But Cosgrove couldn’t answer. One of his socks was stuck in his mouth and tied in place with Cosgrove’s own bandana. He was swinging from his own rope. His guns were missing from their holsters.
The man-hunter was lowered to the ground. The dirty sock was pulled from his mouth. Cosgrove coughed and spat and cussed for a full minute.
“Son of a bitch trussed me up like a side of beef,” Cosgrove said. “He was sittin’ on a tree limb and jerked me off like I wasn’t no more than a baby. I didn’t get to holler or nothin”fore he whapped me up side the head with a club. I wasn’t out no more’un a couple of minutes. He’s got to be close. Took my guns, too. Damn!”
“Don’t bet on him being close,” Utah said. “He’s probably cleared out of this area and huntin’ some of the others.”
He was wrong. Smoke was less than fifty yards away, flat on his belly under some brush, listening and watching.
“The man must move like a ghost,” Angel said, nervously looking around him.
“Knock off that ghost business,” Utah said. “He puts his pants on the same way we all do. He just got lucky, that’s all.” But Utah didn’t sound too convincing.
“He gave me a message to tell y‘all,” Cosgrove said. “He said he was tired of this business and to leave him alone. If we keep pushin’, he’s gonna start killin’. And when he starts, he’s gonna do it right; that there wasn’t none of us gonna leave the High Lonesome alive. He said that no amount of money was worth our lives. And to think about that.”
“Jensen had you and didn’t kill you,” Utah said, thinking: That ain’t-like him. If what I’m thinkin’ is true? ...
Angel looked around him, at the silent timber and the towering mountains, thrusting their snow-capped peaks into the skies. The clouds were low this day, the hint of rain or snow in the air. “I do not like this place,” the Mexican gunfighter said.
“This place is just a place,” Utah said. “The place ain’t what we got to worry about. It’s Smoke Jensen we got to watch out for.”
“Smoke Jensen is this place,” Angel said. “He is of the mountains.” Angel sniffed a couple of times.
“You smell somethin’?” Gary asked.
“Yes. Death.”
8
Marlene Ulbrich sat her horse and stared at the dark timber. Her horse had just pricked up its ears and she was instantly alert. She was an excellent horsewoman, and knew to trust her animal’s instincts. She saw something move. It looked like a man. She lifted her rifle and fired. The others in her team were at her side within seconds.
“What did you see?” Hans asked.
“A man. Right there by that lightning-marked tree.”
Smoke had hit the ground the instant he saw the woman lift her rifle. The slug had missed him by several feet; but the act had confirmed his suspicions that the women in the group were just as dangerous as the men. Maybe more so. He had rolled back into the timber, leaped to his nowmoccasined feet, and made his way deeper into the thickness of nature.
With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he now knew he had no choice in the matter. He was not going to run and run and run in the hopes they would give up; that would do nothing except delay the inevitable. Those hunting him were set on killing him, so he had to fight with the same callousness they were exhibiting.
He would let the man he’d strung up give his warning to the others. If they still chased him after hearing that . . . Smoke would do what a man had to do, and let the chips fall.
“Anybody want to leave?” von Hausen faced the group.
No one spoke or moved.
“Very well,” von Hausen said. “We shall commence the search at first light. John T., put out guards. Jensen will surely attack the encampment in some fashion this night. We’ve got to be ready for him.”
“Yes, sir. You men get your slickers. It’s gonna rain,” John T. told them, after looking up at the leaden skies. And the advantage is gonna be Jensen’s, he thought, but did not say it aloud.
“I am sure I hit him,” Marlene said. “You know, I seldom miss a shot.”
“Perhaps he’s wounded,” Gunter said.
“There was no sign of blood,” Hans said. “And I inspected the area carefully. If he is wounded, it’s slight.”
“Jensen’d pay no more attention to a flesh wound than he would a mosquito bite,” John T. muttered to Utah.
“You goin’ all the way with this, John?” Utah asked.
“Until either me or Smoke Jensen is dead,” the gunfighter said. “It’s personal.”
“Thought it might be. He kill a friend of yourn?”
Utah grunted. “He’s killed about a
“If you say so.”
