“You do like to waste ammo, don’t you, Earl,” Smoke called.
Earl cussed, spun around, and fired, the slug slammed into the building behind Smoke. Smoke drilled him clean and dropped him to his knees.
“Give it up, Earl,” Smoke told him. “The party’s over.”
Earl tried to lift his .44. “You dirty son of…” He never finished it. The hired gun fell forward in the dirt.
Smoke walked around the building just as the boardwalks began filling with citizens. He stepped up and kicked the pistol out of Luddy’s left hand.
“Damn fool,” Smoke told him. “Give it up and live, man.”
“You ruint me!” Luddy gasped through his pain.
“Maybe now you’ll get a decent job and quit trying to kill people,” Smoke replied, just as Doc Garrett rounded the corner.
“Go to hell! “Luddy said. “I don’t need no damn sermon from the likes of you.”
“Whatever,” Smoke said, and turned his back to the man. He walked around to the rear of the building. Dick and Patton were still alive and moaning. They lay on the ground and glared hate up at Smoke. But they were smart enough not to try to reach their guns. They could still run their mouths, however, and they did, expelling a lot of wind cussing Smoke.
Smoke turned to the smithy. “Go get those two young men who wanted to brace me.”
“They’re gone, Smoke. Both of them left out pale as ghosts. I think they got the message. Their gun belts are still hangin’ on the pegs.”
“Somebody help me with these men,” Doc Garrett said. “Pick them up and take them to my office.”
“Hell with them,” a man said. “They can get there under their own steam. I ain’t helpin’ nobody who works for Clint Black.”
“Sorry bastard!” Luddy cussed the man.
“Look who is calling who sorry,” the citizen said, then turned around and walked away. “My breakfast is gettin’ cold.”
Smoke waited around until Harris returned and told him what had happened, including the incident with the young men in the cafe.
“How many still alive?”
“Some gunslick called Luddy. The other three are dead.”
“Luddy Chambers,” Harris said. “He’s a bad one. You going to press charges?”
“I didn’t know you had any laws in this territory about calling a man out.”
Harris sighed. “Well, we do, sort of.”
“Doc Garrett said the bullet smashed his shoulder joint. He’ll only have limited used of that arm for the rest of his life. And when word gets around that Luddy Chambers has a crippled gun arm, he’ll either hunt him a hole and change his name, or get dead.”
“You’re right about that. There was no attempted stagecoach holdup, by the way.”
“I figured Clint had one of his men tie into the line and send that message to get you out of town. But if he did, why not send Bronco or Austin or Yukon in after me? These ol’ boys today were not the best he has on the payroll.”
“What could he be up to?”
“You tell me. He’s your brother.”
“A fact I wish I could undo,” Harris said with a grimace.
“I’m going back to the Double D. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
“Smoke? Thanks for pulling those gunnies to the edge of town. I find myself respecting you more and more each day. And if the day comes when my brother braces you…put him down. He’s stepped way over the line.”
“Maybe it won’t come to that.”
“You know it will,” Harris said, and then walked across to Doc Garrett’s office.
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Smoke muttered.
The attack came that evening, about an hour after supper—a time that no one would expect any raid. Smoke was sitting on the front porch, drinking a cup of coffee and laughing as he sat watching two half-grown hounds play and mock-fight with each other, rolling and tumbling on the ground. Suddenly the hounds stopped and tensed, the hair standing up on their backs. They started growling.
“Get to guns!” Smoke yelled, jumping out of the chair and overturning his cup of coffee. The sounds of pounding hooves reached him. “Take cover!”
He turned at his name and Sally tossed him his gun belt and then a Winchester. “Don’t you worry about us in here,” she calmly told him, then closed the door.
He wouldn’t. Sally had been working with the twins and both of them had turned out to be pretty fair hands with a rifle. They weren’t very good with short guns, but put a shotgun in their hands and watch out. He didn’t have to check the rifle, he’d made it clear that if he found an empty weapon in the house—other than it being cleaned—he’d raise enough hell so it wouldn’t happen again.
