“He’s kept it up longer than I thought he would,” Walt replied. “I reckon he’s hopin’ they’ll give it up and go on back home. When he does decide to make his stand, Angel, it’s gonna be a terrible sight to behold.”
“That rattlesnake business told me that,” Angel said soberly. “I do not ever wish to see another sight like that.”
“I ’spect Jensen’s got tricks up his sleeve that’ll equal it,” the old gunfighter said, as the two men rode along, bringing up the rear of the column.
Angel shuddered. “What in God’s name could be worse than that?”
“Jensen’ll think of something. Bet your boots on it. He ain’t even got mad yet.”
“I have a brother in Chihuahua. He is a lawyer. I think I will visit him when this is over.”
“Least you’ll be able to visit, son. That’s more’un them thirty-odd fools up ahead of us’ll be able to do. And them three gettin’ stiff in the ground behind us.”
Smoke found the canyon area along the Yellowstone River completely void of human life. And he had never seen a more perfect place for an ambush.
He carefully scouted out the area where he’d chosen to raise some hell, locating a retreat route that wound down to the river, and selected a place in the narrow pass to plant dynamite. He’d light the fuse on his way out and block the pass, forcing those behind him to detour miles before being able to ford the river. By that time, he’d have chosen another place of ambush and would be lying in deadly wait.
He picketed his horses close to the narrow, torturously twisting pass, near water and graze, and moved into position just at dusk, about half a mile from the river and high above it. He awakened long before dawn and built a tiny fire to boil his coffee. He put out the fire as soon as he had warmed his hands and boiled his coffee. His breakfast was jerky and hardtack. He had already sighted in his .44-.40 for long-range shooting and fixed in his mind the landmarks he’d chosen for distance markers along his approach to the area. Now he waited.
Two riders appeared. Smoke lifted his field glasses and adjusted them for distance. He recognized one rider by his shirt and the horse. He did not think he’d ever seen the second man before. So that meant von Hausen had recruited more man-hunters. Smoke wondered where in the hell he’d found them up here and how many he’d hired?
He put those thoughts out of his head and concentrated on staying alive. The point men were still much too far away for any kind of accurate shooting when they reined up, obviously wary and suspecting an ambush. That told Smoke the men weren’t entirely stupid. That left greedy and rather foolish.
More men rode up. Smoke lifted his binoculars and pulled in von Hausen and more men than he’d seen previously. “Come on,” he muttered. “Come on. Let’s get this going.”
He was facing east, and the sun was bright. He did not want to risk any reflection from the lenses of the field glasses, so he cased them and settled back, rifle in hand, and waited. The point men rode closer. He saw one of them point to the ground, spotting Smoke’s tracks. The other one twisted in the saddle, calling back to the others and pumping his clenched fist up and down in the military signal to come on.
“Yeah,” Smoke muttered. “You do that.”
The point men passed the first landmark Smoke had fixed in his mind. Smoke lifted the rifle and jacked back the hammer on the .44-.40, sighting one of the riders in. He took up slack on the trigger and the rifle boomed, jarring his shoulder. Cosgrove was knocked from his horse as the big slug struck him dead center in his chest.
Smoke levered in another round and squeezed the trigger. But he shot high and blew the second man’s hat off. The winds caught the hat and sent it sailing. Smoke waited.
“Cosgrove’s had it,” Roy said, reaching the column. “Jensen shot him right through the heart.”
“Goddamnit!” Ford cussed. “Me and Cos buddied all over the west together.” Before anyone could stop him, Ford had spurred his horse and was racing up the trail. He shucked his rifle out of the boot just as he passed his ex-partner in crime, stone dead on the rocks beside the trail.
Smoke led the rider in the sights and let him come on. He could hear Ford cussing and hollering in his rage. “Come on,” Smoke muttered. “I want you close enough so maybe your horse will come this way and I can see if you’ve got anything to eat in your saddlebags.”
Ford was less than a hundred yards from Smoke’s position when Smoke pulled the trigger. The bullet caught Ford in the center of his chest and Ford joined his buddy on the trail. He hit the ground and did not move. His horse kept right on going. Smoke jumped down into the rocks and grabbed the horse’s trailing reins, talking to the spooked animal, calming it down.
He found some salt meat and biscuits wrapped in a clean cloth and nothing else of value. He stripped saddle and bridle from the animal and turned it loose. Then Smoke climbed back into position and had breakfast ... compliments of Frederick von Hausen.
13
Von Hausen studied Smoke’s position through binoculars, studying every angle carefully. Finally, with a curse and a shake of his head, he cased his field glasses and returned to where his group had gathered.
“Whatever else the man may be, he knows tactics,” von Hausen said. “He could hold off an army from his position. It would take several days to get to one end or the other of this canyon then find a way through and work our way behind him. If we split our people and try to trap him in there, he’d know it because of the damned flats on both sides of us, and the high ground to our rear. To charge him would be suicide. It’s a standoff.” He looked around him. “Where is Langston?”
“Trying to work his way out to get a shot at Jensen,” John T. told him.
Von Hausen had decided, several days back, that the sporting aspects of this hunt could go to hell. Just kill Jensen, he told his people.
“Where is he leading us?” von Hausen asked. “Or is he leading us anywhere? The man doesn’t think like anyone I ever knew. He’s unpredictable. In every war there are plans, tried and true, that are followed by both sides. This man is a ... a savage. I can’t work out what he is going to do from one day to the next.”
“Do we make camp here?” Walt asked. “I gotta know so’s I can start cookin’.”
A single shot rang out. Von Hausen ran to the rocks, the others right behind him. Don Langston lay sprawled on his back below them, his fancy inlaid rifle shining in the sunlight, on the rocks some twenty feet from the body. Langston had been shot right between the eyes.
Walt shifted his chewing tobacco and spat. “I’d say he got a mite too close. I’ll go put the beans on.”
“Hey, Baron!” the shout came across the rocky flats. “How about you and me settling this?”
“What do you mean, Jensen?” von Hausen yelled.
“Just what I said. You and me, pretty-boy. Stand up, bareknuckle fight. The best man wins.”
“Marquess of Queensberry rules?”
Smoke’s laughter was taunting. “Anyway you want it, Baron. We’ll hold it in Denver.”
“Denver!” von Hausen shouted.
“That’s right-Denver. In front of a crowd at a ring. I’m not going to take a chance out here on one of your rabid skunks shooting me after I beat your face in.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Utah Red said. He was now able to see out of both eyes, but his face was lumpy and still mottled with bruises.
“Oh, I could take him in a ring,” von Hausen boasted. “It might be fun.”
“How about it?” Smoke shouted.
“I think not, Jensen. You can’t run forever.”
“Hell, I’m not running now, von Horse-face. Why don’t you come on across and get me.”
Von Hausen’s face reddened at the slur upon his name. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”