Smoke’s arm rose with equal swiftness and steadied only a fraction of a second to allow the hammer to drop. Quickly he slip-thumbed three more rounds. All four struck Forrest Gore in the chest and belly. The Winchester flew to the sky, and Gore jerked and writhed with each impact. A cloud of cloth bits, flesh, and blood made a crimson haze that circled his body. Jeff York turned in time to plunk two more slugs into the child-killer. Then he spun, pistol still smoking, toward Benton-Howell.
“That does it! No waiting for the hangman, damn you. It’s your scheming that brought it to this. Now you pay”
“No, Jeff!” Smoke Jensen barked harshly. “Let him sit and sweat and wait for that rope to be put around his neck. That way he’ll die a thousand times over.”
Jeff York’s shoulders sagged. “You’re right, Smoke. Sorry, I lost it for a moment.”
Martha Tucker drew out of her grief long enough to look up with a face drawn with anguish, and addressed Smoke Jensen with some of her former warmth. “Thank you, Smoke Jensen. Thank you for saving a fine lawman’s career and self-esteem. And thank you for avenging my husband and my—my son.”
All at once, Smoke Jensen felt as though he had been the one to take a beating. “I did what I had to do, Martha. Now, we have a lot yet to accomplish.”
Martha Tucker had been restored to her ranch. A week had gone by since the Arizona Rangers had cleared the streets of Socorro of saddle tramps and low-class gunfighters. They had ridden away after little Tommy Tucker’s funeral. Each one had expressed their deep sympathy for the courageous woman who had lost a husband and son within a month’s time. Even Cuchillo Negro and his Apache warriors left small, feather-decorated gifts on the raw earth of the grave. Then they, too, rode off to the west.
That left Smoke Jensen alone at the ranch. He recalled the tension and black grief at the burial of the small boy, and a sensation of relief flooded him as he watched Martha Tucker step from the kitchen, smiling and brushing at the swatch of flour on her forehead in a familiar gesture. She smiled up at him as she approached where he stood with his saddled roan.
“I’ve put a pie on. I—I sort of hoped that you would stay on, if not with your hands, at least yourself, for a while.”
“I really can’t, Martha. I’m long over due in returning to my ranch.”
“With it in the capable hands of men like Walt and Ty, I see no reason why a few days more would matter.”
Smoke sighed. “Truth is, I miss ’em. The High Lonesome, the Sugarloaf, and . . . my wife. It’s time I got back to them. Goodbye, and bless you, Martha Tucker. You’re a strong woman. Strong even if you were a man.”
“Why, I—I take that as the supreme compliment,” she said clearly flustered. Then Martha rose on tiptoe and kissed Smoke lightly on one cheek. “Goodbye, Smoke Jensen. You’ll be missed . . . awfully.”
Jimmy Tucker rushed forward and hugged Smoke Jensen around the waist. He was too deeply moved for words, but his silent tears spoke it all. That made it even more difficult for Smoke Jensen to take his leave, but he did.
Prying the lad’s arms from around him and giving a final tip of his hat to Martha, Smoke swung into the saddle and rode off. He didn’t look back until he reached the top of the ridge to the northeast. The backward glance did not last long, for his thoughts had already spanned the miles ahead to his secure nook in the Shining Mountains, the cozy log and stone home on the Sugarloaf, and his beloved Sally.
Cunning of the Mountain Man Page 25