When Rusty brought Matthew in, the hysteria of the women vanished and they took over the doctoring of the boy while Rusty solemnly cut the body of Cheyenne loose and told Jamie and Leroy to get shovels and start digging. They’d wait and have the funeral in the morning. The body would keep that long.
What to do about Doreen?
Rusty didn’t know. He looked at Alan. “Boy, could you positive say in a court of law that Jud took her?”
The boy looked at Susie. Both of them shook their heads. “No, sir,” the boy replied. “We was too far off to say positive it was him.”
“What are you getting at, Rusty?” Alice asked.
“He’ll hide her if anybody gets within ten miles of that ranch. You can bet he’ll have lookouts posted ever’where. He may be crazy, but he ain’t stupid.“
“So we wait for Smoke to come back?” Susie asked.
“That’s all I know to do.” Rusty would have liked to go charging into the mansion, both hands filled with Colts. But he was forced to put his anger and his feelings for Doreen aside and do his best to think logically, knowing that even if he should manage to reach the mansion without catching a slug, he would never breach the big house—not alive, and he would certainly be no good to Doreen dead. Or anybody else for that matter.
He would wait for Smoke to return.
Bendel looked out the dusty window. “Six of them, Mr. Jensen. I know two of them by name.”
“Who are they?”
“Blackjack Morgan and Lassiter. But them others look just as lough.”
Smoke signaled for another beer with his right hand as his left hand touched the butt of his left-hand Colt. Of late, he had been loading the Colts up full. You never knew when that extra round might save your life.
Boots and jingling spurs sounded on the porch of the trading post. The batwings squeaked open. Smoke did not turn around.
Blackjack paused at the bar and spoke to Smoke’s back. “Well, well, boys. Look what we done come up on here. The famous gunfighter, Smoke Jensen. You reckon we ought to bow down or something like that?”
His friends laughed. Smoke did not acknowledge the presence of any of them. He sipped at his beer and spoke to Bendel. “I thought I just heard a jackass bray, Bendel. You certainly do have a very strange clientele.”
Bendel got a sudden case of the jumps and moved to the end of the bar, carrying a couple of bottles of whiskey with him. He knew the drinking habits of Blackjack and Lassiter and could guess at the tastes of those with them. A tray of shot glasses were bottom’s up on a towel near the end of the bar.
“You callin’ me a jackass?” Blackjack demanded in a loud voice.
Smoke slowly turned to face the man. “Why ... it isn’t a jackass, after all. It’s Blackjack. Excuse me, Morgan. I must have been mistaken.”
“That’s the damnedest apology I ever heard,” Lassiter said.
“Who said I was apologizing.” Smoke cut his eyes to the gunfighter.
“What’ll it be, boys?” Bendel hollered.
“We ain’t deef,” one of the bounty hunters said sourly. “Whiskey.”
Blackjack still stood by the bar, facing Smoke. Smoke had noted that all the men wore their guns loose in leather, free of hammer thongs. And Blackjack wanted to try Smoke something awful; Smoke could read the challenge in the man’s dark eyes.
“Don’t do it. Blackjack,” Smoke spoke the words softly, so softly that only Morgan could hear them. “It isn’t worth it, friend.”
“Don’t give me orders, Jensen.” Blackjack’s returning words were equally soft, less than a whisper; a scant moving of the lips. “I want you before the Almond Brothers find you.”
Smoke had heard of the Almond Brothers. A trashy bunch of no-goods that had drifted out of the Midwest some years back. A pack of back-shooting scum who would steal the pennies off a dead man’s eyes. Jud was certainly scraping the bottom of the barrel by hiring that bunch.
“If they take me, Blackjack, it won’t be facing me.”
“They’ll still have the ten thousand and you’ll still be just as dead.”
Smoke smiled and turned his back to the man.
“Don’t you turn your backside to me!” Blackjack snarled, putting out his hand and dropping it to Smoke’s shoulder, spinning the man around.
Smoke hit him with a left to the belly and followed that with a beer mug to the side of Blackjack’s head, knocking the man to the floor.
Blackjack was up like a rubber ball, blood streaming down his cheek from the gash on his head. He swung a fist and Smoke ducked under it, again popping the man in the gut and bringing a grunt of pain.
Blackjack connected with a left to Smoke’s head that backed him up. Blackjack was no stranger to brawls and he could punch.
Smoke faked him with a left and Blackjack took the bait, grinning and dropping his guard. Smoke punched through the hole and erased the grin, as he connected with a right to the mouth that smashed Blackjack’s lips and loosened some teeth. Blackjack shook his head and came in swinging.
Smoke sidestepped and stuck out a boot, sending the man to the floor, clubbing him on the back of the neck as he went down.
