eight of Slater’s gang, and a couple of bounty hunters. This storm will probably blow out of here sometime tonight —it’s raining too hard to keep this up long—so the hunt will resume tomorrow. Slater has to be getting frustrated, and frustration leads to desperate and careless acts. Smoke is fighting several fronts, and using varying tactics, including guerrilla warfare. Guerrilla warfare is a nasty business. It’s demoralizing for those on the receiving end of it. Slater’s people and the bounty hunters will be shooting at shadows from now on. And it’s going to be just as dangerous in those mountains for Smoke and Charlie as it is for the outlaws and bounty hunters. Smoke will take some lead in this fight, my friend. I don't see how he can avoid it, and I would imagine he has already mentally prepared himself for it.”
Johnny listened to the rain beat against the canvas for a moment. “Seems like trouble has been on Smoke’s backtrail nearabouts all his life. Ever since I’ve known him—and years before that—all Smoke wanted was to be left alone to run his ranch, love his wife and kids, and live in peace. He changed his name and hung up his guns for several years, but no man should have to do that. That just isn’t right. He never wanted the reputation of gunfighter. Never got a dime out of any of them Penny Dreadful books or plays about him. He didn’t want the money. But he’s a man that won’t take no pushin’. Man pushes Smoke, Smoke’ll push back twice as hard as he got. Them mountains best be cleaned good by this rain, ’cause come the mornin’, they’re gonna run red with outlaw blood.”
The terrible storm raged over the mountains and then trekked east. Before dawn, Smoke was wide awake and looking at a star—filled sky. It was still dark when he broke camp, picked up his heavy pack, and headed down out of the high lonesome to face the ever—growing numbers of bounty hunters and the Lee Slater gang.
“Come on, boys,” he muttered to the chattering squirrels and the singing birds. “Let’s get this over with. I want to get back to Sally and the Sugarloaf.”
A rifle cracked and bark stung the side of his face. Smoke hit the ground, struggled out of his pack, and wormed his way forward, the .44-.40 cradled in his arms.
“I seen him go down!” a man yelled.
“Down is one thing,” another voice was added. “Out is another. Jensen’s hard to kill.”
“Move out,” a third voice ordered. “But watch it. He’s tricky as a snake.”
Three men, Smoke thought. Bounty hunters or outlaws? He didn’t know. He didn’t really care. Man comes after another man for no valid reason, that first man better be ready to understand that death is walking right along beside him.
“Where is the bastard?” the shout echoed through the lushness of timber.
Smoke saw a flash of color from a red and white checkered shirt, and put a .44-.40 slug in it. The man screamed and went down, kicking and clawing. Lead sang around Smoke’s position, whining and howling as fast as the hunters could work the levers on their rifles. Smoke stayed low, and the lead sailed harmlessly over his head.
“Oh, God!” the wounded man moaned. “My shoulder’s broke. I can’t move my arm.”
Smoke watched as a hand reached up and shook a bush, trying to draw his fire. He waited. The hand reached up again and exposed a forearm. Smoke shattered the arm. The man screamed in pain. Smoke fired again, and the man’s screaming choked down to silence.
“Back off, john,” a voice called. “He’s got the upper hand now.”
“What about Ned?” a pain—filled voice called.
“Ned’s luck ran out.”
Ned, Smoke thought. Ned Mallory, probably. A bounty hunter from down New Mexico way. He lay still and listened to the two men back off and move through the brush. After a few minutes, he heard their horses’ hooves fade away. He made his way to Ned and stood over the dead man. His first slug had broken the man’s forearm; the second slug had taken him in the throat. It had not been a very pleasant way to die. But what way is?
Smoke refilled his .44 loops with the dead man’s cartridges and left him where he lay. He was not being unnecessarily callous; this was war, and war is not nice any way one chooses to cut it up.
He figured the shots would draw a crowd, and he headed away from that location, but every direction he walked, he saw riders coming before they saw him.
Smoke cussed under his breath. “All right,” he muttered. “If this is the way it’s going to be, all bets are off. I can’t fight any other way.”
He lifted his .44-.40 and blew a man out of the saddle, the slug taking him in the center of his chest.
“Over yonder!” another man yelled, pointing, and Smoke sighted him in. The man moved just as he squeezed the trigger, and that saved his life, the slug hitting his shoulder instead of his chest. The rider managed to stay in the saddle, but he was out of this hunt, his arms dangling uselessly by his side.
A round stung Smoke’s shoulder, drawing blood, and another just missed his head. Smoke emptied another saddle, the rider pitched forward, his boot hanging in the stirrup. The horse ran off, dragging the manhunter.
Smoke slipped back into the timber and jogged for several hundred yards before he was forced to stop to catch his breath. He chose a spot where his back and his left flank would be protected and rested. He could hear the sounds of horses laboring up the grade.
“He’s trapped!” a man shouted. “We got him now, boys, Let’s go.” He forced his tired horse up the slope, and Smoke sighted him in, squeezed the trigger, and relieved the nearly exhausted animal of its burden. The hunter bounced on the ground and then lay still.
Smoke drank some water and ate a piece of dry bread and waited. He was in a good spot and thought he saw a way out of it should it come to that. But he didn’t think it would‘ The manhunters would soon realize that the advantage was all histhis time—and probably back off.
After a few minutes, a shout rang up the slope. “Give it up, Jensen! They’s a hundred men ringin’ this range. You can’t get out. Come on down, and we’ll take you in alive for trial.”
“Sure you will,” Smoke muttered.
A man deliberately ran from his cover for a short distance, exposing himself for no more than two or three seconds.
“Fool’s play, boys,” Smoke whispered. “You must have cut your teeth on amateurs.”
He held his fire.
The manhunters began firing indiscriminately, the slugs howling around the rocks and trees. They were trying for a ricochet, not knowing that Smoke had taken that into consideration when he chose the spot to hole up. They wasted a lot of lead and hit nothing.
Another group rode in, and the men began arguing among themselves. Smoke shouted, “Why don’t you boys try for the Slater gang? The mountains are full of them. There’s about fifty of them, and they’re all wanted by the law.”
“Nickel and dime rewards, Jensen,” he was told.
“You’re worth a lot more.”
“Look around you,” Smoke verbally pointed out. “The ground is covered with the blood of those who thought the same thing. Think about it.”
The bounty hunters fell silent as some of them did just that.
Rested, Smoke took that time to slip through the rocks and make his way around his left flank. But he had to leave his heavy pack, taking with him only what he absolutely needed for survival. He packed that in his bedroll and groundsheet, tied it tight, secured it over one shoulder, and Injuned his way out of the rocks.
When he had worked his way several hundred yards above his last location, he paused and looked down. The sight did not fill him with joy. There were at least thirty men in position, grouped in a semicircle, around where the manhunters believed him to be.
A grim smile curved his lips. He took four sticks of dynamite from his roll and planted them under four huge boulders, making each fuse slightly longer than the other. Then he lit the fuses and got the hell gone from there.
The explosives moved three of the huge boulders, sending them cascading down the mountain, picking up small boulders as they tumbled. Even from his high-up location, he could hear the screaming of the men as the boulders, large and small, crushed legs and arms and sent the manhunters scrambling for cover.
“You opened this dance, boys,” he said. “Now it’s time to pay the band.”
