The frightened horses ran right into and through the milling gun hands, knocking a few screaming to the earth before the steel-shod hooves mangled flesh and broke bones.
Smoke took that time of painful confusion to run back to where he had picketed Dagger and swing into the saddle. Smoke got himself gone from that area, feeling very confident that the raiders would not strike against women and children this night.
He did not head for the Box T, instead pointing Dagger’s nose toward the Bar V. He had not gone a mile before a horseman rode onto the trail and waved at him.
Clint Perkins. Smoke reined up and looked at the man.
“Heading for the Bar V to do some mischief, Smoke?”
“That was my plan.”
“I’ll ride along with you.”
“Your funeral.”
Clint laughed in the night. “Oh, not just yet, Smoke. Oh, my, no! I have that auspicious but final event all worked out in my mind. And the time is close, but not this night.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Your plan for the Bar V?”
“Lay up on the ridges and put about a hundred rounds into the house and bunkhouse. Just let Jud know that I haven’t forgotten him.”
Clint laughed. “Let’s ride!”
They rode hard for a couple of miles, then slowed to a walk, sparing their horses but still covering the distance swiftly. They did not talk until they were about two miles from the mansion.
“I’ll take this side, Clint,” Smoke told him. “The other side is all yours.”
“That’s fair. How long do we keep it up?”
“Oh, ten or fifteen minutes. Weil wait about half an hour before we start. That’ll give our horses time to catch their breath and for some of those behind us to make the ranch and spread the news. There’ll be lots of lanterns and lamps lit when they return. That’ll give us better targets.”
Clint smiled. “See you around, Smoke Jensen.” Then he was gone into the night.
Smoke angled off into the timber and carefully made his way to a ridge overlooking the great mansion. He picketed Dagger and settled in behind a tree, just at the crest of the hill.
The minutes ticked by, turning into half an hour. What was left of Jud’s raiders began trickling back to the ranch complex, about half of them belly-down over a saddle, tied in place. Smoke brought his Winchester to his shoulder, compensated for the downhill shooting, and sighted in a man, squeezing the trigger.
The slug went high and knocked the man’s hat from his head, sending the hired gun to the ground. Smoke’s second shot was true. The gun hand tried to rise up on one elbow, then fell face-forward,, neck-shot.
From across the way, Clint opened up, the outlaws clearly visible under the light of the moon and the starry night. Smoke joined in, concentrating his fire into the mansion.
Jud, Jason, and the bodyguards hit the floor as .44 slugs began tearing through the walls and windows of the mansion.
A slug shattered the knee of a bodyguard, bringing a howl of pain. Clint was pouring rifle fire into the running men in the yard. He quickly punched more cartridges into his rifle and began peppering the bunkhouse. Smoke shifted the muzzle of his rifle and put two fast rounds into one of the newly built outhouses. A man came rushing out, trying to run while holding his britches up with one hand. One knee caught in his dangling suspenders and sent him sprawling to the ground.
Smoke tried for a lamp in the mansion, his third shot. finally striking true, sending coal oil and flames worming across the floor like a flaming snake. Jud and Jason and the bodyguards began stomping at the flames before they caught and burned the place down.
There was little the men around the mansion could do except curse the birth of Smoke Jensen; they knew it was Smoke on one of the ridges. And probably Clint on the other ridge.
Smoke decided he’d pressed his luck to the maximum for this night, and began working his way back to Dagger. It would take Clint only a couple of minutes to understand that Smoke was gone.
Inside the mansion, hopping mad, jumping around like a huge frog, his eyes bugged out, cursing at the top of his lungs, and just barely hanging onto what little sanity was left him, Jud began screaming orders to get Smoke Jensen, declare war on everybody, burn down Montpelier, assassinate President Arthur; do whatever needs to be done … just kill that damned Smoke Jensen!
Clint fired one more round before he pulled out, putting his shot into the living room and plugging a suit of armor Jud had imported from England.
“Another day, Father,” Clint muttered, slipping back to where he’d tied his horse. “Soon.”
Smoke slept soundly the remainder of that night, in his room in the barn at the Box T. He had stopped at several small farms, telling the people what had gone down and also that he doubted Jud’s raideres would be out doing their dirty work that night. But keep a guard posted just in case.
He slept late; it was nearly six o’clock when he awakened and put on his hat, then his pants and boots and shirt, slinging his gun belt around his waist, and stepping outside.
“What went down last night?” Jackson asked, handing him a cup of coffee.
Smoke took a sip of coffee before replying. Jackson was smiling when Smoke finished.
“Wish you had invited me along,” he said wistfully.
