earlier.
Smoke stuffed the neckerchiefs of the unconscious men into their mouths. Satisfied with his work, he moved on. A surprisingly short distance inward of the camp, he came upon a line of picketed horses. A reassuring pat on the muzzles of the critters gained their silence, while Smoke undid their reins from the tightly stretched lariat that served as an anchor. A sudden, cold thought speared at him. This was entirely too easy.
“I figgered you’d come lookin’ for us. So, I left you a few tidbits to whet your appetite,” said Sheriff Reno, as he clicked back the hammer of his Smith and Wesson .44 American.
Smoke Jensen turned his way and made a draw in one smooth motion. Jake Reno had never seen anything like it. One second he was looking at Smoke Jensen’s back, a split-second later, Jensen faced him, the black hole of a .44 muzzle settling in on the lawman’s belly. Without conscious direction, Reno’s body took over, flexed at the knees, and he flew backward into the sharp thorns of a clump of blackberry bushes. Smoke’s .44 roared and spat fire, before Reno could even think to trigger his.
Hot lead cut a shallow trail across the upper curve of the sheriff’s buttocks. With wild squalls, the horses took off at a run, and so did Smoke Jensen.
“Goddamnit, he’s shot me! Smoke Jensen’s shot me,” Jake Reno roared, more angry than hurt.
Bent double, the famous gunfighter streaked along, parallel to the camp and at a right angle to the direction taken by the frightened critters. From behind, Smoke heard new, painful yelps from the sheriff, who was learning why any man with good sense sent his woman and kids out to pick berries.
Sleepy cries of alarm rose from the disturbed camp.
Men began to curse hotly, when they realized what the sound of pounding hooves meant. Smoke Jensen ignored them and forced his way through the underbrush to where he had left his mount. He’d give them some time to settle down, he reasoned then hit again about midnight.
Five of Quint Stalker’s gang, who had ridden with the posse, paused at the dark entrance to a side canyon. Not even the full moonlight could penetrate the gorge. Under the frosty starlight, they cut uncertain glances at one another.
“Don’t know why the hell the sheriff wants us checkin’ this out in the middle of the night,” one complained.
“Says he’s got a hunch. You ask me, it’s a little in-digestion proddin’ his belly.”
“Or his sore butt stingin’,” another opined.
At the rear of the loose formation, the last man saw a brief flicker of movement right before his eyes. Then he let out a short, startled yelp, as the loop tightened and pinned his arms to his sides above the elbows. The others turned in time to see him disappear from the saddle.
“What the hell!” the nominal leader exploded. “Hub! Where the hell are you?”
But Hub wasn’t saying anything. He was too busy sucking on the barrel of a .44 in the hand of Smoke Jensen. Smoke gave an unseen nod of satisfaction and bent low to whisper in Hub’s ear.
“You want to stay alive, you keep real quiet.” Smoke removed the steel tube from Hub’s mouth at the man’s energetic nod of agreement. “I’m going to tie your legs together and string you up in that tree.”
“You said I could live,” Hub blurted in confusion and fear.
“Upside down, idiot. And you will live, if you give me five minutes to get clear of this place. Then you can yell your fool head off.”
Hub Peters had no problem believing everything Smoke Jensen told him. He felt the rope circle his ankles and the tension increase. The tight band around his chest eased off, and he swung free of the ground. His fear somewhat abated, he could again hear his companions.
“D’you see that? Where in hell did he go?”
“I don’t know, but it’s some more bad news from Smoke Jensen, count on it.”
“We goin’ in after Hub?”
“You crazy?” the leader challenged. “Want to wind up
Smoke stuffed the neckerchiefs of the unconscious men into their mouths. Satisfied with his work, he moved on. A surprisingly short distance inward of the camp, he came upon a line of picketed horses. A reassuring pat on the muzzles of the critters gained their silence, while Smoke undid their reins from the tightly stretched lariat that served as an anchor. A sudden, cold thought speared at him. This was entirely too easy.
“I figgered you’d come lookin’ for us. So, I left you a few tidbits to whet your appetite,” said Sheriff Reno, as he clicked back the hammer of his Smith and Wesson .44 American.
Smoke Jensen turned his way and made a draw in one smooth motion. Jake Reno had never seen anything like it. One second he was looking at Smoke Jensen’s back, a split-second later, Jensen faced him, the black hole of a .44 muzzle settling in on the lawman’s belly. Without conscious direction, Reno’s body took over, flexed at the knees, and he flew backward into the sharp thorns of a clump of blackberry bushes. Smoke’s .44 roared and spat fire, before Reno could even think to trigger his.
Hot lead cut a shallow trail across the upper curve of the sheriff’s buttocks. With wild squalls, the horses took off at a run, and so did Smoke Jensen.
“Goddamnit, he’s shot me! Smoke Jensen’s shot me,” Jake Reno roared, more angry than hurt.
Bent double, the famous gunfighter streaked along, parallel to the camp and at a right angle to the direction taken by the frightened critters. From behind, Smoke heard new, painful yelps from the sheriff, who was learning why any man with good sense sent his woman and kids out to pick berries.
Sleepy cries of alarm rose from the disturbed camp.
Men began to curse hotly, when they realized what the sound of pounding hooves meant. Smoke Jensen ignored them and forced his way through the underbrush to where he had left his mount. He’d give them some time to settle down, he reasoned then hit again about midnight.
Five of Quint Stalker’s gang, who had ridden with the posse, paused at the dark entrance to a side canyon. Not even the full moonlight could penetrate the gorge. Under the frosty starlight, they cut uncertain glances at one another.
“Don’t know why the hell the sheriff wants us checkin’ this out in the middle of the night,” one complained.
“Says he’s got a hunch. You ask me, it’s a little in-digestion proddin’ his belly.”
“Or his sore butt stingin’,” another opined.
At the rear of the loose formation, the last man saw a brief flicker of movement right before his eyes. Then he let out a short, startled yelp, as the loop tightened and pinned his arms to his sides above the elbows. The others turned in time to see him disappear from the saddle.
“What the hell!” the nominal leader exploded. “Hub! Where the hell are you?”
But Hub wasn’t saying anything. He was too busy sucking on the barrel of a .44 in the hand of Smoke Jensen. Smoke gave an unseen nod of satisfaction and bent low to whisper in Hub’s ear.
“You want to stay alive, you keep real quiet.” Smoke removed the steel tube from Hub’s mouth at the man’s energetic nod of agreement. “I’m going to tie your legs together and string you up in that tree.”
“You said I could live,” Hub blurted in confusion and fear.
“Upside down, idiot. And you will live, if you give me five minutes to get clear of this place. Then you can yell your fool head off.”
Hub Peters had no problem believing everything Smoke Jensen told him. He felt the rope circle his ankles and the tension increase. The tight band around his chest eased off, and he swung free of the ground. His fear somewhat abated, he could again hear his companions.
“D’you see that? Where in hell did he go?”
“I don’t know, but it’s some more bad news from Smoke Jensen, count on it.”
“We goin’ in after Hub?”
“You crazy?” the leader challenged. “Want to wind up
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