Smoke found the wagon a few miles from the ranch. It was overturned and the supplies scattered. The harnesses had been cut and the horses were gone. A few minutes later he found Raul. The young man had been badly beaten and then dragged. He was alive, but just barely. Smoke emptied a pistol into the air, knowing that would bring the Double D hands at a gallop.
Waymore and Cletus were the first to arrive. “Get to the ranch and get a buckboard, Cletus. Waymore, you get Stony and Ted and start tracking the raiders. Ride with your rifles in hand.”
Smoke got his canteen and bathed the young man’s badly battered face. Raul opened his eyes. “Lie still, you’re bad hurt, Raul.”
“Fatso was in the bunch, Mr. Smoke,” Raul whispered. “So was Art Long. They beat me and dragged me.”
“Don’t talk anymore. We’ll get you into town to the doctor. You’ll be all right. Just lie still for now.”
Everybody came fogging down the road with the buckboard. The bed had been filled with hay and Raul was lifted as gently as possible and placed on the softness.
“Get him to town,” Smoke told Jeff, who was driving the wagon. He looked at the boys who’d come on the drive north. “You boys are now in charge of the house and the grounds, including the barn and corral. You are not to leave the grounds unless I say so. Is that clear?”
They nodded their heads.
“Get back up to the ranch and see to things. And stay in sight of the house. I’ll tan your butts if you disobey me. Get moving.”
The boys gone, Smoke looked at Denver. “Look after them, Denver.”
“Will do, boss.” The old cook swung into the saddle and headed back to the ranch.
“No riding, Sally,” Smoke told her. “You keep on teaching the twins how to shoot a rifle and stay close to the house and go armed at all times. Load up all the guns, especially the shotguns, and place them in every room and on the front and back porches. The war has started.”
Smoke waited on the boardwalk in front of Dr. Garrett’s office and small clinic. He turned as Sheriff Black quietly closed the door and stepped out.
“Doc says he’ll probably make it. But he’s busted up pretty good. I got his statement, for all the good it’ll do.” The Circle 45 hands will alibi for each other.” It was not put as a question.
“You know it. Raul is well-liked in town. He was polite and would do anything in the world for people. He came in with some sheepmen. My brother ran the sheep off, killed a lot of them, and probably had a hand in killing the sheepmen. Raul stayed around doing odd jobs. When the Duggan twins came in, he went to work for them…in direct defiance of Clint’s orders. I warned Raul to go armed. But he didn’t like guns. Goddamnit!” Harris summed up his feelings in one word.
Smoke said nothing.
Harris hitched at his gun belt. “I’m going out to my brother’s place. But don’t expect any arrests.”
“I know you’ll do all that you can, Harris. And I’m not being sarcastic. I mean that.”
The sheriff nodded his head and walked toward the stable. “Try to keep your guns in leather,” he said over his shoulder.
Smoke didn’t reply to that. He stood on the boardwalk until after the sheriff had ridden out, then crossed the street and took a chair in front of the hotel. He figured some of the Circle 45 rowdies would be riding into town shortly for a drink. He would be waiting.
It was not a long wait, and Smoke smiled when he saw the Wyoming man, Baylis, riding in with several of Clint’s men. One of the deputies, Benny, stood across the street, watching Smoke and the Circle 45 men. The rest of the deputies were out tracking the men who’d attacked Raul. The Circle 45 men went into the saloon. Smoke stood up and headed for the saloon.
As he passed by the deputy, he paused and said, “I just heard there was some trouble out at that farm about three miles west of here. Maybe you’d best go check on that.”
“Huh? I haven’t heard about any trouble.”
“I just told you.”
The deputy got the message and nodded his head. “That would be the Jeffersons’ place.”
“Probably.”
“It’ll take the rest of the afternoon for me to do that.”
“Pleasant ride, though. See you.”
“Ah…right, Mr. Jensen. See you.”
Smoke walked over to the saloon and pushed open the batwings. A dozen locals were sitting at tables. The Circle 45 hands were lined up at the bar, Baylis among them. Smoke stepped to one side, away from the batwings, and put his back to a wall.
“Any of you trash seen Fatso and Art Long today?” Smoke called.
Baylis froze in the lifting of his glass to his mouth. He cut his eyes to Smoke. “You callin’ me trash?”
“That’s right, Baylis. And worse. You’re the one who beat it up here from Wyoming to tell Clint about the herd. I can’t say that you were in on the night attack, but you’re just as guilty. You wanted to brace me back on the trail, Baylis. Still want to pull against me?”
Baylis lifted the shot glass and downed his drink. He thought for a moment, nodded his head, and turned, his hand by the butt of his gun. “Why not, Jensen? I think all that talk about you is bull anyway.” Then he grabbed for his Colt.
Smoke’s .44 roared and Baylis was leaning against the bar, his belly and chest leaking blood. The three Circle 45 hands jerked their guns and both of Smoke’s hands were filled with .44s as he went to one knee and began thumbing and firing in one long continuous roll of deadly thunder.
A round blew Smoke’s hat off his head and another slug came so close to his leg, he could feel the heat. But Clint Black was four hands short.
Baylis was sitting on the barroom floor, his hands by his side and his dead eyes staring at eternity. Two other Circle 45 riders were dead and the fourth was not long for this world. He had taken two .44 slugs in the chest. Smoke walked to him, reloading as he went, and kicked his gun away. The man stared up at him.
“You played hell, Jensen,” he gasped.
“I usually do, partner.”
“I guess I took a wrong turn in life and just never got back on the right road.”
“I reckon you did. But you can clean the slate some this day.”
“How’s that?”
“Did Clint Black order the attack on my herd?”
“Yeah. I won’t lie for him no more. He ordered us to hit your camp and kill everyone there. Told us to bring them good-looking twins back to him. He wanted to have some fun with the gals before he got rid of them.”
Dr. Garrett and Bigelow from the hotel had entered and were listening.
“Did you know about Raul being dragged and beaten today?”
“No. But Jud said Clint told him to have us start earnin’ the fightin’ wages we was gettin’. He put a bounty on your head, Jensen. Whichever one of us kills you gets five thousand dollars.”
“Anything else you want to tell me?”
“Gettin’ dark, Jensen. I think I’m goin’. Funny…but there ain’t no pain. Yeah. Clint’s done sent word all along the owlhoot trail for gunhands. I don’t know how many’s comin’ in, but they’ll be some, you can bet on that.”
“What’s your name?” Smoke asked, kneeling down beside the dying puncher turned gunslick.
“Doug. Doug Randel.”
“I’ll have that put on your marker.”
“’Preciate it. Maybe we’ll get to ride down a better trail someday. I’d like that.”
“Me, too, Doug.”
Doug smiled, coughed up blood, and died.
Smoke looked around for his hat. He found it, stuck his finger through the bullet hole and shook his head. “Hat’s not ten days old.” He put it on and settled it. He looked at Dr. Garrett, who was inspecting the downed men for signs of life. He didn’t find any and stood up with a sigh.
“A dead man’s confession might hold up in court,” the doctor said. “But I doubt it.”
“We’ll all testify that we heard it,” one of the local men said. “If that’ll help.”