Absaroka Ambush

18

“It’s the sheriff and a posse,” the lookout called. “Stand easy at the house.”

“I’ll make some more coffee,” the cook said.

“I’ll help you, Liz,” Denver said. He did not see the smiles of the others.

Harris and a dozen townspeople and regular deputies swung down and crowded the porch. “A farmer came gallopin’ into town and told me he saw a large group of men headin’ this way. We met what was left of them a couple of miles back,” he added, his tone dry. “They weren’t in real good shape. Anybody hurt at this end?”

“A couple of scratches and burns,” Smoke told him. “We were lucky. I was watching the dogs play. They warned me in time for us to get set.”

“You going to press charges?”

“It isn’t my property. You’ll have to ask Toni and Jeanne.”

“Ladies?” the sheriff asked.

The twins exchanged glances and Toni said, “Sheriff Harris, I think you are a good man…in your own peculiar way. But what would be the point in pressing charges? All your brother would do is blow up the jail again. That is, if the structure is even repaired at this time. Besides, I doubt seriously that any of those men whom we just sent on their way would testify against your brother. I’ve seen how Western justice works…when it does work. Those hoodlums would just claim they came over to…what is the word I’m looking for? Sort of like after a country wedding when the couple is…ah, shivareed by friends.”

“Hoo-rahed, ma’am?” the sheriff asked.

“Yes. That’s it. They would say that they were only having fun and that we opened fire on them. Oh, I’m learning, Sheriff. I’m learning.”

“Yes,” Harris said. “I can see that. But it might not work out that way. One of my deputies is escorting the men into town. I’ll talk to them and see what develops from it. But don’t count on much.”

“We won’t,” Sally said.

Liz came out with a huge coffee pot and Sally had made doughnuts that day and the men all dug in. Smoke was conscious of the sheriff’s eyes on him.

“You got something stuck in your craw, spit it out,” he told the man.

“What is my brother up to? Those weren’t top guns he sent over here this evening. Not a one of them has any kind of name. Least none that I saw. He’s got something up his sleeve, but I don’t know what it could be. Those gunnies who braced you in town—the same thing. It’s puzzling to me. Mighty good doughnuts, ma’am. Mighty good.”

“I don’t know what your brother is up to,” Smoke said, after finishing a doughnut. He reached out for another and pulled back his hand at Sally’s warning look. He’d already eaten about twenty that day.

The sheriff caught the look in the lighted porch lamps and smiled. Doesn’t make any difference if a man is the toughest gunslinger in the West—his wife could still back him up with just a glance. Sheriff Harris Black helped himself to another doughnut, and Smoke grabbed one when he thought Sally wasn’t looking. Quickly.

Liz fixed a sackful of doughnuts for the men to eat on the ride back to town and the sheriff and posse mounted up. “After this raid,” Harris said to Smoke, “I don’t think there is any turning back for my brother. Personally, I’d rather see him go down in a hail of bullets than for me to have to put the noose around his neck, and I would have to be the one to do it. He’s heading for a violent end, and I don’t know of any way to stop him. See you folks.”

Smoke left the ranch the next morning long before anyone else other than the guards were up. He rode back to the valley where the ambush had taken place. For a long time he sat near the flat where the men and boys were buried. He smoked a couple of cigarettes and thought about the lives that had been snuffed out in that murderous raid. Baylis would have told Clint about the young boys working the remuda…and Clint had not cared. Clint had callously ordered the deaths of three women with no more feeling than swatting at a bothersome fly. The law was unable to contain Clint and his raiders. It wasn’t that the law wouldn’t deal with him, the law couldn’t deal with him. For whatever reasons, known only to Clint, the wealthy rancher was determined to drive the Duggan twins from their ranch and possess it.

Why?

Gold? Smoke didn’t think so—even though there had been gold strikes in this area there was no evidence that any gold was buried in the earth of the Double D. No, it was just stubborn pride and ruthless greed and callousness on the man’s part. Clint wanted everything he saw and would stop at nothing to get it.

Smoke walked among the lonely graves, pausing for a time at each rock headstone his men had carefully placed by each grave, the name and date carefully chiseled into the stone. Nate, Little Ben, Shorty, Davy, Duke, Matt, Harris, Eton, Johnson, Forrest. He paused for a longer time at the graves of the boys. Fourteen-year-old Rabbit and the fifteen-year-olds, Willie and Jake. Boys who wanted to earn some money and see some country and have a little fun.

