He hoped.
The gunman started dusting Smoke’s running feet, but he was hurrying his shots, and missing. But coming close enough to show Smoke how good he was with a rifle.
Smoke hurled himself in the ditch, managed to stay on his feet, then dive for the cover of the ravine’s wall. Now, Danny would have to worry about which side Smoke would pop up out of. Catching his breath, Smoke began working his way around, staying close to the earthen wall. He knew the distance was still too great for his .44, and besides that, he didn’t want to give away his position.
Smoke took his time, smiling as the ravine curved closer to the timber and began narrowing as the timber loomed up on both sides. When he came to a brushy spot, Smoke carefully eased out of the ravine and slipped into the timber. His jeans were a tan color, his shirt a dark brown; he would blend in well with his surroundings.
He began closing the distance. Smoke had been taught well the ways of a woodsman; Preacher had been his teacher, and there was no finer woodsman to be found than the old mountain man.
He moved carefully while still covering a lot of ground, stopping often to check the terrain all around him. Danny not only looked like a big rat, the killer could move as furtively as a rodent.
Before making his run for it, Smoke had inspected the area on the ridges as carefully as possible—considering that he was being shot at—and kept Danny’s position highlighted in his mind.
But Smoke was certain the sniper would have changed positions as soon as he made his run for it. Where to was the question.
He moved closer to where he had last seen the puff of smoke. When he was about a hundred yards from where he thought Danny had been firing from, Smoke made himself comfortable behind a tree and waited, every sense working overtime. He felt he could play the waiting game just as good, or better, than Danny.
He waited for a good twenty minutes, as motionless as a snake waiting for a passing rat. Then the rat he was waiting for moved.
It was only a very slight move, perhaps to brush away a pesky fly. But it was all Smoke needed. Very carefully, he raised his rifle and sighted in—he had been waiting with the hammer eared back—and pulled the trigger. The rifle slammed his shoulder and Smoke knew he had a clean miss on his target.
The gunman rolled away and came up shooting, shooting way fast. Maybe he had two rifles, one a short- barreled carbine, or maybe he was shooting one of those Winchester .44-40’s with the extra rear sight for greater accuracy. If that was the case, the man was still one hell of a marksman.
Smoke caught a glimpse of color that didn’t seem right in the timber and triggered off two fast rounds. This time he heard a squall of pain. He fired again and something heavy fell in the woods. A trick on the man’s part? Maybe. Smoke settled back and waited.
He listened to the man cough, hard, racking coughs of pain. Then the man cursed him.
“Sorry, partner,” Smoke called. “You opened this dance, now you pay the fiddler.”
“You Injun bastard!” the man said with a groan. “I never even heard you come up on me.”
Smoke offered no reply.
“I’m hit hard, man. I got the makins but my matches is all bloody. Least you can do is give me a light.”
“You’re gonna have lots of fire where you’re goin’, partner. Just give it a few minutes.”
That got Smoke another round of cussing.
But Smoke was up and moving, working his way up the ridge to a vantage point which would enable him to look down on the wounded man. If he was as hard hit as he claimed.
The man was down, all right, Smoke could see that. And the front of his shirt was badly stained with blood. But it wasn’t Danny Rouge.
It was a man he’d seen riding with Cord’s hired guns.
What the hell was going on?
The man had stopped his moaning and was lying flat on his back, both hands in plain sight. He was not moving.
Smoke inched his way down the ridge to just above the gunman. He was dead. He had taken a round in his guts and one in his chest. Smoke had been right: it was a .44-.40, and a brand spanking new one from the looks of it.
It took him a few minutes to find the man’s horse and get him roped belly-down across the saddle. He shoved the dead man’s Winchester in the boot and led the animal down the ridge to his own horse. His horse shied away from the smell of blood and death, pulling his picket pin, and Smoke had to catch him and calm him down.
Now what to do with the McCorkle rider?
If the gunnies on Cord’s payroll were playing both ends against the middle, it would not be wise to just ride over there with one of their buddies draped belly-down across his saddle. On the other hand, Cord had to be notified.
Smoke headed for the Box T. On the way, he ran into Hardrock and sent him over to the Circle Double C to get Cord.
The old gunfighter had looked close at the dead man.
“You know him, Hardrock?”
“Only by his rep. His name is Black. Call him Blackie. He’s a back-shooter. Was.”
“Keep this quiet at the ranch. Speak to only Cord.”
“Right.”
