About mid-morning, the three bearded men in the ranch yard got a wheel on the busted wagon and two of them hitched it up. Smith watched as they loaded the wagon with coils of barbed wire and a dozen or so cedar fence posts. The three stood around and talked for about ten minutes, one of them pointing and gesturing. Then the other two climbed into the wagon and drove off.
I’m in luck, Smith thought as he watched the man he judged to be Skoal disappear into the sagging barn. The woman and the hound are gone and so is the hired help. Now it’s just Red and me.
The Assassin saddled and bridled his horse. He checked his weapons and took a couple of deep breaths. Besides the rifle in his saddle scabbard and the Colt on his hip, he had another revolver, which he shoved into his coat pocket. That would be the surprise if he needed to get the drop on Red Skoal.
There being no time to waste, Smith broke camp and mounted his horse. He reined it down the steep mountainside, keeping to the trees for as long as possible and never taking his eyes off the barn, house, or ranch yard. With any luck, he might make it all the way to the barn before Skoal even realized he had a very unwelcome visitor. It didn’t hurt that there was also a little gully that would keep him out of view until he was almost into the ranch yard.
Smith could feel a rising sense of anticipation building up like steam in a locomotive’s boiler. He pushed his horse into a trot, and when he came to the end of the gully, he dismounted and hurried ahead on foot, dropping his reins and sprinting directly for the barn. Chest heaving, he stopped just outside the door. Smith heard a man inside whistling an unfamiliar tune. Red sounded happy, and that filled Smith with a killing rage because his own wife and son had also been happy until they’d been murdered.
Smith drew his holstered six-gun, deciding to just step inside and open fire. Unfortunately, however, the light was very bad inside and he knew that his eyes would need several minutes to adjust, while Skoal’s eyes would give him the advantage. It was enough to give Smith second thoughts. He closed his eyes and weighed his next move.
Patience, he told himself. Just wait and Skoal will come outside. He has to, sooner or later. And when he does, you will have the advantage and it’ll be his eyes that will need to make the adjustment.
Smith forced himself to relax. He leaned against the barn, listening to Skoal whistle and bang away with his hammer. It sounded as if the outlaw-rancher might be repairing a stall. Smith didn’t know nor did he really care. The main thing was that he had patience and was biding his time.
Ten minutes passed, then twenty. Smith was growing impatient. What if the two men on the wagon suddenly appeared? They would see his saddled horse wandering around in the yard and become alert. Or what if the woman an the horse and her damn dog suddenly appeared? That would also destroy his element of surprise.
You have to do something now, he thought. You don’t have the luxury of waiting any longer—for Skoal to stop whistling and banging around inside before he steps through this damn barn doorway.
The Assassin squared his shoulders and slipped around the corner of the barn door, gun waving in front of him like a dark finger of death. Skoal’s back was turned and he was oblivious to any danger.
“Hello, Red.”
Skoal pivoted, hammer in hand. Only it wasn’t Skoal! It was a stranger, and now he took a few steps forward, saying, “Red is out fixin’ fence right now. He’ll be back come sundown and … what’s that in your hand, mister?”
“A gun.”
The ranch hand drew in his breath sharply, then retreated, dropping his hammer and throwing his hands high up in the air. “Do you mean to rob me? I ain’t got no money!”
Smith had always prided himself as a quick-thinking man. He didn’t want to kill this ranch hand, but then again, he couldn’t really allow him to live.
“Keep your hands up!”
“Sure! But mister, this is a real poor spread. Nobody here has any cash.”
“Turn around slow.”
“Please don’t shoot me.”
“Turn around!”
“All right! But I ain’t never hurt nobody. Honest. And I got two dollars in my jeans. You can have all of it. Just please don’t kill me!”
“Shut up!”
He was maybe twenty, a big, homely kid with buck teeth and straw-colored hair. He was scared so bad his upraised hands were shaking.
“Oh, hell,” Smith swore, pistol-whipping the kid across the back of his head and sending him sprawling across the dirt floor. Smith bent down and felt for a pulse, knowing he might have killed the kid. There was a pulse, so Smith found some rope in the barn and hog-tied him. The kid would be out cold for most of the day and he was going to have one hell of a bad headache, but at least he’d be alive.
Smith dragged the ranch hand into the dim stall that he’d been repairing. He pitched some straw over the kid, then hurried outside to catch up his horse, which had wandered over to a corral where it was getting acquainted with some other ranch horses. He led the animal into Red’s barn, where it could not be seen by anyone.
When Smith was satisfied that his horse would not be giving his presence away, he took his rifle and went to inspect the ranch house. It was surprisingly nice, with comfortable horsehide couches and a big rack of elk antlers mounted over the mantle. There were bear skins and cowhides on the floor and the house was very clean. A colorful Indian headdress was tacked to one wall, and a warrior’s spear rested proudly on another. Those would be Betty’s touch.
Suddenly, Smith heard the hound bark. He whirled and raced to the front door just in time to see the Indian woman come loping into the yard with the dog in the lead. She hadn’t a clue of any danger. The hound dropped its snout to the dirt and quickly caught Smith’s foreign scent. A moment later, it sensed his location and charged the house.
