gunsights, for the punk’s aim was deadly true.
There, Smoke’s eyes settled on a spot. That’s where the voice came from. But was the back-shooter still there? Smoke doubted it. Danny was too good to speak and then remain in the same spot. But which direction did he take?
There was only one direction that was logical, at least to Smoke’s mind. Up the rise.
Smoke sank to the cool moist earth that lay under the pile of storm-torn and tossed logs. As silent as a stalking snake he inched his way under a huge pile of logs and paused, waiting.
“Well, dammit, boy!” Woody’s voice cut the stillness, broken only by someone’s hard moaning, probably the gut-shot outlaw. “What are you waitin’ on, Christmas?”
But Danny was too good at his sneaky work to give away his location with a reply.
Smoke lay still, waiting.
Someone stepped on a dry branch and it popped. Smoke’s eyes found the source and he could have easily killed the man. He chose to wait. He had the patience of an Indian and knew that his cat-and-mouse game was working on the nerves of the outlaws.
“To hell with you people!” a man spoke. “I’m gone. Jensen ain’t no human person.”
“You git back here, Carlson!” Lanny shouted.
Carlson told Lanny, in very blunt and profane language, where to go and how to get there.
That would be very painful, Smoke thought, allowing himself a thin smile.
He heard the sound of horses’ hooves. The sound gradually faded.
Rifle fire slammed the air. A man cursed painfully. “Dammit, Dalton, you done me in.”
A rifle clattered onto wood and fell to the earth with a dull thud. The outlaw mistakenly shot by one of his own men fell heavily to the earth. He died cursing Dalton.
Still Smoke did not move.
“Smoke? Smoke Jensen? It’s me, Jonas. I’m gone, man. Pullin’ out. Just let me get to my hoss and you’ll never see me agin.”
“Jonas, you yeller rabbit!” Lanny yelled. “Git back here.”
But the fight had gone out of Jonas. He found his tired horse and mounted up. He was gone, thinking that Smoke Jensen was a devil, worser than any damn Apache that ever lived.
Smoke sensed more than heard movement behind him. But he knew that he could not be spotted under the pile of tangled logs, and he had carefully entered, not disturbing the brush that grew around and over the narrow entrance.
For a long minute the man, Danny, Smoke felt sure, did not move. Then to Smoke’s surprise, boots appeared just inches from his eyes. Danny had moved, and done so with the stealth of a ghost.
He was good, Smoke conceded. Very good. Maybe too good for his own good.
Very carefully, Smoke lifted the muzzle of his rifle, lining it up about three feet above the boots. The muzzle followed the boots as they moved silently around the pile of logs, then stopped.
Smoke caught a glimpse of a belt buckle, lifted the muzzle an inch above it, and pulled the trigger.
Danny Rouge screamed as the bullet tore into his innards. Smoke fired again, for insurance, and Danny was down, kicking and squalling and crying.
“I’m the bes’,” he hollered in his high, thin voice. “I’m the bes’ they is.”
Wild shooting drowned out whatever else Danny was saying. But none of the bullets came anywhere near to Smoke’s location. None of the outlaws even dreamed that Smoke had shot the back-shooter from almost point-blank range.
Danny turned his head and his eyes met those of Smoke, just a couple of yards away, under the pile of logs.
“Damn you!” Danny whispered, his lips wet with blood. “Damn you to hell!” He closed his eyes and shivered as death took him.
Smoke waited until the back-shooter had died, then took a thick pole and shoved the body downhill. It must have landed near, or perhaps on, an outlaw, for the man yelped in fright.
“Lanny, let’s get out of here,” a man called. “He ain’t gonna get Jensen. The man’s a devil.”
“He’s one man, dammit!” Lanny yelled. “Just one man, that’s all.”
“Then you take him, Lanny.” The outlaw’s voice had a note of finality in it. “’Cause I’m gone.”
Lanrry cursed the man.
“Jensen, I’m hauling my freight,” Hayes called. “I hope I don’t never seen you no more. Not that I’ve seen you this day,” he added wearily.
Another horse’s hooves were added to those already riding down the trail, away from this devil some called the last mountain man.
Smoke remained in his position as Lanny, Woody, and a few more wasted a lot of ammunition, knocking holes in trees and burning the air.
Smoke calmly chewed on a piece of jerky and waited.
Thirty-Three
Smoke had carefully noted the positions of those left.
