In half an hour, the town of Hell’s Creek, Montana was no more than an unpleasant memory.
The men headed back toward Barlow, for a hot bath, a good meal, and some well-deserved rest. The day’s events would alter their lives forever. For the good.
All that was left for Sally and Smoke were the good-byes to the people of Barlow and the ranchers and farmers out in the county. In the short time they’d been there, a lot had happened and they had discovered some friendships that would last forever.
Robert had been transferred to the territorial mental asylum and the doctors there had given him very little hope of ever recovering.
Through Sally’s help, the new bank had agreed to loan Martha and Pete the money for a down payment on the Lightning spread. The two were married the day before Smoke and Sally were due to pull out.
Tessie Malone left the country the very day she sold Lightning to Pete and Martha.
Much to Sal’s embarrassment, Victoria announced that the newly elected sheriff had proposed marriage to her and that she had accepted. Victoria had also accepted a position of teaching at the new school.
The other new schoolteacher in town, a cute little redhead, was making goo-goo eyes at Jim Dagonne. Bets were that he’d be roped and hog-tied before summer’s end.
Smoke and Sally had said their good-byes to Joe Walsh and his wife.
The town of Barlow had been quiet for a week. Not one shot had been fired, not one fist had been swung in anger. Sal commented that it was just too good to last.
That proved true when one of Joe Walsh’s hands came fogging into town, pale as a ghost and so excited he could hardly talk. He’d found Smoke Jensen’s body on the trail. Sally Jensen was missing.
27
Smoke was not dead, but had the bullet that grazed his skull been one millimeter more to the right, the slug would have blown out his brains.
He was back on his feet the next day, over the protestations of the new doctor in Barlow, and strapping on his guns.
Every able-bodied man in Barlow had been on the search for Sally and her kidnapper or kidnappers. They had ridden back into town at dawn, weary. They had lost the trail.
All Smoke could remember was that he and Sally and the packhorse had ridden down the edge of Swan Lake, intending to pick up the Swan River and follow it south to the railroad. They had stopped to water and rest their horses when Smoke’s head seemed to explode.
That’s all he could remember.
He swung into the saddle and pointed Star’s head south, intending to backtrack. He had a headache, but other than that, he felt fine.
“You’re sure you don’t want some help?” Sal asked.
“No. A big posse is too easy to spot. Besides, Sally will leave messages along the way; messages and markers that would make sense only to me. It’s Big Max, I’d bet on that. I was instrumental in bringing down his little empire, so now he intends to destroy as much of what I hold dear as possible. See you, Sal.”
Smoke rode easy, down to the south end of the lake. There he dismounted and began searching the area, using tactics taught him by the old mountain man, Preacher. He worked in ever-widening circles, on moccasin-clad feet. By mid-afternoon he had picked up the trait—the true one, not the one that had been deliberately left for the posse.
The trail headed north by northeast. The lead horse was carrying a heavy load. That would be Max Huggins. Smoke recognized the hoofprints of Sally’s mare. If they stayed on this trail, Smoke surmised, they were heading for glacier country.
Smoke doggedly stayed with the trail, taking his time, being careful not to miss a thing. He found where they’d camped at the base of and on the east side of Mt. Evans. Sally had left three stones in the form of an arrowhead, pointing toward the Flathead River.
Smoke followed, his head no longer aching and his strength having returned. He kept his fury under control— barely. He met a lone hunter, and the man took one look into Smoke’s eyes’ and felt the chill of death touch him. The hunter backed off the trail and let Smoke pass with just a nod of his head.
The man would tell his grandkids that he had once seen Smoke Jensen on the prod, and that it was not a sight he ever wanted to see again.
On the east side of the South Fork Flathead, Max had met up with the tracks of a dozen riders. Probably the remnants of Max’s gang, Smoke thought. Several miles farther, one rider had left the bunch. Smoke left the trail and circled. He picketed Star and worked his way back a bit on foot. He smiled when he saw who had stayed behind to waylay him.
It was the young man who had taken to calling himself Kid Brewer; the young man with a few pimples on his face who had made the obscene gesture at Smoke after the window-washing incident.
“Waiting for me, Kid?” Smoke called from behind the young man.
Kid Brewer whirled, his hands frozen over the butts of his tied-down guns. Smoke Jensen stood facing him, a Winchester pointed at his belly.
“You really shouldn’t have taken a part in the taking of my wife, punk,” Smoke told him. “Coming at me is one thing; taking my wife is something entirely different.”
“Yeah,” the young gunhand sneered at him.“So what do you think you’re going to do about it?”
Smoke shot him. The .44 slug from the rifle struck the young man in the right elbow, knocking him down and forever crippling his gun hand. He lay on the cool ground, moaning and calling for his mother.
Smoke walked down to him and placed the muzzle of the rifle on the gunhand’s left elbow. “If you think I won’t leave you permanently crippled in both arms, you’re crazy. Talk to me, punk.”
Brewer looked up into the coldest eyes he had ever seen in all his young life. They so chilled him he momentarily forgot the pain in his shattered right arm. He began talking so fast Smoke had to slow him down.
