Chapter 8
Randall didn't call a halt until they had put several miles between themselves and the Assiniboine village. Even then, he didn't plan to stop for very long, just in case the Indians were able to mount a pursuit quicker than he thought they would.
Wildflower's struggles had subsided. She was too scared or too tired, or both, to keep trying to get loose from his grip. He felt a little tremor go through her body every now and then, but otherwise she didn't move.
The baby wasn't happy, kicking and squirming and crying. The noise was getting on Randall's nerves, so he told the woman, “Get that brat to stop squalling.” Then he turned to the other riders and went on, “How many men did we lose?”
Somebody did a quick head count and reported, “Looks like we're down seven men, Randall. Plus we got three or four more wounded, but I reckon they'll probably make it.”
Randall nodded in satisfaction. Those casualties were a reasonable price to pay for what they had accomplished. Nobody ever did anything worthwhile without suffering a few losses along the way.
Not only that, but his group was still large enough to fight off an attack if the Indians caught up with them. Randall didn't think that was going to happen before they got back to Hammerhead, but it made sense to be ready for trouble.
“Anybody have any idea how many of the savages we killed?” he asked.
“Had to be at least a couple dozen of them,” Page said with a note of pride in his voice. “I accounted for four of the red heathens myself.”
“Five if you count the one you stabbed in the back earlier,” Randall muttered.
“What'd you say, boss?”
“Nothing,” Randall replied with a shake of his head.
He had felt the prisoner shudder again as she heard how many of her fellow villagers had died. That told him she understood English. He hadn't known that for sure until now.
“We'll let the horses rest for ten minutes,” he said. “A couple of you boys fall back a ways and make sure nobody's coming up behind us. If you see any signs of a rescue party, hotfoot it back here.”
Two of the gunmen wheeled their horses and rode off into the night. Most of the others dismounted.
“Come here, Dwyer,” Randall said. When the man walked over, Randall continued, “Here, take the girl. Hang on to her.”
“Glad to,” Dwyer said with a grin. He reached up and took hold of the prisoner as Randall slid her off the back of the horse.
The baby was still fussing but not crying as loudly and annoyingly as he had been. Randall swung down from the saddle and leaned close to the young woman, studying her face in the light from the moon and stars. He figured it would be a good idea to make sure she really was who she was supposed to be.
He hated to think about what might happen if he'd grabbed the wrong Indian.
“Listen to me, girl,” he said in a harsh, commanding voice. “I know you understand English. Is your name Wildflower?”
She didn't answer him. Stubbornly, she kept her eyes downcast and wouldn't even look at him.
He reached out, took hold of her chin, and roughly tilted her head back so that she had no choice but to raise her eyes.
“I asked you a question,” Randall said. “I want to know if your name is Wildflower. Are you Chief Two Bears's daughter?”
Her mouth twisted. For a second he thought she was going to answer him.
Then she spat in his face instead.
Without thinking, Randall backhanded her. She let out an involuntary cry and sagged in Dwyer's grip. She would have fallen if the gunman hadn't been holding her up.
“Damn, boss, take it easy,” Dwyer said. “You told us yourself, we ain't supposed to hurt the gal and her brat.”
“I didn't hurt her,” Randall said as he wiped the spittle from his face. “I just let her know she'd better not try anything like that again.” He reached for the baby. “We'll see how she likes having the kid taken away from her.”
“No!” she cried as she tried to twist away from him. She couldn't do it as long as Dwyer was holding her.
“Because of what my big-mouthed friend here said, you know I can't hurt this child,” Randall told her. “But there's nothing saying that I have to keep the two of you together.”
She fought him, but there was only so much she could do with Dwyer's hands clamped around her upper arms. Randall pulled the baby from her hands. The boy started wailing again as he was separated from his mother.
“I can fix it so you'll never see him again,” Randall went on. “We'll split up, and I'll take the babe some place you'll never find him. He'll grow up not remembering you at all.”
