Sally laughed. “Out here, Jeanne, the phrase ‘a bad man’ doesn’t hold the same connotation as back East. It doesn’t mean that person is evil, or not to be trusted, or anything like that. It means that person is a bad man to crowd or try to harm. It might mean he’s a dangerous man in a fight. My husband is known as a bad man because he has the name of ‘gunfighter.’”
“We saw the play,” Toni said.
“That’s too bad,” Smoke told her. “I’m told it’s terrible.”
“And we’ve read the books,” Jeanne said.
“They’re even worse,” Smoke replied.
“I must admit,” Toni said, “that you are a rather, ah, imposing figure of a man. Have you really gunned down five thousand men?”
Smoke laughed aloud. “If I had done that, when would I have had the time to get married, build a home, father children, and run a ranch? I’m afraid the stories about me are highly exaggerated.” He stood up and tossed out the dregs of his coffee cup. “I’m going to make a turn around the herd. It’s getting late. We’d all best get ready to hit the sack.”
“He’s only gunned down about a thousand men,” Sally said, with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Smoke sighed.
“Oh, my!” the twins gasped.
A shot brought Smoke lunging to his feet, grabbing for his guns. He could hear the bawling of cattle and the thunderous roar of a stampede building. He jammed his feet into his boots and slung his gun belt around his waist just as the camp filled with horses. He could just make out hooded men, all wearing long dusters, and all with guns in their hands. A horse hit him and knocked him sprawling.
“Sally!” he called. “Run for the timber. Run, honey.”
He struggled to get to his feet. A bullet tore into his shoulder and staggered him. He could hear the cries of wounded men as his crew was being shot to pieces. He was again knocked spinning by a running horse. He grabbed ahold of a rider’s leg and jerked him out of the saddle, smashing him in the face with a big fist. A bullet nicked his head and he fell to the ground calling out Sally’s name. Through the painful fog in his brain, he could hear the screaming of men and women and boys and the roar of a full-blown stampede. Clint Black! he thought. I should have placed more men on guard. I should have guessed he’d have the twins followed.
Then there was no more time left for thinking. Smoke had to stay alive. He had to find Sally. He had to fight.
He jumped up behind a rider and hammered blows at the man, knocking him out of the saddle. In the saddle, Smoke fumbled for the reins and found them. The night was so black, he could not see five feet in any direction. Something struck him on the head and the last thing he remembered was grabbing hold of the saddle horn as the badly frightened animal took off in a panicked run.
Warmth awakened him. He lay on the ground for several moments, not moving or opening his eyes. He listened. He could hear squirrels chattering and birds singing. A bee hummed past him. Without lifting his head, he opened his eyes. He was in the high country, he could tell that. But he didn’t have the vaguest idea where in the high country. To make matters worse, he didn’t know who he was.
He rolled over and pain tore through his left shoulder. Groaning, he sat up. His left shirtsleeve was bloody. Part of a large splinter was sticking out of his flesh. He remembered being shot, or thinking he’d been shot. He must have been hit with the stock of a rifle. The stock might have been broken and it ripped apart when whoever it was had hit him, driving the splinter into his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he pulled the long piece of wood out of his shoulder. He looked at it and threw it away. He gingerly felt his head. It hurt. There were two lumps on his noggin and dried blood.
“Sally!” he said aloud, his voice a croak. He cleared his throat as the events of the night before came crashing back to him.
He looked up at the sun. About ten o’clock. He felt sudden panic try to overtake his emotions. He pushed panic aside and regained control. He pushed himself to his boots and almost fell, reaching out to grab a small tree for support. He leaned against the tree for a moment. Damn, but he was weak.
The camp had been attacked—he tried to sort out the jumble in his aching head. He remembered yelling for Sally to get away. He recalled the shooting and the hooded riders. He suddenly and vividly remembered the screaming of the women, the yelling and moaning of his hands, and the stampeding herd.
And he was thirsty; God, what he wouldn’t give for a long drink of cold water. Taking several deep breaths, he looked around him. He had absolutely no idea where he was. But at least now he knew who he was.
He inspected himself for further wounds and could find nothing except bruises from being knocked down several times by running horses. Maybe he’d been kicked too. He just couldn’t remember. Smoke started carefully down the slope, for he was strangely weak. And that was a condition he was unaccustomed to.
He dropped his hands to his guns. They were in place. He felt for his knife. It was there. Obviously, the attack had come so quickly, he had not had the time to pull his guns from leather.
He had to find Sally.
He fell twice on the way down the steep slope. He sat down and removed his spurs, sticking them in his back pocket. He found some berries and ate them and felt better. A few hundred yards later, he found a spring and bellied down on the ground and drank his fill. Smoke took off his bloody shirt and bathed his wounds. He found moss and placed that over the jagged rip in his shoulder, tying the moss secure with his kerchief. He drank again and could feel the strength returning to his powerful muscles and his head clearing.
A cold anger was filling his head. Smoke knew the sensation well. If Sally had been hurt, or killed—he knew he had to face that possibility—this countryside was going to run red with blood. Any man who would order the killing of women and boys did not deserve to live, and Clint Black had made one very large mistake. He had let Smoke Jensen live.
In a clearing, Smoke got his bearings. He picked out landmarks he had seen coming in and now knew his approximate location. He started toward the last camp they had made, figuring it was about five miles away.
He found a body but the rampaging cattle had trampled it beyond recognition. Then he found a boot and recognized it as belonging to one of the new hands. Eton. Smoke stuck a stick in the ground to mark the spot and walked on. He would be back to bury the remains.
He found Willie next. He knew it was the fifteen-year-old because of his overalls. He preferred them over jeans. Using another stick, he marked the spot and walked on, sadness mixed with the coldest anger he had ever experienced washing over him with every step.
Duke lay on the ground facedown. He had been shot a dozen times. In the back. Rabbit was next. Someone had roped and dragged him.
“Fourteen years old,” Smoke muttered. “Fourteen years old.”
He walked on. He could smell the wood smoke now. The raiders had probably torched the wagons. And probably piled on as many bodies as they could find.
Shorty had made a stand of it behind some rocks. But it didn’t do him much good. He was riddled with bullet holes. Smoke took his rifle and all his cartridges. Davy had taken a round right through the head. Smoke took his leather waistcoat and slipped it on. He found Johnson and took his hat and gloves. A horse nickered close by and Smoke turned. The foreman’s horse walked slowly toward him. Nate had managed to get saddled up. Smoke had no way of knowing the foreman’s fate—but he could guess.
He pulled the saddle off the horse and rubbed him down with dry grass, talking to the animal, calming it. He smoothed out the saddle blanket, saddled up, and swung into the leather. Nate’s Winchester was in the boot, so Smoke rode with Shorty’s rifle across the saddle horn. He only rode a few hundred yards before he found his foreman. Nate and Little Ben had stood and fought it out to the end. Smoke took their weapons and ammunition and the canteen that one of them had grabbed.