“Tie‘em together, Bobby. But give them room to walk. They got a long way to hoof it.’
The gunny on the ground jerked and died.
The bare-butted men tied, their hands behind their backs, Pistol looped the rope around his saddle horn and gave the orders. “Move out. Head for your bunkhouse, boys. Git goin’.”
“What about Pete?” one hollered.
“He’ll keep without gettin’ too gamy. Now move!”
It was a good hour’s walk back to the Circle Double C ranch house, and the gunnies hoofed it all the way. They complained and moaned and hollered and finally begged for relief from their hurting, bleeding feet. They shut up when Pistol threatened to drag them.
“Pitiful,” Pistol told him. “Twice the Indians caught me and made me run for it, bare-butt nekkid. Miles and miles and miles. With them just a-whoopin’ and a-hollerin’ right behind me. You two are a disgrace.”
Cord stood by the front gate and had to smile at the sight as the painful parade came to a halt. He had ordered his wife and daughter not to look outside. But of course they both did.
The naked men collapsed to the ground.
“Mister McCorkle, my name is Le Roux. They call me Pistol. Now, sir, I was minding my own business, herdin’ cattle like I’m paid to do, when three of your hands come up and was gonna put a loop around me and drag me. One of them went for his gun. He was a tad slow. You’ll find him dead by that big stand of cottonwoods on the Smith. He ain’t real purty to look at. Course, he wasn’t all that beautiful when he was livin’. I brung these wayward children back home. You want to spank them, that’s your business. Good day, sir.”
Pistol and Bobby swung their horses and headed back to Box T Range.
Cord looked at the naked men and their bloody feet and briar-scratched ankles and legs. “Get their feet taken care of, pay them off, and get them out of here,” he instructed his foreman. He looked at the gunslicks on his payroll. “Pete was one of your own. Go get him and bury him. And stay the hell away from Box T riders.” He pointed to the naked and weary and footsore men on the ground. “One man did that. One ... old ... man. But that man, and those other old gunfighters over at the Box T came out here in the thirties and forties as mountain men. Tough? You bet your life they’re tough. When they do go down for the last time, they’ll go out of this world like cornered wolves, snarling and ripping at anything or anyone that confronts them. Leave them alone, boys. If you feel you can’t obey my orders, ride out of here.”
The gunfighters stared at Cord. All stayed. As Cord turned his back to them and walked toward his house, he had a very bad feeling about the outcome of this matter, and he could not shake it.
“It’s stupid!” Sandi McCorkle said to her friend. “They don’t even know why they hate each other.”
Rita Hanks nodded her head in agreement. “I’m going to tell you something, Sandi. And it’s just between you and me. I don’t trust my father, or my brothers.”
Sandi waited for her friend to continue.
“I think Daddy’s gone crazy.” She grimaced. “I think my brothers have always been crazy. They’ve never been ... well, just right; as far as I’m concerned. They’re cruel and vicious.”
“What do you think your dad is going to do?”
“I don’t know. But he’s up to something. He sent a hand out last week to Helena. Then yesterday this ratty-faced-looking guy shows up at the ranch. Danny Rouge. Has a real fancy rifle. Carries it in a special-made case. I think he’s a back-shooter, Sandi.”
The two young women, both in their late teens, had been forbidden by their fathers to see each other, years back. Of course, neither of them paid absolutely any attention to those orders. But their meetings had become a bit more secretive.
“Do you want me to tell Daddy about this, Rita?”
“No. He’d know it came from me and then you’d get in trouble. I think we’d better tell Smoke Jensen.”
Sandi giggled. “I’d like to tell him a thing or two—in private. He’s about the best-looking man I’ve ever seen.”
“He’s also married with children,” Rita reminded her friend. “But he sure is cute. He’s even better looking than the covers of those books make him out to be. Have you seen the Moab Kid?”
“Yes! He’s darling!”
The two young women talked about men and marriage for a few minutes. It was time for them to be married; pretty soon they’d be pegged as old maids. They both had plenty of suitors, but none lasted very long. The young women were both waiting for that “perfect man” to come riding into their lives.
“How in the world are we going to tell Smoke Jensen about this back-shooter?”
“I don’t know. But I think it’s our bounden duty to tell him. People listen to him.”
“That Bobby’s been gettin’ all red-eared everytime he gets around me,” Sandi said. “I think maybe he could get a message to Smoke and he’d meet us.”
“Worth a try. We’ll take us a ride tomorrow over to the Smith and have a picnic and wait. Maybe he’ll show up.”
“Let’s do it. I’ll see you at the pool about noon.”
The young women walked to their buggies. Both buggies were equipped with rifle boots and the boots were full. A pistol lay on the seat of each buggy. Both Sandi and Rita could, would, and had used the weapons. With few exceptions, ranch-born-and-raised western women were no shrinking violets. They lived in a violent time and had to be prepared to fight. Although most western men would not bother a woman, there were always a few who would, even though they knew the punishment was usually a rope.
Very little Indian trouble now occurred in this part of Montana; but there was always the chance of a few bucks breaking from the reservations to steal a few horses or take a few scalps.
With a wave, the young women went their way, Sandi back to the Circle Double C, Rita back to D-H. Neither noticed the two men sitting their horses in the timber. The men wore masks and long dusters.
“You ready?” one asked, his voice muffled by the bandana tied round his face.
“I been ready for some of that Rita. Let’s go.”
Eight
Silver Jim found the overturned buggy while out hunting strays. The horse was nowhere in sight. He noticed that the Winchester .44 Carbine was a good twenty feet from the overturned buggy. He surmised that whoever had been in this rig had pulled the carbine from its boot and was makin’ ready to use it. Then he found the pistol. He squatted down and sniffed at the barrel. Recently fired.
He stood up and emptied his Colt into the air; six widely spaced shots. It took only a few minutes for Smoke and Lujan to reach him.
“That is Senorita Hanks’s buggy,” Lujan said. “I have seen her in it several times.”
“Stay with it, boys,” Smoke said. “Look around. I’ll ride to the D.H.”
He did not spare his horse getting to the ranch, reining up to the main house in a cloud of dust and jumping off. “Switch my saddle,” he told a startled hand. He ran up the steps to face a hard-eyed Dooley Hanks. “Silver Jim found Miss Hanks’s buggy just north of our range. By that creek. Overturned. No sign of Miss Hanks. But Silver Jim said her pistol had been fired. I left them looking for her and trying to cut some trail.”
The color went out of Dooley’s face. Like most men, his daughter was the apple of his eye. “I’m obliged. Let’s ride, boys!” he yelled.
Already, one of his regular hands was noosing a rope.
Within five minutes, twenty-five strong, Dooley led his hands and his hired guns out at a gallop. The wrangler had switched Smoke’s saddle to a mean-eyed mustang and was running for his own horse.
Smoke showed the mustang who was boss and then cut across country, taking the timber and making his own trail, going where no large group of riders could. He reached the overturned buggy just a couple of minutes before Dooley and his men.