Live by the West, Die by the West

by William W. Johnstone

  What to do? Smoke judged his chances of getting to the timber facing him and rejected a frontal run for it. He worked his way to his horse and removed his boots, slipping into a pair of moccasins he always carried. The fancy moccasins Ring had made were back at the house.

  Smoke eased back to his skimpy cover and chanced a look, cursing as the rifle slammed again, showering him with dirt.

  No question about it, he had to move, and soon. If he stayed here, and tried to wait Danny out—if it was Danny, and Smoke was certain it was—sooner or later the sniper would get the clean shot he was waiting for and Smoke would take lead. He’d been shot before and didn’t like it at all. It was a very disagreeable feeling. Hurt, too.

  Smoke looked around him. There was a drop-off about fifty yards behind him; a natural ditch that ran in a huge half circle, the southeast angle of the ditch running close to the timber. He studied every option available to him, and there weren’t that many.

  His horse would be safe, protected by the rise. If something happened to Smoke—like death—the horse would eventually pull its picket pin and return to the ranch.

  Smoke checked his gun belt. All the loops were full. Returning to the horse, he stuffed a handful of cartridges into his jeans’ pocket and slung his canteen after first filling his hat with water and giving the horse a good drink. Squatting down, he munched on a salt pork and biscuit sandwich, then took a long satisfying pull at the canteen. He patted the horse’s neck.

  “You stay put, fellow. I’ll be back.” I hope, he silently added.

  Smoke took several deep breaths and took off running down the slope.

  Smoke knew that shooting either uphill or downhill was tricky; bad enough with open sights. But with a telescope, trying to line up a running, twisting target would be nearly impossible.

  He hoped.

  The gunman started dusting Smoke’s running feet, but he was hurrying his shots, and missing. But coming close enough to show Smoke how good he was with a rifle.

  Smoke hurled himself in the ditch, managed to stay on his feet, then dive for the cover of the ravine’s wall. Now, Danny would have to worry about which side Smoke would pop up out of. Catching his breath, Smoke began working his way around, staying close to the earthen wall. He knew the distance was still too great for his .44, and besides that, he didn’t want to give away his position.

  Smoke took his time, smiling as the ravine curved closer to the timber and began narrowing as the timber loomed up on both sides. When he came to a brushy spot, Smoke carefully eased out of the ravine and slipped into the timber. His jeans were a tan color, his shirt a dark brown; he would blend in well with his surroundings.

  He began closing the distance. Smoke had been taught well the ways of a woodsman; Preacher had been his teacher, and there was no finer woodsman to be found than the old mountain man.

  He moved carefully while still covering a lot of ground, stopping often to check the terrain all around him. Danny not only looked like a big rat, the killer could move as furtively as a rodent.

  Before making his run for it, Smoke had inspected the area on the ridges as carefully as possible—considering that he was being shot at—and kept Danny’s position highlighted in his mind.

  But Smoke was certain the sniper would have changed positions as soon as he made his run for it. Where to was the question.

  He moved closer to where he had last seen the puff of smoke. When he was about a hundred yards from where he thought Danny had been firing from, Smoke made himself comfortable behind a tree and waited, every sense working overtime. He felt he could play the waiting game just as good as, or better than, Danny.

  He waited for a good twenty minutes, as motionless as a snake waiting for a passing rat. Then the rat he was waiting for moved.

  It was only a very slight move, perhaps to brush away a pesky fly. But it was all Smoke needed. Very carefully, he raised his rifle and sighted in—he had been waiting with the hammer eared back—and pulled the trigger. The rifle slammed his shoulder and Smoke knew he had a clean miss on his target.

  The gunman rolled away and came up shooting, shooting way fast. Maybe he had two rifles, one a short-barreled carbine, or maybe he was shooting one of those Winchester. 44-40’s with the extra rear sight for greater accuracy. If that was the case, the man was still one hell of a marksman.

  Smoke caught a glimpse of color that didn’t seem right in the timber and triggered off two fast rounds. This time he heard a squall of pain. He fired again and something heavy fell in the woods. A trick on the man’s part? Maybe. Smoke settled back and waited.