“No, no, no,” the young woman babbled. “You cannot! He is my son!”
“Then tell me what I want to know.”
“Yes! I am called Wildflower! My father is Two Bears!”
Tears ran down her cheeks as the ragged exclamations came from her.
“Yeah, well, maybe you're just telling me what you think I want to hear,” Randall said. “Why should I believe you?”
“Because it is the truth!” She started crying harder. “My son! My son! Pleaseâ”
Randall silenced her by thrusting the baby back into her arms. She clutched him desperately. Randall nodded to Dwyer, who let go of her and stepped back.
“All right,” Randall said, his voice quiet now. He reached toward her, and without really thinking about what he was doing, he stroked the long, midnight-dark hair. “I believe you. You were too upset to lie. Don't worry, you and your baby are going to stay together.”
She raised her tear-streaked face to him again.
“You promise this is true?”
“It will be as long as I'm giving the orders,” Randall said.
What he didn't tell her was that things could change as soon as they reached Hammerhead. When that happened, the Colonel would be giving the orders again, and if there was one thing Randall had learned, it was to not try to guess what the Colonel would do. The Colonel's thinking was always two or three steps ahead of everybody else's.
And if the Colonel were to decide that Wildflower and her son had to be separated or even had to die . . . well, that would be a damned shame, Randall thought as he looked at the beautiful young woman, but he would see to it. No doubt about that.
“Mount up,” he told his men. “We need to get moving again. There's no telling how soon somebody will be coming after us.”
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“The varmints call themselves the Indian Ring,” Preacher said as he sat in Two Bears's lodge with the chief and Standing Rock. “A few years back, when ol' Ulysses Grant was still runnin' things in Washington, there was another bunch known as the Indian Ring, but they was mostly just cheap crooks and politicians, which is two ways of sayin' the same thing as far as I'm concerned. The businessmen who were part of it paid bribes to government officials for the right to do business on Indian reservations. Sometimes they would pay off politicians to set aside certain treaties if they thought they could make some money out of it.”
“What would such men want with my daughter and grandson?” Two Bears asked.
Preacher shook his head and said, “This ain't the same bunch. That first one got broke up after a while, mostly through political pressure. Oh, I reckon some of the no-good skunks who were part of it probably belong to this new Indian Ring, too, but they've changed their tune. It ain't just about graft and corruption anymore. Now they're out to steal everything that ain't nailed down, especially when it belongs to folks like you, Two Bears. They want all the land that's been reserved for the tribes, and they'll wipe out anybody who stands in their way.”
“This is not a reservation,” Two Bears pointed out. Standing Rock was still too upset to talk, but he was listening.
“Maybe not officially, but it's government land. Open range. The settlers around here haven't pushed to claim it and drive you and your people off, but maybe somebody else has got that idea. And if the Indian Ring is behind it, well, they wouldn't shy away from hirin' gun-wolves to grab Wildflower and Little Hawk so they can force you to do what they want.”
“How do you know so much about this . . . Indian Ring?” Two Bears said the words as if they tasted bad in his mouth.
“Me and Smoke and Matt have come up against 'em a couple of times in the past,” Preacher explained. “We've managed to bust up their schemes, but it took a heap of shootin' both times.”
2
“Smoke Jensen? I have heard you speak of him.”
“Yeah, and Matt's a Jensen now, too. A real ring-tailed rannihan, too, just like Smoke.” Preacher paused. “I reckon they're as close to family as this old codger has got.”
“And you think this Indian Ring has something to do with the attack on my village and Wildflower and Little Hawk being kidnapped?”
“I can't say that for sure,” Preacher replied. “But I heard the fella who grabbed 'em mention some Colonel and a ring while he was givin' orders. Killin' Blue Bull like they done and then swoopin' down on the village in the night, murderin' folks left and right . . . well, trust me, Two Bears, that's exactly the sort of thing this new Indian Ring would do.”
