William W. Johnstone by Law of the Mountain Man

shoulder. A saddle emptied just as gunfire from the house and bunkhouse roared, shattering the night and emptying half a dozen more saddles.
    He heard Jud’s voice, hollering for his men to fall back to the ridges.
    Smoke fired again, and saw a man jerk in the saddle. He managed to stay on his horse, but one arm was hanging useless and flopping by his side.
    The attackers had been able to fire no more than half a dozen shots before they were beaten back.
    One man struggled to his boots in the road and began staggering and lurching toward the gates. The defenders held their fire and let him go. Just before he reached the gates, he collapsed face down in the hard-packed dirt anddid not move.
    That sight must have done it for the riders. Someone shouted, “Hell with this! The luck ain’t with us this night.”
    The attackers rode off, heading back for the friendlier range of the Bar V. They left their dead and wounded behind them.
    Smoke and the others waited a reasonable length of time, to see if it was a trick, and then slowly and cautiously gathered in the yard.
    Smoke and Cheyenne roamed about, checking on the men sprawled on the ground.
    They found several alive. “What do we do with those still alive?” Cheyenne questioned.
    “Patch them up and get word to Jud to come and get them,” Smoke told him. “Maybe pile them in a wagon and send them back to Jud. We’ll see.” He was kneeling down beside a man who was alive, but not for long. He had been shot in the center of the chest.
    “He’ll never quit, Jensen,” the dying man gasped. “Vale’s a crazy man.”
    “Why is he doing it?”
    The man ignored that. “As long as he’s got a dime in his jeans he’ll hire fighting men.” “Why?” Smoke persisted.
    “King. To be king. Wants to control everything from the state line to Preston. Everything and everybody.”
    “Shut up, Slim!” another wounded man growled, mercenary and loyal to the gun right to the end.
    “You go to hell, Lassiter!” Slim told him. He cut his eyes to Smoke. The light was slowly fading from them. “Vale’s got gunhands comin’ in on the train. This is shapin’ up to be the biggest range war in ... the state. He’ll overpower you just by ... numbers, Jensen. And he’s just about reached... the point where he don’t give a damn if the kids git hurt.”
    Slim groaned and closed his eyes. He did not open them again.
    Smoke rose to his boots and took the blanket that Doreen handed him, spreading it over the dead gun-fighter. Cheyenne had taken all the guns and ammo from the dead and wounded men. They would be added to the arsenal of the Box T. Smoke felt sure they would be needed before all this was over.
    He knelt down beside Lassiter. The man had a bullet-burn on the side of his head and a slight shoulder wound. Painful but not serious. “I ought to call the U.S. Marshals in here and file charges against all of you, Lassiter...”
    The gunfighter sneered at him.
    “... But that would take weeks and we’d have to keep you prisoner and look at your ugly face every day. It just isn’t worth it.”
    “You better kill me, Jensen,” Lassiter warned. "Davidson was a friend of mine."
    “You should choose your friends more carefully, Lassiter. No, I’m not going to kill you. Not like this, anyway. Not at this time.”
    “Then you’re a damn fool, Jensen!”
    “Maybe. But I can sleep at night, and I don’t make war against kids and women and old people.”
    “Who gives a damn what happens to a bunch of snot-nose brats!”
    Smoke was a hard man in a harsh time and environment, and he had killed many, many men. But he had to shake his head at the cold-blooded callousness of Lassiter.
    “Back away and let me finish him,” Cheyenne said, walking up. “We got it to do sooner or later.”
    Doreen stood looking at it all through wide and scared eyes.
    Smoke had no doubts about the old mountain man’s ability to do just what he suggested. And he knew the old man was right: they