  He listened to the man cough, hard, racking coughs of pain. Then the man cursed him.

  “Sorry, partner,” Smoke called. “You opened this dance, now you pay the fiddler.”

  “You Injun bastard!” the man said with a groan. “I never even heard you come up on me.”

  Smoke offered no reply.

  “I’m hit hard, man. I got the makins but my matches is all bloody. Least you can do is give me a light.”

  “You’re gonna have lots of fire where you’re goin’, partner. Just give it a few minutes.”

  That got Smoke another round of cussing.

  But Smoke was up and moving, working his way up the ridge to a vantage point which would enable him to look down on the wounded man. If he was as hard hit as he claimed.

  The man was down, all right, Smoke could see that. And the front of his shirt was badly stained with blood. But it wasn’t Danny Rouge.

  It was a man he’d seen riding with Cord’s hired guns.

  What the hell was going on?

  The man had stopped his moaning and was lying flat on his back, both hands in plain sight. He was not moving.

  Smoke inched his way down the ridge to just above the gunman. He was dead. He had taken a round in his guts and one in his chest. Smoke had been right: it was a .44-40, and a brand spanking new one from the looks of it.

  It took him a few minutes to find the man’s horse and get him roped belly-down across the saddle. He shoved the dead man’s Winchester in the boot and led the animal down the ridge to his own horse. His horse shied away from the smell of blood and death, pulling his picket pin, and Smoke had to catch him and calm him down.

  Now what to do with the McCorkle rider?

  If the gunnies on Cord’s payroll were playing both ends against the middle, it would not be wise to just ride over there with one of their buddies draped belly-down across his saddle. On the other hand, Cord had to be notified.

  Smoke headed for the Box T. On the way, he ran into Hardrock and sent him over to the Circle Double C to get Cord.

  The old gunfighter had looked close at the dead man.

  “You know him, Hardrock?”

  “Only by his rep. His name is Black. Call him Blackie. He’s a back-shooter. Was.”

  “Keep this quiet at the ranch. Speak to only Cord.”

  “Right.”

  Smoke rode on over to the bunkhouse and relieved the horse of its burden and saddle, letting the animal water and feed and roll. Fae came out of the house, accompanied by her brother.

  Smoke explained, ending with, “Something’s up. I think we’d better get set for a hard wind.”

  “And a violent one,” Parnell added, grimacing at the smell of the dead gunny.

  “You better get a gun, Parnell,” Smoke told him.

  “I will not have one of those abominable things in my possession!”

  “Suit yourself. But I have a hunch you’re gonna change your mind before this is all over.”

  “Never!” Parnell stood his ground.

  “Uh-huh” was all Smoke said in reply to that.

  Parnell’s sister had plenty to say about her brother. Smoke could but stand in awe and amazement at the words rolling from her mouth.

  * * *

  “I don’t understand this,” Cord said, after viewing the dead man.

  “I didn’t think you would. But the big question is this: was the s
niper working as a lone wolf, perhaps just to gain a reputation for killing me, or was he part of a larger scheme?”

  “Involving the gunhands from both ranches?”

  “Yes.”

  Cord’s sigh was loud in the hot stillness of Montana summer. “I don’t know. My first thought is: yes. My next thought is: I’ve got to get Dooley to talk to me; bury the hatchet before this thing goes any further.”

  “Forget it,” Smoke said bluntly. “The man is crazy. He’s kill-crazy. I’ve heard he’s making all sorts of wild claims and charges and plans. He’s going to take over the whole area and be king. Keep a standing army of a hundred gunhawks—all sorts of wild talk.”

  “He’s damn near got a hundred,” Cord said glumly. “If what we’re both thinking is true.”

  “Close to fifty if they all get together,” Smoke added it up.

  “And if I go back and fire all of those drawing fighting wages . . . ?” Cord left it hanging.

  “We’d know where they stand. And you and your family would probably be safer. But if we’re wrong, it would leave you wide open, ’cause for sure the gunnies you fire would just hire on at the D-H.”

