Jud Vale pulled in his horns, so to speak. Even with his monumental ego and glaring arrogance, he was shocked to the bone at the havoc and carnage that Smoke Jensen had wreaked upon his possessions and hired guns. He had not believed it possible that one man could do so much.
A half dozen of his older and wiser hardcases drew their time and drifted out of Southeastern Idaho, wanting no more of Smoke Jensen. Had most of those who left known Jensen was involved in this matter, they would not have signed on in the first place.
Jud spent a lot of time on his front porch—while his back porch was being rebuilt, again—drinking coffee and wallowing in his festering anger. He had sent out the word that he was still hiring men at fighting wages, and men were drifting in. But even Jud Vale could see that most of them were trash and scum. That made no difference; he hired them anyway.
And then the gunfighter Barry Almond and his four brothers came riding up to the mansion. They were dressed in long dusters and were unshaven, with cruel eyes their hat brims could not conceal.
Jud sat on the porch staring at the men while Barry sat his saddle and met the man’s eyes.
“I’m Barry Almond,” the gun slick finally broke the silence.
“I know who you are.”
“That ten thousand dollars still on Smoke Jensen’s head?”
“It’s still there.”
“Me and my brothers come to claim it.” “I’ve heard that from fifty other men over the weeks,” Jud snorted.
“This is the first time you’ve heard it from me, though.”
Jud nodded his head in agreement with that. “All right, you’re all on the payroll.”
“I ain’t punchin’ no gawddamn cows,” Barry bluntly told him.
The rancher laughed, but the short bark was void of humor. “Nobody else is either,” Jud replied, the bitterness thick on his tongue. Ranch was going to hell in a bucket. “So what else is new?”
“We'll just drift around some.”
“You do that.” Jud poured another cup of coffee and watched the gunfighter brothers head for the long new bunkhouse which Jud had been forced to build because of the overflow of hired guns and because Jensen had destroyed one end of the other bunkhouse.
Jud silently cursed Smoke Jensen. It made him feel better. But not much.
On the day that Smoke accompanied the supply wagon to the trading post, Blackjack Morgan, Lassiter, and four bounty hunters headed for the post for a drink of whiskey. The men were in a bad mood and ready for a killing. Especially if it was Smoke Jensen or some of those snot-nosed brats on the Box T payroll... .
Clint Perkins lay on his ground sheet in his hidden camp and tried with all his might to fight the madness that once more began to slowly muddle his brain. He lost the battle. Clint stood up, pulled on his boots and buckled his gun belt around his waist. With a strange smile on his lips and an odd look in his eyes, he saddled up and went looking for trouble... .
Matthew and Cheyenne were moving some strays toward the huge box canyon that was the home for what was left of Walt’s herds. The old gunfighter and the young boy had become good friends in a short time. ...
Doreen slipped out the back door of the ranch house to go walking toward a meadow about a mile back of the house. She had seen some lovely wildflowers there and felt that a bunch of them would look very nice on the kitchen table. She didn’t think Jud would be foolish enough to try anything in the daylight... .
Jud Vale and Jason and Jud’s bodyguards chose that time to make a daylight foray into Box T country. They were heavily armed and one of Jud’s men had a gunnysack filled with dynamite and caps and fuses. If they could get close enough to Walt’s place, they intended to return in kind what Smoke had given them. Twice. And if some of those snot-nosed nester brats got killed ...? Big deal. It would serve them right and send a message to the rest of the nesters in what Jud considered to be his territory... .
Don Draper and Davy Street and half a dozen other Bar V hired guns had left the bunkhouse to see if they could cause some trouble for the nester brats working the Box T herd. They headed straight for the area where Matthew and Cheyenne were working... .
Rusty was about a mile from the box canyon, working alone... .
It was ten o’clock in the morning when all the ingredients that were needed to bring to a full boil what would turn out to be the bloodiest range war in all of Idaho Territory’s history were dropped into the cauldron.
Smoke stepped down from the saddle in front of the trading post/barroom, and slipped the leather thongs from the hammers of his guns. Walt went into the store to give the shopkeeper his order for supplies.
Doreen sat amid a wild profusion of flowers and began carefully picking out the most lovely and putting them into her basket.
