Hard Ride to Hell (9780786031191) by William W. Johnstone

shoulder.
    As soon as he fired, Slewfoot rolled to his right, moving fast. He wound up behind another tree and paused there. He heard slugs plowing into the ground near the tree where he had been a moment earlier. Both ambushers were still firing, he realized with a grimace, so either he had missed with his shot, or it hadn’t done enough damage to put one of the riflemen out of the fight.
    He was safe enough where he was, but he was pinned down in these trees. It was possible that one of the bushwhackers would try to keep him here while the other worked around for a better shot at him. That was what he would do if the tables were turned.
    He had one bit of hope that lifted his spirits. Ollie Simms had headed for the ranch headquarters, taking the wounded Steve Barstow with him, to let Smoke know the rustlers had struck again. Slewfoot had a hunch that Smoke would hit the trail in a hurry. If Smoke hotfooted it up here and brought some of the Sugarloaf hands with him, that would change everything.
    So now, Slewfoot thought as bullets continued to sizzle through the trees around him, all he had to do was wait for Smoke Jensen to show up. . . .
    And hope that he could stay alive until then.
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    The gunshots they heard could have all sorts of explanations, but Smoke’s gut told him there was only one that was likely.
    Slewfoot had either caught up to the rustlers, or some of them had lain in wait for him. Either way, Smoke was convinced that was his rider trading shots with the varmints they were after.
    He wasn’t going to waste any time in getting to Slewfoot and giving him a hand. He shouted, “Come on!” at his punchers and urged the ’Palouse into a run.
    The shots came from the north, the direction Slewfoot had gone. The dark, looming bulk of Gunsight Ridge to the west made it impossible to get lost, even at night.
    Smoke couldn’t let his stallion run flat out, although the ’Palouse would have been happy to. There was too much danger of the horse stepping into a hole or running into some unseen obstacle. Smoke kept his mount moving pretty fast, though, and the other riders trailed closely behind him.
    Even though they were hurrying, time seemed to pass with agonizing slowness as they rode north. A few minutes could be an eternity in a gun battle. Not only that, but Smoke had to call a halt every so often to listen for the sound of shots. If the guns fell silent, that would send an ominous message indeed.
    Every time he reined in and the other men followed suit, Smoke heard the crackle of rifle fire. The shots were coming at a slower pace now, instead of the furious volley they had been at first. That meant the fight had settled down to a standoff. Slewfoot was alive and still battling, but it was possible he was badly wounded.
    Finally, when it seemed like they were getting close, Smoke signaled for the men to stop.
    â€œPearlie, pick four men to come with you and me,” he said as he dismounted and pulled his Winchester from its saddle sheath. “Cal, you’ll be staying here with the other men.”
    â€œBlast it, Smoke, I’d rather come with you,” Cal objected.
    â€œI know you would, but I want you here to take charge if we need you to come in and save our bacon.”
    Smoke’s voice was firm and didn’t allow for any argument. Despite Cal’s youth, he had been smack-dab in the middle of plenty of trouble since coming to the Sugarloaf, and he was seasoned beyond his years.
    â€œAll right,” the youngster said reluctantly, “but be careful.”
    â€œYou’re starting to sound like Sally,” Smoke said with a quick grin.
    â€œI just know how accident-prone this old pelican is,” Cal said as he nodded toward Pearlie.
    The foreman and former hired gun began, “It won’t be no accident when you find yourself with my boot up your—”
    â€œLet’s go,” Smoke said.
    Pearlie quickly pointed out four