Raul was back home, staying in the main house, and Smoke could see him on the bed by the window; his aversion to guns was long gone after his beating and dragging. Smoke could see the muzzle of a Winchester sticking out of the bedroom window.
The cook was a frontier woman who wouldn’t back up from a grizzly bear. Smoke had seen ol’ Denver making calf eyes at her—and she returning them—and knew that Denver would be in the kitchen with her, both of them firing from there—the woman with rifle, pistol, or shotgun.
Then there was no more time for thinking. It was action now, as fifty or more riders came fogging into the front yard, circling the corral, the bunkhouse, and the main house, and bringing with them thick, choking clouds of dust.
Smoke knew then what they planned. They planned an all-out assault on the ground, on foot.
“Be careful in the house!” he yelled over the shooting. “They’re going to take us on foot.”
“We see them,” Sally returned the yell. “You take care of your own business.”
Smoke smiled. Hell of a woman, his Sally.
A shotgun roared from the side of the house and a terrible scream followed the blast. “My legs!” a man hollered hoarsely. “My legs are tore up. I think they’s blowed plumb off. Help me. Oh, you damn Eastern hussy bitch you!”
The shotgun roared again. There was no more screaming.
Smoke arched an eyebrow as he searched for a target. He had a .44 in each hand. The man shouldn’t have called the Duggan woman that. She sure took umbrage at the remark.
A man came running out of the dust and Smoke cut him down. He hit the ground, tried to lift himself up, then collapsed to the dirt. A slug whined off the stone of the house and went whistling wickedly off into the cooling air. Mask-and-duster-wearing riders continued to circle the grounds, dragging broken limbs behind them to keep the dust whirling. Smoke lined one up and shot him out of the saddle. He hit the ground, bounced, and then was still.
The hound pups had scampered under the porch, out of harm’s way. They began barking furiously and Smoke turned in time to see a man swing one leg over the porch railing. The man looked up, his eyes wide with horror at the sight of Smoke, standing calmly, a .44 pointed right at the raider’s head. That was the last thing he would see on this earth.
Raul’s Winchester barked and a man slumped to the ground just outside the bedroom window. Raul called him a lot of very ugly names in the lilting Spanish language.
The boys in the bunkhouse were laying down a withering fire that was taking its toll. Through the dust, Smoke could see half a dozen bodies sprawled on the ground.
“That’s it!” a man yelled. “To your horses. It ain’t workin’.”
“Hold your positions!” Smoke yelled. “Stay put until they’re gone.”
In half a minute, the sounds of hard-pounding hooves had faded into the waning light.
“Is everybody all right?” Smoke lifted his voice.
“Stony’s got a scratch on his head and Joe’s got a burn on his arm,” Malvern called. “Everybody else is okay.”
“In the house?”
“We’re all right,” Sally called.
Moaning could be clearly heard from all around the grounds. The dust had settled, coating everything and everybody.
<
br /> “Reload before you step out,” Smoke called. “Then we’ll see to the wounded. Cletus, you hitch up a wagon. That old one that we were going to junk.”
“Right, boss,” Cletus said with a chuckle. “And I’ll pitch a few forkfuls of hay in it.”
“You do that. We want them to be comfortable on the ride back. And hitch up those two hammer-headed horses. The ones no one can ride.”
Cletus laughed aloud. “They ain’t harness-broke, boss.”
“Yes,” Smoke said. “I know.”
He walked around the grounds. Seven dead and that many more wounded, two of them badly. They would not last another hour under the best of care. Smoke looked at each wounded man with cold contempt in his eyes. None of them would meet his gaze for more than a few seconds.
“Throw the dead in the wagon first, then the badly wounded on top of them,” Smoke ordered. “The rest of you night-riding sorry sons can either find your horses or walk back.”
