“Old what?” Smoke asked.
“Old Faithful. It’s a geyser just north of Shoshone Basin. It was named by the Washburn-Langford-Doane expedition back in ’70 because it spouts so faithfully.”
“Valley of the Roaring Clouds,” Smoke said. “That’s what Preacher says the Indians called it. Sure. I know what you’re talking about now.” He smiled a very wicked smile. “That thing still go off regular?”
“Certainly does. Every 65 to 70 minutes.”
“Do tell? That’s interesting. A man could get badly burned if he got caught out in that stuff, now couldn’t he?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Badly burned. That is extremely hot water coming out of the earth.”
“Might work,” Smoke muttered.
“I beg your pardon?” Perry asked.
“Nothing of importance,” Smoke told him. “You boys getting enough to eat?”
“Oh, plenty, sir. Mister Jensen,” Charles said, “I must report this deadly game to the superintendent. You understand my position?”
“Sure. Go right ahead. I imagine it’ll take you boys three or four days to get to him-after you’ve re-supplied at your base camp—then three of four days to get back here. But I’ll be long gone by that time. Then what will you do?”
The young government surveyors looked at each other. “The important thing, I believe, Mister Jensen, is what will you do?”
“Survive,” Smoke told him.
“There they are,” Roy said, pointing to the now familiar tracks of Smoke’s horses. “He’s headin’ for the canyons.”
“Will there be many people there?” Hans asked. “Sightseers?”
Roy shook his head. “Doubtful. It’s too early in the season. ’Sides, this place is about three thousand square miles. Take a lot of gawkers to fill that up. We’ll find a place to corner and kill him.” He lifted the reins and moved out.
“How long will Smoke keep this up, you wonder?” Angel questioned.
“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.
