Steve Bolt was crawling through the lushness of the little valley. He had dreams of being the man who killed Smoke Jensen. The money wasn’t important—it was the reputation he sought.
“Lars?” he whispered. His partner was supposed to be a few yards away, to his right.
Lars didn’t reply.
“Lars! Come on, man, where are you?”
Steve raised up on his elbows, and his face froze with fear. Lars was standing up, sorta like a scarecrow, both arms wedged over low branches. His throat had been cut. Steve stood up to his knees, opening his mouth to scream.
A spear, about six feet long and sharpened on one end, caught him in the chest and drove all the way through him. Steve uttered a long, low moan as the pain registered in his brain. Both hands gripped the spear, and he tried to pull it out. He screamed in pain and gave that up.
“What’s the matter, Steve?” another manhunter called in a low whisper.
Steve could only grunt in pain. His eyes were fixed on a tall, very muscular man who suddenly appeared about ten yards in front of him. He was hatless, his face bloody. His shirtfront was bloody. But it was his eyes that froze Steve’s tongue. The brown eyes had a gold tint about them—they seemed to glow with rage. The man—it had to be Jensen—held several long spears in his left hand.
“Steve!” the call came again.
Steve found his voice and screamed like he had never done before in his life. He cut his eyes. The tall bloody man had disappeared.
“Good God!” the third bounty hunter said, running over to Steve. His eyes touched the lifeless body of Lars, hanging from the branches. “No,” he whispered.
That was the last thing he whispered. A long spear, hurled with strength that the average man only dreams about, struck the manhunter in the chest with such force it knocked him back against a tree. He died on his boots.
Keno was the first to find the three bounty hunters. He immediately dropped to his knees for cover and looked wildly around him. His mouth and throat and lips were suddenly very dry. And he realized that he was scared. Very badly seared. He’d been an outlaw since no more than a boy; he’d done some terrible, awful things and seen even worse. But he had never before faced such a man as Smoke Jensen. There were no rules. Jensen was a savage, through and through. Worser than any damn Injun that ever lived.
“Martine?” Keno called as softly as he could and still have a chance to be heard.
“’Bout twenty yards behind you, Keno. What you got?”
“Steve, Lars, and that other fellow. All dead. Lars’ throat is cut ear to ear. Steve and his buddy was kilt with spears.”
Martine cursed softly in Spanish.
“Que haces?” Lopez questioned.
Mason Wright came running up, both hands filled with Colts. His eyes became wild with rage when he saw the three dead bounty hunters. “Jensen!” he screamed. “Goddamn you, Jensen. Me and Lars was compadres. You’ll pay for this, you cowardly bastard. Step out here, face me.”
A rifle cracked and a blue-black hole appeared in Mason’s forehead. The gunfighter slumped to the ground, stayed on his knees for a moment, then fell over on his face. Both Colts went off when he hit the ground, and Keno screamed in pain as a slug tore through his shin and exited out the back of his calf. He rolled on the ground, yelling.
“Oh, Jesus!” Keno squalled. “You shot me, you stupid idiot! Oh, God, it hurts.”
Luttie ran up, looked around, and hit the ground. “Fill the woods with lead,” he yelled.
“Everybody start shooting.”
Lead started flying from all directions in all directions. “Don’t shoot at me, you fools!” Luttie screamed. “Form a skirmish line, left and right of me. Jesus Christ, men, think!”
The outlaws and bounty hunters formed up and began filling the timber ahead of them with lead. But Smoke was gone. He knew if he was to survive, he had to think twice as fast as the outlaws and be two steps ahead of them at all times.
He chanced a return to the pass entrance, hoping against hope. But after scanning the entrance, he knew it had been posted with men. Safely behind and to the north of the outlaws, Smoke paused for a short rest while he looked around him at the high peaks surrounding the valley. Was this valley really a box? He knew a lot of cowboys called any canyon or valley they could not ride a horse out of a box. Maybe it was—maybe it wasn’t. He was going to find out. Only problem was, he had no blankets to combat the intense cold of the high lonesome should he be trapped up there and have to spend the night.
A bullet slammed into a tree, just missing his head. Smoke jumped for cover.
“Here he is!” came the shout. “Come on, boys. Now we got him.”
“Where, Malone?”
“Work your way north towards me. I’ll keep him pinned down. That’ll put him ’twixt you and me.”
Smoke put a .44-.40 ’twixt Malone’s ribs, right in the center of the V of the ribcage.
“Oh, God!” Malone yelled. “He plugged me.”
Smoke ran to Malone and kicked the man’s rifle away from him, smiling as he saw the rolled up ground sheet and blanket tied across the man’s back. He tore it from him and took his pistols.
“Help me,” Malone moaned.
Smoke pointed his rifle at Malone and jacked back the hammer.
“Oh, Jesus!” the outlaw squalled. “Not thataway!”
“Then shut up and die quietly.” Smoke was gone, running into the timber north of the gutshot outlaw and at the base of a formidable-looking peak.
“He’s run towards the mountains, boys!” Smoke heard Malone’s yell, and knew he had to stand and fight for a time.
He bellied down behind a rotting log and punched rounds into his Winchester. One outlaw ran across the small clearing, running to help Ma-
lone. Smoke dropped him. The man threw his rifle high into the air and hit the ground. He did not move.
“You a devil, Jensen!” Malone yelled. “He was a-comin’ to help me.”
“Stay along the timberline,” Luttie told his men. “Don’t expose yourselves.”
“What about Malone?” Jake asked.
“You want to go help him?”
Jake did not reply. The men stayed in cover until Malone’s screaming ceased. They did not know if he had passed out or if he was dead. Most didn’t care one way or the other.
“He’s tooken Malone’s bedroll,” Whit said. “See yonder. It’s gone.”
“He’s going to try for the peaks,” Lee said. “But you said this was a box.”
“It is.” But that nagged at Luttie. He knew there were only two ways that a man could ride a horse in or out. Jensen had blown one of them closed. But was it possible for a man to climb out? He didn’t know. He’d never tried it, and didn’t know of anyone who ever had.
Luttie silently cursed. But if any man could climb out, it would be that damn Smoke Jensen.
“Fan out,” Luttie ordered. “We can’t let him get into the highup. Remember what he done last time.”
The outlaws and manhunters started cautiously fanning out. Some of them were rapidly losing their taste for the hunt and would leave if they got a chance. Honor be damned.
Smoke silently melted into the timber and the brush, climbing higher. He would pause now and then to scan the peaks with field glasses. A cup of coffee would taste good right now, but he didn’t have any and could not dare risk a fire even if he did.
He found a small pool of clear, cold water and bathed his wounds carefully, treating them with the medicines Sally had packed for him. The wounds were not serious, and he knew that high altitudes slowed infections.
Smoke took the time to rig some deadfalls and other more lethal traps. That done, he hiked up another hundred yards and found a good location. To hell with it! He was tired and was going to rest.
“Come on, boys,” he muttered. “You want me, here I am!”
Chapter Twenty-one
