Live by the West, Die by the West

by William W. Johnstone

  * * *

  All knew that Smoke had casually but deliberately chosen the men to accompany the women. Then he irritated the hell out of Charlie Starr by suggesting that he accompany the foot party.

  “I’ll be damned if I will!” the old gunfighter flared up.

  “Charlie . . . ,” Smoke put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “They need you. They need your experience in guiding them and they need your gun.”

  “Well . . .” Charlie calmed down. “If you put it that way. All right. But I hate like hell to miss out on this here fight.”

  “Damned ol’ rooster with a busted wing.” Hardrock told him. “You look after them folks, now, you hear me, you old coot?”

  “I’ve told them to head for the old Fletcher gold mine in the Big Belt,” Cord said. “It’s been abandoned for years and we cache supplies there. From there, they can angle back East and make it into Gibson. But it’s gonna be a long hard haul for them all.”

  “You just get me in a saddle!” Beans groused. “I ain’t never seen the day I couldn’t sit on a hurricane deck.”

  “Oh, hush up!” Lujan told him. “Just lay back and enjoy the trip. Amigo, you injure that leg again, and you’ll be a cripple for the rest of your life. It’s better this way and you know it.”

  Beans did some fancy cussing, but finally agreed to shut up about it and accept his fate.

  Smoke pulled Cord to one side. “How do you feel about leaving your ranch to those jackals out there on the ridges?”

  “I don’t like it. But I think it’s gonna happen. See if my plan agrees with yours: We give them walkin’ out a full twenty-four hours. Then we saddle up, put sacks on the horses’ hooves, and lead them out a’ways. Then we all hit one spot just as hard as we can.”

  “That’s it. We’ll get the foot party moving just after dark and pray that this rain doesn’t let up. They’re going to be wet and cold and miserable, but I think they’ve got more of a chance out there than staying here.”

  Cord nodded his big head. “I’ll pass the word to the hands. You sure you don’t want a diversion?”

  “No. That would be a sure tipoff that we’re up to something. Anyway, I think they’ll hit us at full dark. That’ll be enough.”

  The afternoon wore on with only a few shots being exchanged from each side. Those in the house knew that the outlaws would be cold, soaking wet, and miserable, and their patience would be growing thin with each sodden hour that passed.

  And those in the ranch compound also knew, some more than others, that after finding the sack of bloody heads and several more of their kind shot to death, most of the outlaws would be wanting revenge in the worst sort of way, for they would know it had been Smoke stalking them silently on the ridges.

  Smoke looked out onto the gray dripping afternoon. Twenty-four hours. They had to hold out for twenty-four hours.

  Reno seemed to read his thoughts. “We’ll hold, Smoke. Some of them might breach the house, but it’ll be a death trap for them. One thing in our favor, they damn sure can’t burn the place down . . . at least not this night.”

  “From the outside,” Smoke stuck an amendment to that. “A couple of torches tossed inside, though . . .”

  Cord heard it. “I’ve got some lumber out in the shed. Rock, Troy, you boys fetch the lumber while we get some nails and hammers. We’ll board up windows we’re not shooting from. On both levels of the house.” He began ripping down curtains and drapes to lessen the fire hazard.

  As the sounds of the muffled hammering began drifting to the outlaws on the ridges, the gunfire picked up, forcing the men to work more carefully, without exposing themselves. Those inside the house didn’t have to worry about breaking a window with all the hammering; all the windows were already shot out.

  Those windows not being used as shooters’ positions boarded up, Smoke went to find Fae.

  He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek. “I’m headin’ back outside, Fae. I like to be outside when the action goes down.” He looked at the other women. “You ladies watch your step this night. We’ll see you all in a couple of days.”

  He shook hands with the men who were leaving that night. “You boys enjoy your stroll. As soon as it gets full dark, take off. And good luck.”

  He walked back into the living room, leaving Cord to say his goodbyes to wife and daughter.

  “I’m going to pull Ring and Hardrock, Silver Jim, and Pistol in the house with you and Cord and the boys,” he told Reno. “The rest of us will be in the bunkhouse and the barn.” He looked outside. “Be dark shortly. I’m heading out yonder. The others will be showing up one at a time about five minutes apart. Good luck tonight.”

