Chapter 10
The cowboy called Slewfoot had ridden for spreads all over the West, but he had never found a better place to work than the Sugarloaf, or a better man to work for than Smoke Jensen. Any cowboy worth his salt rode for the brand to start with, but Slewfoot felt an extra level of loyalty to Smoke.
Not everybody would have taken a chance on a man most would have regarded as a cripple. It was true that when he wasn't on horseback, Slewfoot had a little trouble getting around. Years earlier, a horse had stepped on his right ankle and busted the hell out of it, and when the bones healed back together, they weren't in exactly the right places anymore. As a result that foot sat at a funny angle, and while he could still walk, he had to take it easy and his gait was a mite odd to see.
But put him in a saddle and he was as good as he ever was. He had to rig the right stirrup a little different, that's all. He could work just as hard as always, was still a sure hand with a lasso, and knew the ways of cattle frontwards and backwards.
He could shoot when he had to, as well, and if he got any of those dadblasted rustlers in his sights, that was exactly what he intended to do.
He was tall and lanky, with a long face that reminded people of a horse. Stick a hat on his head and he looked like a beanpole wearing a Stetson. He paused now and took off that hat so he could scratch his head in puzzlement. He had been trailing those stolen cows by moonlight. A hundred head left a pretty big trail, one that could be seen even at night.
However, he had come to a place where the cattle seemed to have turned straight toward the ridge, and that didn't make any sense.
Gunsight Ridge loomed about half a mile to the west, a tall, blocky barrier with a V-shaped notch in it that gave it its name. That notch was distinctive, but it didn't serve as any sort of pass. It was too high for that, with no trail leading to it.
There
were
a few places where men on horseback could get over the ridge, but you couldn't drive a herd of cattle over it, even a small bunch like the one Slewfoot was pursuing. The closest place you could push a herd like that was still a good five miles ahead of him.
Yet there was no mistaking what he saw from the back of his horse. The rustlers were driving those cows straight toward the ridge.
Sugarloaf range ran all the way to the ridge. Slewfoot didn't think the thieves would hold those stolen cattle on Smoke's land. They would want to put as much distance as they could between them and Smoke Jensen, at least to Slewfoot's way of thinking. They ought to still be lighting a shuck north, the way they had started. There were some passes up there leading higher into the mountains, then down into the valleys beyond. Some of the isolated settlements in that direction were no better than outlaw towns, where the rustlers could dispose of those cows and get some quick cash in return.
Well, puzzling or not, that was the way the trail led, so Slewfoot hitched his horse into motion and commenced following it again. As he rode, he loosened the six-gun in its holster on his hip, and he checked the Winchester in the saddleboot as well. Those wideloopers were ruthless. They had proven that by shooting young Steve Barstow. Slewfoot hoped the kid was all right.
As he drew closer to the ridge, he kept a wary eye on the trees that grew thickly along its base. He wouldn't put it past those varmints to leave behind a couple of bushwhackers.
Because of that suspicion, Slewfoot was alert when his horse suddenly pricked up its ears and tossed its head a little. That told him the animal had caught the scent of another horse. Following his instincts, Slewfoot hauled hard on the reins and jabbed his heels into his mount's flanks, causing the horse to leap to the right.
At that instant, muzzle flame spurted from the shadows underneath the trees, accompanied by the sound of two rifle shots. Slewfoot wasn't hit, but he sensed the bullets slicing through the air not far to his left. He rode hard toward the nearest clump of trees that would give him some cover.
More shots cracked from the bushwhackers' position. Slewfoot leaned low over his horse's neck to make himself as small a target as possible. He pulled the Winchester from its scabbard, and when he reached the pines, he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and vaulted from the saddle.
He landed awkwardly but caught his balance right away. He knew he looked pretty funny when he ran, but right now how he looked didn't matter. Dragging his right foot, he scurried the few yards to the trees and dived behind them, even as more slugs whipped around him and chewed big pieces of bark from the trunks. The smell of pine sap seeping from those wounds was strong as he lay there in the darkness.
His hat had flown off when he went diving for cover. He edged his head around the tree and looked toward the growth at the base of the ridge. He saw several more muzzle flashes as the riflemen hidden there kept throwing lead at him. Bullets thudded into tree trunks and cracked through the branches around him.
Their mistake had been not waiting for him to get a little closer so they could make sure of him, he thought. Once his horse warned him, the bushwhackers had lost their best chance. For that he would always be grateful to the animal . . . for however long the rest of his life lasted, which was a pretty good question at the moment.
Those muzzle flashes gave him some targets. Lying on his belly, Slewfoot nestled the Winchester against his shoulder and drew a bead on one of the spots where he'd seen a spurt of flame. He waited until there was another orange flash, then pulled his own trigger. With a whipcrack of sound, the rifle kicked against his shoulder.
As soon as he fired, Slewfoot rolled to his right, moving fast. He wound up behind another tree and paused there. He heard slugs plowing into the ground near the tree where he had been a moment earlier. Both ambushers were still firing, he realized with a grimace, so either he had missed with his shot, or it hadn't done enough damage to put one of the riflemen out of the fight.
He was safe enough where he was, but he was pinned down in these trees. It was possible that one of the bushwhackers would try to keep him here while the other worked around for a better shot at him. That was what he would do if the tables were turned.
He had one bit of hope that lifted his spirits. Ollie Simms had headed for the ranch headquarters, taking the wounded Steve Barstow with him, to let Smoke know the rustlers had struck again. Slewfoot had a hunch that Smoke would hit the trail in a hurry. If Smoke hotfooted it up here and brought some of the Sugarloaf hands with him, that would change everything.
So now, Slewfoot thought as bullets continued to sizzle through the trees around him, all he had to do was wait for Smoke Jensen to show up. . . .
