Brotherhood of Evil (13 page)

B
OOK
T
WO

Chapter 27

Smoke, Matt, and Preacher stopped in Raton, New Mexico Territory, near the Colorado border, for several days. Preacher's horse had gone lame. Smoke, an expert on horseflesh, told them the animal, the latest in a long line of big gray stallions Preacher never called anything except Horse, would be fine after a few days' rest.

He sent a wire to Sally in care of the telegraph office in Big Rock saying that he would be delayed briefly but not explaining why. He got a reply back the next morning declaring that she would be happy to see him when he arrived but telling him that he should take however much time he needed getting home.

Something about the wire from Sally seemed a little off to him, but it was hard to read too much into a few words printed on a yellow telegraph flimsy. It was possible she might be just a little under the weather.

He was a mite out of sorts himself. Luke had followed through on his decision to go his own way again, and he had parted company from the other three men in Taos.

He had every right to do so, of course. Smoke wasn't denying that, but he had gone way too many years believing that Luke was dead and hadn't laid eyes on him during all that time. Since learning differently, he saw his older brother only occasionally, one or two times a year, and he missed Luke whenever he wasn't around. Family ties were powerful as far as Smoke was concerned, and such ties extended to those who weren't blood relatives but were just as close that they might as well have been. Those like Matt and Preacher.

 

 

Once Horse had recuperated and was able to travel again, the three men set off northward, climbing through Raton Pass with its spectacular view, soon finding themselves across the border, crossing the plains and rolling hills of south-central Colorado with the snowcapped Sangre de Cristos looming to the west.

Not wanting to push the gray stallion too hard, they continued their slow but steady pace for several days. Eventually they angled northwest, through another pass, and headed straight for the Sugarloaf. They would reach Big Rock first, where Smoke planned to stop and say hello to Monte Carson—but only briefly. He was eager to get home and be reunited with Sally.

As the terrain grew more rugged, they could have followed the roads to Big Rock, including a last stretch that paralleled the railroad tracks, but there wasn't a shortcut anywhere in that part of Colorado that the three men didn't know.

For that matter, there weren't many trails anywhere in the West that at least one of them hadn't traveled a time or two.

They came to find themselves riding along a wooded slope about two hundred yards above the wagon road parallel to the steel rails of the Denver and Rio Grande that twisted back and forth considerably as they followed the course of a fast-flowing stream. The way Smoke, Matt, and Preacher were going was much straighter and would cut half an hour or more off the trip. Big Rock was only a mile or two ahead of them.

Smoke felt his anticipation growing. Reaching Big Rock meant he was that much closer to home—and Sally.

Maybe that was the reason he wasn't quite as alert as he might have been.

Preacher was the one who said in a low voice, “Hold on a minute, boys. Might be some trouble down there. I don't much like what I'm seein'.”

All three men reined in. Smoke asked, “Whereabouts, Preacher?” His thoughts of home had vanished. He had complete faith in the old mountain man, and if Preacher suspected trouble might be lurking in the vicinity, Smoke wanted to know what it was.

“Look in that thick stand of trees down yonder, between the railroad and the creek,” Preacher said. “Just to the right o' that rock that's sittin' next to the trail.”

Smoke and Matt watched closely the area Preacher had indicated.

After a moment Matt said, “There's somebody in there on horseback.”

“More than one somebody,” Smoke said. “I make it three men. How about you, Preacher?”

“Yup,” Preacher agreed. “Three it is. And there ain't no reason for 'em to be sittin' there all hidey-holed up like that unless they're up to no good.”

“Maybe they just stopped to roll quirlies and let their horses rest,” Matt suggested.

Smoke shook his head. “If that's all they were doing, likely they'd just move over to the side of the road and stay out in the open. It looks to me like they're hiding.”

“Bunch o' dang bushwhackers, if you ask me,” Preacher said.

Matt nodded. “Could be. What are we going to do about it?”

“You know it's probably not any of our business,” Smoke pointed out.

Matt grinned at the comment. “Since when did that ever keep us from poking around?”

Smoke had to admit that Matt had a point.

Preacher rested his hands on his saddle horn. “Listen, you go to pokin' at a beehive with a stick and you're liable to get stung less 'n you've smoked it first. Reckon that's what we'd better do. You boys ride back a ways, work your way down to the road, and then ride along it like you don't have a care in the world. That might draw them varmints out.”

