Absaroka Ambush

17

Smoke walked outside while some of the cafe’s patrons exited by the back door, heading for home to make sure their wives and kids stayed off the streets. Hawk Evans and the Shawnee Kid sat at their table and stared out the window. Both of them knew that from this point on, they would never again strap on a gun. Dr. Garrett looked at the two young men, staring wide-eyed at Smoke, then turned his chair around so he could see what was taking place in the street.

Smoke knew only one of the men who had ridden in, a two-bit gunhandler who went by the name of Earl Cobb. He knew none of the others. He watched as they reined in and swung down, looping the reins on the hitchrail in front of the saloon. They turned and faced him.

The cork is out of the bottle now, Smoke thought. They aren’t even trying to conceal the reason they came to town. Clint must have upped the ante.

The quartet of gunhands spread out.

Smoke backed up and entered the cafe. “They don’t care that innocent people might be hit by a bullet,” he said to Doc Garrett. “I won’t have it this way.” He paused by the hat rack and took two of the guns belonging to the young men. “I’ll return these in a few minutes,” he said to the pair.

“Keep them,” Evans said. “We won’t be needing them no more.”

Smoke walked through the kitchen, a borrowed pistol in each hand. The cook, who was the owner, said, “I’ve got a rifle here, Smoke.”

“Stay out of this. I’m going to pull them away from your cafe and try to get them off the main street. People are all over the place opening up for business.”

He went out the back door and ran two blocks down to the livery stable. He cut right and stepped out into the street. He was a good two hundred yards from the gunmen, who were standing in the middle of the street in front of the cafe.

“Hey!” Smoke called, stepping closer to the other side of the street where there were two abandoned buildings at the edge of town. “You jerks looking for me?”

Earl Cobb cussed at the distance between them. “Come on,” he said to the others. “Jensen’s tryin’ to get us away from the main drag so’s no citizen will take lead.”

“Ain’t he sweet?” another said.

“He’s liable to take up preachin’ ’fore long,” another added.

Smoke was standing by the corner of what had once been a general store.

“Split up,” Earl said. “Luddy, you come with me. Dick, Patton, you cut through that alley and come up behind him.”

When he looked up again, Smoke had vanished.

Many of the townspeople had armed themselves. But since Smoke had pulled the action to the edge of town, where no businesses or houses stood, they could not leave their families unprotected. Most knew Smoke had done that deliberately.

“Jensen, you damn yellow cur,” Dick called. “Step out here and fight.”

“All right,” Smoke said as he stepped out of a doorway behind the two men. “Here I am.”

The men were lifting their guns as they turned to meet what their fates had long ago planned for them. The borrowed .45s in Smoke Jensen’s hands roared and spat fire and lead and gunsmoke. Patton and Dick were down in the litter behind the old building.

“Nice action on these pistols,” Smoke muttered, as he kicked the guns of the fallen men away from them and stepped back into the building. He had checked the pistols in the cafe and knew they had been loaded up full. He had fired four times and had put two slugs apiece in Patton and Dick.

Smoke had no illusions about fair fighting. The old mountain man Preacher had grilled that out of him. He never gave a damn for fair; he fought to win. “You always do your best to do right by the good folks of this world, boy,” Preacher had told him repeatedly. “To hell with the bad folks. Man comes after you with intent to do you harm, you fight him any damn way you can…just win.”

Luddy rounded a corner of the building and Smoke fired through a windowless frame. The slug hit the hired gun in the shoulder and knocked him down, the big shoulder joint smashed. Luddy lay on the ground and flopped and hollered in pain, his gun hand useless.

Smoke stepped out of the building just as Earl began pouring lead through the thin walls. He worked his way up the alley and stepped out to the edge of the street just as Earl was jerking out a spare gun he’d tucked behind his belt.

“You do like to waste ammo, don’t you, Earl,” Smoke called.

Earl cussed, spun around, and fired, the slug slammed into the building behind Smoke. Smoke drilled him clean and dropped him to his knees.

“Give it up, Earl,” Smoke told him. “The party’s over.”

Earl tried to lift his .44. “You dirty son of…” He never finished it. The hired gun fell forward in the dirt.

Smoke walked around the building just as the boardwalks began filling with citizens. He stepped up and kicked the pistol out of Luddy’s left hand.

“Damn fool,” Smoke told him. “Give it up and live, man.”

“You ruint me!” Luddy gasped through his pain.

“Maybe now you’ll get a decent job and quit trying to kill people,” Smoke replied, just as Doc Garrett rounded the corner.

“Go to hell! “Luddy said. “I don’t need no damn sermon from the likes of you.”

“Whatever,” Smoke said, and turned his back to the man. He walked around to the rear of the building. Dick and Patton were still alive and moaning. They lay on the ground and glared hate up at Smoke. But they were smart enough not to try to reach their guns. They could still run their mouths, however, and they did, expelling a lot of wind cussing Smoke.

