William Johnstone - Bounty Hunter

The masked killers finally had enough. The one who seemed to be in command wheeled his horse and yelled, “Let’s get out of here!”

Those still mounted—some badly wounded—followed him as he galloped off into the darkness, leaving seven or eight bodies scattered on the ground.

Luke didn’t stand up immediately. He didn’t want to catch a final wild slug thrown through the shattered window.

Also, he was tired. When he was sure they were all gone, he placed his left-hand gun on the floor and used that hand to brace himself as he leaned forward and drew in several deep breaths. The bandages around his midsection prevented him from breathing too deeply, but he did the best he could.

The door opened behind him. Sally Jensen stood in the doorway, wearing a nightdress and a coat slung around her shoulders. “Mr. Smith! Are you all right?”

Luke looked back over his shoulder at her, noticing immediately the rifle in her hands. He figured she had been right in the middle of the fight downstairs. “I’m fine.”

Feeling a little stronger, he picked up the gun and pushed himself to his feet.

“Smoke said he thought he heard shots coming from up here. You really shouldn’t have gotten out of bed.”

“After all you folks have done for me, I wasn’t going to just lie there while you were under attack,” Luke argued. “That’s not the way I’m built.”

Sally smiled. “I know. We haven’t been acquainted for long, Mr. Smith, but you remind me a little of my husband. He can’t turn his back on a fight, either.”

It was the Jensen blood, Luke thought, but he couldn’t say that. Instead he asked, “Was anybody hurt?”

Sally’s smile was replaced by a look of grim anger. “We’re fine in here, but Smoke’s gone out to the bunkhouse to see about the men. I’m worried some of them were wounded.”

Luke became uncomfortably aware that he was standing in his underwear with a pair of empty guns in his hands. He wasn’t sure which of those things bothered him more. He didn’t think the masked raiders would double back and launch another attack, but the possibility couldn’t be ruled out entirely. First things first, he decided. “I’d better reload. Just in case.”

“No, what you’d better do is get back in that bed and let me check your dressings. I want to make sure none of your wounds have broken open again.”

Luke thought about it for a second, then chuckled. “I always try not to argue with a woman, especially one holding a loaded rifle.”

“That’s a good policy,” Sally told him, smiling again.

He was back in bed and she had taken a look at his bandages, determining that none of the wounds were bleeding again by the time Smoke came into the room with a Colt in his hand. Sally turned toward him with a worried frown on her face.

“Two men were killed,” Smoke reported. “Steve Rankin and Charlie Moss.”

Sally cringed. “Oh, no. What about the wounded?”

“A bullet busted Phil Weston’s arm. Other than that just some nicks and scratches.” Smoke’s face was set in hard, bleak lines. “But they killed two men who rode for me, and I’m not going to let Baxter get away with that.”

“You don’t know they were Baxter’s men,” Sally maintained.

“Yes, I do. I took a look at the bodies of the men they left behind. I remember seeing all of them at Baxter’s place when I was over there a couple days ago.”

“Then you can go tell Monte about it and let the law handle this,” Sally suggested.

Smoke shook his head. “I’ll send a rider to Big Rock tomorrow to tell Monte what happened, but Pearlie, the rest of the men, and I will be heading for Baxter’s ranch.”

Sally opened her mouth, and for a second Luke thought she was going to argue with her husband. But then she nodded. “You’re right, Smoke. We need to stomp our own snakes.”

Smoke grunted. “Damn right we do.” His expression eased a little as he looked at Luke. “Are you all right, Smith?”

Luke nodded. “I’m fine.”

“You were burning some powder up here, weren’t you? I heard the shots.”

Luke grinned. “Like I told your wife, I owe you folks too much to sit by and do nothing. If you’ll let me borrow a horse, I’ll ride over to Baxter’s with you in the morning for the showdown.”

“Oh, now, I don’t think that would be a good idea at all,” Sally protested. “You’re not in good enough shape to ride yet, Mr. Smith.”

“I agree with Sally,” Smoke added. “But I appreciate the offer. I’m obliged to you for taking a hand tonight, too. You’re probably responsible for some of those men we downed.”

Luke knew he was, but didn’t say anything. He’d never been one to boast.

Smoke went on. “You just keep recuperating. I’ll handle Baxter.”

Luke nodded. “All right.” He looked at Sally. “I’d be obliged, though, if you’d bring my gun belt over here. I sure don’t like having empty guns.” He smiled. “Gives a man the fantods.”

Pearlie, Calvin Woods, and the rest of the Sugarloaf hands were so upset about the deaths of their friends they had wanted to charge over to Simeon Baxter’s ranch right away and settle the score. But Smoke had decided to wait for daylight, thinking Baxter might have an ambush set up for them.

He mentioned that reasoning to Luke early the next morning, before dawn actually, when he stopped by Luke’s room.

“That’s good thinking,” Luke agreed. “I’ve ridden into more ambushes than I should have, just because I was too eager or too careless. Gunfighting is almost as much about thinking as it is about shooting.”

“You sound like a man speaking from bitter experience,” Smoke commented.

“Is there any other kind?”

Smoke hefted the rifle he had carried into the room. “I brought your Winchester up. I don’t expect you to need it, but I thought you might feel better having it close at hand.”

Luke smiled. “Thanks. You’d better not put it on the bed, though. Mrs. Jensen wouldn’t like it if you got gun oil on her sheets.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Smoke said with a grin as he placed the rifle on the floor next to the bed. He didn’t look like a man who was about to ride off and fight a battle to the death with a ruthless enemy. But like Luke, life on the frontier had taught Smoke how to live in the moment.

“Still wish I was going with you,” Luke said.

“I know that.” Smoke stuck out a hand. “And I appreciate it.”

They shook. Again, Luke wished he could tell Smoke who he really was, but he had decided that could wait. Smoke already had enough on his mind without the shock of finding out the brother he had thought to be dead for the past fifteen years was really alive.

“Sally will be up with some breakfast in a little bit.” Smoke lifted a hand in farewell and left the room.

Luke looked at the holstered revolvers and coiled shell belt on the table beside the bed, then pushed the covers back and swung his feet to the floor. He stood up, feeling a lot steadier than he had the night before. Getting back into action seemed to have had a bracing effect on him.

With the approach of dawn, the sky outside was lighter. He went over to the wardrobe, opened it, and could see his clothes hanging on hooks inside the wardrobe. As he pulled on the black shirt and buttoned it up he realized it was clean. Sally had cleaned and patched his clothes. He took the black trousers off the hook, braced himself with one hand on the wardrobe and hung the pants as low as possible with his other hand. Gingerly, he put one leg, then the other into the pants and pulled them up around his hips.