Brotherhood of Evil (4 page)

Chapter 7

Instinct took over for all four men. Hands blurred to gun butts. Weapons sprang free of their holsters and roared together in a deafening crash of gun-thunder. Tongues of flame leaped from the muzzles pointed at the shotgun-wielding hombre.

Whoever he was, the fella never had a chance. At least six slugs smashed into his chest, all of them within inches of each other. The bullets tore through his body and burst out his back. He wound up with a hole all the way through him that a man could have almost put a fist through.

The impact of that many bullets tossed him backwards like a rag doll. The Greener's twin barrels were pointed almost straight up when his finger jerked the triggers and touched off the loads. The blast lit up the street for a split second.

Man and shotgun alike thudded to the dirt street next to each other. Barely three heartbeats had gone by since he had lunged out of the alley to threaten Smoke and the others.

Echoes from the pistol volley and the shotgun's double discharge still filled the air, but Smoke heard fresh gunfire anyway and was aware of the wind-rip of a bullet as it whipped past his ear. From the corner of his eye he spotted a muzzle flash and whirled in that direction.

The shots were coming from behind a wagon parked across the street. It looked like a bushwhacker was crouched at each end of the vehicle, firing over the sideboards.

Acting out of instinct again, the four men scattered as bullets whined through the air around them. As they split up, they returned the shots, sending a storm of lead at the wagon.

Smoke drifted to his right. Something began striking lightly against his hat and shoulders as he moved, feeling like big drops of rain or small hailstones. After a second, he realized it was the buckshot fired from the Greener, falling back to earth as gravity claimed it.

The buckshot didn't pose a real threat. It was more of an annoyance than anything else. The real danger came from the men behind the wagon, who were still stubbornly spraying bullets across the street.

Smoke dropped to a knee behind a water trough. To his left, Matt had taken cover behind a rain barrel. Preacher had ducked into the alcove of a store's entrance where he was still relatively exposed, but he pressed his whip-like thinness into a small angle, which gave him some protection.

Luke was the only one still out in the open, and he was sliding sideways toward a parked buggy as the Remingtons in his hands spat fire and lead. Suddenly, he stumbled and went down.

Fury filled Smoke at the thought that his older brother might be badly wounded, or even worse.

They hadn't pulled Luke out of that tight spot in Massacre Canyon only to have him gunned down in the crooked, narrow streets of Taos. Yelling, “Pour it on!” to Matt and Preacher, Smoke sprang up again and dashed toward Luke.

As he approached, he saw Luke struggling to get up, which was a relief of sorts. At least he was still alive. Smoke holstered his guns and grabbed his brother under the arms from behind. As he started dragging him toward the buggy, Luke demanded, “What the hell do you think you're doing? Hunt some cover, Smoke!”

“Not without you,” Smoke grunted as he pulled Luke, a big, rangy man, and certainly no lightweight. Smoke's broad shoulders and long arms held enormous strength. He heaved and backed up until both of them sprawled on the ground behind the buggy.

It wasn't the safest place in the world. The would-be killers could still fire through the gaps between the spokes of the buggy wheels. A slug kicked up dust only a couple feet from Smoke as he knelt next to Luke. “How bad are you hit?”

“I'm not hit at all!” Luke answered surprisingly. “One of those guys shot one of my boot heels off!”

That was even more of a relief. Smoke chuckled. “Well, I'm glad you're not about to bleed to death. Since you can't move very well while you're missing a heel, stay here and help Matt and Preacher cover me. I'm going to cross the street so I can come at those varmints from a different direction.”

“Let me take my other boot off and I can come with you. I can run in my sock feet.”

“Be better if you can make those fellas keep their heads down for a few seconds,” Smoke told him. “Reload those Remingtons and let me know when you're ready.”

Luke looked like he wanted to argue, but he thumbed fresh cartridges into the two long-barreled revolvers, then gave Smoke a curt nod. “Go ahead. Matt and Preacher ought to pick up on what you're trying to do.”

“We can hope so. Now!” Smoke dashed out from behind the buggy as Luke stood up and began emptying the Remingtons diagonally across the street toward the wagon where the ambushers lurked. Farther along the street, Matt and Preacher followed suit. Bullets chewed into the wagon's frame and threw a shower of splinters into the air.