“Yeah, and it might just paint targets on us,” Matt pointed out. “What do you plan to be doing while Smoke and I are doing that?”

Preacher pointed with his beard-stubbled chin. “Figured Dog and me would circle around and come up behind those boys. Maybe they'll be talkin' and let slip what they're up to.”

“And if they do open fire on us . . . ?” Smoke asked.

Preacher patted the butts of his revolvers. “Then I'll be right there to blow holes in 'em.”

Smoke didn't doubt that the old mountain man could do it. Age had neither dimmed Preacher's vision nor slowed his reflexes. Oh, he might be a hair less quick on the draw, but that meant Preacher was still faster with a gun than nine out of ten men.

He was about as stealthy in the woods as ever, too. He could get behind the men lurking in the trees without them knowing he was there. The Blackfeet hadn't nicknamed him Ghost Killer without a good reason.

“Gimme twenty minutes or so,” Preacher went on, “then you fellas commence to ridin' along that road like it's a Sunday afternoon and you ain't got nothin' better to do.”

“
Is
it Sunday afternoon?” Matt asked. “I think I've lost track.”

“No, I believe it's Tuesday.” Smoke lifted his horse's reins and turned the animal back in the direction they had come. “Come on.”

Chapter 28

Smoke and Matt went one way, Preacher the other. The old mountain man had confidence in the plan he had come up with. He had turned the tables on numerous bushwhackers during the adventurous life he'd led.

Of course, it was possible that Matt was right and the men hiding in the trees didn't have anything bad in mind. Preacher didn't believe it, though. Trouble had a habit of finding the three of them when they were apart; put them together and it was almost inevitable that hell would pop.

It had been almost a week since anybody had shot at them. Preacher didn't like that. He sometimes figured that dodging bullets was what kept him young.

With Dog padding along with him, he rode on well past the spot where the mysterious hombres were lurking. He was pretty sure he recalled a place where the railroad tracks and the road made a bend around a fairly sharp curve. That ought to shield him from the hidden watchers' view. When he felt like he had passed it, he worked his way down the slope until he reached the edge of the trees and brush.

Preacher brought Horse to a stop and swung down from the saddle. He took off his hat and stuck his head out to take a look. Right away, he saw that he had guessed right. He was past the curve and could cross the road and the steel rails without being seen.

That is, if nobody else was skulking around. Preacher stood still for a long moment, eyes squinted, head cocked a little to the side as he listened intently and sniffed the air. He didn't hear anything except small animals moving around, didn't smell human sweat or horseflesh or tobacco smoke. His senses told him he was alone, and his instincts agreed with them.

He clapped the old brown hat back on his head and led Horse across the road and the tracks.

Once he had the stallion well hidden in the trees again, he tied the reins loosely around a sapling and said quietly, “You and Dog just stay here, Horse. I best go afoot from here on out. If I need you, I'll whistle, and you two come arunnin'.”

Horse tossed his head up and down, almost like he was nodding. Preacher grinned and patted him lightly on the shoulder. Dog whined, clearly not happy with Preacher's decision not to include him, but he would follow orders. As far back as the old mountain man could remember, he'd had an uncanny, almost supernatural ability to communicate with animals, especially horses and dogs.

Preacher faded into the brush and started back toward the spot where the men were hidden.

He heard them talking well before he got there. Whatever they were up to, being quiet obviously wasn't part of it. When he was close, he parted some brush to make a tiny gap and peered through it.

The three men had dismounted, but their horses stood with reins dangling, ready to ride again at a moment's notice. It didn't appear that the men had even loosened the saddle cinches.

One of them was smoking a stogie. They passed around a silver flask. It was all Preacher could do not to snort in disgust at their lackadaisical attitude. If they were bushwhackers, they were doing a piss-poor job of it.

But he supposed that when it came to ambushes, the proof was in the killing. As long as they gunned down who they were supposed to, nothing else mattered.

Question was, who were they gunning for?

Preacher had taken one look at the men and known they were killers. He had seen hundreds of their stripe over the years.
Stripe
was the right word, he mused. He knew skunks when he saw 'em.

Listening to their conversation for the next few minutes did nothing but confirm his initial impression of them. In the crudest possible terms, they talked about women they had known, most of them saloon girls. They talked about bank robberies and train and stagecoach holdups. They talked about killings they had witnessed—and some they had participated in. No matter how sordid or violent, they seemed to find all the stories amusing.

