“You changed your mind any ‘bout just ridin’ up to Jud and pluggin’ him?” Cheyenne asked.
“No.”
“Didn’t figure so. Still think that would be the smart thing to do.”
“You’re probably right, Cheyenne. But it just isn’t my style.”
“You want me to do it? He ain’t nothin’ but a rattlesnake.”
“No.” Smoke looked off into the distance. “But it worries me about him declaring war on the women and the boys.”
“It don’t surprise me none,” the old gunfighter said with a snort. “A rattlesnake don’t give a damn who he strikes. Sometimes they’ll just lay thereon the trail still as death and watch you go past without even a short rattle. Next time you come by, they’ll hit you. Jud Vale ain’t got no more sense than a rattler. And is just about as useless. Come to think of it, a rattler might be worth more. Least they kill rats and mice.'
The old rounder limped off, toward the bunkhouse and a cup of coffee.
Smoke stood for a time by the corral, deep in thought. Maybe Cheyenne was right. Maybe he should just ride over to the Bar V, line up Jud Vale in rifle sights, and end it.
But Smoke knew he wouldn’t do that. At least not yet.
But if one of the boys got hurt. . . ?
He shook his head. He didn’t even like to think about that.
With his back to the corral rails, he watched the boys ride out, heading back to work; a gutsy bunch of kids.
Smoke wondered where Clint Perkins had gotten off to. The so-called Robin Hood of the West had not been heard from since he had rescued Susie from the Bar V. But Smoke had no doubts about his being near, waiting for that invisible trigger in his brain—always on half-cock—to fire his unstable mind into action.
Smoke went into the house, told Doreen to fix him a bait of food, and with the food-packet in his hand, went to the barn, saddling Dagger. Rusty had ridden in and was seeing to his horse.
“You headin’ out?”
“Yes. Is the herd bunched?”
“And boxed.”
“I want you and the others to stick close to the ranch. I don’t know how long I’m going to be gone. Three days; maybe a week. However long it takes me to cut the odds down some.”
“You goin’ to face Blackjack and them others?”
“Probably. But it will be on my terms, not on theirs. Nobody has to leave the ranch. We’re well-stocked with food; God knows we have enough guns and ammo to stand off a dozen attacks. Keep an eye on the boys, Rusty.” He swung into the saddle.
“I’ll do it. You watch your back trail, Smoke.”
“I’ve been doing that since I was fifteen years old,” Smoke said with a smile.
He rode for the Bar V range, keeping to the timber and the brush, riding slow and stopping often to sit his saddle and listen. He marveled at the size of Jud’s herds. The man was worth a fortune in beef alone; there wasn’t a rancher anywhere who wouldn’t be satisfied with these herds. Only Jud Vale wanted more. But then, Smoke concluded, Jud wanted everything.
Especially Doreen.
Smoke had warned her to stick very close to the ranch, and to stop wandering out into the meadows to pick wildflowers. Jud had made his brags that he would have Doreen, one way or the other. But whether Smoke’s warnings had gotten through to the girl was something only time would prove out.
Smoke steered clear of Jud’s mansion. What he wanted to see was whether anyone was working Jud’s cattle, and after spending most of the afternoon carefully watching from the hills and ridges, he concluded that the cattle had been pretty much left on their own.
So Jud had pulled in all his hands. For what? An attack on the ranch? Maybe. But somehow he doubted that.
He had tried that once, with disastrous results. So if not an attack against the Box T . . . then what?
Smoke could come up with no reason for leaving the herd unguarded. Of course, Jud probably felt—and rightly so—that no one would have the nerve to rustle cattle from him, so his herds were safe.
So what was going on? And why had he not run into any of the Bar V hands this day? Odd. Very odd.
With about three hours of good light left and guessing that he was a good ten miles—maybe more—from Jud’s mansion, Smoke rode to near the top of a high ridge. Keeping in the timber, Smoke dismounted and took his field glasses, making his way to the top of the hill. There, on his belly and undercover, he began carefully sweeping the area.
Far in the distance, he picked up the small figures of men, some on foot, some on horseback. They were making a meticulous sweep of the area. Looking for what? Smoke silently questioned. Or for whom? Certainly not him. Jud knew he was at the Box T ... or had been for days.
Had to be looking for Clint. That was all that Smoke could come up with. Had Clint pulled something over the past few days that Smoke did not know about? It was certainly possible.
Smoke studied the tiny figures of searching men through his field glasses. At least twenty-five or thirty. And that brought yet another thought to Smoke’s mind: where were Jud’s other hands and hired guns? That question made him uncomfortable.