Smoke was lucky. He didn't step in any holes or slip in any horse manure as he sprinted across the street. When he reached the other side he drew his guns again and angled toward the wagon. The bombardment from Luke, Matt, and Preacher was coming to an end as their weapons began to run dry, but it had served its purpose. Smoke's keen eyes could see the two bushwhackers as they crouched behind the wagon.

They seemed to be aware of the deadly danger in which they suddenly found themselves. They let out alarmed yells as they whirled to face the charging Smoke. He dove forward to the ground as more Colt flame bloomed in the darkness ahead of him. Landing on his belly as bullets tore through the air a couple feet above him, he triggered both Colts.

His shots possessed an uncanny, almost supernatural accuracy. One bushwhacker screamed, dropped his gun, and doubled over as two slugs punched into his guts. The other managed to keep firing, but only for a second longer before a bullet drove deep into his chest and exploded his heart. He dropped straight down, dead even as he collapsed.

The gut-shot man was still alive, writhing on the ground next to the wagon as blood poured between his fingers. Smoke surged up, hurried closer, and kicked the man's gun well out of reach. He holstered his left-hand gun, fished a lucifer from his pocket, and set the match afire with a snap of his iron-hard thumbnail.

The sudden glare revealed the faces of two young men, reasonably handsome and looking enough alike that they had to be related. They were strangers to Smoke. He was sure he had never seen either of them before.

The mortally wounded man was curled up on his side. Smoke toed his shoulder and rolled him onto his back. Keeping the gun trained on the young man, he asked, “Who are you, mister, and why did you try to kill us?”

“Go to . . . hell, Jensen!” the dying man gasped. “We woulda been . . . famous . . .”

That told Smoke all he needed to know as the stranger's final breath rattled in his throat. The gathering pool of dark blood around him told Smoke that one of the bullets must have nicked an artery. The bushwhacker was fortunate to have died quickly. Belly wounds usually meant a slow, agonizing finish, but he had bled to death in moments.

Luke, Matt, and Preacher approached, Luke limping because of the ruined boot on his right foot. As the match burned down and Smoke dropped it in the street, Preacher asked, “Who in tarnation are those fellas?”

“I don't know their names,” Smoke said, “but I know what they wanted. They figured on being famous as the men who killed the Jensens.”

“And now all they get is a hole in the local graveyard,” Matt said. “What about the other one?”

“Let's go take a look,” Smoke suggested.

They crossed the street, where he lit another match to reveal the slain gunner's face.

“Petey Tomlin!” Luke exclaimed. “I'd hoped he would have more sense than that.”

“Well,” Preacher said, “I reckon you can collect the bounty on him, too.”

“And that makes it a clean sweep on the Shawcross gang,” Matt pointed out. “Ought to be a big enough payday you won't have to work for a while, Luke.”

“The money's not the only reason I do what I do,” Luke grumbled. “After all these years, it's the only thing I know. And this doesn't change my mind. I'm still not going back to Sugarloaf.”

“Sally will be disappointed,” Smoke said again as he started reloading his guns. “Things have probably been boring enough on the ranch that she's looking forward to having all of us around again.”

Chapter 8

Sally Jensen was perched on the seat of the Sugarloaf's buckboard, giving her a good view of what was going on inside the corral next to it. A part of her would have preferred to climb up on the fence's top rail and sit there, but that wouldn't have been very ladylike. She had hitched up a team and driven over from the barn, instead.

She leaned forward on the seat and called encouragement to the young man seated in the saddle of a wildly plunging and bucking bronc. “Hang on, Cal! You can do it!”

The cowboys gathered along the corral fence cheered young Calvin Woods, too. He wasn't a top hand when it came to bronc busting, but he wasn't bad, either.

The big bay he was on was a particularly salty specimen. From the looks of things, he was about to go flying off the horse's back at any second. Half a dozen times, he had already come within a hairsbreadth of losing his seat.

Sally was so engrossed in Cal's battle with the bay, she didn't notice the rider coming down out of the hills surrounding the ranch headquarters. If she had been looking, she would have seen that he was a tall, lean cowboy with a rugged face and a thick dark mustache touched with gray. At the moment, his face was set in a grim, worried expression.

