“What kind of man would think to do something like
“A man like Smoke Jensen,” Walt said bluntly. “One of you boys kill that rattler and somebody get the shovels. Angel, get a blanket to wrap Bob up in. I’ll go get the Good Book outta my gear.”
Von Hausen’s legs were trembling so badly he had to sit down on a log and try to regain his composure. He was in mild shock, sweating profusely. He clenched his hands into fists to still the trembling. He had never seen anything like this in all his years. He tried to put himself into the mind of Smoke Jensen. He could not. But it never occurred to him to call off the hunt.
Less than a half mile away, Smoke sat on the ground and ate jerky for his lunch while he thumbed the cartridges out of Utah’s gunbelt and put them in a small sack.
Finding the rattlesnake and sticking it into Utah’s saddlebags had been a nice touch, Smoke thought. He bet it sure got everyone’s attention. He picked up his pack and rifle and moved out. He was smiling.
“Be interestin’ to see what the Baron does now,” Walt said to Angel.
“Yes. Utah is out for a good three or four days-his face is so swollen he can’t open his eyes-and Bob is dead. That’s three dead and two wounded and nobody has yet to get a clear shot at Jensen. A smart man would give this up.”
“You don’t see any of these man-hunters and so-called gunslingers pullin’ out, do you?”
“No.”
“That tells you how smart they are right there.”
John T. walked over to von Hausen, who was sitting in a camp chair in front of his tent, drinking coffee. He looked up at John T. and shook his head.
“Barbaric act on Jensen’s part.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I wonder how long he had that snake?”
“He probably just caught it and come up with the idea. The snake got away ’fore anyone could shoot it.”
“Wonderful,” von Hausen said sarcastically.
“Hole’s dug and Bob’s ready for plantin’. Walt’s gonna read words over him.”
“The ladies are still quite distraught. They won’t be attending. Andrea had to take to her bed.”
“Sorry to hear that, Baron.”
“I’ll get my jacket and be right with you. I’ll join you at the services.”
At the gravesite, John T. noticed that both Angel and Walt were wearing white handkerchiefs tied around their upper arm. “What the hell’s all that about?”
“We want Jensen to know we ain’t huntin’ him,” Walt told him. Just in case he decides to attend the services, he added silently.
John T. shook his head in disgust.
The entire camp-except for the ladies-gathered around the grave and Walt read from the Bible. The body was dumped in the hole and Walt closed his Bible. Just as two men picked up shovels and started covering Bob, a sputtering stick of dynamite landed in the center of the camp with a thud-about a hundred yards from the burial site.
“What was that?” Montana asked.
The dynamite blew and the horses tore loose their picket pins and went galloping in all directions. One of them ran behind Gunter and Maria’s tent, a rope tangling around the horse’s neck and bringing the tent down and taking it with him. Maria was in the middle of a sponge bath one second and standing smooth out in the open the next second, frozen in wide-eyed, open-mouthed shock for all to see. And she had a lot for the men to see.
It didn’t take her long to find her voice and let out a shriek that probably echoed around the mountains for days. Then she fainted.
Smoke was busy setting the other big tents on fire. He touched the flame to a very short fuse and let another stick of dynamite fly just as the men-minus Walt and Angel who had the good sense to jump behind the mound of earth at the gravesite—came running toward the dust-swirled camp grounds.
“Get down!” John T. bellowed, seeing the dynamite come sputtering through the dust.
This stick of dynamite took out the cook tent, ruined the pot of beans and demolished the dutch oven.
“Crap!” Walt said. “I wish he hadn’t a done that.”
“Least he saved the coffee pot,” Angel said.
No sooner had the words left his mouth before Smoke’s .44-.40 barked twice and the coffee pot got punctured.
Andrea and Marlene came staggering out of what was left of their burning tents, in various stages of undress, both of them coughing and choking, hair all disheveled and looking like sisters of Medusa.
Smoke couldn’t see because of all the dust and billowing smoke from the fires he’d started so he chose that time to haul his ashes out of there. He hit the timber running and slipped away. But he was very curious about the two men he’d spotted at the gravesite with white handkerchiefs tied around their arm. And neither one of them had been wearing guns. One of them looked like the old gunfighter, Walt Webster, and the other was a Mexican. Maybe he had two allies in camp?
