suit, Smoke heard the crackle of rifle fire. The shots were coming at a slower pace now, instead of the furious volley they had been at first. That meant the fight had settled down to a standoff. Slewfoot was alive and still battling, but it was possible he was badly wounded.
Finally, when it seemed like they were getting close, Smoke signaled for the men to stop.
“Pearlie, pick four men to come with you and me,” he said as he dismounted and pulled his Winchester from its saddle sheath. “Cal, you’ll be staying here with the other men.”
“Blast it, Smoke, I’d rather come with you,” Cal objected.
“I know you would, but I want you here to take charge if we need you to come in and save our bacon.”
Smoke’s voice was firm and didn’t allow for any argument. Despite Cal’s youth, he had been smack-dab in the middle of plenty of trouble since coming to the Sugarloaf, and he was seasoned beyond his years.
“All right,” the youngster said reluctantly, “but be careful.”
“You’re starting to sound like Sally,” Smoke said with a quick grin.
“I just know how accident-prone this old pelican is,” Cal said as he nodded toward Pearlie.
The foreman and former hired gun began, “It won’t be no accident when you find yourself with my boot up your—”
“Let’s go,” Smoke said.
Pearlie quickly pointed out four men to come with him and Smoke. They started off on foot, moving quickly and blending into the shadows. The men who rode for Sugarloaf might not be professional fighters, but most of them were tough, experienced frontiersmen.
Now that the hoofbeats weren’t drowning them out, the shots came loud and clear through the night. Smoke followed them, veering to the left so that he could approach under the cover of some trees. When he reached the edge of the pines, he stopped just behind one of the trunks and peered out across an open stretch of ground toward more trees at the base of Gunsight Ridge.
It took only a moment for the setup to become clear in his mind. A single set of muzzle flashes from a clump of trees to the right marked Slewfoot’s location. Two riflemen, undoubtedly a pair of rustlers, were in the pines at the base of the ridge.
Pearlie eased up beside Smoke and took in the situation just as quickly. Quietly, he said, “If all six of us open up on those trees by the ridge, we’ll skin those polecats quick as you please.”
“Yeah, but I wouldn’t mind taking at least one of them alive so we can ask him some questions,” Smoke said. He pointed. “If you and I were to work our way around that way and get behind them, then the rest could open up and come just close enough to stampede them right into our arms.”
Pearlie’s teeth sparkled in the moonlight for a second like his namesake as a grin flashed across his rugged face.
“I like that idea,” he said. “Ain’t no guarantee those jaspers will cooperate in bein’ took alive, though.”
“All we can do is try,” Smoke said.
He gathered the other four men around him in the shadows and explained the plan to them. They grasped it without any trouble, and Smoke knew he could count on them to do their part.
“We’ll signal you with the hoot of an owl when we’re ready for you to open the ball,” he told them and received nods and murmurs of agreement. Satisfied that everyone understood, he said to Pearlie, “Let’s go.”
They catfooted through the darkness, using the cover of the trees as much as they could. When the trees ran out, Smoke dropped to hands and knees and motioned for Pearlie to do likewise. Flattening onto his belly, Smoke began crawling toward the ridge.
The grass was tall enough to conceal the two of them, and they moved slowly and carefully enough that the slight disturbance of the grass would be difficult to spot in the moonlight. Patience had never been Smoke’s strong suit, but he had learned stealth from Preacher and the old mountain man had been a good teacher. The best possible teacher, in fact, since in his younger days Preacher had been able to creep into an enemy camp, slit the throats of several men, and get back without anyone ever knowing he was there until the next morning.
At last, Smoke and Pearlie reached the trees where the bushwhackers were hidden. When they were back safely in the shadows, they stood up. Smoke led the way to the very base of the ridge. They followed it toward the spot where the riflemen were holed up. The strip of trees was about twenty feet wide, so Smoke and Pearlie would have room to get behind the bushwhackers.
When the shots were so loud they sounded like they were practically in the laps of the men from Sugarloaf, Smoke stopped again. He stiffened as his gaze turned toward the ridge. The rock face was dark, but he saw an even deeper patch of darkness that had a faintly ominous look to it, as if it were the gaping maw of some hungry, primordial creature.
It looked for all the world like the mouth of a tunnel, but Smoke would have sworn there was no tunnel in Gunsight Ridge.
They could investigate that later, he told himself. Right now they had to deal with the men who were trying to kill Slewfoot. He tapped Pearlie on the shoulder to let the foreman know they were ready.
Then Smoke lifted his free hand to his mouth, cupped it around his lips, and waited until the rifles fell silent for a moment. When they did, he hooted like an owl.
A heartbeat later, gun thunder filled the night as the rest of Smoke’s men opened fire.
Chapter 11
Before he and Pearlie had crept around here, Smoke had made it clear what his men were supposed to do. Some of their shots ripped into the ground just in front of the trees, while others smacked into the trunks and whistled through the branches overhead. They weren’t missing by much, coming close enough with their slugs to make the two bushwhackers give up the standoff and beat a retreat. Smoke and Pearlie heard their boots thudding against the ground as they fled.