Standing Rock burst out, “Talk, talk, talk! We sit and talk while those men are getting farther away with Wildflower and Little Hawk! We should be pursuing them!”
Preacher understood how upset the young warrior was. If he'd been married and had a son, likely he would have felt the same way if they were captured. But there were other things that had to be considered.
“There ain't enough light to track them tonight,” he said. “With a bunch that big, it won't be hard to pick up their trail in the mornin'. We'll go after 'em at first light.”
“They could be miles away by then!”
“And they likely will be,” Preacher admitted. “But that won't keep us from catchin' up to them.”
“And what will happen to my wife and child in the meantime?” Standing Rock asked in a bitter voice.
Preacher scratched at his beard and said, “I been thinkin' about that. When the varmints first rode in here, did they start shootin' folks right away?”
Two Bears frowned in thought for a moment, and then said, “They were firing over the heads of my people. The killing did not start until they had been here for a few minutes.”
Preacher nodded as if the chief's answer confirmed a theory for him.
“They were shootin' to keep everybody scared and confused while their boss went after Wildflower and Little Hawk. He didn't want to take a chance on either of them gettin' hit by a stray bullet. When he got his hands on them, though, and was carryin' them off, then it was different.” Preacher's voice grew bleak and angry. “Then they could slaughter whoever they wanted to.”
“I will find these men and kill them,” Two Bears vowed.
“It's too bad all the fellas they left behind were dead,” Preacher said. “If any of 'em had still been alive, we might've been able to make them tell us where the rest of the bunch is headed.”
“Yes. We would have made them talk.”
Hearing the cold hatred in his old friend's voice, Preacher didn't doubt that a bit.
He broached another thought, knowing that Two Bears wouldn't like what he was about to say.
“I don't think you should come along with us, Two Bears. I'll take Standin' Rock and some of your other young warriors, but you should stay here.”
Two Bears drew himself up stiffly and said, “You think I cannot keep up with the younger men? Do not forget, you are older than I am, Preacher!”
“I know that, but your people have suffered a terrible blow tonight. They need their chief here to help them get through this time of tragedy.” Preacher played his trump card. “Besides, there's somethin' else I need you to do.”
Two Bears looked like he wanted to keep arguing, but he asked, “What is this thing you wish?”
“I'm gonna write out a telegram, and I need you to go to the nearest settlement with a Western Union office and send it for me. The message is goin' to Smoke down in Colorado, and he can pass it on to Matt. He usually knows how to get hold of the boy. When they hear that the Indian Ring may be up to no good again, they'll come a-runnin'.”
“Any of my warriors can do that,” Two Bears said.
“I ain't so sure about that. This is mighty important, and I'd rather the chore be handled by the fella I trust the most in these parts.”
Two Bears stared at him with narrowed eyes for a long moment, and then said, “I still think you believe I am too old to go with you . . . but I will do as you say. It is true my people will need me here. There is much to mourn.”
“Still you talk!” Standing Rock said. “All this talk of telegrams and white men named Jensen . . . all of this will take time, time we do not have! We must pursue these evil men now!”
“Oh, we're gonna do that,” Preacher assured him. “First thing in the mornin', like I said. But you can bet your warbonnet on this, Standin' Rock . . . if the Indian Ring and their hired killers are mixed up in this, the way I think they are, then we're liable to need all the help we can get. And there ain't nobody I'd rather have sidin' me in a fight than Smoke and Matt Jensen.”
Chapter 9
Nothing was much worse than getting woken up out of a sound sleep and having to jump out of bed, Smoke Jensen thought.
Well, that wasn't strictly true, he corrected himself. Lots of things actually were worse than that, he supposed, and among them was being jolted awake and having to leave your nice warm bed when your nice warm wife was snuggled up against you.
But there were more important things to worry about right now. As he buckled on his gun belt, Smoke called through the closed door of his and Sally's bedroom, “Did we lose anybody out there, Pearlie?”
