The sheriff rode out to the ranch two days after Blackjack Morgan had tossed down the challenge. He had three tough-looking deputies with him.
He told Walt to get his crew together. His adult crew.
Only Smoke, Cheyenne, and the women were close to the house. They sat at the long table in the front yard and talked.
“Lines bein’ what they are,” the sheriff said, “I ain’t rightly sure this place is even in my jurisdiction. But I know damn well that Preston is. Excuse my language, ladies. And I ain’t a-gonna have no gunfights in my town.” He looked at Smoke. “I thank you for not ridin’ in.”
“I’m waiting for them to move it closer to the ranch.”
The sheriff nodded his head. He waved his hand at the three deputies. “This is it, folks. You’re lookin’ at the law enforcement in this county ... providing, that is, the Box T is even in my county. New lines was drawn up last year and it’s still all confused. But that ain’t the point. The point is that Jud Vale’s done hired himself about sixty men, all drawin’ fightin’ wages, and there ain’t a damn thing I can do about it. Oh, I could ride over to the Bar V and try to throw my badge around. But you all know how much good that would do. Jud’s a charmer. He’d just tell me he was gettin’ ready for roundup and hired all them men to punch cows."
He sighed. “Walt, there may still be warrants out on Jud back East. I know the story. And I’ve sent telegrams to them folks back yonder. The parents of the girl that Jud was supposed to have killed is dead. The lawmen who were in charge when it happened are gone. So that’s a dead end. No help there.”
“What you’re trying to say, Sheriff,” Smoke said, “is that we’re on our own here.”
“That’s blunt put, Jensen. But yeah, that’s just about it. You say that Jud attacked your ranch. Can you prove it in a court of law?”
“I doubt it,” Walt admitted.
“There still ain’t no laws about two growed-up men facin’ each other over gun barrels. There will be someday, but that time ain’t here yet. I talked to a man from the governor’s office. The governor ain’t got the manpower to step in and settle every dispute between ranchers. Territory is just too big. I’ve said what I come to say, Walt. I wanted to tell it to you face to face.”
“I appreciate that.”
“You’ve told us, Sheriff,” Smoke said. “Now let me tell you.”
The sheriff cut his eyes to the gunfighter.
“Just stay out of it,” Smoke said flatly. “I roughed up a few and killed one the last time out. The next time I go headhunting, I’m going to leave bodies all over the range.”
The sheriff flushed, but wisely kept his mouth shut.
“And that goes for me, too,” Cheyenne said. “In spades. I’m gettin’ tarred of all this dilly-dally in’ around. I’m an old man; I ain’t got many years left me. So it don’t make a damn to me if I check out now, just so long as I take a few, or a bunch, with me. And I plan on doing just that.”
The sheriff stood up and his deputies followed suit. “I wish you luck.” The lawmen walked to their horses and rode away.
“He’s a good man, the sheriff is,” Walt said. “I ain’t takin’ what he said near about as hard as you boys. Maybe I just understand the feelins around here better than you.”
Smoke stared at the man. “What do you mean, Walt?”
“I’ve tried to tell you time and again, boy: folks around here is scared of Jud Vale. He’s had them buffaloed for years, and it ain’t got much better—if any better—since you come along. Man told me last time we went to the post that most of the bettin’ money was with Jud and against you.”
“You should have told him he was a fool.”
“I did. Problem was, I don’t know how convincing I sounded.”
Walt and Alice, with Doreen and Susie right behind them, went back into the house. Smoke and Cheyenne walked to the corral and stood in silence for a few minutes.
“You changed your mind any ‘bout just ridin’ up to Jud and pluggin’ him?” Cheyenne asked.
“No.”
“Didn’t figure so. Still think that would be the smart thing to do.”
“You’re probably right, Cheyenne. But it just isn’t my style.”
“You want me to do it? He ain’t nothin’ but a rattlesnake.”
“No.” Smoke looked off into the distance. “But it worries me about him declaring war on the women and the boys.”
