Clint smiled. “See you around, Smoke Jensen.” Then he was gone into the night.
Smoke angled off into the timber and carefully made his way to a ridge overlooking the great mansion. He picketed Dagger and settled in behind a tree, just at the crest of the hill.
The minutes ticked by, turning into half an hour. What was left of Jud’s raiders began trickling back to the ranch complex, about half of them belly-down over a saddle, tied in place. Smoke brought his Winchester to his shoulder, compensated for the downhill shooting, and sighted in a man, squeezing the trigger.
The slug went high and knocked the man’s hat from his head, sending the hired gun to the ground. Smoke’s second shot was true. The gun hand tried to rise up on one elbow, then fell face-forward,, neck-shot.
From across the way, Clint opened up, the outlaws clearly visible under the light of the moon and the starry night. Smoke joined in, concentrating his fire into the mansion.
Jud, Jason, and the bodyguards hit the floor as .44 slugs began tearing through the walls and windows of the mansion.
A slug shattered the knee of a bodyguard, bringing a howl of pain. Clint was pouring rifle fire into the running men in the yard. He quickly punched more cartridges into his rifle and began peppering the bunkhouse. Smoke shifted the muzzle of his rifle and put two fast rounds into one of the newly built outhouses. A man came rushing out, trying to run while holding his britches up with one hand. One knee caught in his dangling suspenders and sent him sprawling to the ground.
Smoke tried for a lamp in the mansion, his third shot. finally striking true, sending coal oil and flames worming across the floor like a flaming snake. Jud and Jason and the bodyguards began stomping at the flames before they caught and burned the place down.
There was little the men around the mansion could do except curse the birth of Smoke Jensen; they knew it was Smoke on one of the ridges. And probably Clint on the other ridge.
Smoke decided he’d pressed his luck to the maximum for this night, and began working his way back to Dagger. It would take Clint only a couple of minutes to understand that Smoke was gone.
Inside the mansion, hopping mad, jumping around like a huge frog, his eyes bugged out, cursing at the top of his lungs, and just barely hanging onto what little sanity was left him, Jud began screaming orders to get Smoke Jensen, declare war on everybody, burn down Montpelier, assassinate President Arthur; do whatever needs to be done … just kill that damned Smoke Jensen!
Clint fired one more round before he pulled out, putting his shot into the living room and plugging a suit of armor Jud had imported from England.
“Another day, Father,” Clint muttered, slipping back to where he’d tied his horse. “Soon.”
Smoke slept soundly the remainder of that night, in his room in the barn at the Box T. He had stopped at several small farms, telling the people what had gone down and also that he doubted Jud’s raideres would be out doing their dirty work that night. But keep a guard posted just in case.
He slept late; it was nearly six o’clock when he awakened and put on his hat, then his pants and boots and shirt, slinging his gun belt around his waist, and stepping outside.
“What went down last night?” Jackson asked, handing him a cup of coffee.
Smoke took a sip of coffee before replying. Jackson was smiling when Smoke finished.
“Wish you had invited me along,” he said wistfully.
“I didn’t know what I was going to do until the last minute. But it will be interesting to see what Jud does next.”
“Interesting is one way of putt in’ it, for sure.”
27
“Jud’s sell in’ his herds,” the farmer said, dismounting in front of the ranch house. Walt led him to the porch and offered the man coffee, as Smoke and Jackson and Rusty joined them.
It was just past dawn and three days after Smoke and Clint had assaulted the mansion.
“He’s pulling out?” Walt asked, a hopeful note to the question.
“No,” Smoke said. “I’d say he’s gearing up for a long and expensive war. Putting his hands on as much hard cash as possible.” He glanced at the farmer. “When did you find out about this?”
“Late yesterday evenin’. My neighbor, Jim Morris, had been up to Montpelier. Stopped in for a drink and heard cattle buyers talkin’ about it. Them buyers done sent men in to move the cattle.”
“Knowing we wouldn’t harm any innocent party,” Smoke mused aloud. “Good move on Jud’s part. Then they’ve begun moving the cattle out?”
“Oh, yeah. Job’s might near half done, I reckon.” He cut his eyes to Smoke. “Them bounty hunters—Wills is one of them?”
Smoke nodded. “I know them.”
“I heard some talk, Mr. Jensen; heard it this morin’. Word is they’re pullin’ out on Jud’s orders. Goin’ down to Arizony, lookin’ for your wife and family.”
“It would be something Jud would do,” Walt said. “That would be one way to get you away from here.”
Smoke stepped from the porch, his face tight and his eyes hard. He walked to the bam and saddled Dagger. The road by the trading post would be the one they would be most likely to take. Smoke would be waiting for them. It was time to bring this boil to a head. Crazy or not, when Jud Vale started threatening Smoke’s wife and family, Jud Vale was a dead man.
Doreen had a poke of food waiting for him when he rode up to the ranch house. Smoke stowed it in his saddlebags. There was a gunnysack filled with dynamite tied onto the saddle horn. One side of his saddlebags was stuffed with ammunition and spare pistols. Smoke looked at Rusty and Jackson.
“Jud may be doing this trying to pull us all away from the Box T. Well, it isn’t going to work that way. You boys stay here. This is my show. I’ll be back.”
The farmer grabbed hold of the reins. “No, sir,” he said firmly. “That ain’t the way it is and it ain’t the way it’s gonna be. This is our show. They’s men comin’ here right now. Farmers and hired hands and shopkeepers and such from all over; as far away as Montpelier. Sheriff Brady and his men is comin’ in, too.”
“Riders comin’ for a fact,” Rusty said. “Horses and wagons. Looks like a regular parade.”
Smoke cut his eyes. It did look like a parade. He picked out Chester and his wife, and a dozen other farmers and family. He smiled as he saw Doc Evans’s buggy. Right behind it was the editor of the Montpelier paper, Mr. Argood. Coming up to intersect the line of horses and wagons and buggies, was Sheriff Brady and his men. Chester whoaed his team and stepped down, helping his wife to the ground.
The farmer had a gun belt around his waist and his wife carried a rifle. He walked to Smoke and looked up at him. “We ain’t no good as gunfighters, Mr. Smoke. But we can damn sure defend this ranch while you boys is gone.”
“I can’t interfere or condone this, Smoke,” Sheriff Brady said. “But I can stay right here and then son out the pieces when it’s over.”
“And I’ll be here to patch up the wounded,” Doc Evans told him.
“I’ll get my guns.” Walt turned toward the house. “Walt!” Alice said.
“Hush, woman,” the old rancher told her. “A man’s got to do what he’s got to do. You just keep the coffee hot. I’ll be back.”
Rusty and Jackson were walking toward the barn to saddle up.
Matt walked his horse toward Smoke. There was a grim look on Smoke’s face as he noticed the way the boy was wearing his guns. He carried his Peacemaker on his right side, and Cheyenne’s old Colt on his left side, butt-forward for a cross draw.
It was like looking into a minor that reflected years back. Like looking at himself as a boy.