Law Of The Mountain Man. William W. Johnstone

and was letting Smoke know it.

      “All right, Dag,” Smoke said, turning to walk back into the wider area of the cave. “I’m getting tired of it myself.”

      Smoke packed and saddled up, then checked his guns. He led the big horse outside and swung into the saddle, riding with his Winchester across the saddle horn.

      “We’re headin’ for the Box T, Dag. And come Hell or high water or Jud Vale, we’re going to make it.”

      The big horse shook his head as if in agreement.

      He had not gone a mile before he saw smoke from a fire. Dagger’s ears perked up as he caught the scent of other horses. Smoke smiled grimly. “You wanna go visit that camp, boy? All right. Let’s just do that.”

      When he got close, Smoke dismounted and slipped nearer—on foot. A half-dozen of Vale’s men were huddled around a fire, drinking coffee and eating bacon. Smoke recognized several of them from the saloon.

      He lifted his rifle and plugged the coffeepot, then dented the frying pan with another round. He put several more rounds directly into the fire, scattering hot coals all around the clearing and sending gunhands scrambling for what cover they could find.

      He emptied his rifle into a tree where the horses were picketed and several of them panicked, reared up, and broke loose, taking off into the timber.

      Chuckling, Smoke ran back to Dagger, swung into the saddle, and skirted the camp, heading for the Box T range on the Bear.

      He had sure ruined breakfast for those ol’ boys.

      As he rode, he saw smoke from several more fires, but decided not to press his luck.

      Twice he heard the sounds of horses and men and both times he slipped back into the timber and waited it out as the men rode past him. And they came close enough for him to see that Jud Vale really meant business. He recognized Don Draper, the Utah gunslick, and Davy Street, the outlaw from down New Mexico way. As the second bunch rode by him, Smoke picked out Cisco Webster, the Texas gunny; Barstow, a no-good from Colorado; Glen Regan, a punk kid who fancied himself a gunfighter; and Highpockets, a long lean drink of water who was as dangerous as a grizzly and as quick as a striking rattler.

      What the hell was going on in this part of southeastern Idaho?

      Smoke rode on as the day started to warm some.

      He began to see cattle wearing the Box T brand, really no sure sign that he was on Box T land, for cattle wandered miles to grass, but Smoke figured he was getting close.

      Then he found out why the cattle were so scattered— miles of cut fences. Somebody, probably Jud Vale and his men, had really caused some damage.

      He topped a ridge and could see, far in the distance, a house and barn, and off to the south, a winding road leading to the house. He cut toward the road, riding slowly and cautiously, for if those in the house were under siege, he would probably be considered hostile.

      He stopped several times as he drew nearer, taking off his hat and waving it in the air.

      Nothing from the house.

      He came to a closed gate and stopped, dismounting. He wasn’t about to open that gate unless invited to do so. But no invite came.

      The snow was just about gone from the ground, but the wind was still whistling around him.

      “Hello, the house!” Smoke yelled.

      He was just about to call again when the response came. “What do you want?”

      A female voice. And not an old voice.

      “Some food and coffee would be nice,” Smoke called.

      “Have this instead,” the voice said, sending him a bullet that had Smoke diving for the ground.

      2

      Several more slugs cut the air above his head. Smoke noticed that none of the slugs came close to Dagger. The big horse trotted away a few yards and looked back at Smoke, his expression saying, “What have you got us into now?”

      “I’m friendly!” Smoke called, crawling to his knees. "I mean you no harm!”

      “You ride for the Bar V?” This time it was a man’s voice.

      “Hell, no! They’ve been chasing me all over the country for the last week.”

      “Why?”

      “Because they think I’m somebody named Perkins!”

      A full minute ticked by. “All right, mister.” This time it was the female voice. “Get into the saddle and come on in. But you put a hand on a gun and you’re dead. And close the gate behind you.”

      It suddenly came to Smoke. Perkins! Clint Perkins. The outlaw that some called the Robin Hood of the West. He was always helping farmers, nesters, and the down-and-outers. He would rustle cattle from big land barons, butcher the carcass and distribute the meat to the needy. He’d been known to give the money to the poor, after holding up rich folks.

      But what connection did Clint Perkins have with the Box T?

      Well, he might find out ... providing he didn’t get shot first.

      He swung into the saddle, leaned down and opened the gate, and rode on in, carefully closing the gate behind him. He walked Dagger toward the house. Smoke stopped at the hitchrail and sat his saddle. Damned if he was going to get down until invited.

      “What’s your name?” the voice came from inside the house, speaking from behind the open but curtained window.

      “Mamma,” a child’s voice said excitedly. "I seen him on the cover of a book. That’s Smoke Jensen!”

      After a lot of apologies and much embarrassment on the part of those in the house, Smoke was invited to sit down and eat. A small boy took Dagger to the barn. Children could handle the big mean-eyed stallion, but Dagger would kill a grown man who tried to mess with him.

      Smoke tried to put some family resemblance between the young woman and the old couple. He could not see any. And he didn’t ask; none of his business.

      Smoke put away a respectable bit of food and started working on his third cup of coffee.

      “I like to see a man eat well,” Alice Burden said. “Our boy used to eat like that.”

      Walt gave his wife a warning look that closed her mouth.

      Smoke picked up on the glance but said nothing.

      “Just passin’ through?” Walt asked, lighting his pipe.

      “Something like that,” Smoke sugared his coffee. “Til I had a run-in with a loudmouth name of Jud Vale. I busted him in the mouth and put him on a barroom floor.”

      “I’d sure like to have seen that,” Walt said with a sigh. “That man has sure caused us some problems.” “Why?”

      The old man shrugged his shoulders. “He wants our land. Jud Vale wants everything he sees. Including her.” He cut his eyes to Doreen, a slim but very shapely woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties.

      Got to be more to it than that, Smoke thought. “What has Clint Perkins got to do with all this?”

      Walt looked at his coffee cup. His wife busied herself at the sink, washing dishes. Doreen met Smoke’s eyes. “He’s my husband. Sort of.”

      Odd reply, Smoke thought. “Father of the boy?”

      “Yes.”

      “Clint is from this area, right?”

      “Not too far from here,” she replied. “It’s a long story, but I’ll make it short. When Clint was just a boy he saw his father and mother killed by greedy cattlemen who wanted their land and didn’t like farmers. The boy took to the high country and raised