“It don’t surprise me none,” the old gunfighter said with a snort. “A rattlesnake don’t give a damn who he strikes. Sometimes they’ll just lay thereon the trail still as death and watch you go past without even a short rattle. Next time you come by, they’ll hit you. Jud Vale ain’t got no more sense than a rattler. And is just about as useless. Come to think of it, a rattler might be worth more. Least they kill rats and mice."
The old rounder limped off, toward the bunkhouse and a cup of coffee.
Smoke stood for a time by the corral, deep in thought. Maybe Cheyenne was right. Maybe he should just ride over to the Bar V, line up Jud Vale in rifle sights, and end it.
But Smoke knew he wouldn’t do that. At least not yet.
But if one of the boys got hurt... ?
He shook his head. He didn’t even like to think about that.
With his back to the corral rails, he watched the boys ride out, heading back to work; a gutsy bunch of kids.
Smoke wondered where Clint Perkins had gotten off to. The so-called Robin Hood of the West had not been heard from since he had rescued Susie from the Bar V. But Smoke had no doubts about his being near, waiting for that invisible trigger in his brain—always on half-cock—to fire his unstable mind into action.
Smoke went into the house, told Doreen to fix him a bait of food, and with the food-packet in his hand, went to the barn, saddling Dagger. Rusty had ridden in and was seeing to his horse.
“You headin’ out?”
“Yes. Is the herd bunched?”
“And boxed.”
“I want you and the others to stick close to the ranch. I don’t know how long I’m going to be gone. Three days; maybe a week. However long it takes me to cut the odds down some.”
“You goin’ to face Blackjack and them others?”
“Probably. But it will be on my terms, not on theirs. Nobody has to leave the ranch. We’re well-stocked with food; God knows we have enough guns and ammo to stand off a dozen attacks. Keep an eye on the boys, Rusty.” He swung into the saddle.
“I’ll do it. You watch your back trail, Smoke.”
“I’ve been doing that since I was fifteen years old,” Smoke said with a smile.
He rode for the Bar V range, keeping to the timber and the brush, riding slow and stopping often to sit his saddle and listen. He marveled at the size of Jud’s herds. The man was worth a fortune in beef alone; there wasn’t a rancher anywhere who wouldn’t be satisfied with these herds. Only Jud Vale wanted more. But then, Smoke concluded, Jud wanted everything.
Especially Doreen.
Smoke had warned her to stick very close to the ranch, and to stop wandering out into the meadows to pick wildflowers. Jud had made his brags that he would have Doreen, one way or the other. But whether Smoke’s warnings had gotten through to the girl was something only time would prove out.
Smoke steered clear of Jud’s mansion. What he wanted to see was whether anyone was working Jud’s cattle, and after spending most of the afternoon carefully watching from the hills and ridges, he concluded that the cattle had been pretty much left on their own.
So Jud had pulled in all his hands. For what? An attack on the ranch? Maybe. But somehow he doubted that.
He had tried that once, with disastrous results. So if not an attack against the Box T ... then what?
Smoke could come up with no reason for leaving the herd unguarded. Of course, Jud probably felt—and rightly so—that no one would have the nerve to rustle cattle from him, so his herds were safe.
So what was going on? And why had he not run into any of the Bar V hands this day? Odd. Very odd.
With about three hours of good light left and guessing that he was a good ten miles—maybe more—from Jud’s mansion, Smoke rode to near the top of a high ridge. Keeping in the timber, Smoke dismounted and took his field glasses, making his way to the top of the hill. There, on his belly and undercover, he began carefully sweeping the area.
Far in the distance, he picked up the small figures of men, some on foot, some on horseback. They were making a meticulous sweep of the area. Looking for what? Smoke silently questioned. Or for whom? Certainly not him. Jud knew he was at the Box T ... or had been for days.
Had to be looking for Clint. That was all that Smoke could come up with. Had Clint pulled something over the past few days that Smoke did not know about? It was certainly possible.
Smoke studied the tiny figures of searching men through his field glasses. At least twenty-five or thirty. And that brought yet another thought to Smoke’s mind: where were Jud’s other hands and hired guns? That question made him uncomfortable.
He decided to get the hell gone from there.
