Bounty Hunter

say in the dime novels. But it might be boring enough to help you sleep.”

“I wasn’t bored,” Luke said honestly. In fact, he had a hard time keeping the emotion out of his voice. Hearing about his brother’s life stirred up a lot of feelings inside him. He wished he had gone home after the war, that he had been at Kirby’s side when trouble came to call. Things might have turned out completely different.

But he hadn’t been able to return. He’d been a wanted fugitive, and didn’t know Kirby—Smoke—had gone through the same sort of ordeal for a while.

All that was behind them. Luke couldn’t think of a single reason why he couldn’t tell Smoke who he really was.

And suddenly that was exactly what he wanted to do.

I’ve been a damned fool all these years, he told himself.

As soon as Thornapple told him the gunfighter named Smoke Jensen had killed Potter, Stratton, Richards, and Casey, Luke should have gone looking for him and found out the truth. That blasted prideful stubbornness of his had stolen two more years out of his life, two years he could have spent with his brother ... or at least knowing he had a brother.

The coffee and the bear sign were forgotten. Luke wasn’t sure exactly how he would go about it, but it was long past time for the truth to come out.

And it might have, if fate hadn’t chosen that moment for the sudden, harsh sound of gunfire to fill the night.

CHAPTER 31

Smoke was on his feet instantly, blowing out the lamp on the bedside table and stepping to the window to flick back the curtain so he could look out without being silhouetted. “Masked raiders shooting up the place,” he snapped, dropping the curtain.

Luke opened his mouth to say he wanted to help, but it was too late. Smoke was through the doorway and gone, leaving Luke sitting in the bed listening to the sounds of battle as gunmen attacked his brother’s ranch.

Not while I can do anything about it, by God, Luke thought as resolve stiffened his muscles. Especially since his revolvers were within reach.

Earlier, he had asked Sally where his guns were. She’d tried to tell him not to worry about that, but he had persisted, learning his gun belt and the twin Remingtons were in a wardrobe at the side of the room, along with his clothes. His Winchester was downstairs.

He didn’t think he could handle stairs, but he could get to his revolvers. He pushed the covers aside, swung his legs out of bed, and stood up.

A wave of dizziness swept through him. He fought it off as his eyes adjusted to the moonlight filtering through the curtains. Tightly bandaged as he was, he found he could move around without his wounds hurting too much. Wearing only those bandages and the bottom half of a pair of long underwear, he made his way to the wardrobe and opened it.

It had been too long, he thought as his hands closed around the smooth walnut grips of the guns. For a decade and a half, the weapons he carried had been the closest friends he had. That might not be true anymore— he had a brother again—but it still felt mighty good to heft the Remingtons as he turned around and walked back to the open window.

The night breezes were tainted with the acrid bite of powder smoke as Luke thrust the curtains aside and looked out. Riders with bandannas tied over their faces galloped through the open area between the ranch house and the bunkhouse. The guns in their hands spat flame and lead as they sent shots in both directions.

Return fire came from the Sugarloaf’s defenders, but they were heavily outnumbered. Luke figured there were at least thirty raiders in the yard.

He could improve the odds a little, he thought as he thrust the right-hand Remington out the window, drew a bead on one of the riders, and fired. The masked man rocked back in his saddle and had to drop his gun and grab the saddle horn to keep from toppling off his mount.

One low-down sacker out of the fight, Luke told himself. He eared back the Remington’s hammer and shifted his aim to another of the masked men.

He got off several rounds, dropping a couple more men, before the raiders noticed the shots coming from the second-floor window of the ranch house. A few twisted in their saddles and flung their guns up to fire in that direction. Luke was forced to reel back from the window as glass shattered and bullets whipped through the opening.

He waited until the barrage stopped and then moved forward again, kneeling at the window so the wall gave him some cover. It looked thick enough to stop most bullets.

Still galloping back and forth, the raiders continued their barrage, but the deadly accurate fire of the defenders was starting to take a toll. Luke added to it by triggering both revolvers and spraying bullets among the marauders. Gun thunder rolled from the Remingtons.

The masked killers finally had enough. The one who seemed to be in command wheeled his horse and yelled, “Let’s get out of here!”

Those still mounted—some badly wounded—followed him as he galloped off into the darkness, leaving seven or eight bodies scattered on the ground.

Luke didn’t stand up immediately. He didn’t want to catch a final wild slug thrown through the shattered window.

Also, he was tired. When he was sure they were all gone, he placed his left-hand gun on the floor and used that hand to brace himself as he leaned forward and drew in several deep breaths. The bandages around his midsection prevented him from breathing too deeply, but he did the best he could.

The door opened behind him. Sally Jensen stood in the doorway, wearing a nightdress and a coat slung around her shoulders. “Mr. Smith! Are you all right?”

Luke looked back over his shoulder at her, noticing immediately the rifle in her hands. He figured she had been right in the middle of the fight downstairs. “I’m fine.”

Feeling a little stronger, he picked up the gun and pushed himself to his feet.

“Smoke said he thought he heard shots coming from up here. You really shouldn’t have gotten out of bed.”

“After all you folks have done for me, I wasn’t going to just lie there while you were under attack,” Luke argued. “That’s not the way I’m built.”

Sally smiled. “I know. We haven’t been acquainted for long, Mr. Smith, but you remind me a little of my husband. He can’t turn his back on a fight, either.”

It was the Jensen blood, Luke thought, but he couldn’t say that. Instead he asked, “Was anybody hurt?”

Sally’s smile was replaced by a look of grim anger. “We’re fine in here, but Smoke’s gone out to the bunkhouse to see about the men. I’m worried some of them were wounded.”

Luke became uncomfortably aware that he was standing in his underwear with a pair of empty guns in his hands. He wasn’t sure which of those things bothered him more. He didn’t think the masked raiders would double back and launch another attack, but the possibility couldn’t be ruled out entirely. First things first, he decided. “I’d better reload. Just in case.”

“No, what you’d better do is get back in that bed and let me check your dressings. I want to make sure none of your wounds have broken open again.”

Luke thought about it for a second, then chuckled. “I always try not to argue with a woman, especially one holding a loaded rifle.”

“That’s a good policy,” Sally told him, smiling again.

He was back in bed and she had taken a look at his bandages, determining that none of the wounds were bleeding again by the time Smoke came into the room with a Colt in his hand. Sally turned toward him with a worried frown on her face.

“Two men were killed,” Smoke reported. “Steve Rankin and Charlie Moss.”

Sally cringed. “Oh, no. What about the wounded?”

“A bullet busted Phil Weston’s arm. Other than that just some nicks and scratches.” Smoke’s face was set in hard, bleak lines. “But they killed two men who rode for me, and I’m not going to let Baxter get away with