They had found violent and senseless death.

Clint Black had ordered it, and his men had coldly and brutally wiped out half of Smoke’s drovers. No Indian attack could have been any more savage.

Smoke knelt down by Rabbit’s grave and let the coldness of the tomb wash over him and settle in his mind. When he stood up, he knew he was going to end this war. Clint wanted a fight, so be it. Clint was going to have a fight, but from now on, it would be a fight on Smoke Jensen’s terms.

He headed back to the Double D.

Sally was sitting on the porch when Smoke rode back to the ranch compound. She looked for a moment at the way he sat his saddle and then stood up.

“What’s wrong?” Jeanne asked.

“I’m going to fix a packet of food for Smoke.”

“Is he going somewhere?” Toni asked.

“Yes,” Sally replied mysteriously, and walked into the house.

“How strange,” Jeanne remarked.

Toni watched as Smoke stepped down from the saddle and walked toward the house. “Maybe not,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“There is something quite different about Smoke. Look at him. He’s moving like some great predator cat. See the difference in him?”

Jeanne looked. “I do believe you’re right. There is a more, well, determined look about him.”

The sisters looked at each other and smiled. Toni said, “I think Mr. Clint Black is about to discover that he has angered the wrong man.”

None of the hands said anything to Smoke when he emerged from the house. There was a look about him that warned people away. He had changed clothes. He now wore earth tones that would blend in with his surroundings. He had selected a big rugged horse that was mountain bred, would not stand out, and who was a better sentry at night than a trained dog. Smoke had a packet of food, a small coffee pot, and a bedroll. He had put moccasins in the saddlebags. There was an extra rope on the saddle. He had shoved a Winchester .44-40 into the saddle boot and bandoleers of ammunition crisscrossed his chest with extra boxes in the saddlebags.

He had said his goodbyes to Sally while in the house. She knew her man and was stoic about their temporary parting.

When she had asked where he had been that morning, she knew even more what he was going to do when he replied, “Over in the valley, by the graves.”

He held her for a moment, kissed her, and was gone. Sally busied herself baking pies.

“You boys hold it down,” Smoke said to the hands that were gathered outside the barn. “I’ll be back when you see me.”

Smoke headed for Circle 45 range.

As the twins had suggested, Sheriff Harris Black got nothing out of the wounded raiders. Since no one was filing any charges, he could do nothing except let them go. Two of the raiders had died before reaching town and a third was not expected to live. Dr. Garrett’s little clinic was jammed to overflowing, with pallets on the floor.

“They’ll be more,” one of the deputies warned him. “This situation ain’t even built up a good head of steam yet.”

“I’m running out of medicines,” the Doctor complained.

“You better order some more,” the deputy told him. “’Cause when Smoke Jensen gets a gutful of this mess, he’ll come a-foggin’ like something out of Hell. Clint Black ain’t seen nothin’ yet. You mark my words, Doc.”

The Circle 45 rider felt the loop settle around him, the rope tighten, and he was jerked out of the saddle before he could holler. Not that yelling would have done any good, since he was miles from the ranch house and riding alone.

The wind was knocked from him as he hit the ground. He managed to roll and shake the loop. He got to his feet spitting mad and cussing and reaching for his gun. Out of the corner of his eyes he caught a blur of motion and turned just in time to receive a big leather-gloved fist right in his mouth. The blow knocked him on his butt and addled him for a few seconds. He crawled to his feet and a combination of lefts and rights flattened him, bloodying his mouth, busting his nose, and watering his eyes. The blows came so fast he still was not sure who was throwing them. But he had him a pretty good idea. The Circle 45 hand tried to make a fight of it, but he never had a chance to get set.

The would-be tough felt himself picked up and hurled into a stand of trees. His head impacted against a tree and his world turned black. When he awakened, he had the world’s worst headache, his face felt like someone had worked him over with a two-by-four, and to add insult to injury, he was hanging upside down from a tree limb.

Smoke Jensen was sitting on the ground, his back to a tree. He was chewing on a biscuit and staring at the puncher. The Circle 45 rider quickly decided the best thing he could do was to keep his mouth shut.

Smoke stared at him for several very long moments. He finished his biscuit, walked to his horse and took a drink from his canteen, returned to the tree, and sat down. “You have a home?” Smoke finally asked the upside-down man.

“Utah,” the puncher said. “I’d like to see it again someday. Sir,” he added.