Susie stepped out of the ranch house at Alice’s request to go looking for Doreen. She waved Alan over and asked him if he’d seen her. The boy pointed to the meadow rising in wild and beautiful colors above the ranch, a good mile and a half away, he figured.
“She hadn’t oughta get that far from the ranch alone,” he added. “You want me to go fetch her, Miss Susie?”
“We’ll both go, Alan.” She looked at the gun belted around the boy’s waist. “You really know how to use that thing?”
“Yes, ma’am. I sure do.”
Susie hesitated for a moment. “Get a rifle, Alan. Just in case.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
Susie looked toward the meadow. She suddenly had a very bad feeling about this lovely day.
“Riders comin’,” Cheyenne said, twisting in the saddle.
Matt turned and spotted the riders. He slipped the leather from the hammer of his six gun.
The movement did not escape the eyes of Cheyenne. “You just stay out of this, boy.”
Rusty had seen Cheyenne and the boy working the strays. Then he saw a bunch of strays moving toward a coulee and went after them. Cheyenne and Matt were quickly lost from his sight as he followed the strays down into the deep coolness of the ravine.
“Boss!” one of Jud’s bodyguards said, pulling up and pointing to the tiny figure sitting amid the wildflowers in the meadow.
Jud squinted his eyes and an evil smile turned his mouth. His lips were suddenly dry and he licked them as all sorts of wild, lustful and immoral thoughts, all involving Doreen and himself, raced feverishly around in his brain.
“Get her!” Jud ordered. “I’ll have that woman. She’ll come around. She’ll learn to love me. I’ll make her my queen!”
The bodyguards spurred their horses.
Doreen looked up at the sounds of pounding hooves, fear in her eyes. She jumped to her feet, her heart racing. She dropped the basket of wildflowers and began running just as Susie and Alan were beginning the long walk to the meadow.
Alan took stock of the situation quickly. He jerked Susie to the ground, knowing that he could not shoot—the distance was far too great. And there was no point in them being spotted and taken prisoner—or worse. At least for Susie.
All they could do was lie amid the flowers and watch.
Doreen ran for her life, screaming as she ran. Strong and hard hands jerked her off the ground and swung her across a saddle. She felt the horse turn and gallop back across the meadow. The horse slowed, then stopped, and she was dumped to the ground. She looked up into the hard eyes of Jud Vale.
“My queen,” the rancher said. “You’ll be my queen; you’ll reign by my side. Together we’ll rule this whole country.”
“You’re crazy!” Doreen hissed at him. “You’re plumb loco!”
Jud laughed at her as his eyes roamed over her young body. “Hoist her up here, boys. I want me a handful of that woman.”
Doreen began screaming.
Cheyenne had wheeled his horse to face the Bar V gun hands. The old gunfighter’s face was hard, his eyes narrowed to obsidian slits. He looked straight at Don Draper. “What the hell are you and this bag of crap ridin’ with you doin’ on Box T range, Draper?”
“For a skinny old man, Cheyenne, you got a big fat mouth, you know that?”
“And for a punk, Draper, you’re ’way over your head and outclassed facin’ me, you know that?”
Draper flushed. “Anytime you’re ready, Cheyenne. Then me and the boys will take that kid and have some fun with him.”
“You’ll visit the privy ever’ day if you eat regular,” Cheyenne popped back. “And you ought to, ’cause you shore full of it.”
Draper’s face darkened further at that remark. But still he hesitated, as did Davy Street. Cheyenne was known throughout the West as an old He-Coon who had never backed down from anybody or anything at anytime. If the truth be known. Cheyenne had killed as many men, or more, as Smoke Jensen or John Wesley or Rowdy Joe or Tom Horn—and maybe as many as all of them combined.
Old he might be, but Cheyenne was still a man not to be taken lightly.
It was an old man and a young lad that faced the eight Bar V gun hands that hot morning, but the smell of fear was coming from the so-called gun slicks, not from Cheyenne or Matthew.
“You’re a fool, Cheyenne!” Draper spoke, stalling for time.
“Naw,” the old gunfighter said, amused at the man’s reluctance to drag iron, bu t at the same time worried about Matthew. “I’m just an old man who’s lived a long, long time, that’s all. Now I’m ready to see the varmint and rest for a time.”
“We gonna kill you and this snot-nosed brat!” a gun hand sneered at him, cutting his shifty eyes to the bespectacled Matthew.