Smoke turned to the smithy. “Go get those two young men who wanted to brace me.”

“They’re gone, Smoke. Both of them left out pale as ghosts. I think they got the message. Their gun belts are still hangin’ on the pegs.”

“Somebody help me with these men,” Doc Garrett said. “Pick them up and take them to my office.”

“Hell with them,” a man said. “They can get there under their own steam. I ain’t helpin’ nobody who works for Clint Black.”

“Sorry bastard!” Luddy cussed the man.

“Look who is calling who sorry,” the citizen said, then turned around and walked away. “My breakfast is gettin’ cold.”

Smoke waited around until Harris returned and told him what had happened, including the incident with the young men in the cafe.

“How many still alive?”

“Some gunslick called Luddy. The other three are dead.”

“Luddy Chambers,” Harris said. “He’s a bad one. You going to press charges?”

“I didn’t know you had any laws in this territory about calling a man out.”

Harris sighed. “Well, we do, sort of.”

“Doc Garrett said the bullet smashed his shoulder joint. He’ll only have limited used of that arm for the rest of his life. And when word gets around that Luddy Chambers has a crippled gun arm, he’ll either hunt him a hole and change his name, or get dead.”

“You’re right about that. There was no attempted stagecoach holdup, by the way.”

“I figured Clint had one of his men tie into the line and send that message to get you out of town. But if he did, why not send Bronco or Austin or Yukon in after me? These ol’ boys today were not the best he has on the payroll.”

“What could he be up to?”

“You tell me. He’s your brother.”

“A fact I wish I could undo,” Harris said with a grimace.

“I’m going back to the Double D. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

“Smoke? Thanks for pulling those gunnies to the edge of town. I find myself respecting you more and more each day. And if the day comes when my brother braces you…put him down. He’s stepped way over the line.”

“Maybe it won’t come to that.”

“You know it will,” Harris said, and then walked across to Doc Garrett’s office.

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Smoke muttered.

The attack came that evening, about an hour after supper—a time that no one would expect any raid. Smoke was sitting on the front porch, drinking a cup of coffee and laughing as he sat watching two half-grown hounds play and mock-fight with each other, rolling and tumbling on the ground. Suddenly the hounds stopped and tensed, the hair standing up on their backs. They started growling.

“Get to guns!” Smoke yelled, jumping out of the chair and overturning his cup of coffee. The sounds of pounding hooves reached him. “Take cover!”

He turned at his name and Sally tossed him his gun belt and then a Winchester. “Don’t you worry about us in here,” she calmly told him, then closed the door.

He wouldn’t. Sally had been working with the twins and both of them had turned out to be pretty fair hands with a rifle. They weren’t very good with short guns, but put a shotgun in their hands and watch out. He didn’t have to check the rifle, he’d made it clear that if he found an empty weapon in the house—other than it being cleaned—he’d raise enough hell so it wouldn’t happen again.

Raul was back home, staying in the main house, and Smoke could see him on the bed by the window; his aversion to guns was long gone after his beating and dragging. Smoke could see the muzzle of a Winchester sticking out of the bedroom window.

The cook was a frontier woman who wouldn’t back up from a grizzly bear. Smoke had seen ol’ Denver making calf eyes at her—and she returning them—and knew that Denver would be in the kitchen with her, both of them firing from there—the woman with rifle, pistol, or shotgun.

Then there was no more time for thinking. It was action now, as fifty or more riders came fogging into the front yard, circling the corral, the bunkhouse, and the main house, and bringing with them thick, choking clouds of dust.

Smoke knew then what they planned. They planned an all-out assault on the ground, on foot.

“Be careful in the house!” he yelled over the shooting. “They’re going to take us on foot.”

“We see them,” Sally returned the yell. “You take care of your own business.”

Smoke smiled. Hell of a woman, his Sally.

A shotgun roared from the side of the house and a terrible scream followed the blast. “My legs!” a man hollered hoarsely. “My legs are tore up. I think they’s blowed plumb off. Help me. Oh, you damn Eastern hussy bitch you!”

The shotgun roared again. There was no more screaming.

Smoke arched an eyebrow as he searched for a target. He had a .44 in each hand. The man shouldn’t have called the Duggan woman that. She sure took umbrage at the remark.

A man came running out of the dust and Smoke cut him down. He hit the ground, tried to lift himself up, then collapsed to the dirt. A slug whined off the stone of the house and went whistling wickedly off into the cooling air. Mask-and-duster-wearing riders continued to circle the grounds, dragging broken limbs behind them to keep the dust whirling. Smoke lined one up and shot him out of the saddle. He hit the ground, bounced, and then was still.

The hound pups had scampered under the porch, out of harm’s way. They began barking furiously and Smoke turned in time to see a man swing one leg over the porch railing. The man looked up, his eyes wide with horror at the sight of Smoke, standing calmly, a .44 pointed right at the raider’s head. That was the last thing he would see on this earth.

