Another gunny, with more guts than sense, left his safe position to move to what he felt was a better one.
Smoke shot him, the bullet going in his left side and tearing out the right side, spinning the man like an out-of-balance top and dropping him to the hard, rocky ground. He did not move.
Smoke punched more .44’s into his Winchester and made life miserable for a gunhand who was crouched behind a tree. The man decided to seek better cover and made a run for it. Smoke knocked a leg out from under him and the man rolled down the hill, hollering and cussing. He finally managed to break his downhill rolling by grabbing onto a small tree and painfully work his way behind it. Smoke let him be, and concentrated on the others.
But the fight was gone from this bunch. Smoke watched without firing as they began working their way down the hill, staying in cover, carrying and helping the wounded back out of range of Smoke’s deadly rifle fire.
He left his position and worked his way back into deep timber, paralleling the gunnies’ retreat, sensing from their urgency and the direction of their travel that they were heading for their horses. He was waiting for them when they reached the picket line.
Smoke shot one badman in the belly and dusted another gunhand before they all left in a confusing and disorderly retreat, some of them losing their weapons as they stumbled and ran away.
Smoke ran into the camp, grabbed up the fallen weapons, and stuck them in empty saddle boots. He grasped as many reins as he could, swung into a saddle, and led the horses back to where he had left Dagger. There, he tied and grouped the horses and headed back for Box T range.
All in all, it had been quite a profitable day.
It was late night before Smoke reached the ranch house. He put the horses into the corral, told the boys to strip the gear from them and clean and store the weapons. He switched horses and then filled a sack with dynamite and caps and fuses, and was back in the saddle, heading once more for Bar V range.
He made a cold camp, slept for a few hours, and was up about three in the morning. He checked his guns and then saddled up. With a grim smile on his lips, Smoke went headhunting under the stars.
About two miles from the main house, and not running into a single Bar V hand, Smoke moved several hundred head of cattle toward the direction of Jud’s mansion and then tossed two sputtering sticks of dynamite near the bunched-up herd of Bar V cattle. The explosions sent them into a snorting, wild-eyed stampede heading straight for the mansion.
Smoke tagged along to see what other mischief he could get into this fine night.
The hard-running cattle hit the mansion grounds at full speed, demolishing several outhouses and destroying one corral. Smoke drove half a dozen of the frightened cattle into the mansion and then circled, tossing a stick of dynamite into a bunkhouse.
The charge of giant powder blew out one entire end of the bunkhouse and sent gun hands—in various stages of undress—rolling and running and crawling in all directions.
The dust kicked up from the wildly stampeding herd only added to the confusion, limiting visibility to only a few yards in any direction. Smoke’s horse ran into one long handle-clad gun hand, knocking the man to the ground. The gun hand screamed as the horse’s steel-shod hooves ripped flesh and cracked bone.
Jud Vale appeared on the balcony of the second floor of the mansion, clad only in his underwear. He was jumping up and down and screaming almost incoherently. “Somebody come up here and get this goddamn cow out of my bedroom!” he finally managed to squall.
With his six gun, Smoke put several slugs around Jud’s bare feet. The man did a frantic little dance, and hollering to beat sixty, leaped back into the bedroom, obviously preferring the company of a smelly wild-eyed cow to the lead that was sending splinters into his tootsies.
A puncher grabbed onto Smoke’s leg, trying to pull him out of the saddle. Smoke laid the barrel of his Colt against the man’s head, splitting it wide open and dropping the man to the ground.
Hot lead came awfully close to Smoke’s cheek and that convinced him that it was time to move. Riding bent low over his horse’s neck, Smoke galloped around to the back of the house. Jud had just rebuilt the back porch and replaced all the windows at the rear of the house.
Smoke lit another fuse with the small can of burning punk and tossed the stick under the back porch.
Jud’s wild cussing could just be heard over the confusion.
Smoke had cleared the creek and was heading into the starry darkness as the porch blew. The giant powder demolished the newly rebuilt porch and once more broke all the windows from the rear of the mighty mansion.
“Goddamn you, Jensen!” Jud’s voice rang out over the dusty night. “I’ll get you for this. I swear I’ll get you! I’ll stake you out over an anthill and let them eat your eyes. I’ll...”
Laughing as Jud’s voice faded, Smoke headed for the deep timber.
Dawn found him cutting fence wire and scattering Jud’s cattle all to hell and gone. An hour later he had blown two dams and torn down several line shacks.
He looked up at the sounds of pounding hooves and cut his horse toward a long-deserted cabin and barn about half a mile away. The story was that the cabin and barn had belonged to a rancher and his wife. Jud had moved in and moved them out, after killing the rancher’s son and badly wounding the rancher.
Smoke chanced a glance over his shoulder. There were ten or twelve riders coming hard at him, but still too far away for accurate shooting on their part.
As he rode toward the cabin, Smoke made his plans as he bent over the horse’s neck, keeping a very low target. The cabin was built into a hill. The sod roof had long since become a living thing as the grass from the hill caught life and flourished.
Smoke dismounted at a run and threw open the door, leading the horse inside. He knelt in the open doorway and leveled his Winchester, clearing one saddle of a hired gun. The horse trotted on toward the cabin as the other gun hands veered off, left and right, seeking some sort of cover. They all knew how deadly Smoke was with any type of weapon.
Smoke grabbed the reins of the spooked pony, pulled the rifle from its boot, tore loose the canteen—that would give him three full canteens—and jerked off the saddle bags. He slapped the pony on the rump, sending it on its way.
Smoke slammed the door and dropped the old bar across it just as rifle shots began slugging into the logs of the cabin. He led the horse into the rear part of the house, as far out of harm’s way as possible, gave it a hatful of water, and returned to the front of the cabin. If worse came to worst, he could pull grass from off the roof and feed the animal.
He smiled when he saw the kitchen. Luck was with him. Some of the Bar V hands had used the cabin as a line shack, and used it recently. Staying low, Smoke closed the still sturdy inside shutters—put there long ago against Indian attack—and tried the pump in the kitchen. Cold clear water gushed forth. He opened the cabinet. Cans of beans and peaches looked back at him. He selected a can of peaches and opened it with his knife, then ate the peaches and drank the juice.
“All the comforts of home,” he muttered, then checked the Winchester he’d jerked from the boot of the riderless horse. It was full up.
He looked into the saddlebags of the hired gun who now rested face down on the ground. Several biscuits with salt meal, three boxes of 44’s and a spare pistol and holster under one flap. Dirty underwear under the other flap. He kept the biscuits, the pistol, and the 44’s.
Smoke moved to a gun port and looked out. He could see a man slowly working his way toward the house, but still too far off for a shot. Smoke let him come on.
He moved to the other side of the house just in time to see a man run from tree to tree. This one was well within range. Smoke earred the hammer back on his Winchester and waited. The gun hand broke cover and made a run for the corral. Smoke stopped him at midpoint, the .44 slug turning him around as it hit his side. Smoke didn’t finish the man, choosing instead to let him lie on the ground and scream in pain. That would work on his buddies much more than a death shot.