“Here they come!” Pearlie whispered.
“Split up and wait until they’re close,” Smoke ordered as he leaned his Winchester against the tree and drew his Colt.
Pearlie stepped over to one of the other trees and pressed his back against it so he couldn’t be seen. The running footsteps came closer.
The bushwhacker who was in the lead raced past Smoke. With blinding speed, Smoke leaped out from behind the tree and struck, reversing his pistol so that the butt thudded against the man’s head. The bushwhacker’s hat softened the blow’s force somewhat, but it was still enough to send the man tumbling off his feet with a pained grunt.
Smoke heard a rustle of movement as Pearlie tackled the second man. At the same time Smoke stepped forward and kicked away the rifle his man had dropped. He pressed the barrel of his revolver against the back of the man’s head and reached down with his other hand to draw the weapon fr
om the bushwhacker’s holster.
“You’re caught, mister,” he said. “Try anything and I’ll blow your brains out.”
That was the last thing he intended to do, but the rustler didn’t have to know that.
The thudding of knobby-knuckled fists on flesh made Smoke glance toward his friend. He couldn’t make out any details in the shadows, but he saw the struggling shapes churning around. A gunshot roared, but Smoke could tell by the jet of flame from the muzzle that the weapon was pointed upward as Pearlie and the other bushwhacker wrestled over it.
A sudden smack sent one of the figures slumping to the ground. Smoke dropped to a knee beside the man he had captured, ready to lift his gun and fire if the other bushwhacker had been victorious.
Instead, it was Pearlie’s voice that called softly, “Smoke?”
“I’m here,” Smoke replied. “I got mine.”
“Yeah, same here,” Pearlie said.
Smoke took hold of his prisoner’s collar and rose to his feet, hauling the man upright with him.
“Don’t try anything,” he warned. “My trigger finger is mighty itchy right now. Those are my cattle you stole tonight, and one of my men you shot.”
The man swallowed with an audible gulp.
“You’re Smoke Jensen?” he asked.
Smoke’s voice was hard as flint as he answered, “That’s right.”
The prisoner started muttering something. Smoke couldn’t make out the words at first, but after a few seconds he realized the man was saying a prayer.
“Save it,” he said as he gave the prisoner a shove. “Anyway, where you’re going, the fella with the horns and the forked tail is in charge.”
The rest of the Sugarloaf men had stopped shooting. Pearlie raised his voice and shouted, “Hold your fire, boys.” Smoke herded his prisoner out of the trees, while Pearlie took hold of the unconscious man’s feet and dragged him into the open.
From the stand of pines to the right, a familiar voice called, “Mr. Jensen? Is that you?”
“That’s right, Slewfoot,” Smoke replied. “Come on out. Or do you need help? Are you wounded?”
The tall, skinny cowboy limped out of the trees carrying his rifle.
“Naw, I’m fine,” he said. “Did you get those jaspers who had me pinned down?”
“They’re right here,” Smoke said.
Slewfoot came up and asked, “What’re you gonna do with ’em?”
Smoke made his voice hard again and said, “The same thing any honest man would do with rustlers and murderers . . . string ’em up!”
“Murderers!” Slewfoot repeated. “You mean that Barstow kid who got ventilated . . . ?”
“Dead,” Smoke said. He looked at Pearlie and the other men, hoping they could see him well enough in the moonlight to realize the ruse he was trying and not give it away.
Pearlie was quick on the uptake, as usual. He said, “Yeah, the poor kid bled to death before anybody could get him back to the ranch house. That makes it murder, sure enough. Want me to fetch my lasso, Smoke?”
“That’ll be fine,” Smoke replied. “And bring mine, too. We’ll find a tree with a good branch and have both of these bastards dancing on air before you know it.”
The prisoner finally spoke up again, saying in a shaky voice, “You . . . you can’t do that. We’re entitled to a trial—”
“It just so happens I brought a dozen men with me tonight,” Smoke broke in. “That’s the right number for a jury. We’ll have a trial if you want, and I’ll be the judge and pass sentence when you’re found guilty.”
“Seems like a waste of time to me,” Pearlie said. “I’ll be back in a minute with them lassos and the rest of the fellas.”
He trotted off into the night.
The prisoner swallowed again and went on, “Look, you don’t have to kill me, Mr. Jensen. Just give me my horse and I’ll ride on, and I give you my word I’ll never set foot in this part of the country again. You can shoot me on sight if I do.”
“I can shoot you right now if I want to,” Smoke said, “but I’d rather see you hang.”
“I didn’t kill anybody, I swear it! I didn’t fire a shot tonight.”
Slewfoot said, “You were shootin’ at me, damn it!”
“Well . . . I meant when we were driving off those cows. That’s all I did. Some of the other boys handled all the gunplay. I’m not responsible for that cowboy gettin’ killed!”
“You were part of it,” Smoke said coldly. “To my way of thinking, that makes you just as guilty as the man who pulled the trigger.”
“No . . . no, you can’t . . .”
