The tents were gone and most of their contents went up with them. The women had been hustled off-after Maria was revived and a robe draped over her-and positioned safely behind a jumble of rocks, under guard.
“One big coffee pot left,” Walt said. “The cook pot’s busted. The oven’s bent plumb outta shape and broke besides. The big skillet ain’t got no handle. They’s flour and beans and lard all over the damn place.”
Men were out looking for and rounding up their horses. They never did find the horse that took Maria’s tent with it, but they did find what was left of the tent.
Von Hausen found his camp chair, sat down in it, and the chair collapsed, sending the Baron sprawling on his butt in the dirt. He picked himself up with as much dignity as he could muster, and brushed off the dirt from his riding breeches.
“How far are we from civilization?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“There’s a tradin’ post up on the Shoshone,” Montana said. “That’d be north and east of us. As the crow flies, about thirty miles or so.”
“Could you get there?” Gunter asked.
“Oh, yeah. Best way to go would be to stay on the south side of Eagle Peak, then crost the north end of the Absaroka Range and hit either Eagle or Kitty Creek. Follow that on up to the Shoshone.”
“And that would take how long?” Hans asked.
“Days. Some of that is mighty rough country.”
Von Hausen tossed a small sack to the man. “There is more than ample funds to re-supply and to hire more men—if you can find them. We’re going to fall back to that plateau we crossed several miles back and set up a defensive position. That’s where we’ll be. Assign men to go with him, John T.” He looked toward the north. “I shall not leave this wilderness until I have spat upon your grave, Smoke Jensen. I swear that.”
Smoke didn’t figure von Hausen would be sending anyone after him-if he could get anyone to come after him—so he returned to his camp and set about fixing supper. He wanted all fires out by dark, just in case.
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.”
