“You are aware, of course, about the rumor that it was really some of your people who beat and sexually assaulted Rita Hanks?”
“Some of that crap is being toted off the street now,” Smoke reminded the schoolteacher. “When Silver Jim and Lujan hear of it—I have not mentioned it to them—the rest of it will be planted six feet under. But I think that rumor got squashed a few minutes ago.”
“And if it didn’t, there will be more violence.”
“Yes.”
“Why are we so different, Cousin? What I’m asking is that we spring from the same bloodlines, yet we are as different as the sun and the moon.”
“Maybe, Parnell, it’s because you’re a dreamer. You think of the world as a place filled with good, decent, honorable men. I see the world as it really is. Maybe that’s it.”
Parnell pushed back his chair and stood up. He looked down at Smoke for a few seconds. “If that is the case, I would still rather have my dreams than live with blood on my hands.”
“I’d rather have that blood on my hands than have it leaking out of me,” Smoke countered. “Knowing that I could have possibly prevented it simply by standing my ground with a gun at the ready.”
“A point well put. I shall take my leave now, gentlemen. I must see to the closing of the school for the summer.”
“See you at the ranch, Parnell.”
Both Smoke and Bob had lost their taste for beer. They left the nearly full pitcher of beer on the table and walked out onto the boardwalk. Most of the gunnies had left the Hangout, heading back to the D-H spread. Lanny Ball stood on the boardwalk in front of the saloon, looking across the street at Smoke.
“He’s a punk,” Smoke said to Bob. “But a very fast punk. I’d say he’s one of the best gunslicks to be found anywhere.”
“Better than you?” Bob asked, doubt in the question.
“Just as good, I’d say. And so is Jason Bright.”
Lanny turned his back to them and entered the saloon.
“Another day,” Smoke muttered. “But it’s coming.”
Eleven
Smoke was riding the ridges early one morning, looking for any strays they might have missed. He had arranged for a buyer from the Army to come in, in order to give Fae some badly needed working capital, and planned to sell off five hundred head of cattle. He saw the flash of sunlight off a barrel just a split second before the rifle fired. Smoke threw himself out of the saddle, grabbing his Winchester as he went. The slug hit nothing but air. Grabbing the reins, Smoke crawled around a rise and picketed the horse, talking to the animal, calming it.
He wasn’t sure if he was on Box T Range, or D-H Range. It would be mighty close either way. If the gunman had waited just a few more minutes, Smoke might well be dead on the ground, for he had planned to ride in a blind canyon to flush out any strays.
Working his way around the rise of earth, Smoke began to realize just how bad his situation was. He was smack in the middle of a clearing, hunkering down behind the only rise big enough to conceal a human or horse to be found within several hundred yards.
And he found out just how good the sniper was when a hard spray of dirt slapped him in the face, followed closely by the boom of the rifle. Smoke could not tell the caliber of the rifle, but it sounded like a .44-40, probably with one of those fancy telescopes on it. He’d read about the telescopes on rifles, but had never looked through one mounted on a rifle, only seen pictures of them. They looked awkward to Smoke.
He knew one thing for an iron-clad fact: he was in trouble.
Whatever the gunman was using, he was one hell of a fine rifleman.
Hanks had cut loose his rabid dog: that rat-faced Danny Rouge.
What to do? He judged his chances of getting to the timber facing him and rejected a frontal run for it. He worked his way to his horse and removed his boots, slipping into a pair of moccasins he always carried. The fancy moccasins Ring had made were back at the house.
Smoke eased back to his skimpy cover and chanced a look, cursing as the rifle slammed again, showering him with dirt.
No question about it, he had to move, and soon. If he stayed here, and tried to wait Danny out—if it was Danny, and Smoke was certain it was—sooner or later the sniper would get the clean shot he was waiting for and Smoke would take lead. He’d been shot before and didn’t like it at all. It was a very disagreeable feeling. Hurt, too.
Smoke looked around him. There was a drop-off about fifty yards behind him; a natural ditch that ran in a huge half circle, the southeast angle of the ditch running close to the timber. He studied every option available to him, and there weren’t that many.
His horse would be safe, protected by the rise. If something happened to Smoke—tike death—the horse would eventually pull its picket pin and return to the ranch.
Smoke checked his gun belt. All the loops were full. Returning to the horse, he stuffed a handful of cartridges into his jeans’ pocket and slung his canteen after first filling his hat with water and giving the horse a good drink. Squatting down, he munched on a salt pork and biscuit sandwich, then took a long satisfying pull at the canteen. He patted the horse’s neck.
“You stay put, fellow. I’ll be back.” I hope, he silently added.
Smoke took several deep breaths and took off running down the slope.
Smoke knew that shooting either uphill or downhill was tricky; bad enough with open sights. But with a telescope, trying to line up a running, twisting target would be nearly impossible.