  Cord cursed softly for a few seconds. “I’m stuck between that much-talked-about rock and a hard place.”

  “Whichever way you decide to go, watch your back.”

  “Yeah.” He looked at the blanket-covered body of the sniper. “What about him?”

  “We’ll bury him. And don’t mention it, Cord. Just let the others wonder what happened—if there really is some sort of funny business going on.”

  “There is some grim humor in all of this, Smoke. If this thing goes on for any length of time, both Dooley and me will go broke paying fighting wages.”

  “Maybe that’s what the gunhands want. Maybe that’s why they’re hanging back, for the most part.”

  Cord shook his big head. It appeared that the man’s hair had grayed considerably since Smoke had first seen him, only a few weeks back. “This thing’s turnin’ out to have more maybe’s and what-if’s than a simple man can understand.”

  Smoke motioned for Charlie and Spring to come over. “Let’s get him in the ground, boys. Well away from the house and unmarked. Spring, you can have that .44-40. It’s a whale of a rifle. Dusted my butt proper,” he added.

  “I’ll go through his pockets,” Charlie said. “See if there is some address for his family.”

  Smoke nodded. “Take his horse and turn him loose. He’ll find his way back to the ranch. We’ll keep the rig. That’ll add even more doubt in the minds of the gunslicks.” He turned to Cord. “You ’bout caught up at your place, Cord?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Pull a couple of your best men off the range. Keep them close by at all times. When you ride, take one of them with you and let the other stay around the house.”

  “Good idea. But at night I don’t worry much.” He smiled a father’s smile. “Ever’time I look up, the Moab Kid is over there sparkin’ my daughter.”

  Smoke chuckled. “She could do worse. Beans is a good man.”

  “At first, I told her she couldn’t see him. That made about as much impression on her as a poot in a whirlwind. I finally told her to go ahead and see him. She told me that she’d never stopped. Daughters!”

  “You keepin’ a tight rein on your boys?”

  “I’m trying. Lord, I’m trying. I’ve got them working just as far away from D-H range as possible. But they told me last night they think they’re being watched. Stalked was the word Max used. That gives me an uneasy feelin’.”

  “It might be wise to pull them in and keep them around the house.” He smiled. “Tell you what; do this: Tell the gunhands to start workin’ the range.”

  Cord thought about that for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Hell, yes! That’ll make them earn their pay and keep them away from the house.”

  “Or it’ll put them on the road.”

  The men shook hands and Cord rode back to his ranch. Fae came to Smoke’s side. “Now what?”

  “We sell some cows to the Army. And wait.”

  * * *

  The buyer for the Army had already looked over the cattle and agreed to a price. When he returned, a couple of days after Smoke’s misunderstanding with the sniper, he brought drovers with him. Smoke and the buyer settled up the paperwork and the bank draft was handed over to Fae. The two men leaned up against a corral railing and talked.

  “You know about the battle looking at us in the face, don’t you?” Smoke asked.

  “Uh-huh. And from all indications it’s gonna be a real cutter.”

  “What would it take to get the Army involved?”

  “Not a chance, Jensen. The Army’s done looked this situation over and, unofficially, and I didn’t say this, they decided to stay out of it. It’d take a presidential order to get them to move in here.”

  It was as Smoke had guessed. All over the fast-settling West little wars were flaring up; too many for the authorities or the Army to put down, so they were letting them burn themselves out. Here, they would be on their own, whichever way it went.

  The buyer and his men moved the cattle out and the range was silent.

  Smoke wondered for how long.

  TWELVE

  “You tellin’ me you’re not gonna work cattle?” Cord faced the gunslick.

  “I’m paid to fight, not herd cattle,” Jason Bright told him.

  “You’re not being paid to do either one after this moment. Pack your kit and clear out. Pick up your money at the house.”

  Jason’s eyes became cloudy with hate. “And if I don’t go?”

  “Then one of us is going to be on the ground.”

  Jason laughed. “Are you challengin’ me, old man?”