“Not permanent like,” replied the foreman of the Sugarloaf ranch. “That young fella Steve Barstow you hired a while back got a bullet hole in his arm, but the bone ain't busted and I reckon he'll be all right.”
“I'm glad to hear it.”
Smoke turned back toward the bed. He would have pulled his clothes on hurriedly in the dark after Pearlie knocked on the door to wake him, but Sally, who had been awakened as well, had rose up into a sitting position and lit the lamp on the little table beside the bed. Its yellow glow lit up her face. Her drowsy expression and the way her dark hair was tousled from sleep made her prettier than ever, Smoke thought.
He went over to her now, leaned down, and kissed the top of her head. As he started to straighten, she said, “You wait just a minute, mister.” She reached up, rested her hand on the back of his neck, and gently pulled him back down for a proper kiss.
When he stood up a long moment later, Smoke said, “You make it mighty hard to go off chasing rustlers in the middle of the night.”
“Just giving you a reminder of what you've got waiting for you at home, so maybe you won't take any foolish chances,” Sally said. “Although, that never seemed to do all that much good in the past, did it?”
“Who knows?” Smoke asked with a smile. “Without those little reminders, I might have done some things that were even more loco.”
“I'm not sure that would be possible,” Sally murmured. She pushed aside the covers and swung her legs out of bed. “You go ahead, Smoke, and let me know if I need to help with that wounded man. In the meantime, it's liable to be after sunup before you get back. I'll have plenty of hot food and coffee waiting for you and the boys.”
Smoke nodded his thanks, went over to the door, and slipped out into the hall where Pearlie was waiting. The foreman held a lantern he had carried in from the barn when he came to wake Smoke.
“I told Cal to saddle your horse for you,” Pearlie said as the two men left the house and headed for the big barn. “He knows to be careful not to let the critter take a nip out of his hide.”
Smoke nodded. The big 'Palouse was pretty much a one-man horse, but he'd been around Pearlie and Cal Woods, another of the Sugarloaf's regular hands, enough that he would tolerate being saddled by them, at least most of the time.
“Who brought the word about the rustlers hitting us again?” Smoke asked.
“Ollie Simms. He brought Barstow in to get that bullet hole patched up, too. Slewfoot, Dave Taggart, Billy Doyle, and Chet Burns are still out there, guardin' the rest of the herd in case the varmints come back.”
Smoke shook his head and said, “Since they've already made one raid tonight, I doubt if they'll come back for more. They're bound to know that we'd be ready for them if they did.”
The lanky foreman let out a disgusted snort.
“After raidin' the herd twice in the past month, you'd think they'd figure we were ready for 'em anyway. And we were. We had six men out there watchin' the critters, and still they got in, ventilated Barstow, and took off with nigh on to a hundred cows. Smoke, I ain't tryin' to tell you your business, but we got to put a stop to this!”
“We will,” Smoke replied with a grim edge coming into his voice. “We're going to track them down and end it.”
As Pearlie had said, this was the third time rustlers had hit the Sugarloaf herd in recent weeks. Each incident had escalated from the previous one. The first night, about fifty cattle had disappeared with no warning. No one had been riding night herd. There hadn't seemed to be any reason to, since everything had been peaceful lately. Anyway, wideloopers tended to avoid the Sugarloaf, since the ranch was owned by one of the deadliest gunmen in the West. Nobody with any sense wanted Smoke Jensen on his trail.
The second time the rustlers struck, shots had been fired, but no one was wounded. The thieves had made off with about a dozen more cattle than they had stolen the first time.
Now, according to Pearlie, around a hundred head of stock had been driven off, and a man who rode for Smoke's brand had a bullet hole in him.
Neither of those things sat well with Smoke. He asked himself if he was getting soft for letting things go on this long.