He reined his paint pony to a halt just as Cal finally lost the war when the bay threw a particularly wicked jump and twist.

He yelled and his arms and legs waved frantically as he sailed into the air. His hat was long since gone, or it would have flown off, too.

Before he ever hit the ground, several of the Sugarloaf hands piled off the top rail and dashed forward. A couple shouted and waved their hats in the air to distract the bay. It pranced away, obviously well-satisfied. Cal crashed to the hard-packed earth with bone-jarring, teeth-rattling force. The other two ran to Cal, caught hold of him under the arms, and hauled him to his feet. They hustled him over to the gate, which another man swung open. The bay didn't have a reputation as a man killer, but there was no point in taking chances.

As soon as the men had Cal outside the corral, the gate was shut again, and the two cowboys who'd been distracting the bay ran for the fence while the horse chased them, clearly not putting much effort into it. As the men scrambled over the fence, the bay turned away and tossed his head arrogantly as if to say that he had showed them.

Sally climbed down from the buckboard seat and hurried over to Cal, who was leaning over with his hands resting on his thighs as he breathed heavily, trying to recover the air that had been knocked out of him by the fall.

“Cal, are you all right?” she asked him.

Without looking up, the young puncher replied, “Yeah, I . . . reckon I am . . . Miss Sally. Just gotta . . . catch my breath.”

With a grin, one of the other cowboys said, “By tomorrow he'll have a big ol' bruise where he lit down, but luckily that's where none of us 'll have to look at it!”

“Yeah, he might've been better off if he'd landed on his head,” another cowboy gibed. “That's so hard he never woulda felt it!”

“You boys . . . are just too blasted funny . . . for words,” Cal panted. He finally lifted his head and glared toward the corral, where the bay was still prancing around proudly. “I'll get that . . . son of a gun . . . next time.”

“There's real work to be done first,” a harsh voice said.

Sally looked around, finally realizing the newcomer was there. When she saw the expression on his lined and weathered face, she immediately asked, “What's wrong, Pearlie?”

He thumbed his black hat to the back of his head and swung down from the saddle. “Reckon we'd better talk over to the house, Miss Sally.”

She felt a chill go through her. Pearlie served as the foreman of the crew that worked the Sugarloaf, and as such, he was a hard worker but usually had a carefree grin on his face.

In earlier times, he had been an outlaw and a gunman, and if things had gone a little differently, Smoke might have wound up killing him instead of hiring him. In moments such as this, when he looked like he was ready for trouble, Sally caught a glimpse of the dangerous hombre Pearlie had been—and still was, when need be.

“All right. That's fine.” She glanced over at one of the hands. “Brad, can you take the buckboard back to the barn and tend to the team?”

“Sure thing, Miss Sally,” the man said as he lifted a hand and pinched the brim of his hat.

There wasn't a man on Sugarloaf who didn't treat her with the utmost respect. Not only because it would have been dangerous to do otherwise, since her husband was considered one of the deadliest men with a gun on the whole frontier. Quite possibly
the
deadliest. The members of the Sugarloaf crew, which was plenty salty itself, treated Sally Jensen the way they did because they knew she would do to ride the river with. She might have been born back east, but her life as Smoke's wife had taught her how to rope and ride and shoot as well as most men and better than some. Over and above that, she had sand and had proven her courage on more than one occasion. She was smart as a whip, too.

Pearlie handed the paint's reins to one of the other men and walked toward the big ranch house with Sally, his spurs chinking with every step. It was a beautiful day in the high country, but no one would have known that by looking at him.

As they reached the porch, out of earshot of the other men, Sally said, “I can fetch some cold buttermilk and cornbread—”

“Any other time I'd be mighty tempted, ma'am,” he interrupted.

That slight breach of manners was enough to tell her just how upset Pearlie really was.

He went on. “Right now, I need to tell you what I just saw up on Lone Pine Ridge.”

“Go ahead,” she urged.

Pearlie took a deep breath. “Those three fellas I spotted before are back, and I swear to you, Miss Sally, they're up to no good!”