“I was born not far from there.”
“You don’t say? You know the Blanchard’s?”
“Doc Blanchard tended to my ma when she was sick.”
“Well, I’ll just be damned. He’s my momma’s brother.”
“He still alive?”
“Was when I left, about five year ago.”
“Tell him Emmett Jensen’s youngest boy said howdy.”
“I’ll sure do it. Smoke?”
“Yes. Them others’ll kill you if you get careless. I’ve stole from time to time, but I ain’t never killed nobody.”
“I hope you never do. Take off.”
“You want my guns?”
“No.”
Smoke watched him leave, and true to his word, Sandy headed south without so much as looking back.
Smoke stood up and began stalking those who hunted him. Henry Barton sat his gray and studied the stillness of the timber. He wished Jensen would step out and challenge him. He’d like to be the man who killed Smoke Jensen. He could write his own ticket after he done that.
“Looking for me,” the voice came from off to his left.
Henry knew he’d been suckered. He was right-handed, and Smoke had studied him, waiting for just the right moment. If he drew now, he’d be shooting across his body. “Jensen?”
“That’s me.”
“Do I get to turn my horse?”
Smoke chuckled. “Why sure you do.”
Henry said to hell with it and jerked iron. Smoke’s .44-40 roared and Henry was knocked from the saddle, the slug taking him just under his rib cage and blowing out the other side.
Terry Smith came galloping up the mountains trail, hollering for his buddy. He reined up when he saw the gray, standing riderless in the timber.
“Here I am,” Smoke called.
Terry cussed, wheeled his horse and lifted his six-shooter. Smoke blasted him out of the saddle, the big slug taking him in the center of his chest.
Smoke faded back into the brush on the mountain and jogged to a small knoll set in the middle of the timber. He punched two more rounds into his rifle and eared the hammer back, waiting.
A yell came to him, faint but understandable. “This here’s Dick Dorman, Jensen. Joe Elliot’s with me. We’re gone. You hear me, Jensen. I got a broke ankle and Joe’s shoulder is busted and swole up. We’re out of it and gone.”
“This ain’t no trick, Jensen,” Joe hollered. “We’re headin’ back to the Hole. Just let us pass and you won’t hear no more from us.”
Two rifles crashed. Smoke heard the sounds of bodies falling to the earth.
“Good shooting, darling,” von Hausen said.
“And the same to you, sweet,” Marlene said.
Smoke shook his head. Fine people to work for, he thought. Very caring about the hired help.
Montana Jess, Gil Webb, John T., Cat Brown, and Utah Red and Roy Drum were by now old hands at chasing Smoke. None of them were about to expose themselves and enter those dark woods. But the two left of the men from the Hole just weren’t that smart. Slick Finger Bob thought he was slicker than he was. He slipped into the timber unseen, so he thought. It was his last thought.
Smoke drilled him at two hundred yards, the slug punching right through Slick Finger Bob’s head.
“I’m a-gonna tear both your eyes out, Jensen!” One Eye called. “Then I’m gonna let you stagger around blind a couple hours ’fore I shoot you.”
What a nice fellow, Smoke thought. I wonder what he does for an encore?
“Jensen!” he hollered. “You’re surrounded. You can’t get away. Step on out here and fight me.”
Smoke picked up a rock and tossed it to his right. It thudded to the ground and One Eye fired. Smoke put three fast rounds in the area of the gunsmoke. One Eye staggered out, both hands holding his belly. He grunted in pain and slumped to the earth. He was still on his knees when Smoke backed out and disappeared into the lushness of the timber.
John T. sighed. “Anybody seen Sandy?”
“Not since breakfast,” Montana told him.
“Well, that means he’s either dead or pulled out.”
“Do we go in there after him?” Utah asked.