If anybody had a justifiable reason for wanting to sit back and enjoy a quiet life, it was Smoke Jensen. Although relatively young in years, only in his mid-thirties, he had packed several lifetimes worth of living into those years. Fairly early on, he had known tragedy, losing first his father and then a wife and infant son. Falsely accused of crimes, he had ridden the owlhoot trail with every man's hand against him until he was able to clear his name. He had been shot, knifed, beaten . . . and he had given back even more punishment than he had suffered. Slugs from his guns had sent more badmen than he could count straight to hell.
So he could be forgiven for it if he had wanted to leave that wild, dangerous existence behind him and enjoy the life of a prosperous rancher with a beautiful wife and a circle of staunch friends.
Problem was he had lived for so long with the tang of gun smoke in his nose that the air didn't smell right without it. He had spent so many years as a fiddle-footed drifter with his old friend Preacher that he often got the urge to sit a saddle and go see what was on the far side of the nearest hill he could find. He had realized that, deep down, action and adventure were like water and air to him. He couldn't live without them.
A dozen men led horses from the barn before Smoke and Pearlie got there. Smoke saw young Calvin Woods leading not only his own mount but also the big Appaloosa that Smoke normally rode. The 'Palouse tossed his head, clearly anxious to get out and stretch his legs on the trail.
The punchers were all wearing guns and had grim expressions on their faces. Smoke knew as he looked from each man to the next that they were all angry the rustlers had dared to strike at the Sugarloaf again.
“Where's Steve Barstow?” Smoke asked. He wanted to make sure Sally didn't need to tend to the wounded cowboy. Over the years she had had more than her share of experience at patching up bullet holes.
“I'm right here, Mr. Jensen,” a voice came from the group. A couple of men moved aside, and a young freckle-faced, redheaded cowboy stepped forward. He had a bloodstained rag tied tightly around his upper left arm to serve as a bandage. “I'm ready to ride with you and the rest of the fellas.”
“You don't have to do that, Steve,” Smoke said.
“Yes, sir, no offense, but I reckon I do,” Barstow insisted. “One of those no-good night riders put a hole in me, and I aim to do something about that. He made a bad mistake when he didn't kill me, or at least ventilate my gun arm.”
Smoke had to chuckle at the young man's attitude. He said, “I don't blame you a bit for feeling that way, but you'd better be sure that you're up to some hard, fast riding.”
“I'm up to it. If I ain't, I'll turn around and come back by myself. You won't have to waste a man by sendin' him with me.”
“Fair enough,” Smoke said. “Since you and Ollie were up there tonight where the rustlers hit us, the two of you can lead the way.”
Of course, Smoke knew where the herd was and could have ridden straight to it. He knew every foot of this ranch better than any man alive.
But he was also a natural leader of men and knew how they responded to challenges. At Smoke's words, Steve Barstow jerked his head in an enthusiastic nod and declared, “We sure will, Mr. Jensen.”
“Let's mount up, then,” Smoke said as he returned the nod.
The men swung into their saddles. They all carried handguns, and rifle butts stuck up from saddle sheaths strapped to every horse. They were armed for bear . . . or in this case, armed for rustlers.
When they left the ranch, they headed northwest, toward the mountains that loomed over the Sugarloaf. At this time of year, Smoke kept his herd in the high pastures that were thick with grass, vast parklike areas surrounded by stands of pine, juniper, and aspen. It was beautiful country, and never more so than when the deep green of those pastures was dotted with the darker shapes of grazing cattle.
After the rustlers had struck the first time, Smoke had sent a couple of hands up the slopes to stay at an old stone line shack that originally had been a trapper's cabin. Smoke had spent some time there himself, back in the early days when he had first come to this part of the country, before he was a successful rancher.
His hope was that the raid was a fluke, that some hardcases drifting through the area had come upon the cattle and decided to help themselves to a small jag. If that was the case, the loss of the stock angered him, but it was over and not worth tracking down the thieves, even though a part of him wanted to. Practicality and reason had prevailed on his mind for a change.
