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.”
“Say, this is very kind of you. I thought we had provisioned ourselves adequately. But I’m afraid we stayed out a bit longer than we should have. By the way, I’m Charles Knudson. This is Harold Bailey, Morris Robertson, and Perry Willard.”
“Pleased,” Smoke said.
The men fell to eating and with a smile, Smoke cut another hefty chunk off the hanging deer and fitted it on a fresh spit.
“Haven’t eaten since last evening,” one of the government men said, coming up for air. “And would you believe that we haven’t even seen so much as a rabbit this day?”
“I can believe it,” Smoke said. “I’ve been there a time or two myself.”
Charles took a break to rest his jaws and said, “Sight-seeing, sir?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Unusual arrangement of pistols, sir,” Perry said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a rig quite like yours.”
