Red grabbed for his guns. Deputy Harry Simpson’s Greener roared, the buckshot taking Red in the side and almost cutting the man in two. The force of the impacting buckshot lifted Red off his boots and slung him against the bar, splattering bits of Red all over the front of the long bar.
Sheriff Black looked at Smoke while some of the gunhands coughed and struggled to keep down their breakfast at the sight of what was left of Red. “Very neatly done, Smoke,” the sheriff complimented him. “Very neat, indeed.”
Smoke lifted his cup in a mock salute and finished the coffee.
“What are you talking about?” Clint said.
“How about you, Clint?” Smoke asked from the end of the bar. “Do you have the guts to fight me?”
“That’s all for this day, Smoke,” Harris warned. “No more of this. I’m ordering you from this town, and you’d better heed that order.”
“Fine,” Smoke said. “I’m a law-abiding man, Sheriff.” He paused by Clint and whispered, “You’re about six feet, three inches tall, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. What of it?”
“I just didn’t know that crap would stack that high, that’s all.”
Jud grabbed his boss and spun him around before he could take a swing. “Don’t do it, Clint. That’s what he wants. Can’t you see that?”
Smoke stood smiling at Clint. Then he arrogantly tipped his hat at the man and walked out of the saloon, lifting his gunbelt from the peg on his way out.
“Somebody pick up Red and tote him to the undertakers,” Jud ordered.
“What are we gonna use?” Fatso Ross asked. “A shovel?”
Clint Black sat in his study, in a leather chair by the fireplace, drinking shot after shot of whiskey. Drinking it neat and chasing it with water. He had thanked Jud for stopping him that morning back in the saloon. Clint was under no illusions about who would have been the victor in that fight. Smoke Jensen would have killed him with his fists, or at least crippled him. He could see it in Smoke’s eyes. A cold, killing fury.
He poured another glass of whiskey. It was one of those times when the alcohol had no effect on him. He reached for a cigar then pulled his hand back. He didn’t want another cigar and really didn’t want the whiskey he’d just poured. He threw glass and contents into the fireplace. The small fire to chase away the evening’s chill exploded harmlessly when the whiskey hit the flames.
He thought about Red and the supper he’d eaten turned sour in his stomach. Once he had gotten over his anger, he realized what his brother had meant that morning when he spoke to Smoke and said it was neatly done. Jensen had set that killing up as coldly as a striking rattler.
Clint sighed and rose to his feet. He walked to the window and looked out at the lamplit windows of the twin bunkhouses, set off to the side and slightly in front of the big house, a respectable distance away. He had more than fifty men at his command, hard men, good men with a gun, ruthless men who would kill man, woman, or child…and most had killed all three, at one time or another. He had more money than he could ever spend and vast holdings of land. And yet Clint felt a helpless sensation sweep over him. He didn’t know what to do about Jensen. The man made him feel…well, inadequate.
Clint had expected Jensen to come charging in days ago, waging war. Instead, he was laying back and biding his time…but for what reason? What was his plan? The man had to have one. Clint just couldn’t figure out what it might be.
Smoke and Sally were staying in one of the bedrooms of the ranch house on the Double D spread. It was a sturdy home, with half a dozen big, comfortable rooms. The man who built it, or had it built, had looked to the future in his planning…but for him, it hadn’t panned out well here.
Smoke was going to see to it that it did work out for the Duggan twins.
Lying in bed, with Smoke snuggled close to her, she asked, “What is your plan, honey?”
“My plan? I don’t really have one. I almost made Clint mad enough to fight me this morning, but the foreman apparently has more sense than his boss and grabbed him. I don’t think Clint’s not wearing a gun will last long, though. But I can’t see him pulling on me. No matter what I might say. But I will see him dead, Sally. Either by my hand or at the end of a rope. One way or the other.”
“Do you trust Sheriff Black?”
“Up to a point. But that point is broadening. I think after he failed to convince his brother to back off and live in peace with his neighbors, Harris began to see him in a much different light. I get the impression that Harris is very disappointed in his brother.”
“Disappointed enough to shoot him if it came to that?” Sally asked.
“I don’t know, honey. I just don’t know about that. I’ve known brother to shoot brother, and father to shoot son and the other way around. But I think for all his past, Harris Black is a good, decent man at the core. Could he kill his brother? I don’t know. One thing I wish I did know: I wish I knew what Clint’s next move was going to be.”
13
Clint called his foreman over for breakfast at the main house. All the hands knew something was up, for anytime Jud was asked to eat with Clint, something big was in the works.
“When I came in here, Jud,” Clint said, after shoveling food into his mouth, “I wasn’t no more than a kid. Not yet twenty years old. There wasn’t nothing in this part of the country exceptin’ Indians and outlaws. Few nesters. I run the nesters off, fought the Indians, and killed the outlaws. This part of the territory is mine. Has been for years, and I intend to see that it remains that way.”
The foreman ate slowly and said nothing. He listened.
“Tell the men they’re going to start earning their money today,” Clint told him. “I want Smoke Jensen dead.”
Jud nodded his head and continued eating. The cook came in with a fresh pot of coffee, set it on the table, and quickly left the room. For a fact, Jud thought, things had sure changed in only a few weeks. Used to be that when a Circle 45 rider came to town, folks stepped lively in serving them. A person could smell the fear in them. All that had changed since Jensen arrived. The townspeople and even the damned farmers around the area were not properly respectful like they should be.
“Jensen’s gone out of the cattle business for the most part,” Clint said. “He’s gonna raise horses. So he’s got time on his hands to hang around up here and meddle in everybody’s business. Well, I’m tired of him meddlin’ in mine. Can’t count on Harris anymore. But that don’t make any difference. He never really was included in any major plannin’. Next thing we know, he’ll have got religion and be goin’ to church. The new hands arrive?”
Jud nodded his head. “Eight of them. We still got empty bunks we could fill. Problem is, Clint, there ain’t nothin’ for them to do. They’re just hangin’ around the bunkhouse loafin’ and drawin’ their pay.”
“Weldon and Tex come in?”
“Late yesterday.”
“We start crowdin’ the Double D hands. Push ’em into a fight. But make sure our boys got lots of witnesses. Leave the women alone.”
“How about them snot-nosed kids Jensen brung up with him?”
“They’re drawin’ a man’s pay and sittin’ a saddle. If they get in the way, too bad. After breakfast, send the boys out in groups of five and six.” Clint raised his head and smiled at his foreman. “Tell them to get into trouble.”
Raul, the young Mexican who took care of the house and the lawn at the Double D, had taken the wagon into town for supplies early that morning. When he wasn’t back by mid-afternoon, the twins got worried.
“Raul does not drink,” Toni told Smoke. “And he is very dependable. He’s stood by us through the worst. I’m afraid something has happened to him.”
“I’ll ride in and check on him.”