He rode parallel to a series of ridges for a few moments, before finding a pass that would, hopefully, take them to the flats on the other side. He let the steeldust set his own pace and pick his way through the night. On the flats, reined up in the opening of the draw, Smoke spotted the night herder as the man worked his way around the herd, riding slowly so as not to spook the cattle, which was an easily done job. The cattle had, as usual, risen about midnight, grazed for a few moments, and then settled back down.
As the night herder passed Smoke’s position, the gunfighter let the loop fly and jerked the rider out of the saddle. The man hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of him. Smoke was off and running as the loop settled and he further silenced the herder by a hard right fist to the side of the man’s jaw. He then tied him up, using cut- off sections from the Bar V rider’s own rope. He gagged the man with a dirty bandana taken from the man’s equally dirty neck and then squatted down beside him, waiting for him to regain consciousness.
The man’s eyes opened and widened as he recognized who he was looking at.
“You want to live?” Smoke asked softly.
The man nodded his head up and down vigorously.
“You know who I am?”
The rider nodded.
Smoke took out his long-bladed knife and laid the cold sharp steel against the man’s throat. “I’ve a good notion to cut your throat and just have done with it.”
The Bar V man made desperate choking sounds behind the gag, being careful not to move his head for fear the sharp blade would slice him.
“On second thought,” Smoke told him, “I think I’ll just strip you and tie you between two steers and then stampede the herd.”
More frantic choking sounds.
“Unless you agree to ride out and never show your face in this part of the state again.”
The muffled sound from behind the gag were definitely in agreement with Smoke’s last remarks.
Smoke very slowly moved the knife point, just scraping the man’s unshaven jaw, and the Bar V night herder looked like he was developing the first stages of a heart attack. With one flick of his wrist, Smoke cut the gag from the man’s mouth.
“Oh, Jesus!” the rider softly moaned.
Smoke grabbed him by the hair and jerked his head back, exposing the softness of throat. He laid the blade against the man’s skin and the sharp odor of urine filled the night.
“If I see you again, I’ll kill you,” Smoke told him.
“Mr. Jensen, if you was to cut me aloose, I’ll be two counties away come the dawn.”
Smoke cut his bonds and stood up. “Ride. Ride like you’ve never ridden before. Forget your warbag back at the bunkhouse. Just get clear of this area.”
“I’m gone, mister!”
and swung into the saddle, wet drawers and all, and was gone into the night, heading west. Smoke had not disarmed the cowboy, but the man made no moves toward his six gun. The night became quiet as the rider got the hell gone from Smoke Jensen.
Smoke removed his spurs and stashed them in a saddlebag. Back in the saddle, he guided the steeldust out to the edge of the herd and began making the night herder’s rounds, working in a slow, rough circle. He soon spotted another night rider.
Smoke rode up to the man and just as the rider realized he was not looking at a Bar V hand, Smoke leaned over and knocked him clear out of the saddle. He was on the ground and standing over the man as the cowboy came up, fighting mad and cussing to beat sixty. He reached for his gun and Smoke knocked it out of his hand then proceeded to beat the man to an unconscious bloody pulp. Smoke tossed him belly-down across the man’s saddle, tied him securely, and slapped the horse on the rump, knowing the animal would head straight for the corral.
Smiling, Smoke swung back into the saddle and went in search of more night herders.
Long before first light, he had cleared the Bar V range of nighthawks. He had sent three packing, riding hell- bent for leather toward a more hospitable climate, and had either whipped with his fists or clubbed over the head four more, tying them across their saddles and sending the horses racing back to the corral, jumping and bucking under the strange load.
Smoke headed for the high country and some food and sleep. He was still smiling as he plopped his hat over his eyes and leaned back, his saddle for a pillow. The sun was just coming up. He was less than a mile from Jud Vale’s mansion.
around, cussing and hollering. “Get him!” he finally screamed, his face beet-red, spittle spraying over his lips. “Put a rope on him and drag that bastard back here! Ten thousand dollars to the man who brings him in, dead of alive!
Forty riders hit their saddles and left the ranch complex in a cloud of dust, which was exactly what Smoke planned on them doing. He knew they would not expect him to be within ten miles of Jud Vale’s mansion, much less standing on a brush-covered ridge overlooking the estate.
Smoke had carefully picketed the steeldust over good graze and a small pool of collected water—water enough for a couple of days. If Smoke did not return, the steeldust could break free with little trouble and head back to Box T range.
Smoke took his time studying the ranch layout through field glasses, including ways to reach it and ways to get out once there. Jud had chosen his building site carefully, including a little creek that ran some three hundred yards behind the out of place mansion.
Smoke removed his boots and slipped on moccasins. He carefully checked his guns, wiping them free of any dust they might have collected. He removed his Winchester from the boot and checked it, making sure it was loaded