He mounted up and rode toward the deep timber that lay to the east of the mansion, but still well on Bar V range. As he rode, he began seeing signs that this area had been searched and searched thoroughly. He reined up suddenly, knowing then where the other Bar V men were.
All around him, waiting to see if Clint—if that’s who they were searching for—would double back.
Smoke found a place which offered deep cover and a good two days’ graze and water for Dagger, picketed him, and slipped into moccasins. He filled any empty loops with .44’s and taking his rifle, began Injuning his way through the brush and timber.
Smoke was under no illusions: these were dangerous men he was surrounded by, and after Smoke’s initial attack against the ranch, and his making fools of the men, they would be doubly alert, with more than one of them mad as hell and looking for blood.
Making about as much noise as a drifting ghost, Smoke wormed his way under a pile of blown down brush and dead limbs—hoping that a rattlesnake had not made this spot his home—and settled in for a time.
As he waited, Smoke ran some questions through his mind: why the systematic search for Clint? Had the man staged another raid, or had Jud just decided to take out his enemies one at a time? Then Smoke rejected both ideas as another thought came to him.
Clint Perkins was a wanted man, a fugitive from justice. So what better way for Jud to show the people that he was a straight-up, honest, and law-abiding citizen than by killing or capturing the most wanted man in Southern Idaho. That would certainly swing public opinion in his favor.
And there was something else, too: after Clint was taken—and Smoke felt the man would not be taken alive, Jud simply could not risk that—Vale could, and probably would, charge that Walt and Alice and Doreen had been hiding the outlaw. That would further erode Walt’s credibility with his neighbors.
Slick! Smoke thought, as his eyes continued to sweep the terrain from his hiding place. Jud Vale was beginning to think in a more rational way.
And that, Smoke reflected bitterly, was something he had not even considered Jud doing. He had been counting on the man to continue behaving in his usual emotional and irrational manner.
A stick popped not far from Smoke’s hiding place. Smoke cut his eyes, not moving his head. That was no animal, for animals seldom stepped on sticks unless they were running in fear. And Smoke heard no follow-up sounds of any animal in panic.
He waited, motionless, his breathing very shallow and through his mouth to cut down even the slightest sound.
He saw the man move; a fatal mistake on the man’s part, for movement attracts attention much faster than sound in any deadly game of hide or be killed.
The man was dressed in earth tones, blending in well with his surroundings. Smoke concluded that the man was a skilled woodsman, and the stick was the only mistake he had made.
It just took one mistake in this game, and the man had made his.
The manhunter moved closer, moving stealthily through the timber. As he drew closer. Smoke could make out his features. It was one of those he had seen stepping off the train some days before. A bounty hunter.
The man carried a Winchester in his hand, a bandoleer of cartridges slung over one shoulder. The manhunter stopped, tensed, and suddenly dropped to the ground.
Smoke watched through a small space in the pile of brush and dead limbs. What had the man seen? Or had his hunter’s sixth sense alerted him of the unseen danger?
Probably the latter.
Now it was a game of wait and see.
Smoke waited. Several minutes passed. He could detect no other men, so the bounty hunter was probably working alone. But Smoke couldn’t be certain of that, although he believed it to be true.
A bird flew into the timber, started to settle on a branch, then abruptly took once more to the air, its wings flapping furiously.
Smoke’s smile was a grim one. Thank you, bird, he thought. Have a long and happy life.
He had yet to move his head. Only his cold hunter’s eyes had shifted. Now they remained fixed on the dangerous brush where the bounty hunter lay.
The top of the brush moved ever so slightly, the movement indicating the man was coming toward Smoke’s location, making his way very cautiously.
Had he been spotted? Smoke didn’t think so.
Smoke waited for several minutes, watching the slow movement of the man. He wanted him much closer; close enough to use his knife. He did not want to risk a shot; not knowing how many others were within earshot of his location.
Then the bounty hunter rose, all in one fluid motion. He was so close that Smoke could see the hard cruelty in his eyes.
The bounty hunter moved closer, pausing a few feet from the brush pile where Smoke lay.
Smoke exploded out of the brush, his knife in his hand.