Raul’s Winchester barked and a man slumped to the ground just outside the bedroom window. Raul called him a lot of very ugly names in the lilting Spanish language.

The boys in the bunkhouse were laying down a withering fire that was taking its toll. Through the dust, Smoke could see half a dozen bodies sprawled on the ground.

“That’s it!” a man yelled. “To your horses. It ain’t workin’.”

“Hold your positions!” Smoke yelled. “Stay put until they’re gone.”

In half a minute, the sounds of hard-pounding hooves had faded into the waning light.

“Is everybody all right?” Smoke lifted his voice.

“Stony’s got a scratch on his head and Joe’s got a burn on his arm,” Malvern called. “Everybody else is okay.”

“In the house?”

“We’re all right,” Sally called.

Moaning could be clearly heard from all around the grounds. The dust had settled, coating everything and everybody.

“Reload before you step out,” Smoke called. “Then we’ll see to the wounded. Cletus, you hitch up a wagon. That old one that we were going to junk.”

“Right, boss,” Cletus said with a chuckle. “And I’ll pitch a few forkfuls of hay in it.”

“You do that. We want them to be comfortable on the ride back. And hitch up those two hammer-headed horses. The ones no one can ride.”

Cletus laughed aloud. “They ain’t harness-broke, boss.”

“Yes,” Smoke said. “I know.”

He walked around the grounds. Seven dead and that many more wounded, two of them badly. They would not last another hour under the best of care. Smoke looked at each wounded man with cold contempt in his eyes. None of them would meet his gaze for more than a few seconds.

“Throw the dead in the wagon first, then the badly wounded on top of them,” Smoke ordered. “The rest of you night-riding sorry sons can either find your horses or walk back.”

“Say, now,” a wounded Circle 45 rider mouthed. “I…”

“Shut up!” Smoke roared at him. He had jerked the masks off each one and every Double D rider had taken a look. “When you do get back to your range, pack your gear and get gone. If I see you again in this part of the country, you’re dead on the spot. In a cafe, saloon, emporium, or church, I’ll kill you, and I’ll do it without warning. Now get up and get moving before I decide to end it right now.”

Even the more seriously wounded moved mighty quick.

Eli tossed the reins to a leg-shot night rider sitting on the seat. “You take care now,” he said with a chuckle. “This wagon’s old and the road is mighty bumpy.”

“You boys is cold,” the night rider said. “Mighty cold. Tossin’ the wounded in with the dead.”

“You think you deserve any better?” he was asked.

The hired gun chose not to reply. He clucked at the reluctant team and the wagon lurched forward, the horses fighting the unfamiliar harnesses.

When the wagon was out of sight and sound, Smoke said, “Two men on guard tonight and every night. You work out the shifts, Stony. No riding alone. Ride in pairs at all times. Denver, give those hound dog pups something special from the kitchen. They saved our bacon this evening.”

He walked back to the porch and righted the overturned chair, then took a rag and wiped the dust off of the porch furniture. The cook brought out a fresh pot of coffee and a tray of cups. Smoke sat down beside Sally. “There wasn’t a known gunhand in the bunch. If there had of been, we would have knocked at least one of them out of the saddle. Clint sent his hands at us this night, keeping the best—in a manner of speaking—in reserve. Why?”

Denver and the twins had joined them on the darkened porch. A slight breeze had kicked up and it was pleasant. But the odor of blood and sweat still hung about the grounds.

“The only way he’ll be able to get any more men in here will be to double the wages,” Denver said. “One of them wounded told me that some of the gunfighters is talkin’ about this bein’ a stacked deck. He also said that Clint’s talkin’ about attackin’ the town.”

“That would be a very stupid thing to do,” Smoke said.

“That’s what the hired guns said.”

“I’ve never met anyone like this Clint Black,” Toni said.

“Sure you have,” Sally spoke. “The East is full of them. They just operate in a different manner, that’s all. There are ruthless industrialists who are like vultures, waiting to rip and tear at smaller businesses who are faltering. Bankers who pounce if a payment is one day late. Men like Clint Black are all over. They just use their powers differently, but the end result is the same. Smaller, less fortunate, less powerful people—businessmen and ordinary people—are still ruined, homeless, and left penniless.”

“I’d never thought of it like that,” Jeanne said. “But you’re right.”

“The West is still raw, Missy,” Denver said. “And it will be for years to come. Men like Clint Black come in here and tore the land loose from Injuns and outlaws. They fought blizzards and droughts and floods. The only law was their own. They ain’t likely to change real swift.”

“Only at the muzzle of a gun or at the end of a rope,” Smoke said. He stood up and stared out at the night. “This is fine country up here. And it’ll be a lot finer once the likes of Clint Black are out of the picture.”

“Riders comin’, boss,” a lookout hollered.

“Here we go again,” Smoke said, as the others on the porch scrambled for their guns.