  “Luck to you, Smoke.”

  There was nothing left to say. The two famed gunhandlers looked at each other, nodded their heads, and Smoke slipped out onto the stone and wood porch. He knew the chances of his being seen from several hundred yards away were practically nonexistent, but he stayed low from force of habit.

  Smoke darted off the porch and to a tree in the yard, then over the fence and a foot race to the corral. Then, as he got set for the run to the bunkhouse, a cold voice spoke from behind him.

  “I’ll be known as the man who kilt Smoke Jensen. Die, you meddlin’ bastard!”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Smoke threw himself to one side just as the pistol roared. He could feel the heat of the bullet as it passed his arm. He twisted his body in the air and hit the muddy ground with a. 44 in his hand, the muzzle spitting fire and smoke and lead.

  Hartley took the first slug in his chest and Smoke fired again, the force of his landing lifting his gun hand, the second slug striking the gunhawk in the throat. Hartley, with a knot plainly visible on his rain-slicked head, the hair matted down, leaned up against a corral rail and lifted his six-gun, savage all the way to the grave.

  A .44-40 roared from the bunkhouse and Spring’s aim was true. Hartley’s head ballooned from the impact of the slug and he pitched forward, into a horse trough.

  Riflemen from the ridges and the hills opened up, not really sure what they were shooting at, but filling the air with lead. Smoke lay where he was, as safe there as anywhere in the open expanse between house and bunkhouse. When the fire from the outlaws slacked up; Smoke scrambled to the bunkhouse and dove headfirst into the building, rolling to his feet.

  “Thanks, Spring,” he told the old hand. “Hartley must have laid out there in the corral all covered up with hay since I conked him on the noggin last night.”

  “Hell, he was dead on his feet when I shot him,” the old hand said. “I just like some in’shorence in cases like that.”

  He poured Smoke a cup of coffee and returned to his post by a window.

  Smoke drank the strong hot brew and laid out the plans. One by one, the old gunfighters began leaving the bunkhouse, heading for the house. Ring was the last to stand in the door. He smiled at Smoke.

  “You always bring this much action with you when you journey, Smoke?”

  “It sure seems like it, Ring,” Smoke said with a laugh.

  The big man returned the laugh and then slipped out into the rapidly darkening day, the rain still coming down in silver sheets.

  “I got to thinkin’ a while back,” Spring said. “After Ring asked me how it was nobody come to our aid. Smoke, they’s sometimes two, three weeks go by don’t none of us go to town. Ain’t nobody comin’ out here.”

  “And even if they did come out, what could they do? Nothing,” he ansered his own question. “Except get themselves killed. It’d take a full company of Army troops to rout those outlaws.”

  There had been no fire from the ridges, so the men had safely made the house. Darkness had pushed aside the day. Those walking out would be leaving shortly, and they had a good chance of making it, for the move would not be one those on the ridges would be expecting. To try to bust out on horseback, yes. But not by walking out. Not in this weather.

  When the wet darkness had covered the
land for almost an hour, Smoke turned to Spring. He could just see him in the gloom of the bunkhouse.

  “I don’t think they’ll try us on horseback this night, Spring. They’ll be coming in on foot.”

  “You right,” Donny whispered from the far end of the bunkhouse. “And here they come. You want me to drop him now or let them come closer?”

  “Let them come on. This rain makes for deceptive shooting.”

  A torch was lighted, its flash a jumping flame in the windswept darkness. The torch bobbed as the carrier ran toward the house. From the house, a rifle crashed. The torch stopped and fell to the soaked earth, slowly going out as its carrier died.

  All around the compound, muzzle flashes pocked the gloom, and the dampness kept the gunsmoke low to the ground as an acrid fog.

  A kerosene bomb slammed against the side of the bunkhouse, the whiskey bottle containing the liquid smashing. The flames were slow to spread and those that did were quickly put out by the driving rain. Spring’s pistol roared and spat sparks. Outside, a man screamed as the slug ripped through flesh and shattered bone. He lay on the wet ground and moaned for a moment, then fell silent.