“Say, now,” a wounded Circle 45 rider mouthed. “I…”
“Shut up!” Smoke roared at him. He had jerked the masks off each one and every Double D rider had taken a look. “When you do get back to your range, pack your gear and get gone. If I see you again in this part of the country, you’re dead on the spot. In a cafe, saloon, emporium, or church, I’ll kill you, and I’ll do it without warning. Now get up and get moving before I decide to end it right now.”
Even the more seriously wounded moved mighty quick.
Eli tossed the reins to a leg-shot night rider sitting on the seat. “You take care now,” he said with a chuckle. “This wagon’s old and the road is mighty bumpy.”
“You boys is cold,” the night rider said. “Mighty cold. Tossin’ the wounded in with the dead.”
“You think you deserve any better?” he was asked.
The hired gun chose not to reply. He clucked at the reluctant team and the wagon lurched forward, the horses fighting the unfamiliar harnesses.
When the wagon was out of sight and sound, Smoke said, “Two men on guard tonight and every night. You work out the shifts, Stony. No riding alone. Ride in pairs at all times. Denver, give those hound dog pups something special from the kitchen. They saved our bacon this evening.”
He walked back to the porch and righted the overturned chair, then took a rag and wiped the dust off of the porch furniture. The cook brought out a fresh pot of coffee and a tray of cups. Smoke sat down beside Sally. “There wasn’t a known gunhand in the bunch. If there had of been, we would have knocked at least one of them out of the saddle. Clint sent his hands at us this night, keeping the best—in a manner of speaking—in reserve. Why?”
Denver and the twins had joined them on the darkened porch. A slight breeze had kicked up and it was pleasant. But the odor of blood and sweat still hung about the grounds.
“The only way he’ll be able to get any more men in here will be to double the wages,” Denver said. “One of them wounded told me that some of the gunfighters is talkin’ about this bein’ a stacked deck. He also said that Clint’s talkin’ about attackin’ the town.”
“That would be a very stupid thing to do,” Smoke said.
“That’s what the hired guns said.”
“I’ve never met anyone like this Clint Black,” Toni said.
“Sure you have,” Sally spoke. “The East is full of them. They just operate in a different manner, that’s all. There are ruthless industrialists who are like vultures, waiting to rip and tear at smaller businesses who are faltering. Bankers who pounce if a payment is one day late. Men like Clint Black are all over. They just use their powers differently, but the end result is the same. Smaller, less fortunate, less powerful people—businessmen and ordinary people—are still ruined, homeless, and left penniless.”
“I’d never thought of it like that,” Jeanne said. “But you’re right.”
“The West is still raw, Missy,” Denver said. “And it will be for years to come. Men like Clint Black come in here and tore the land loose from Injuns and outlaws. They fought blizzards and droughts and floods. The only law was their own. They ain’t likely to change real swift.”
“Only at the muzzle of a gun or at the end of a rope,” Smoke said. He stood up and stared out at the night. “This is fine country up here. And it’ll be a lot finer once the likes of Clint Black are out of the picture.”
“Riders comin’, boss,” a lookout hollered.
“Here we go again,” Smoke said, as the others on the porch scrambled for their guns.
18
“It’s the sheriff and a posse,” the lookout called. “Stand easy at the house.”
“I’ll make some more coffee,” the cook said.
“I’ll help you, Liz,” Denver said. He did not see the smiles of the others.
Harris and a dozen townspeople and regular deputies swung down and crowded the porch. “A farmer came gallopin’ into town and told me he saw a large group of men headin’ this way. We met what was left of them a couple of miles back,” he added, his tone dry. “They weren’t in real good shape. Anybody hurt at this end?”
“A couple of scratches and burns,” Smoke told him. “We were lucky. I was watching the dogs play. They warned me in time for us to get set.”
“You going to press charges?”
“It isn’t my property. You’ll have to ask Toni and Jeanne.”
“Ladies?” the sheriff asked.
