He’d grabbed up a side of bacon and a sack of potatoes in the jumble of supplies he’d rooted through before getting down to business at the camp, and now planned on having a hot meal and a pot of coffee. But first he saw to his horses and found them looking fat and sleek and contented.
Smoke fixed his supper, drank a pot of coffee, and then rolled up in his blankets. He went to sleep with a smile on his face.
John T. assigned four guards to a shift, the shift to be changed every two hours so no one would get sleepy and let Jensen slip into this new camp. John T. still planned to kill Smoke, but he had to admit that his admiration for the man had grown over the long weeks of tracking him. Smoke Jensen was every bit the warrior rumors made him out to be. That was one hell of a daring move, coming into their camp in daylight and blowing things up and setting tents on fire. Man could move like a Injun, for sure. But he had to have a weak spot. John T. would find it. He was sure of that.
“Keep a sharp eye out, boys,” he called across the elevated flat to the guards. “And keep in mind that Jensen can move like a damn ghost.”
At that moment, Frederick, Hans, and Gunter were making a pact that they would carry out this campaign down to the last man. Smoke Jensen would die, or they would all die trying.
“It’s now a matter of honor,” Gunter said. “If we fail in this hunt, we’ll be ridiculed back home. I won’t have that.”
“Nor will I,” Hans agreed.
Von Hausen nodded his head in agreement. “We may possess all the money in the world, but if we are stripped of our honor, we would have nothing. We must go on with this hunt. And we must be victorious.”
“I have spoken with the women,” Gunter said. “They are also in agreement that this sporting event must continue. They have been humiliated and they are very angry.”
“The mood of the men?” von Hausen asked.
“John T. is testing the waters now, so to speak,” Hans informed him.
“Work’s hard enough to get for men like us,” John T. said offhandedly to a small group of gunslingers. “Times are changin’ all around us. I just can’t see turnin’ my back on no good-payin’ job like this one.”
“I ain’t about to give up this here hunt,” Pat Gilman said. “We stand to make more money doin’ this than we could make in five years doin’ anything else.”
“Count me in,” Ford said.
“And, me,” Al Hayre echoed.
“Montana and them with him told me that they was in all the way,” John T. said. “Lemme go talk with the others.”
Tom Ritter and Gil Webb and Marty Boswell were in. So were Pride Anderson, Lou Kennedy, Cat Brown, Paul Melham and Nat Reed. Utah Red mumbled that he’d done swore on his mother’s tintype to kill Smoke Jensen; wanted to torture him first. Make it last a long time. Ford, Jerry Watkins, Mike Hunt, and Nick were in all the way.
“They’re in,” John T. reported to his bosses. “For the money and because their pride’s been hurt.”
“Excellent,” von Hausen said, and smiled for the first time since Smoke’s attack that day. “Montana said he could probably round up three or four more men. He thought he knew where there was a long-range shooter. I wanted Mike Savage, but he’s somewhere down in Arizona Territory at this time. Montana said the man he had in mind was better. We’ll see.”
“All this waitin’ is just givin’ Jensen more time to dig in and plan,” John T. pointed out.
Von Hausen brushed that aside. “It can’t be helped. We’ve got to be resupplied if this expedition is to continue with any hope of success. Look at it this way: There is no way Jensen can get to us up here on this flat. We have an excellent view in all directions and a fine field of fire. And the supplies will afford us some much-needed creature comforts. We have to keep the ladies in mind, John T.”
John T. nodded. “Whatever you say, boss. I sent a couple of the men south to see if they could kill a deer or elk so we’ll have a change from beans and hardtack.”
“Excellent. I wish them a successful hunt.”
After John T. had walked away from the group, von Hausen rubbed his hands together and smiled, a cruel glint in his eyes. “I feel better now. We’ve had our set-backs, but that is to be expected in any campaign. I feel that we’ve ironed out the kinks and learned some hard but valuable lessons. I think that from this point on, success is inevitable. Let’s drink to it, gentlemen. To the death of Smoke Jensen!”
12
Smoke had watched the camp on the flats through long-lenses and decided that now was a dandy time to pull out. He returned to his own camp, packed up his gear, and pulled out, heading straight north. He crossed the Beaverdam, keeping on the west side of Atkins Peak. He spent a couple of days camped along the Columbine and then once more headed north. After crossing the Clear, he pointed his horse’s nose northeast and headed up toward the northern end of the Absaroka Range, recalling a camp he and Preacher had made between the Lamar River and Miller Creek, up near Saddle Mountain. He spent a couple of days there then headed west, for the Mirror Plateau; from there, he’d take his followers into canyon country and see how they liked that. He had a strong hunch that some of them would spend eternity there.
Montana returned with the supplies and five new men. “This is all I could round up on short notice, boss,” he told von Hausen. “But they’re good boys and they’ll stick it out to the end. Roy Drum, Mack Saxton, Ray Harvey, Tony Addison, and this here is Don Langston. If he can see it, he can hit it with a rifle.”
Von Hausen was impatient. Smoke had had days to hide his trail. There had been no sign of him, so all concluded he had pulled out. He voiced that shared opinion with Montana and the new men.
“Don’t fret none,” Montana said. “Roy’s the best tracker in this part of the country. We’ll find Smoke. Roy’s got a personal reason to find him.”
“Oh?” von Hausen looked at the man.
“Killed my uncle ’bout ten year ago over in Utah. I hate Smoke Jensen.”
“What did your uncle do to provoke Jensen?” Gunter asked.
“That don’t make no nevermind. Jensen killed him, and I’m gonna spit on Smoke Jensen’s body. That’s all that matters.”
“Get packed up. We pull out at first light.”
The trail was cold, but Roy knew his business. He found Smoke’s trail and stayed on it. When Smoke crossed Cold Creek and turned more east than north, Roy pulled up and scratched his head. “This don’t make no sense. I think he’s leadin’ us on a fool’s chase.”
“What do you mean?” Hans asked.
“He’s just killin’ time. Just wanderin’ to wear us out. If I was gonna make me a stand up here, I’d do it in the canyon country. I think if we head north, we’ll pick up his trail after he crosses the Lamar. He’ll be headin’ west, over the plateau. Bet on it.”
“We’d save how many days if you’re correct?” Gunter asked.
“Week, maybe more ’un that.”
“John T.?” von Hausen asked.
“I’m with Roy. Let’s try it.”
“Lead the way, Roy,” von Hausen ordered.
Smoke didn’t know if his aimless wanderings would fool those behind him for very long. It really didn’t make much difference; the situation had to be settled sooner or later.
He had made an early camp after killing a deer. He had skinned it out and was roasting a steak when he heard a rider coming. He reached for his rifle.
“Hello, the camp!” came the shout. “We’re government surveyors.”
“Come on in,” Smoke called through early twilight. “I’ve got food if you’ve got coffee.”
“That we have, sir. My, but that venison does smell good.”
There were four of them, all dressed like eastern dudes on an outing. But they were friendly and not heavily armed.
Smoke pointed to the meat on the spit. “Help yourselves. I’ve plenty more to cook when that is gone.”