  Smoke saw a moving shadow out of the corner of his eyes and lifted his pistol. The shadow blended in with the night and Smoke lost it. But it was definitely moving toward the bunkhouse. It was difficult, if not impossible, to hear any small sounds due to the hard-falling rain and the crash of gunfire. Smoke left the window and moved to the door of the bunkhouse, standing some six feet away from the door. Spring and Donny and two other hands kept their eyes to the front, occasionally firing at a dark running shape within their perimeter.

  The bunkhouse door had no inner bar; most people didn’t even lock their doors when they left for town or went on a trip. If somebody used the house to get out of the weather or to fix something to eat, they were expected to leave it as they found it.

  The door smashed open and the doorway filled with men. Smoke’s .44s roared and bucked in his hands. Screaming was added to the already confusing cacophony of battle. More men rushed into the bunkhouse, leaping over the bodies sprawled in the doorway. Smoke was rushed and knocked to the floor. He lost his left-hand gun but jammed the muzzle of his right-hand gun into the belly of a man and pulled the trigger. A boot caught him on the side of the head, momentarily addling him.

  Smoke heaved the badly wounded man away and rolled to the far wall. Men were all over him swinging fists and gun barrels. Using his own now-empty pistol as a club, he smashed a face, the side of a head. Jerking the pistol from a man’s holster, Smoke began firing into the mass of wet attackers. A bullet burned his side; another slammed into the wooden leg of a bunk, driving splinters into Smoke’s face.

  Jerking his Bowie from its sheath, Smoke began slashing out, feeling the warm flow of blood splatter his arm and face as the big blade drew howls of pain from his attackers.

  He slipped to one side and listened to the cursing of the outlaws still able to function. Lifting the outlaw’s pistol, Smoke emptied it into the dark shapes. The bunkhouse became silent after the battle.

  “You hit, Smoke?” Spring called.

  “Just a scratch. Donny?”

  The young cowboy did not reply.

  “I’ll check,” Fitz spoke softly. He walked to the cowboy’s position and knelt down. “He rolled twelve,” Fitz’s voice came out of the darkness.

  “Damn!” Smoke said.

  * * *

  Another attack from the outlaws had been beaten back, but Donny was dead and Cal had been wounded. Smoke’s wounds were minor but painful. No one in the house had been hurt.

  They had bought those walking out some time and distance. By this time, if they had not been discovered, they were clear. Clear, but facing a long, cold, wet, and slow march into the Big Belts. The house, the barn, and the bunkhouse were riddled with bullet holes. They had lost two horses, having to destroy them after they’d been hit by stray bullets. And no cowboy likes to shoot a horse.

  The rain slacked and the clouds drifted away, exposing the moon and its light. With that, the outlaws slipped away into the shadows and made their way back to the ridges overlooking the ranch.

  The moonlight cast its light upon the bodies of outlaws sprawled in death on the grounds. Some of those with wounds not serious tried to crawl away. Cord and Smoke and the others showed them no mercy, shooting them if they could get them in gunsights.

  After the intitial attack had been beaten back, the outlaws fired from the ridges for several hours, finally giving it up and settling down for some rest.

  The moonlight was both a blessing and a curse, for it would make their busting out a lot more difficult.

  Smoke ran to the house to confer with Cord.

  “I figure just after sunset,” the rancher said. “After the moon comes up, it’ll be impossible.”

  “All right. We’ll head in the opposite direction of those walking out. We’ll start out like we’re trying to bust through the roadblock, then cut east toward the timber. That sound all right to you?”

  “Suits me.”

  * * *

  Dooley had changed his mind about heading farther into the mountains, turning around when he was about halfway to Old Baldy. He rode slowly back toward Gibson.

  At dawn of the second day of the attack on the Circle Double C, he was standing in front of the newly opened stage offices, waiting for the station agent. He plopped down his money belt.

  “Stash that in your big safe and gimme a receipt for it,” he told the agent.

  That taken care of, Dooley walked over to the new hotel and checked in. He slept for several hours, then carefully bathed in the tub behind the barber shop, shaved, and dressed in clean clothes. He was completely free of the effects of alcohol and intended to remain that way. Nuts, but sober.