The two men keeping an eye on the herd hadn't been enough to keep the rustlers from coming back, but this time shots were fired. The two punchers were forced to retreat to the line shack and hole up there until the rustlers were gone. It was a bitter pill for them to swallow, but they were outnumbered three to one and Smoke wouldn't have wanted them to throw their lives away against those odds.
Smoke hadn't taken this second outrage lying down. He had taken Pearlie and several of the men and set out to trail the thieves. Unfortunately, a fierce thunderstorm had broken and washed out all the tracks before they could go very far.
Unable to find out where the rustlers had gone, Smoke had asked for six volunteers and had gotten twice that many ready to move up to the high pastures. They worked in shifts, two men sleeping in the line shack while the other four were out riding herd on the stock. That way they were able to keep someone with the cattle around the clock.
That hadn't worked, either. The rustlers had bushwhacked the night herders, wounding Steve Barstow and keeping the other men pinned down while the cattle were driven off.
While they were riding, Barstow told Smoke about what had happened and concluded by saying, “There had to be at least a dozen of 'em, Mr. Jensen. Probably more than that, considerin' how many were shootin' at us and how many it must've taken to drive off those cows.”
“The gang's getting bigger every time,” Smoke said, “just like they're getting more daring with each raid, too. If this keeps up, there'll be an army stealing our whole blasted herd.”
“But it won't keep up,” Barstow said. “Because we're gonna track down those varmints and give 'em their needin's.”
Smoke chuckled and said, “That's right, Steve. We should've done it before now, I reckon. I'm getting too plumb peaceful.”
Beside him, Pearlie let out a disbelieving snort and said, “Smoke Jensen, peaceful. That'll be the day. I'll believe it when I see it.”
Smoke appreciated that sentiment from his foreman, but he knew there was some truth to what he'd said. The day would come when he would have to settle down some. Now,
Preacher
had never settled down, no, sir, mused Smoke, and that old mountain man had a lot of years on him. But Preacher wasn't married and didn't have a ranch to run, either. Responsibility and that old codger had always been strangers.
Of course, thinking about how things might be in the future assumed that he would live long enough to get there, Smoke reminded himself. The way bullets had a habit of flying wherever he was and whatever he was doing, that was a big assumption.
Wait and see, he thought. His life was a long way from peaceful and boring, and he didn't foresee that changing any time soon.
Right now, he had some rustlers to catch.
When they reached the high pastures, a voice called out from some trees in a challenging tone, “Who's there? Better hold it right where you are!”
Smoke would have answered, but before he could, Barstow said, “Take it easy, Dave. We've brought Mr. Jensen and some of the men from the ranch.”
“Steve? Is that you?” A rider emerged from the shadows under the pines, holding a rifle. “Last time I saw you, you were bleedin' like a stuck pig.”
“I'm fine,” Barstow said. “I got enough blood left to go chase down those rustlers.”
Smoke asked, “Did you see which way they went, Dave?”
“They headed north along Gunsight Ridge,” Dave Taggart replied. “Slewfoot's trailin' the bastards.”
Smoke drew in a sharp breath.
“By himself?”
“We wanted to go with him,” Taggart said, “but he told us to stay here and keep an eye on the herd. Since he's been workin' for you longer than me or Billy or Chet have been, we figured we'd better do what he said.”
Smoke understood that, but he didn't like the idea of Slewfoot going after the rustlers by himself. Clearly, the cattle thieves didn't mind shooting, and if they dropped off a couple of men to keep an eye on their back trail, Slewfoot might be riding right into big trouble.
Taggart went on, “We're coming with you now, though, aren't we, Mr. Jensen?”
“No, the three of you stay here,” Smoke told him. “I don't want to leave the herd untended. We'll go after Slewfoot and maybe catch up to him before he gets himself into a fixâ”