shorter distances.
“We’ll also be ridin’ into Apache country,” Bob warned as they neared the river. “Time we loaded our rifles an’ the rest of our guns.”
It was wasted advice for Smoke Jensen. He couldn’t remember a time when his guns weren’t fully loaded, or being reloaded for another round of gunplay. An empty gun was about as useless as a three-legged horse.
He noticed neither Cal nor Pearlie were checking their weapons, and Johnny North did not so much as look down at his pistol or rifle. Sugarloaf riders learned to be prepared for most anything at any time. Otherwise, they didn’t stay on the payroll.
Smoke smiled when he thought about Sally. If she happened to be wearing a dress, underneath it, strapped to her leg, she kept a short-barreled Colt .44. And if she rode the ranch in a pair of denims, she wore a gunbelt just like the rest of the cowboys, with a Winchester booted to her saddle. For a gentle-natured schoolteacher, she could damn sure shoot straight with a handgun or a rifle.
Above the river, on a twisting road that would take them to Santa Fe, then farther south, they were climbing into the San Pedro Mountains toward El Vado Pass two days later when Smoke sensed danger, a feeling he would be hard-pressed to describe, a tingling down his back resembling a chill. Although for now he saw nothing to arouse his concerns, the sensation was there just the same.
“Keep your eyes open,” he said over his shoulder. “Maybe it’s nothing, but my nose smells trouble up ahead.”
“That’s enough fer me,” Pearlie remarked, pulling out his Winchester, resting it across the pommel of his saddle. “I never have knowed how you could smell it comin’, but I’ll take an oath you’ve done it more times than I care to remember. Jerk that smoke stick, boy,” he said to Cal, “an’ git yerself ready to use it. Johnny, if you like the sweet smell of this air, you’d best git ready to fight fer your next breath of it.”
“I don’t see a damn thing,” Cletus said, squinting into the sun’s glare off melting snow on slopes leading toward the pass.
“Neither do I,” Smoke told him. “I just figure it’ll be a good idea to stay watchful.”
Bob and Duke drew their rifles, levering shells into the firing chamber, resting the buttplates against their thighs as their horses carried them higher. Cletus remained unconvinced for the present, leaving his rifle booted.
“Could be all you smell is a skunk,” Cletus argued, when nothing moved on either side of the pass.
“Maybe,” Smoke said softly, his experienced eye roaming back and forth across steep slopes dotted with smaller pirion pine trees and still barren aspen, it being too early in the spring for new leaves. “Skunks come in several shapes. I’m lookin’ for the two-legged variety. They’ve got a different smell.”
The sounds of hooves filled a silence. Smoke left his rifle in its boot, opening his coat to be able to reach for both Colts in case he needed them in a hurry.
Then he saw the source of his concerns, five or six Apache warriors by the cut of their hair, brandishing rifles, rounding a cutbank near the top of the pass. They rode to the crest of the trail and halted their multicolored ponies, fanning out, blocking the pathway of Smoke and his neighbors.
“Son of a bitch!” Cletus exclaimed, pulling his Winchester free. “How the hell did you know, Smoke?”
Smoke halted his horse without answering Cletus, judging the distance, measuring how much drop a slug would take reaching an Indian more than three hundred yards away. A .44 caliber rifle cartridge held a considerable amount of gunpowder, properly loaded with the maximum number of grains, but unlike a Sharps, its range was far more limited and the bullet had a tendency to fall at shorter distances, requiring a higher aim and a piece of luck.
Only now, Smoke unbooted his Winchester, when it became all too clear the Apaches were after their horses and money, blocking the roadway through El Vado Pass. He chambered a shell. “I’ll aim over their heads once,” he told the others, “a warning shot to convince ’em we’re willin’ to fight our way through if we have to. Maybe we can scare ’em off. We’ve got ’em outnumbered. I’d be willing to bet these are young renegades, not older warriors with a lot of fighting experience. Let’s hope they back off.”
Aiming well above the warriors’ heads, he triggered off a booming shot that echoed off the slopes. The result was not what he expected.
All five Apaches jumped their ponies forward, shouldering rifles, racing down the trail to engage the enemy. Smoke took it in stride, levering another round. “Start droppin’ as many as you can, soon as they’re in range,” he said, placing his rifle sights on a warrior’s blanketed chest. He heard war cries and the thunder of unshod hooves.
Smoke fired, feeling the Winchester slam into his shoulder. The Apache disappeared from his sights almost instantly, performing a backflip off the rump of his galloping pinto.
Cal fired before Smoke could aim again, and to Smoke’s surprise a squat Apache warrior toppled to the ground, rolling in snowmelt slush and mud, arms and legs like the limbs of a limp rag doll, until he tumbled to a halt at the base of a pinon pine.
“Nice shot,” Smoke told the boy, when only three Indians remained in the reckless charge.
“I allowed fer the drop like you showed me,” Cal said as he worked another cartridge into place, his horse prancing underneath him following the explosion so near its ears.
A fierce war cry ended the instant Smoke pulled the trigger and an Apache tossed his rifle in the air to reach for his throat while he was falling backward. Before anyone could fire another shot, the last two Indians swerved their ponies around, drumming heels into the little horses’ sides to race back up to the top of the pass.
Without a word, Smoke urged his Palouse forward, keeping one eye on the fallen warriors and the other on the pass. When he came to the first downed Indian, he saw a pulpy round hole in the Apache’s neck and a circle of blood growing around his head. He would be dead in a matter of minutes.
The Apache Cal had shot had a mortal wound near his heart, and while he was still breathing slowly, his life would end soon. Cal rode up just then, peering down at what he’d done.
“Jesus,” the boy whispered, losing some of the pink in his cheeks. “Looks like I killed him.”
