They almost got him.
It was one of those freak shots that had nothing at all to do with skill. The slug howled off a rock, hit a tree a glancing blow, and struck Smoke in the side. Had it not lost much of its force, it probably would have killed him.
Smoke looked at the hole in his side. The bullet had hit the fleshy part of his back and exited out the front. It looked awful, hurt like hell, but was not a serious wound. It was, however, going to impede any attempts at climbing.
Smoke shifted positions, working his way out of the rocks and getting into a natural depression that offered less chance of a ricochet. He checked the sun. About ten o’clock, he figured. It was going to be a very long day.
Smoke sighted in what appeared to be a man’s arm and fired. He missed his shot, but the outlaw yelled and scrambled back down the hill, finding a more protected spot.
Smoke kept his head down while the lead hammered and howled all around him. He knew they were advancing toward him during the fusillade, but it couldn’t be helped. While the outlaws frantically punched fresh rounds into their rifles, Smoke sighted in a man running hard for cover . . . and alarmingly near Smoke’s position. The .44-.40 slug busted him, turning him around like a top. Smoke’s second shot ended the spin.
“He got Tap!” a man yelled, jumping up in anger and excitement.
Smoke got him, too. He couldn’t tell if it was a killing shot, but the man went down limp and didn’t move.
“Damn!” he heard a man say. “Whit’s had it.”
“I’ve had it too,” another man said. “I’m gone. Done. Finished.”
Two more agreed with him, and Smoke let them leave, even though he had a clear shot at one of them and a maybe shot at another.
Smoke pulled back. He was so muddy and bloody he blended in with the earth and the foliage. He ached all over and longed for a hot tub of water with a big bar of soap. What he got was dirt and rocks and twigs kicked into his face by a bullet. He wiped his vision clear and slipped into cover, hia face bleeding.
He watched through a sturdy mountain bush as a man limped from one tree to another. Smoke ended his limping with a single shot.
“Damnit!” a man said. “I told Keno to head back out of the valley.”
“He shore ain’t goin’ nowheres now,” another man said. ’Ceptin’ the grave, if he’s lucky.”
“I want his boots,” a man yelled. “l was with him when he stole ’em. Them’s brand new. Mine’s wore slap out.”
Keep talking, Smoke thought, shifting around to face the direction of the closest voice and caring back the hammer on his Winchester.
He waited and saw what he felt was the tip of a boot. The boot moved just a bit, exposing several more inches of leather. He laid a bead and squeezed the trigger. A howl of pain erupted from behind the cluster of low rocks.
“My foot’s ruint!” a man yelled. “Oh, God, it hurts! He blowed my toes off.”
“Now you shore need some boots,” a man told him, ending it with a dirty laugh.
Smoke put three fast rounds into the bushes where he felt the smart-mouth was hiding. He watched as a man rose slowly to his feet. He looked down at his bullet-perforated and bloody shirt front. “You bastard,” the outlaw said, then toppled over on his face.
“It ain’t workin’, Luttie,” the sound came to Smoke. “He’s pickin’ us off one by one.”
“Then leave, you yeller-belly!” Luttie said. “You’re paid up. Haul your ashes.”
“I believe I’ll just do that little thing. I’m pullin’ out, Jensen. You hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“Don’t shoot. I’m gone.”
Smoke let him go while the remaining outlaws poured lead into Smoke’s position. Smoke stayed low, hating it, knowing they were inching closer, but unable to prevent it.
He heard panting coming from only a few feet away and knew if he didn’t move, they would have him cold.
“Goddamnit, he must have moved!” the voice was only inches away.
“He’s got to be in there. Are you stone blind, Crown?” Lee yelled.
No. Crown was just stone dead. Smoke shot him in the belly at point-blank range, pulled out the man’s twin Remingtons and emptied them downhill. He lunged out of the hole and ran into the bushes, lead whining and howling and clipping branches and thudding into trees all around him.
“Somebody kill him, damnit!” Luttie screamed. “Cain’t nobody shoot straight no more?”
Smoke climbed higher, pausing often to rest. His wounds were taking a toll on him, gradually sapping his strength. Although still bull-strong, he couldn’t last another day; he knew that. He had to bring this fight to an end.
Something slammed into his head and knocked him spinning. The last thing he remembered was falling into darkness.
“They claim they killed him,” Mills said, after speaking to several people in the huge crowd around the mouth of the valley entrance.
“I don’t believe it,” Winston said.
Mills shrugged his shoulders. “Smoke is a mortal man, Winston. A big tough bear of a man, but still mortal. Look, I don’t want to believe it either, but face facts. He’s been fighting terrible odds for days.”
“Where’s the body?” Larry asked, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“They said he fell down into a ravine. No way to retrieve the body. But they have his rifle.”
“Oh, my God!” Hugh shook his head. “It must be true.”
“We’ll arrest the outlaws as they come out,” Mills ordered. “If they offer just the slightest hint of resistance, kill them on the spot.”
“You don’t mean that, Mills!” Sharp said.
“The hell I don’t!”
Sally looked up into the face of Lilly LaFevere. Johnny North, Cotton, Earl, and Louis were with her. All their faces were grim.
“Give it to me straight,” Sally said.
“Word is they killed your man, honey.”
“Where’s the body?”
“A bounty hunter told a reporter that it can’t be recovered. Smoke supposedly fell off into a ravine after being shot in the head,” Louis said grimly “We’re riding to the valley. Sheriff Silva and a posse are here now, to keep order. Stay with her, Lilly.”
“I’ll do that.”
Cold.
Smoke opened his eyes and for one panicky moment felt he was blind. But it was dried blood that had caked his eyes shut. He dug the blood away with as little movement as possible, not wanting to draw attention. His entire left side hurt, and the right side of his head throbbed with pain. But not ins? left side. Curious. He wondered how that could be?
When his vision cleared, he realized just how bad his position was.
He was lying on a ledge that jutted out a few yards from the face of the ravine. It was about a five hundred foot drop to the bottom. Smoke looked up and guessed that he’d fallen no more than fifteen or twenty feet. When he hit, the bedroll had protected his head. That was why only the bullet-creased side ached. When he hit, he had rolled against the face of the cliff, protected from eyes above by a little outcropping of rock. He was stiff and sore and bruised all over . . . but he was alive.
He lay still for a moment, going over his problems, and they were many. He rolled over on his stomach and had to stifle a groan of pain as his torn and bruised body protested.