The boy waited, his right hand close to his six gun.
“You might,” Cheyenne admitted. “But they’s gonna be a fearful toll taken on you boys whilst doin’ it.”
“You say!” the gun slick said.
“I say,” Cheyenne replied calmly. He had faced this a hundred or more times, and he knew the time was now. This was the entire world. No one else existed. This little pocket was all there was. Time had stopped. Eternity was looking them all in the eyes.
“Now!” Davy yelled, grabbing for his gun.
Cheyenne drew, cocked, and fired, all in one smooth and practiced motion, blowing Davy out of the saddle, the slug taking the man in the center of the chest and knocking him backward.
Don jerked iron and fired, the slug striking Cheyenne in the side. Cheyenne leveled his long-barreled pistol and fired just as Matthew’s Peacemaker barked. One slug struck Don in the belly, the other one took him in the chest, the bullet nicking his heart. He stayed in the saddle, one dead hand still holding onto the reins.
A Bar V gun blasted the smoky air, the bullet passing through Cheyenne’s lungs. Cheyenne grinned a bloody smile and put a slug between the man’s eyes as he was sliding from the saddle. The old gunfighter fell to the ground, on his knees just as Matthew put hot lead into the Bar V hand’s stomach.
Cheyenne managed to lift his six gun and drill another hired gun before that pale rider came galloping up to touch him on the shoulder.
The old mountain man and gunfighter died on his knees, still wearing his hat and boots and holding onto his six gun.
Matthew was knocked out of the saddle by a slug that hit his left shoulder and tore out his back. But he held on to he could still see well enough to shoot. The boy leveled the Colt and shot the gun slick in the throat just as Rusty came galloping up, the reins in his teeth and both hands filled with guns.
When Rusty had emptied his Colts; only one Bar V man was left in the saddle and he was hard hit and fogging it back to more friendly range, just barely managing to stay in the saddle.
Rusty took one look at Cheyenne and cursed at the loss of a friend and another man who had helped in the uneasy settling of the West. Rusty hoisted Matthew back into the saddle, found his glasses for him, and tied Cheyenne across his saddle.
“All hell is gonna break loose now, boy,” the redhead told the boy. He had inspected the boy’s wound and found it to be very painful but not too serious. The bleeding was slow, indicating that no major artery or vein had been hit. Rusty plugged the holes with a torn handkerchief and stabilized the arm in a sling.
“Feels like to me it has broke loose,” Matthew said, his voice grim and old for his age. He looked at Cheyenne. “He was my friend.”
“He was my friend, too, boy. Let’s ride.”
Both Alan and Susie had raced back to the ranch compound, yelling as they ran. Alice started crying and Micky joined her.
The boys wanted to ride after the kidnappers and shoot it out and rescue Miss Doreen. Jamie yelled them into silence and literally had to slap some sense into a couple of them. They would wait for Mr. Smoke and that was that. There wasn’t no point in going off half-cocked and getting killed.
“If this keeps up I’m going to get the feeling that you don’t like me,” Smoke said with a grin. “But of course,” he added, “you would be at the end of a very long list, I reckon.”
Bendel shook his head. “That don’t seem to worry you much.” He returned the smile. “One thing about it, Mr. Jensen—with you around I don’t never have to worry about bein’ bored.” He drew Smoke a mug of beer and set it down on the bar.
“I had hoped this place would not be filled up with Bar V riders.”
“Stick around,” the barkeep said mournfully. “It will be.”
“We won’t be here long. Just long enough to get supplies.”
“I’m glad you didn’t bring that four-eyed kid with you. That youngster is so calm he spooks me.”
“He’ll do to ride the river with, for sure.” Smoke sipped his beer while he waited for Walt to finish with his supply ordering. They were making a trip a week to resupply, for with fifteen growing boys to feed, the food went fast. And Rusty was no slouch when it came to grub. He could eat up a whole apple pie all by himself if the girls didn’t keep a good eye on him.
Smoke heard the sounds of horses coming up to the post and inwardly he tensed.
The barkeep cursed.
“What’s the matter, Bendel?”
“Some of Jud Vale’s hired guns ridin’ up. A whole passel of ’em.”
Smoke sighed. “One of these days I’m going to get to finish a beer in peace.”