  He walked over to Hans and enjoyed a huge breakfast, the first good meal he’d eaten in days. Hans and Olga and Hilda eyeballed the man suspiciously.

  “Vere is everybody?” Hans broke the silence.

  “I ain’t got no idea,” Dooley told him, slurping on a mug of coffee. “I ain’t been to the ranch in two-three days.” Really, he had no idea how long he’d been gone. Two days or a week. Time meant nothing to him anymore. He had only a few thoughts burning in his brain: to kill Cord McCorkle and then turn his guns on his traitor sons and watch them die in the muddy street. And if he didn’t soak up too much lead doing that, and he could find her, he wanted to shoot his wife.

  That was the sum total of all that was in Dooley Hanks’s brain. He paid for his meal and took a mug of coffee with him, sitting in a chair on the boardwalk in front of the café. He would wait.

  He sat in his chair, watching the town wake up and the people start moving around. He drank coffee and rolled cigarettes, smoking them slowly, his eyes missing nothing.

  He watched as two very muddy and tired-looking riders rode slowly up the street, coming in from the north. Dooley set his coffee mug on the boards and stood up, staying in the morning shadows, only a dark blur to those still in the sunlight. He slipped the thongs from the hammers of his guns. The two riders reined up and dismounted, looping the reins around the hitchrail and starting up the steps to Hans. They stopped and stared in disbelief at the man.

  Hector and Rod, two punk gunslicks Dooley had hired, stood with their mouths open.

  “You ’pposed to be dead! ” Hector finally managed to gasp.

  “Well, I ain’t,” Dooley told them. “And I want some answers from you.”

  “We ain’t got no quarrel with you,” Rod told him. “All we want is some hot coffee and food.”

  “You’ll get hot lead, boy,” Dooley warned him. “Where the hell is my no’count sons?”

  “I . . .” Hector opened his mouth. A warning glance from Rod closed it.

  “You’d better talk to me, pup!” Dooley barked. “’Fore I box your ears with lead.”

  Hector laughed at the man. “You ain’t seen the day you could match my draw, ol
d man.” Hector was all of nineteen. He would not live to see another day.

  Dooley drew and fired. He was no fast gunslinger, but he was quick and very, very accurate. The slug struck Hector in the heart and the young man died standing up. He fell on his face in the mud.

  Dooley turned his gun toward Rod, the hammer jacked back. “My boys, punk. Where is they?”

  “They teamed up with Jason and Lanny and Cat Jennings,” he admitted. “I don’t know where they is,” he lied.

  Dooley bought it. He sat down in the chair, his gun still in his hand. He would wait. They would show up. Then he’d kill them. He’d kill them all.

  Rod backed up and led his horse across the street, to a little tent-covered café. Horace Mulroony had stood on the boardwalk across the street and witnessed the shooting. He motioned for his cameraman to bring the equipment. They had another body to record for posterity.

  “Mister Hanks,” he said, strolling up. “I would like to talk to you.”

  “Git away from me!” Dooley snarled, spittle leaking out of one corner of his mouth.

  Horace got.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  In the middle of the afternoon, in order to keep suspicion down, Smoke risked a run to the barn and began saddling all the horses himself. He laid four gunnybags or pieces of ripped-up blankets in front of each stall, to be used to muffle the horses’ hooves when they first pulled out. Smoke went over each saddle, either taping down or removing anything that might jingle or rattle.

  That done, he climbed up into the warm loft to speak to the men. Lujan was reclining on some hay. He opened his eyes and smiled at Smoke.

  “At full dark, amigo?”

  “At full dark. If you know any prayers, you best be saying them.”

  The gunfighter grinned. “Oh, I have!”

  The other men in the loft laughed softly, but in their eyes, Smoke could see that they, too, had been calling—in their own way—for some heavenly guidance.

  He climbed back down and decided to stay in the barn until nightfall. No point in drawing unnecessary gunfire from the ridges. He lay down on a pile of hay and closed his eyes. Might as well rest, too. It was going to be a long night.