Smoke reached down and pulled out a long-bladed knife. The bladder of the Circle 45 rider gave it up and a dark stain appeared on his jeans.

“How bad do you want to see Utah?” Smoke asked him.

“Real bad. Like I’d leave right now ifn I was able.”

“I ought to just go on and split you wide open and be done with it.”

“Oh, man!” the hired gun hollered. “Look…you cut me down and I’m gone. You won’t never see me again. That’s a promise, Mr. Jensen. Look here, I’ll level with you. Clint’s hirin’ more men. He’s payin’ money can’t nobody pass up. I’m tellin’ you the truth.”

Smoke stood up and walked over to the puncher. He cut him down and the man landed heavily. He lay on the ground and looked up at Smoke.

“You’ve got a bit of food in your saddlebags,” Smoke told him. “I’ve taken your pistols and left you your rifle. If you think it’s worth your life to ride back and collect what wages are due you, then do so. But I would advise against it. The best thing you can do is put some miles behind you.”

“I’m gone, Mr. Jensen. I swear on the Bible, I’m gone like the breeze.”

“Get up and get gone!”

Fifteen seconds later, the hand was in the saddle and riding. Montana would not see him again.

Smoke stayed on the fringe of Circle 45 range, whenever possible staying in timber and never skylining himself. The smell of food cooking drifted to him. He picketed his horse, slipped on moccasins. and taking the .44-40 from the boot, began stalking the source of the smells. He quietly walked to within a hundred feet of the camp. Four men sat drinking coffee and frying bacon. A pot of beans hung over the fire. Smoke injuned his way closer and smiled at the laxness of the men. They obviously believed that since they were on Circle 45 range they were in no danger. Rifles were in saddle boots and only one of the men was wearing a gun. The others had tossed their gun belts onto rumpled blankets. Smoke rose as silently as any Apache and stood for a moment, staring at the men. He knew one of them would spot him.

One did, his eyes taking in the rifle pointed right at him. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. “Morris,” he finally said. “Boys. Don’t none of you do nothin’ itchy.”

“What are you talkin’ about, Granville?”

“Smoke Jensen.”

“What about him?”

“He’s standin’ ’bout fifty feet behind you with a rifle in his hands.”

“Sit right where you are,” Smoke told the group. “Or die right where you are. The choice is yours.”

“We’re calm,” Granville said.

Smoke walked into the camp site and placed the muzzle of the .44-40 against the head of the only one who was armed. He reached down and took the man’s pistol. Smoke backed off a dozen feet and sat down. “Turn that bacon and stir those beans,” he told the group. “Then dish me up a plate. I’m hungry. We’ll talk while we eat and then you boys can saddle up and drift on out of the territory.”

“Huh?” Morris said.

Smoke thumbed back the hammer on the .44-40 and the Circle 45 hands tensed. “You ride or you die,” he said simply. “It’s that easy. I’m tired of this war. I’m tired of the likes of Clint Black. And I’m tired of the likes of men such as you. I don’t want to have to look at your ugly faces again.”

“You ain’t got no call to insult us,” one said.

Smoke smiled. “There is nothing I could say about you that should insult you. You’re murderers, thieves, and God only knows what else. But your lives are about to take a turn for the better. I think you boys are about to see the light.”

“I don’t think you’d shoot an unarmed man,” one of them said.

“Then you’re a fool,” Smoke told him. “The only rules I play by are my own. I was raised by mountain men, boys. Preacher and Nighthawk and Cherokee Jack and Dupre and Powder Pete and Lobo, just to name a few. I put my first man in the grave long before I had to shave. I’ll shoot every damn one of you then sit amid your bodies while I eat your food and then I’ll leave you for the buzzards and the critters. And don’t you ever think for one second that I won’t. You crap and crud killed my men and killed young boys and tried to kill my wife and me. Put yourself in my boots and think about that.”

The four men were beginning to sweat as Smoke’s words sank in. The one called Granville was pale, his eyes shining with fear. He said, “I can’t talk for the others, but you let me, and I’ll drift. You’ll never see me again, Jensen.”

“I won’t,” the one called Morris said. He looked at Smoke and his lips moved in an evil smile. “I’ll hunt you down and kill you and then have my way with your wife. See how she likes a real man. What do you think about that, Jensen?”

Smoke shot him. The slug took the gunhand in the center of the chest and he was dead before he fell back on the ground.

“Dish up the food,” Smoke said. “And then you boys can saddle up and ride out of here.”

“You damn shore got that right,” Granville said.