The man from Nevada accidentally missed the deadfall when he left the trail and rode for a few hundred yards in the timber. He was riding with his rifle across the saddle horn. He turned and got back on the trail. The trail wound around a jumble of huge boulders. The man from Nevada pulled up short and tight when he saw Smoke Jensen standing in the trail right in front of him, his right hand hovering near the butt of a pistol.
“I tried to warn you the best I could,” Smoke said. “But none of you would listen.”
The man from Nevada stared at Jensen. His mouth was cotton-dry.
“None of you can say I didn’t try,” Smoke said.
“Now what?” the man from Nevada managed get his tongue to working.
“Make your play, gunfighter.”
“I ain’t got a chance thisaway.”
“That’s your problem. You’re chasing me, not the other way around.”
The man from Nevada suddenly turned his horse, jerked up his rifle and eared the hammer back. Smoke let him get the hammer back before he drew. He shot the man one time, the slug striking the man from Nevada just under the armpit, right side, and blowing out the other side. The gunslinger tumbled from the saddle, dead before he hit the ground.
Smoke vanished back behind the boulders and picked up his rifle. “Come on,” he muttered to the winds. “All bets are off now.”
9
Everybody was in the saddle and moving as the sounds of the single shot filtered faintly to them. John T.’s horse triggered the deadfall and the logs came crashing down, blocking the trail behind him and putting several horses into a panic. They bucked and snorted and tossed Gunter to the ground, knocking the wind from the man. Briscoe’s horse reared up and the gunfighter fought to regain control. His horse’s hooves slammed against the flank of the horse Marlene was riding. Her horse jumped in fear and Marlene’s butt hit the ground. She squalled in shock and sprawled quite unladylike in the hoof-churned mud. She said a lot of very ugly words, in several languages.
John. T. left the saddle in a flying dive when he spotted the body of the man from Nevada. A slug whined wickedly just as he left the saddle. If he had waited another second, his brains would have been splattered against a tree.
So much for Jensen losing his nerve, John T. thought, as he hugged the ground.
Smoke’s second shot tore the saddle horn off and the horse bolted in fear. Leo Grant came riding up and Smoke sighted him in and fired just as Leo turned in the saddle, the .44-.40 slug taking him high in his left arm. Leo screamed in pain but managed to stay in the saddle and jump his horse into the timber.
Smoke had lost the element of surprise and knew it. He grabbed up his pack and ran into the timber behind the jumbled mass of boulders.
“Stay back!” John T. yelled down the trail. “Stay back and get down. Get off those horses and get into the timber.”
“Oh, damn!” Leo moaned. “I think my wing’s busted. Jesus, it hurts.”
“Quit complainin’,” John T. told him. “You’ll live.”
“Is Matt dead?” Utah called, crawling through the brush.
“Near as I can tell, he is,” John T. returned the call. “Leastwise he ain’t movin’ and they’s an awful lot of blood on the ground.”
“Damn!” Utah said. “Guess we was both wrong about Jensen.”
“Yeah. Von Hausen had the same idea, I’m thinkin’. We all misjudged Jensen.”
Smoke had moved back into the timber for a ways, then cut south, making his way through the timber silently and coming up in back of the group.
Larry Kelly turned to glance nervously at his back trail and his eyes widened in shock and fear. Smoke Jensen was standing in the center of the trail.
“Oh, no,” he said, just as Smoke lifted his rifle and pulled the trigger.
The slug took Larry dead center in his stomach with the same effects as a blow with a sledgehammer. The force of it doubled him over and dropped him to the trail, screaming as the pain surged through him, white-hot fingers that seemed to touch every nerve in the man.
Smoke jumped to the other side of the trail and vanished. But he didn’t vanish for long.
A stick of dynamite, tied to a short length of broken off limb came sputtering through the air.
“Goddamn!” Valdes yelled. “That’s
The dynamite exploded and horses went running in blind panic in all directions. The pack animals ran into the timber, losing their packs and sending supplies scattering everywhere. Another stick of dynamite came hissing through the air and landed near Maria. When it blew the concussion lifted her off the ground and sent her tumbling down the hill. She landed in a creek, banged her head on a rock, and came up sputtering and yelling.
Nat Reed tried to cross the trail to get a shot at Smoke and a bullet burned his face, taking a chunk of meat out of his cheek. Thinking he was more seriously wounded, Nat bellied down on the ground and started hollering that he was dying.
The wilderness became silent; no more dynamite was thrown, no more shots. But the people of the von Hausen party did not move from their cover for several minutes. With the exception of Maria. She had crawled from the icy waters of the creek to lay huddling, trembling, and sobbing behind a large rock.
