Liz fixed a sackful of doughnuts for the men to eat on the ride back to town and the sheriff and posse mounted up. “After this raid,” Harris said to Smoke, “I don’t think there is any turning back for my brother. Personally, I’d rather see him go down in a hail of bullets than for me to have to put the noose around his neck, and I would have to be the one to do it. He’s heading for a violent end, and I don’t know of any way to stop him. See you folks.”
Smoke left the ranch the next morning long before anyone else other than the guards were up. He rode back to the valley where the ambush had taken place. For a long time he sat near the flat where the men and boys were buried. He smoked a couple of cigarettes and thought about the lives that had been snuffed out in that murderous raid. Baylis would have told Clint about the young boys working the remuda…and Clint had not cared. Clint had callously ordered the deaths of three women with no more feeling than swatting at a bothersome fly. The law was unable to contain Clint and his raiders. It wasn’t that the law wouldn’t deal with him, the law couldn’t deal with him. For whatever reasons, known only to Clint, the wealthy rancher was determined to drive the Duggan twins from their ranch and possess it.
Why?
Gold? Smoke didn’t think so—even though there had been gold strikes in this area there was no evidence that any gold was buried in the earth of the Double D. No, it was just stubborn pride and ruthless greed and callousness on the man’s part. Clint wanted everything he saw and would stop at nothing to get it.
Smoke walked among the lonely graves, pausing for a time at each rock headstone his men had carefully placed by each grave, the name and date carefully chiseled into the stone. Nate, Little Ben, Shorty, Davy, Duke, Matt, Harris, Eton, Johnson, Forrest. He paused for a longer time at the graves of the boys. Fourteen-year-old Rabbit and the fifteen-year-olds, Willie and Jake. Boys who wanted to earn some money and see some country and have a little fun.
They had found violent and senseless death.
Clint Black had ordered it, and his men had coldly and brutally wiped out half of Smoke’s drovers. No Indian attack could have been any more savage.
Smoke knelt down by Rabbit’s grave and let the coldness of the tomb wash over him and settle in his mind. When he stood up, he knew he was going to end this war. Clint wanted a fight, so be it. Clint was going to have a fight, but from now on, it would be a fight on Smoke Jensen’s terms.
He headed back to the Double D.
Sally was sitting on the porch when Smoke rode back to the ranch compound. She looked for a moment at the way he sat his saddle and then stood up.
“What’s wrong?” Jeanne asked.
“I’m going to fix a packet of food for Smoke.”
“Is he going somewhere?” Toni asked.
“Yes,” Sally replied mysteriously, and walked into the house.
“How strange,” Jeanne remarked.
Toni watched as Smoke stepped down from the saddle and walked toward the house. “Maybe not,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“There is something quite different about Smoke. Look at him. He’s moving like some great predator cat. See the difference in him?”
Jeanne looked. “I do believe you’re right. There is a more, well, determined look about him.”
The sisters looked at each other and smiled. Toni said, “I think Mr. Clint Black is about to discover that he has angered the wrong man.”
None of the hands said anything to Smoke when he emerged from the house. There was a look about him that warned people away. He had changed clothes. He now wore earth tones that would blend in with his surroundings. He had selected a big rugged horse that was mountain bred, would not stand out, and who was a better sentry at night than a trained dog. Smoke had a packet of food, a small coffee pot, and a bedroll. He had put moccasins in the saddlebags. There was an extra rope on the saddle. He had shoved a Winchester .44-40 into the saddle boot and bandoleers of ammunition crisscrossed his chest with extra boxes in the saddlebags.
He had said his goodbyes to Sally while in the house. She knew her man and was stoic about their temporary parting.
When she had asked where he had been that morning, she knew even more what he was going to do when he replied, “Over in the valley, by the graves.”
He held her for a moment, kissed her, and was gone. Sally busied herself baking pies.
“You boys hold it down,” Smoke said to the hands that were gathered outside the barn. “I’ll be back when you see me.”
Smoke headed for Circle 45 range.
As the twins had suggested, Sheriff Harris Black got nothing out of the wounded raiders. Since no one was filing any charges, he could do nothing except let them go. Two of the raiders had died before reaching town and a third was not expected to live. Dr. Garrett’s little clinic was jammed to overflowing, with pallets on the floor.
“They’ll be more,” one of the deputies warned him. “This situation ain’t even built up a good head of steam yet.”
“I’m running out of medicines,” the Doctor complained.
“You better order some more,” the deputy told him. “’Cause when Smoke Jensen gets a gutful of this mess, he’ll come a-foggin’ like something out of Hell. Clint Black ain’t seen nothin’ yet. You mark my words, Doc.”
The Circle 45 rider felt the loop settle around him, the rope tighten, and he was jerked out of the saddle before he could holler. Not that yelling would have done any good, since he was miles from the ranch house and riding alone.
The wind was knocked from him as he hit the ground. He managed to roll and shake the loop. He got to his feet spitting mad and cussing and reaching for his gun. Out of the corner of his eyes he caught a blur of motion and turned just in time to receive a big leather-gloved fist right in his mouth. The blow knocked him on his butt and addled him for a few seconds. He crawled to his feet and a combination of lefts and rights flattened him, bloodying his mouth, busting his nose, and watering his eyes. The blows came so fast he still was not sure who was throwing them. But he had him a pretty good idea. The Circle 45 hand tried to make a fight of it, but he never had a chance to get set.
The would-be tough felt himself picked up and hurled into a stand of trees. His head impacted against a tree and his world turned black. When he awakened, he had the world’s worst headache, his face felt like someone had worked him over with a two-by-four, and to add insult to injury, he was hanging upside down from a tree limb.
Smoke Jensen was sitting on the ground, his back to a tree. He was chewing on a biscuit and staring at the puncher. The Circle 45 rider quickly decided the best thing he could do was to keep his mouth shut.
Smoke stared at him for several very long moments. He finished his biscuit, walked to his horse and took a drink from his canteen, returned to the tree, and sat down. “You have a home?” Smoke finally asked the upside-down man.
“Utah,” the puncher said. “I’d like to see it again someday. Sir,” he added.
Smoke reached down and pulled out a long-bladed knife. The bladder of the Circle 45 rider gave it up and a dark stain appeared on his jeans.
“How bad do you want to see Utah?” Smoke asked him.
“Real bad. Like I’d leave right now ifn I was able.”
“I ought to just go on and split you wide open and be done with it.”
“Oh, man!” the hired gun hollered. “Look…you cut me down and I’m gone. You won’t never see me again. That’s a promise, Mr. Jensen. Look here, I’ll level with you. Clint’s hirin’ more men. He’s payin’ money can’t nobody pass up. I’m tellin’ you the truth.”
Smoke stood up and walked over to the puncher. He cut him down and the man landed heavily. He lay on the ground and looked up at Smoke.