William Johnstone - Bounty Hunter

“I have some books downstairs. Would you like me to bring a few of them up here for you?”

“That would be very much appreciated,” Luke said.

“In the meantime, you can tell me about all those dead men scattered around the place where my friends found you.”

Luke smiled. “You’ve been wanting to ask me about that ever since I woke up, haven’t you?”

“That old prospector said they were outlaws. Somebody named Solomon Burke and his gang. Supposed to be pretty bad hombres. Did you kill all of them by yourself?”

“Seemed like the thing to do, especially since they were trying to kill me at the time.”

“If they were using that place for a hideout, that means they didn’t ambush you. It was the other way around, wasn’t it?”

“I was hunting them, yes,” Luke admitted with a nod. “I was after the bounty on them.” He had to laugh. “I’ll bet that old pelican claimed it for himself, though.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Smoke said. “So you’re a bounty hunter.”

“That’s right.”

“There was a time I had a price on my head.” Smoke shrugged. “But I suppose a fella’s got to do whatever is necessary for him to get by.”

“I don’t blame you for not being fond of the idea of having a bounty hunter under your roof. For what it’s worth, all the men I’ve gone after were bad sorts, the kind of men who really need to be behind bars or six feet under.”

“As far as you know,” Smoke said.

Luke inclined his head in acknowledgment of that point. “I believe I’m right, but no one knows everything about the other people in this world.”

“That’s true. For example, you strike me as the sort of man who has secrets of his own, Smith.”

Luke didn’t like the turn in the conversation. “You already know all that’s worth knowing about me, Jensen.”

It sounded odd to him, saying his own name like that.

“I’m not sure,” Smoke said. “There’s something about you . . . something I can’t put my finger on. I feel like I ought to know you. Are you sure we’ve never met?”

“Positive.” Luke hoped he kept the tension out of his voice. “I know who you are, but I never heard the name Smoke Jensen until a couple years ago.” That was true, as far as it went.

Smoke made a face. “I never asked for a reputation as a gunfighter. I just wanted to be left alone. But then I found out some men had done my family wrong—skunks who had be dealt with—and I set out to do it. I’d already met an old mountain man named Preacher. He taught me how to handle a gun. Taught me everything worth knowing that my pa hadn’t already taught me. Along the way I got married to a fine woman, even had a son, but some other evil lowlifes took that family away from me. I met a young fella named Matt Cavanaugh and took him under my wing the way Preacher did with me. Matt’s the same as my brother now, even goes by the name Matt Jensen. Then Sally came along—” Smoke stopped and shook his head.

“I don’t know why I started going on about all of that. You’re not interested in my checkered past, as they say in the dime novels. But it might be boring enough to help you sleep.”

“I wasn’t bored,” Luke said honestly. In fact, he had a hard time keeping the emotion out of his voice. Hearing about his brother’s life stirred up a lot of feelings inside him. He wished he had gone home after the war, that he had been at Kirby’s side when trouble came to call. Things might have turned out completely different.

But he hadn’t been able to return. He’d been a wanted fugitive, and didn’t know Kirby—Smoke—had gone through the same sort of ordeal for a while.

All that was behind them. Luke couldn’t think of a single reason why he couldn’t tell Smoke who he really was.

And suddenly that was exactly what he wanted to do.

I’ve been a damned fool all these years, he told himself.

As soon as Thornapple told him the gunfighter named Smoke Jensen had killed Potter, Stratton, Richards, and Casey, Luke should have gone looking for him and found out the truth. That blasted prideful stubbornness of his had stolen two more years out of his life, two years he could have spent with his brother ... or at least knowing he had a brother.

The coffee and the bear sign were forgotten. Luke wasn’t sure exactly how he would go about it, but it was long past time for the truth to come out.

And it might have, if fate hadn’t chosen that moment for the sudden, harsh sound of gunfire to fill the night.

CHAPTER 31

Smoke was on his feet instantly, blowing out the lamp on the bedside table and stepping to the window to flick back the curtain so he could look out without being silhouetted. “Masked raiders shooting up the place,” he snapped, dropping the curtain.

Luke opened his mouth to say he wanted to help, but it was too late. Smoke was through the doorway and gone, leaving Luke sitting in the bed listening to the sounds of battle as gunmen attacked his brother’s ranch.

Not while I can do anything about it, by God, Luke thought as resolve stiffened his muscles. Especially since his revolvers were within reach.

Earlier, he had asked Sally where his guns were. She’d tried to tell him not to worry about that, but he had persisted, learning his gun belt and the twin Remingtons were in a wardrobe at the side of the room, along with his clothes. His Winchester was downstairs.

He didn’t think he could handle stairs, but he could get to his revolvers. He pushed the covers aside, swung his legs out of bed, and stood up.

A wave of dizziness swept through him. He fought it off as his eyes adjusted to the moonlight filtering through the curtains. Tightly bandaged as he was, he found he could move around without his wounds hurting too much. Wearing only those bandages and the bottom half of a pair of long underwear, he made his way to the wardrobe and opened it.

It had been too long, he thought as his hands closed around the smooth walnut grips of the guns. For a decade and a half, the weapons he carried had been the closest friends he had. That might not be true anymore—he had a brother again—but it still felt mighty good to heft the Remingtons as he turned around and walked back to the open window.

The night breezes were tainted with the acrid bite of powder smoke as Luke thrust the curtains aside and looked out. Riders with bandannas tied over their faces galloped through the open area between the ranch house and the bunkhouse. The guns in their hands spat flame and lead as they sent shots in both directions.

Return fire came from the Sugarloaf’s defenders, but they were heavily outnumbered. Luke figured there were at least thirty raiders in the yard.

He could improve the odds a little, he thought as he thrust the right-hand Remington out the window, drew a bead on one of the riders, and fired. The masked man rocked back in his saddle and had to drop his gun and grab the saddle horn to keep from toppling off his mount.

One low-down sacker out of the fight , Luke told himself. He eared back the Remington’s hammer and shifted his aim to another of the masked men.

He got off several rounds, dropping a couple more men, before the raiders noticed the shots coming from the second-floor window of the ranch house. A few twisted in their saddles and flung their guns up to fire in that direction. Luke was forced to reel back from the window as glass shattered and bullets whipped through the opening.

He waited until the barrage stopped and then moved forward again, kneeling at the window so the wall gave him some cover. It looked thick enough to stop most bullets.

Still galloping back and forth, the raiders continued their barrage, but the deadly accurate fire of the defenders was starting to take a toll. Luke added to it by triggering both revolvers and spraying bullets among the marauders. Gun thunder rolled from the Remingtons.