And hope that he could stay alive until then.
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The gunshots they heard could have all sorts of explanations, but Smoke's gut told him there was only one that was likely.
Slewfoot had either caught up to the rustlers, or some of them had lain in wait for him. Either way, Smoke was convinced that was his rider trading shots with the varmints they were after.
He wasn't going to waste any time in getting to Slewfoot and giving him a hand. He shouted, “Come on!” at his punchers and urged the 'Palouse into a run.
The shots came from the north, the direction Slewfoot had gone. The dark, looming bulk of Gunsight Ridge to the west made it impossible to get lost, even at night.
Smoke couldn't let his stallion run flat out, although the 'Palouse would have been happy to. There was too much danger of the horse stepping into a hole or running into some unseen obstacle. Smoke kept his mount moving pretty fast, though, and the other riders trailed closely behind him.
Even though they were hurrying, time seemed to pass with agonizing slowness as they rode north. A few minutes could be an eternity in a gun battle. Not only that, but Smoke had to call a halt every so often to listen for the sound of shots. If the guns fell silent, that would send an ominous message indeed.
Every time he reined in and the other men followed suit, Smoke heard the crackle of rifle fire. The shots were coming at a slower pace now, instead of the furious volley they had been at first. That meant the fight had settled down to a standoff. Slewfoot was alive and still battling, but it was possible he was badly wounded.
Finally, when it seemed like they were getting close, Smoke signaled for the men to stop.
“Pearlie, pick four men to come with you and me,” he said as he dismounted and pulled his Winchester from its saddle sheath. “Cal, you'll be staying here with the other men.”
“Blast it, Smoke, I'd rather come with you,” Cal objected.
“I know you would, but I want you here to take charge if we need you to come in and save our bacon.”
Smoke's voice was firm and didn't allow for any argument. Despite Cal's youth, he had been smack-dab in the middle of plenty of trouble since coming to the Sugarloaf, and he was seasoned beyond his years.
“All right,” the youngster said reluctantly, “but be careful.”
“You're starting to sound like Sally,” Smoke said with a quick grin.
“I just know how accident-prone this old pelican is,” Cal said as he nodded toward Pearlie.
The foreman and former hired gun began, “It won't be no accident when you find yourself with my boot up yourâ”
“Let's go,” Smoke said.
Pearlie quickly pointed out four men to come with him and Smoke. They started off on foot, moving quickly and blending into the shadows. The men who rode for Sugarloaf might not be professional fighters, but most of them were tough, experienced frontiersmen.
Now that the hoofbeats weren't drowning them out, the shots came loud and clear through the night. Smoke followed them, veering to the left so that he could approach under the cover of some trees. When he reached the edge of the pines, he stopped just behind one of the trunks and peered out across an open stretch of ground toward more trees at the base of Gunsight Ridge.
It took only a moment for the setup to become clear in his mind. A single set of muzzle flashes from a clump of trees to the right marked Slewfoot's location. Two riflemen, undoubtedly a pair of rustlers, were in the pines at the base of the ridge.
Pearlie eased up beside Smoke and took in the situation just as quickly. Quietly, he said, “If all six of us open up on those trees by the ridge, we'll skin those polecats quick as you please.”
“Yeah, but I wouldn't mind taking at least one of them alive so we can ask him some questions,” Smoke said. He pointed. “If you and I were to work our way around that way and get behind them, then the rest could open up and come just close enough to stampede them right into our arms.”
Pearlie's teeth sparkled in the moonlight for a second like his namesake as a grin flashed across his rugged face.
“I like that idea,” he said. “Ain't no guarantee those jaspers will cooperate in bein' took alive, though.”
“All we can do is try,” Smoke said.
He gathered the other four men around him in the shadows and explained the plan to them. They grasped it without any trouble, and Smoke knew he could count on them to do their part.
“We'll signal you with the hoot of an owl when we're ready for you to open the ball,” he told them and received nods and murmurs of agreement. Satisfied that everyone understood, he said to Pearlie, “Let's go.”
They catfooted through the darkness, using the cover of the trees as much as they could. When the trees ran out, Smoke dropped to hands and knees and motioned for Pearlie to do likewise. Flattening onto his belly, Smoke began crawling toward the ridge.
The grass was tall enough to conceal the two of them, and they moved slowly and carefully enough that the slight disturbance of the grass would be difficult to spot in the moonlight. Patience had never been Smoke's strong suit, but he had learned stealth from Preacher and the old mountain man had been a good teacher. The best possible teacher, in fact, since in his younger days Preacher had been able to creep into an enemy camp, slit the throats of several men, and get back without anyone ever knowing he was there until the next morning.
At last, Smoke and Pearlie reached the trees where the bushwhackers were hidden. When they were back safely in the shadows, they stood up. Smoke led the way to the very base of the ridge. They followed it toward the spot where the riflemen were holed up. The strip of trees was about twenty feet wide, so Smoke and Pearlie would have room to get behind the bushwhackers.
When the shots were so loud they sounded like they were practically in the laps of the men from Sugarloaf, Smoke stopped again. He stiffened as his gaze turned toward the ridge. The rock face was dark, but he saw an even deeper patch of darkness that had a faintly ominous look to it, as if it were the gaping maw of some hungry, primordial creature.
It looked for all the world like the mouth of a tunnel, but Smoke would have sworn there was no tunnel in Gunsight Ridge.
They could investigate that later, he told himself. Right now they had to deal with the men who were trying to kill Slewfoot. He tapped Pearlie on the shoulder to let the foreman know they were ready.
Then Smoke lifted his free hand to his mouth, cupped it around his lips, and waited until the rifles fell silent for a moment. When they did, he hooted like an owl.
A heartbeat later, gun thunder filled the night as the rest of Smoke's men opened fire.