“I don’t know for sure, no, but they rode on outta the valley where my diggin’s are and over the pass into the next valley. They’s an old abandoned cabin over there they could be usin’ as a hideout, right on the banks of Bluejay Creek. I can tell you how to get there”—a shrewd look appeared on the man’s whiskery face—“And I will, if you swear to give me a cut of the bounty you collect on ’em.”
“How do you know I’m a bounty hunter?” Luke wanted to know.
“Well, you don’t really look like a star packer, and I can’t think of nobody else who’d be trailin’ a bunch of hydrophobia skunks like Solomon Burke and his gang. Gimme your word you’ll cut me in?”
Luke nodded his agreement and then added, “If I come back alive, that is.”
“Yeah, it’s kind of a sucker bet on my part, ain’t it? But here’s how to get to that cabin . . .”
Luke had followed the old-timer’s directions. The valley was a two-day ride from Raton. He thought he was still in New Mexico Territory, but up in the high country it was difficult to be sure. He might have crossed over into Colorado without realizing it.
Colorado . . . the place where Smoke Jensen lived. It wouldn’t take but a few days to reach Big Rock, Luke mused as he trailed the Burke gang. He might be able to get a look at Smoke without having to introduce himself. Would he recognize his own brother, if that’s who Smoke turned out to be?
That question still lurked in the back of Luke’s mind as he dismounted and crept forward through some trees to spy on the old cabin where he thought the outlaws might be hiding.
Then bad luck cropped up again, as Jose Cardona, out hunting or taking a leak or just looking around, stumbled on him, tackled him, and tried to kill him. Nothing could ever just be easy. Not for Luke Smith.
He’d wiped out the gang, but he’d taken three bullets in return. His efforts to patch himself up hadn’t done much good. He wound up passing out and crashing to the floor in the cabin.
Just like fifteen years earlier, when he’d been left for dead on the banks of a shallow river in Georgia, as blackness claimed Luke he was sure he would never wake up again, that it was the end.
BOOK FOUR
CHAPTER 29
Luke winced a little as light struck his eyelids. He turned his head away and felt something soft and smooth against his cheek.
He was alive. Like the other times over the years when he had come awake after being convinced he was going to die, he struggled to grasp the concept that he wasn’t dead after all. Once again, his stubbornness had somehow kept him breathing . . . although he was sure he’d had help, too. Someone had found him in that cabin after he’d passed out from losing so much blood.
Wondering where he was and how much time had passed, he tried to open his eyes, but the light was too bright.
Keeping his eyes closed, he turned his head back and heard a sweet sound that puzzled him. It reminded him of the music of a mountain stream.
It was music, all right, he realized. What he heard was a woman humming softly to herself.
His tongue felt twice as big as it should have as he licked his dry, rough lips. He had to swallow a couple times before his throat loosened enough for him to speak. All he could manage was to rasp, “H-hello . . . ?”
“Oh, my!” the woman exclaimed.
Luke heard the rapid patter of her footsteps as she crossed the room. The mattress shifted a little, and he figured she had rested a hand there as she leaned over him. Even through his closed eyes he felt the light change as she came between him and the light, so he tried opening them again.
For the second time in his life, he found himself looking up at what seemed to be an angel. This woman was older than Emily Peabody had been, but she had the same sweet, dark-haired beauty.
She smiled. “You’re all right. You’ve been wounded, but you’re going to be just fine. You’re among friends.”
“F-friends?” Luke repeated, his voice weak. “I don’t . . . have any friends.”
That wasn’t strictly true. He considered Jasper Thornapple to be a friend, and Marcy, too, of course. But Thornapple was nowhere around, as far as Luke knew, and he was a long way from Deadwood.
“You’re wrong,” the woman told him, still smiling. “Anybody who’s in trouble has friends here.” She straightened. “You just lie there and rest. I’ll go tell Smoke you’re awake.”
Once again Luke felt a shock go through him. As the woman turned away she moved out of the sunlight, causing him to flinch as the brilliant rays fell on him again. But he was able to say, “Wait . . . Did you say . . . Smoke?”
She paused, still smiling down at him, although it was hard for him to see her with the light filling his eyes.
“That’s right. Smoke Jensen. He’s my husband. I’m Sally Jensen. You’re on the Sugarloaf Ranch, near Big Rock, Colorado.”
That was loco, Luke thought. Smoke Jensen’s place was days away from where he’d fought that battle with Solomon Burke and the rest of those outlaws. How in the world had he gotten to the Sugarloaf?
Someone had brought him, of course, he realized as he forced his brain to work and struggled to put his thoughts in order. But why had they brought him to the ranch of a man who might well be one of his relatives? How had they known?
“I’ll be right back.” Sally hurried out of the room, leaving a very confused Luke lying there.
He continued wrestling with his thoughts. He must have been unconscious for days since he was far north of where he’d been the last time he knew where he was.
Slowly, he became aware of something tight around his torso, and moved his hand to his chest. Someone had wrapped bandages around him. He moved his hand upward and discovered his shoulder was bandaged, too, and so was his arm. The wounds he’d received during the shootout had been tended to.
With a sigh, he tuned into his wounds. They ached, but not too bad. With the instincts of a man who lived somewhat like a wild animal, Luke knew he wasn’t going to die from his injuries after all. For that, he could thank whoever had come along and found him in that old cabin.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside the room. Sally came back in, followed by a tall man with very broad shoulders. She stepped over and pulled the curtains over the window, shielding Luke’s eyes from the bright light. “I’m sorry, I should have thought to close these before I left. The sun must be blinding you.”
Luke was looking at the man who stood next to the bed, but cleared his throat and managed to squeak out a few words. “That’s all right. The sun was warm. Felt good.”
The man’s face was too rugged to call handsome, although it was the sort of face women usually found attractive. The strong features were topped by close-cropped, ash-blond hair. In him, Luke saw both his mother and his father, the resemblance vivid enough to almost take his breath away.
He knew he was looking at his brother. He almost said Kirby’s name, but stopped himself in time.
The man gave him a friendly smile. “Welcome to the Sugarloaf. Sally was afraid we were going to lose you, but I took one look at her and told her not to worry. I know a stubborn varmint when I see one.”
“He ought to,” Sally put in. “He sees one looking back at him from the mirror every morning.”
The man chuckled. “I’m Smoke Jensen. This is my ranch.”
“L-Luke. Luke Smith.”
“Pleased to meet you. We’ll shake and howdy later, when you’re feeling better. Right now you need some rest, Mr. Smith. You lost a lot of blood. Stubborn or not, it’s a miracle you survived the trip up here from the Sangre de Cristos.”
“How . . . how did I . . .”
“How’d you get here?” Smoke asked. “An old prospector heard a bunch of shooting and decided to go investigate.”
The old-timer had been trying to protect his potential payoff, Luke thought.