  Cord was far from being an old man. At forty-five he was bull-strong and leather-tough. And while he was no fast gun, there was one thing he was good at. He showed Jason a hard right fist to the jaw.

  Flat on his back, his mouth leaking blood, Jason grabbed for his gun, forgetting that the hammer thong was still on it. Cord stomped the gunfighter in the belly, reached down while Jason was gasping for breath, and jerked the gun out of leather, tossing it to one side. He backed up, his big hands balled into fists.

  “Catch your breath and then get up, you yellow-bellied pup. Let’s see how good you are without your gun.”

  A dozen gunhawks ran from the bunkhouse, stopping abruptly as Cord’s sons, his daughter, his wife, and four regular hands appeared from both sides of the house and on the porch, rifles and sawed-off shotguns in their hands.

  “It’s going to be a fair fight, boys,” Alice McCorkle said, her voice strong and calm. She held a double-barreled shotgun in her hands. “Between two men; and my husband is giving Mr. Bright a good ten or fifteen years in age difference. Boys, I was nineteen when I killed my first Indian. With this very shotgun. I’ve killed half a dozen Indians and two outlaws in my day, and anytime any of you want to try me, just reach for a gun or try to break up this fight—whichever way it’s going—and I’ll spread your guts all over this yard. Then I’ll make your gunslinging buddies clean up the mess.”

  She lifted the shotgun, pointing the twin muzzles straight at Pooch Matthews.

  “Lord, lady!” Pooch hollered. “I ain’t gonna interfere.”

  “And you’ll stop anyone who does, right, Mr. Matthews?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am!”

  Jason was on his feet, his eyes shiny with hate as he faced Cord.

  “Clean his plow, honey,” Alice told her husband.

  Cord stepped in and knocked Jason spinning, the gunfighter’s mouth suddenly a bloody smear. Like so many men who lived by the gun and depended on a six-shooter to get them out of any problem, Jason had never learned how to use his fists.

  Cord gave him a very short and very brutal lesson in fistfighting.

  Cord gave him two short hard straight rights to the stomach then followed through with a crashing left hook that knocked
the gunfighter to the ground. Normally, Cord would have kicked the man in the face and ended it. No truly tough man, who fights only when hard-pushed, considers that “dirty” or unfair fighting, but merely a way to get the fight over with and get back to work. In reality, there is no such thing as a “fair fight.” There is a winner and a loser. Period.

  But in this case, Cord just wanted the fight to last a while. He was enjoying himself. And really, rather enjoying showing off for his wife a little bit.

  Cord dropped his guard while so pleased with himself and Jason busted him in the mouth.

  Shaking his head to clear away the sparkling confusion, for Jason was no little man, Cord settled down to a good ol’-fashioned rough-and-tumble, kick-and-gouge brawl.

  The two men stood boot to boot for a moment, hammering away at each other until finally Jason had to give ground and back up from Cord’s bull strength. Jason was younger and in good shape, but he had not spent a lifetime doing brutally hard work, twelve months a year, wrestling steers and digging postholes and roping and branding and breaking horses.

  Jason tried to kick Cord. Cord grabbed the boot and dumped the gunhawk on the ground, on his butt. That brought several laughs from Jason’s friends, all standing and watching and being very careful not to let their hands get too close to the butts of their guns.

  Jason jumped to his boots, one eye closing and his nose a bloody mess, and swung at Cord. Cord grabbed the wrist and threw Jason over his hip, slamming him to the ground. This time Jason was not as swift getting to his feet.

  Cord was circling, grinning at Jason, but giving the man time to clear his head and stand and fight.

  But this time Jason came up with a knife he’d pulled out of his boot.

  “No way, Jason!” Lodi yelled from the knot of gunslingers. “And I don’t give a damn how many guns is on me. Drop that knife or I’ll shoot you personal.”

  With a look of disgust on his face, Jason threw the knife to the ground.

  Cord stepped in and smashed the man a blow to the jaw and followed that with a wicked slash to Jason’s belly, doubling him over. Then he hit him twice in the face, a left and right to both sides of the man’s jaw.

  Jason hit the ground and did not move.