The twins exchanged glances and Toni said, “Sheriff Harris, I think you are a good man…in your own peculiar way. But what would be the point in pressing charges? All your brother would do is blow up the jail again. That is, if the structure is even repaired at this time. Besides, I doubt seriously that any of those men whom we just sent on their way would testify against your brother. I’ve seen how Western justice works…when it does work. Those hoodlums would just claim they came over to…what is the word I’m looking for? Sort of like after a country wedding when the couple is…ah, shivareed by friends.”
“Hoo-rahed, ma’am?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes. That’s it. They would say that they were only having fun and that we opened fire on them. Oh, I’m learning, Sheriff. I’m learning.”
“Yes,” Harris said. “I can see that. But it might not work out that way. One of my deputies is escorting the men into town. I’ll talk to them and see what develops from it. But don’t count on much.”
“We won’t,” Sally said.
Liz came out with a huge coffee pot and Sally had made doughnuts that day and the men all dug in. Smoke was conscious of the sheriff’s eyes on him.
“You got something stuck in your craw, spit it out,” he told the man.
“What is my brother up to? Those weren’t top guns he sent over here this evening. Not a one of them has any kind of name. Least none that I saw. He’s got something up his sleeve, but I don’t know what it could be. Those gunnies who braced you in town—the same thing. It’s puzzling to me. Mighty good doughnuts, ma’am. Mighty good.”
“I don’t know what your brother is up to,” Smoke said, after finishing a doughnut. He reached out for another and pulled back his hand at Sally’s warning look. He’d already eaten about twenty that day.
The sheriff caught the look in the lighted porch lamps and smiled. Doesn’t make any difference if a man is the toughest gunslinger in the West—his wife could still back him up with just a glance. Sheriff Harris Black helped himself to another doughnut, and Smoke grabbed one when he thought Sally wasn’t looking. Quickly.
Liz fixed a sackful of doughnuts for the men to eat on the ride back to town and the sheriff and posse mounted up. “After this raid,” Harris said to Smoke, “I don’t think there is any turning back for my brother. Personally, I’d rather see him go down in a hail of bullets than for me to have to put the noose around his neck, and I would have to be the one to do it. He’s heading for a violent end, and I don’t know of any way to stop him. See you folks.”
Smoke left the ranch the next
morning long before anyone else other than the guards were up. He rode back to the valley where the ambush had taken place. For a long time he sat near the flat where the men and boys were buried. He smoked a couple of cigarettes and thought about the lives that had been snuffed out in that murderous raid. Baylis would have told Clint about the young boys working the remuda…and Clint had not cared. Clint had callously ordered the deaths of three women with no more feeling than swatting at a bothersome fly. The law was unable to contain Clint and his raiders. It wasn’t that the law wouldn’t deal with him, the law couldn’t deal with him. For whatever reasons, known only to Clint, the wealthy rancher was determined to drive the Duggan twins from their ranch and possess it.
Why?
Gold? Smoke didn’t think so—even though there had been gold strikes in this area there was no evidence that any gold was buried in the earth of the Double D. No, it was just stubborn pride and ruthless greed and callousness on the man’s part. Clint wanted everything he saw and would stop at nothing to get it.
Smoke walked among the lonely graves, pausing for a time at each rock headstone his men had carefully placed by each grave, the name and date carefully chiseled into the stone. Nate, Little Ben, Shorty, Davy, Duke, Matt, Harris, Eton, Johnson, Forrest. He paused for a longer time at the graves of the boys. Fourteen-year-old Rabbit and the fifteen-year-olds, Willie and Jake. Boys who wanted to earn some money and see some country and have a little fun.
They had found violent and senseless death.
Clint Black had ordered it, and his men had coldly and brutally wiped out half of Smoke’s drovers. No Indian attack could have been any more savage.
Smoke knelt down by Rabbit’s grave and let the coldness of the tomb wash over him and settle in his mind. When he stood up, he knew he was going to end this war. Clint wanted a fight, so be it. Clint was going to have a fight, but from now on, it would be a fight on Smoke Jensen’s terms.
Absaroka Ambush (first Mt Man)/Courage Of The Mt Man Page 40