A bitter taste filled Preacher's mouth. He wished Smoke and Matt would go ahead and ride up the road, so maybe these varmints would shut up their filthy talk.

Then one of them said something that made the old mountain man's ears perk up.

“I've heard a lot of men say Smoke Jensen's the fastest hombre who ever buckled on a gun belt,” the man declared.

The one smoking the stogie puffed on it and laughed. “I reckon he's fast, all right, but there's only one way of finding out who's the fastest, isn't there?”

The third man said, “Well, it's not you, Dalby, that's for damn sure. I swear, I could count to ten in the time it takes you to pull that hogleg.”

“That's a damn lie,” Dalby said, scowling. He tossed the cigar butt aside and straightened. “Any time you want to give me a try, Vinton—”

“Hold on, hold on,” the first man said sharply. “The major sent us out here to watch the road and make sure nobody gets in or out of town, not to shoot each other.”

Preacher's jaw tightened. He didn't like the sound of what he had just heard. He didn't like it at all. He didn't know who the so-called major was—not a real military man, surely, or he wouldn't be giving orders to owlhoot scum like these fellas—but evidently the man had taken over Big Rock. That was the only reason he would want to keep folks from leaving.

“What if Smoke Jensen himself comes along, Harkness?” Dalby asked the first man. “What are we supposed to do then, if he really is that fast?”

It's Smoke they're after.
That revelation came as no surprise to Preacher. Smoke had made enough enemies over the years for a dozen regular men. Maybe two dozen.

Harkness said, “Jensen's not going to throw down on us. Not if he wants—” He stopped short and lifted a hand. “Listen. I hear horses on the road.”

That would be Smoke and Matt, thought Preacher as he bit back a curse. He'd been in a hurry for them to get there and shut up the dirty-talkin' varmints, but he'd changed his mind, wishing they were coming along a few minutes later. If they were, the men might have inadvertently spilled everything that was going on. He shrugged. Nothing could be done about that.

The men swung into their saddles and moved quickly toward the road.

Maybe with any luck, he and Smoke and Matt wouldn't have to kill all three of them, Preacher told himself. If they could get their hands on a prisoner, he could convince the hombre to talk. He was sure of that.

For the moment, all he could do was glide through the trees after them.

 

 

Smoke and Matt had taken their time, making sure that Preacher had the chance to get in position. As they approached the spot where they had seen the men lurking in the trees, neither of them doubted that the old mountain man was right where he was supposed to be.

“I'm starting to feel a mite antsy,” Matt commented as they walked their horses along side by side. “Like somebody's looking at me over the barrel of a gun right now.”

“Could be they are,” Smoke said with a faint smile. “Wouldn't be the first time, would it?”

“Well, no, not hardly. But don't tell me you've gotten used to the feeling.”

Smoke shook his head slightly. “You never do.”

His eyes moved constantly, seeking out signs of danger. Every sense was on high alert. He was expecting it when three men on horseback suddenly burst out of the brush and blocked the road.

“Let them start the ball,” Smoke quietly told his adopted brother. “We want to find out as much as we can.”

One of the men called, “Hold it right there!”

The outlaws hadn't drawn their weapons, but their hands hovered close to gun butts.

Smoke and Matt reined in.

Smoke asked in a deceptively mild tone of voice, “What's this all about, mister?”

“We'll ask the questions,” the man snapped. “Where are you two headed?”

Smoke nodded down the road. “On into Big Rock.”

“Got business there, do you?”

“That's right.”

“Well, you don't anymore. The town's off-limits, and our orders are to arrest anybody who tries to ride in.”

“Arrest?” Smoke repeated. “You're lawmen?”

“That's right. Now, are you comin' along peacefully?”

Smoke didn't believe for one second that the men were officers of the law. He had seen too many hardcases not to recognize that sort when he saw them. They were gunmen, pure and simple, hired killers more than likely . . . but they wanted to take Smoke and Matt into Big Rock, and that was where they wanted to go.

“Follow my lead,” he said to Matt from the corner of his mouth. Then he raised his voice. “Take it easy, deputy. We're not looking for trouble. If you want us to come with you—”.

“Damn it, Harkness, I've seen that hombre before!
That's Smoke Jensen!
” Dalby clawed at the gun on his hip.