He decided to get the hell gone from there.
He mounted up and rode toward the deep timber that lay to the east of the mansion, but still well on Bar V range. As he rode, he began seeing signs that this area had been searched and searched thoroughly. He reined up suddenly, knowing then where the other Bar V men were.
All around him, waiting to see if Clint—if that’s who they were searching for—would double back.
Smoke found a place which offered deep cover and a good two days’ graze and water for Dagger, picketed him, and slipped into moccasins. He filled any empty loops with .44’s and taking his rifle, began Injuning his way through the brush and timber.
Smoke was under no illusions: these were dangerous men he was surrounded by, and after Smoke’s initial attack against the ranch, and his making fools of the men, they would be doubly alert, with more than one of them mad as hell and looking for blood.
Smoke’s blood.
Making about as much noise as a drifting ghost, Smoke wormed his way under a pile of blown down brush and dead limbs—hoping that a rattlesnake had not made this spot his home—and settled in for a time.
As he waited, Smoke ran some questions through his mind: why the systematic search for Clint? Had the man staged another raid, or had Jud just decided to take out his enemies one at a time? Then Smoke rejected both ideas as another thought came to him.
Clint Perkins was a wanted man, a fugitive from justice. So what better way for J ud to show the people that he was a straight-up, honest, and law-abiding citizen than by killing or capturing the most wanted man in Southern Idaho. That would certainly swing public opinion in his favor.
And there was something else, too: after Clint was taken—and Smoke felt the man would not be taken alive, Jud simply could not risk that—Vale could, and probably would, charge that Walt and Alice and Doreen had been hiding the outlaw. That would further erode Walt’s credibility with his neighbors.
Slick! Smoke thought, as his eyes continued to sweep the terrain from his hiding place. Jud Vale was beginning to think in a more rational way.
And that, Smoke reflected bitterly, was something he had not even considered Jud doing. He had been counting on the man to continue behaving in his usual emotional and irrational manner.
A stick popped not far from Smoke’s hiding place. Smoke cut his eyes, not moving his head. That was no animal, for animals seldom stepped on sticks unless they were running in fear. And Smoke heard no follow-up sounds of any animal in panic.
He waited, motionless, his breathing very shallow and through his mouth to cut down even the slightest sound.
He saw the man move; a fatal mistake on the man’s part, for movement attracts attention much faster than sound in any deadly game of hide or be killed.
The man was dressed in earth tones, blending in well with his surroundings. Smoke concluded that the man was a skilled woodsman, and the stick was the only mistake he had made.
It just took one mistake in this game, and the man had made his.
The manhunter moved closer, moving stealthily through the timber. As he drew closer. Smoke could make out his features. It was one of those he had seen stepping off the train some days before. A bounty hunter.
The man carried a Winchester in his hand, a bandoleer of cartridges slung over one shoulder. The manhunter stopped, tensed, and suddenly dropped to the ground.
Smoke watched through a small space in the pile of brush and dead limbs. What had the man seen? Or had his hunter’s sixth sense alerted him of the unseen danger?
Probably the latter.
Now it was a game of wait and see.
Smoke waited. Several minutes passed. He could detect no other men, so the bounty hunter was probably working alone. But Smoke couldn’t be certain of that, although he believed it to be true.
A bird flew into the timber, started to settle on a branch, then abruptly took once more to the air, its wings flapping furiously.
Smoke’s smile was a grim one. Thank you, bird, he thought. Have a long and happy life.
He had yet to move his head. Only his cold hunter’s eyes had shifted. Now they remained fixed on the dangerous brush where the bounty hunter lay.
The top of the brush moved ever so slightly, the movement indicating the man was coming toward Smoke’s location, making his way very cautiously.
Had he been spotted? Smoke didn’t think so.
Smoke waited for several minutes, watching the slow movement of the man. He wanted him much closer; close enough to use his knife. He did not want to risk a shot; not knowing how many others were within earshot of his location.
Then the bounty hunter rose, all in one fluid motion. He was so close that Smoke could see the hard cruelty in his eyes.
The bounty hunter moved closer, pausing a few feet from the brush pile where Smoke lay.
Smoke exploded out of the brush, his knife in his hand.
16
