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

hand to his mouth, cupped it around his lips, and waited until the rifles fell silent for a moment. When they did, he hooted like an owl.
    A heartbeat later, gun thunder filled the night as the rest of Smoke’s men opened fire.

Chapter 11
    Before he and Pearlie had crept around here, Smoke had made it clear what his men were supposed to do. Some of their shots ripped into the ground just in front of the trees, while others smacked into the trunks and whistled through the branches overhead. They weren’t missing by much, coming close enough with their slugs to make the two bushwhackers give up the standoff and beat a retreat. Smoke and Pearlie heard their boots thudding against the ground as they fled.
    â€œHere they come!” Pearlie whispered.
    â€œSplit up and wait until they’re close,” Smoke ordered as he leaned his Winchester against the tree and drew his Colt.
    Pearlie stepped over to one of the other trees and pressed his back against it so he couldn’t be seen. The running footsteps came closer.
    The bushwhacker who was in the lead raced past Smoke. With blinding speed, Smoke leaped out from behind the tree and struck, reversing his pistol so that the butt thudded against the man’s head. The bushwhacker’s hat softened the blow’s force somewhat, but it was still enough to send the man tumbling off his feet with a pained grunt.
    Smoke heard a rustle of movement as Pearlie tackled the second man. At the same time Smoke stepped forward and kicked away the rifle his man had dropped. He pressed the barrel of his revolver against the back of the man’s head and reached down with his other hand to draw the weapon from the bushwhacker’s holster.
    â€œYou’re caught, mister,” he said. “Try anything and I’ll blow your brains out.”
    That was the last thing he intended to do, but the rustler didn’t have to know that.
    The thudding of knobby-knuckled fists on flesh made Smoke glance toward his friend. He couldn’t make out any details in the shadows, but he saw the struggling shapes churning around. A gunshot roared, but Smoke could tell by the jet of flame from the muzzle that the weapon was pointed upward as Pearlie and the other bushwhacker wrestled over it.
    A sudden smack sent one of the figures slumping to the ground. Smoke dropped to a knee beside the man he had captured, ready to lift his gun and fire if the other bushwhacker had been victorious.
    Instead, it was Pearlie’s voice that called softly, “Smoke?”
    â€œI’m here,” Smoke replied. “I got mine.”
    â€œYeah, same here,” Pearlie said.
    Smoke took hold of his prisoner’s collar and rose to his feet, hauling the man upright with him.
    â€œDon’t try anything,” he warned. “My trigger finger is mighty itchy right now. Those are my cattle you stole tonight, and one of my men you shot.”
    The man swallowed with an audible gulp.
    â€œYou’re Smoke Jensen?” he asked.
    Smoke’s voice was hard as flint as he answered, “That’s right.”
    The prisoner started muttering something. Smoke couldn’t make out the words at first, but after a few seconds he realized the man was saying a prayer.
    â€œSave it,” he said as he gave the prisoner a shove. “Anyway, where you’re going, the fella with the horns and the forked tail is in charge.”
    The rest of the Sugarloaf men had stopped shooting. Pearlie raised his voice and shouted, “Hold your fire, boys.” Smoke herded his prisoner out of the trees, while Pearlie took hold of the unconscious man’s feet and dragged him into the open.
    From the stand of pines to the right, a familiar voice called, “Mr. Jensen? Is that you?”
    â€œThat’s right, Slewfoot,” Smoke replied. “Come on out. Or do you need help? Are you wounded?”
    The tall, skinny cowboy limped out of the trees carrying his