Smith waited until the big hound was almost to the porch before he shot it in the face. It was a good shot, and the dog’s snout plowed dirt and it somersaulted, dead before it came to a rest.
The Indian woman wasn’t armed. She saw Smith and tried to rein around and escape, but Smith shot her horse. The woman fell hard under her thrashing mount, and then cried out in pain as the dying horse landed on her leg, pinning it to the earth.
Smith ran over and shot the dying horse. The woman tried to pull herself free, but couldn’t. She was pretty, all right. Pretty as could be with shiny black hair, beautiful brown skin, and large dark eyes. Her free leg was long and slender. He could see that, even though she was wearing a man’s pants and shirt.
“Just rest easy,” Smith cautioned, leaning his rifle against the porch. “I’ll grab the saddlehorn and when I lift, you pull away. Can you do that?”
Betty didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Her hate-filled eyes told Smith everything he needed to know. Smith had seen animals caught in the steel jaws of a trap that looked happier than this Ute woman, but he still could not leave her pinned under the horse. He bent over to grab her saddlehorn and lift enough weight of the dead animal to free the woman. But then he heard the drumming of racing hooves.
“I’m going to have to leave you here until I take care of your friends,” he said.
She spat at him.
“That wasn’t very ladylike,” he said, picking up his rifle. “But then, you aren’t a lady, are you?”
She spat again. Smith didn’t have time to bother with her, so he levered another shell into his rifle and sprinted back to the barn. He skidded to a halt, put his rifle to his shoulder, and waited.
Red Skoal and his ranch hand were both in the wagon when it flew past Smith into the ranch yard. They damn near ran over Betty and her fallen horse. Skoal had to really haul up on the lines, causing the wagon to slew around on two wheels and catapulting him and his ranch hand into the air. The ranch hand struck the side of the house and was knocked unconscious. Red also struck the house, but was only dazed. He tried to stand while fumbling for his six-gun.
The Assassin shot the murdering sonofabitch in the belly. Red screamed and crashed over backward, arms beating at the earth like broken wings. Smith strolled over to the outlaw and levered another cartridge into his Winchester. He planted his legs wide apart and pointed the rifle at Red’s bloodless face.
“Who are you?” the outlaw choked as a trickle of blood spilled from the corner of his mouth and ran into his beard.
“Funny you should ask, because your friend Hank Trabert asked me the very same question before I finished him off like I’m going to finish you off.”
“I don’t … understand! Whoever you are, at least give me a fighting chance!”
“Sure,” Smith drawled, smiling murderously. “I’ll give you exactly the same chance that you gave my family when you burned them up in Denver.”
Smith leaned forward, then jammed the barrel of his rifle into Red’s mouth so hard he split the man’s lips and broke through his front teeth. “Burn in hell, Red!”
He squeezed the trigger and blew the back of Red’s head off. It wasn’t pretty, but it was far more merciful than the man deserved. “I would have burned you alive if it hadn’t been for the Ute woman needing attention,” Smith told the body.
The woman was still struggling to tear herself free. Her pretty face reflected intense pain.
Smith squatted on his heels out of spitting range. “Betty,” he began, “I want to tell you something before I try to lift this horse off that leg. I killed Red because he was part of the bunch that murdered my wife and son. He was no damn good.”
Betty stopped struggling, eyes still radiating venom.
“And,” Smith continued, “I’ll tell you something else. If you try to turn on me after I free you up, I’ll kill you too. I don’t want to. I didn’t kill the fella in the barn, nor will I kill the one that slammed into the house—if you behave and act decently. I’ll expect good food and a courteous manner. After supper, we’ll sleep together. Is that understood?”
She stopped squirming. “I understand.”
“Then you’ll act like a lady?”
“A … a lady?”
“That’s right. I’ll get you into the house, do my best to care for that leg, but you got to act like a lady.”
Betty swallowed hard and finally nodded. “I think my leg is broken.”
“Let’s hope not,” he told her as he laid his rifle down and grabbed the saddlehorn. “All right, we’ll do this on the count of three. One. Two. Three!”
Smith managed to raise the carcass just enough so that Betty could pull free.
“Good,” he said, reaching down and pulling her up. “Can you walk?”
She tried, but crumpled in pain.
“All right, then,” he said, easing her back to the ground. “I’m going to tie this other fella up, if he’s still alive. After that, I’ll carry you into the house and cook for the both of us. I’m real hungry. Are you?”
She didn’t answer, so he left her to wait. The man who’d been thrown from the wagon was dead with a broken neck, which made things simpler all the way around. Smith went back to the Ute woman, scooped her up, and headed into the ranch house. Placing her on one of the horsehair couches, he busied himself in the kitchen, cooking them a fine big meal. He also found Red Skoal’s supply of whiskey. Smith was in good spirits and he kept one eye on his meal and the other on the pretty Ute woman.
“How’d you ever wind up keeping company with a snake like Red?” he finally asked.
