down the hill. The charge landed just above the road and blew, sending small rocks hurling through the air like deadly missiles.
Through the cloud of dust raised by the dynamite, Smoke and Sal could see a half-dozen more riderless horses, the outlaws on the ground, some of them writhing in agony with hideous head wounds and broken limbs, the others lying very still, their skulls crushed by the flying rocks.
Smoke and Sal started tossing the lead around. The dozen or so outlaws left in the saddle decided it was way past time to clear out. They put the spurs to their horses and were gone, fogging it to Red’s ranch.
Smoke and Sal mounted up and rode down into the carnage, to see if anything could be salvaged. Sal rounded up the outlaws’ horses while Smoke stood among the dead and wounded, making certain no one summoned up the courage to try a shot at either one of them.
They had just finished tying the dead across their saddles and securing the wounded on their horses when Red Malone and his crew thundered up, raising an unnecessary cloud of dust.
“What the hell are you doin’ on my range, Jensen?” the man yelled.
“I’m a deputy sheriff of this county, Red,” Smoke calmly told him. “And I’m carrying out my duties as such. You interfere and I’ll put your butt in jail.”
Sal had worked around; he now faced Red, a rifle pointed at the rancher’s chest. The action did not escape Red, and he knew if trouble started, he would be the first one dead.
But he wouldn‘t, couldn’t, leave it alone. “You got a warrant for the arrest of these men, Jensen?”
“I saw them attack the town of Barlow, Red. Me and several hundred other people. Those alive are going back to stand trial. Now back off.”
All looked up as the sound of hooves pounding against the earth reached them. Twenty men from the town reined up, heavily armed, among them Joe Walsh and a half dozen of his hands.
“The town’s secure, Smoke,” Benson said. “We thought we’d ride out and give you a hand.”
“It’s appreciated. You men start escorting these bums back to town.”Smoke and Sal swung into the saddle. Smoke looked at Red. “Their trial will begin in a couple of days. You and your men are still banned from the town. Keep that in mind, Red.”
“Someday, Jensen,” Red warned, his voice thick with anger. “Someday.”
“Anytime, Red. Just anytime at all.” Smoke lifted the reins and rode away.
The funeral of Aggie Feckles was an emotional, gut-wrenching time for all. Midway through the ordeal, Martha collapsed and had to be carried back to the doctor’s office. Young Elias Brown had a very difficult time fighting back his tears. Just as the earth was being shoveled into the hole, Smoke cut his eyes and looked toward the north. Plumes of smoke were billowing into the sky.
“Max is burning you men out!”he called to Brown and his friends. “Let’s ride.”
They were too late, of course. It was miles to the collection of farmhouses and barns and other outbuildings. Brown had been completely burned out. Gatewood lost his house, but the other buildings were intact. Cooter lost his barn and smokehouse. Bolen’s house was gone, and Morrison and Carson lost barns and equipment. All the farmers’ cows and hogs had been shot, the chickens scattered and trampled.
“Goddamn a man who would do this!” Brown said. He squared his shoulders and added, “That sorry son will not run me out. We’ll rebuild.”
“And well help you,” Tom Johnson said.
“Your credit is good at my store,” Marbly said. “For as long as it takes.”
“I have money put back,” Judge Garrison told the farmers. “I’m good for loans.”
Sally and Victoria had ridden out in a buggy. Sally said, “Smoke, I’m going to wire our family’s board of directors back east. I think it’s time Barlow had a bank. I’ll get the first steps in motion this afternoon.”
Smoke turned and smiled at her. “Good, honey. That’s a great idea.”
“Your wife owns a bank?” Marbly asked.
“Her family is one of the richest families in the nation,” Smoke told the startled crowd. “They own factories, banks, shipping lines, railroads ... you name it. If Sally says put a bank in Barlow, a bank will be put in Barlow.” He turned to Jim Dagonne. “Let’s go pick up some tracks and see where they lead to. As if we didn’t know.”
But the direction the marauders took did not lead toward Hell’s Creek. They went north for a couple of miles, then cut toward the northeast, toward the flathead range and the glacier country.
“What’s up there, Jim?”
“Man, that is rugged country. I understand they’s talk in Washington about making a big chunk of it a national park. It’s about a million or so acres. And the weather is unpredictable as hell. Storms can blow in there—even in the summer, so I’m told—dropping temperatures fifty ... sixty degrees. They’s mountains in there over two miles high and impassable.”
“You’ve been in there?”
“I’ve been on the edge of it several times. Continental Divide runs right through it.”
“Anything between here and there?”
“Tradin’ post of sorts up ahead on the Hungry Horse. Some pretty salty ol’ boys hang around there.”
Smoke nodded. “We’ll follow these tracks as long as we can. We’ll supply at the post. The nick in that shoe is a dead giveaway. That’ll hold up in court.”
“You plan on bringing them back?”
“Not if I can help it.”