The man sounded like he was about to start bawling. Smoke didn’t feel any pity for him, but the time had come to make a play.
“There might be something you can do—” he began.
The rustler didn’t let him finish.
“Anything!” the man said. “Anything you want, Jensen.”
“Tell me where the rest of the bunch was taking those cows.”
The prisoner hesitated, saying, “I . . . I can’t. The boss would—”
“Kill you? Is that what you were about to say?” Smoke asked. “What in blazes do you think is fixing to happen to you here? You can talk, or you can kick your life out at the end of a hangrope. The choice is up to you.”
The rustler didn’t say anything. His fear of the man he worked for had to be pretty strong to make him clam up in the face of a necktie party.
While they were waiting for Pearlie, Smoke drew Slewfoot aside. After warning the crippled cowboy not to show any reaction, he whispered the good news that Steve Barstow was actually still alive. Slewfoot looked relieved, but didn’t do anything else except nod slightly.
Pearlie came back a few minutes later, along with the rest of the group from the Sugarloaf. The other riders all dismounted and formed a circle of grim faces. Now there were a dozen men surrounding the prisoners. The rustler who was conscious ran his fingers through his tangled hair and rubbed his face as he moaned in despair.
“All right,” he said, the words seeming to bubble out of his mouth. “I’ll tell you what you want to—”
The other rustler, who had appeared to still be out cold from the blow Pearlie had landed, must have been shamming, because he lunged up from the ground with no warning and rammed a shoulder into the nearest man. He yanked a six-gun from the cowboy’s holster, tipped up the barrel, and fired.
The bullet wasn’t aimed at Smoke or any of the Sugarloaf riders, though. Instead it slammed into the chest of the man Smoke had been questioning. The slug’s impact made the rustler stagger back a step and collapse.
The gunman tried to swing the revolver toward Smoke and get off a second shot, but he was nowhere near fast enough. Smoke’s Colt was already in his hand. Even if it hadn’t been, his draw would have shaded the rustler’s attempt. Smoke fired, aiming for the man’s shoulder.
Two things ruined that plan. One was the poor light, and the other was the way the rustler swayed to the right just as Smoke pulled the trigger. The man must have been trying to avoid the shot, but he ran right into it instead. The bullet ripped through his throat and made blood spurt from severed arteries.
The rustler dropped the gun and clapped his hands to his throat, but there was no way he could stop the flood of crimson. His knees unhinged, and he dropped to the ground where he made a grotesque gagging sound and thrashed around for a couple of seconds before lying still.
Smoke knew the man was dead. He ignored the corpse and leaped to the side of the first rustler, dropping to one knee. The man had his hands pressed to his chest. Dark worms of blood crawled between his splayed fingers.
“Your partner shot you because he knew you were about to talk,” Smoke said. “But you can still tell me what you wanted me to know. Where will we find the cattle your bunch stole?”
“I didn’t . . . didn’t kill nobody. . . .”
“Don’t worry about that now,” Smoke said. “Just tell me where the res
t of the gang went.”
“Through . . . through the tunnel . . . Ah!”
With that sharp outcry, the man’s back arched. A second later, he slumped again. His head fell to the side.
“He’s dead, Smoke,” Pearlie said.
Smoke nodded.
“I know. And I’d already figured out those stolen cows must have gone through the tunnel, so that doesn’t really tell me where they wound up.”
“We got a place to start lookin’, though, wherever that tunnel leads to.” Pearlie took off his hat and scratched his head. “Danged if I ever heard of a tunnel runnin’ through Gunsight Ridge.”
“Neither have I,” Smoke said as he got to his feet. “While we’re doing that, some of you fellas search these men. See if they have anything in their pockets that might tell us where they came from.”
Pearlie, Cal, and Steve Barstow accompanied Smoke as he headed for the tunnel. When they reached the dark opening, Cal fashioned a torch from several broken pine boughs that he lashed together with a piggin’ string he took from his pocket. He lit the makeshift torch with a sulfur match, and when the brand was burning brightly, he held it over his head to light their way as the men started into the tunnel.
The dark opening reminded Smoke more than ever of the mouth of a beast. He was about as icy nerved as a man can get, but he didn’t like holes in the earth. They made him think about what might come crawling out from them.
This tunnel didn’t go down below the surface, though. It bored straight through the ridge. Smoke told Cal to hold the torch close to one of the walls.
“I don’t think this passage was man-made,” he said. “I think an underground river used to run through here, before whatever earthquake thrust the ridge up, thousands of years ago.”
“Why ain’t nobody ever seen it before?” Pearlie asked. “I’ve ridden along this stretch of Gunsight Ridge dozens of times. I would’ve noticed it.”
“Not if it was covered up and you weren’t looking for it,” Smoke said. “I think a rock slide must have plugged up the entrance, sometime in the past. Maybe far in the past. But then somebody came along, found the other end of the tunnel, followed it this far, and realized that if he could just break through the rocks, he’d have a back door onto Sugerloaf range that nobody else knew about.”
Hard Ride to Hell (9780786031191) Page 7
