“Ford died ’cause he was stupid,” Mike Hunt said. “You can’t lose your control when fightin’ a man like Jensen. Ford better be a lesson to us all.”
“Agreed,” von Hausen said.
The group waited, all bunched up, for almost half an ho An explosion jarred the area, followed by a dust cloud drifting up out of the rocks.
“Now what the hell? ...” Gary muttered.
“I betcha he blew the pass,” John T. said. “And I betcha it’s the only pass for miles, north or south. Time we work around over there it’s gonna be another cold trail.”
“I’ll find it,” Roy said. “I told you all: I aim to kill that man.”
“Collect the bodies,” von Hausen said wearily. “Get your Bible, Walt.”
“Now let me get this straight,” the superintendent of the park said to the four young surveyors. “Smoke Jensen
“That is correct, sir,” Charles told him. “He shared his food with us.”
“He was a very nice man, I thought,” Morris said.
“Smoke Jensen ... was a very nice man?”
“Yes, sir. Much younger than any of us thought. I would say he is in his mid-thirties.”
“That’s about right. And people are hunting him? To kill him. In
“Yes, sir. Quite a large gang, I understand. Led by someone named Baron Frederick von Hausen.”
“Von Hausen. I’m not familiar with the name. A Baron, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who are the men with him?”
“Bounty-hunters, professional killers. Men of very low quality,” Perry said.
“Quite,” Charles added.
“Well, this cannot be allowed to continue,” the superintendent said. “I’ll get word to the army. They’ll do something about it. This is federal land, after all.”
After crossing the Yellowstone, Smoke headed north, into the Washburn Range. He knew he had bought himself a day, maybe a day and a half; no more than that. He was out of supplies, except for a little coffee, and he was living off the land, just as he and Preacher had done during those early years. But Smoke, like most western men, was a coffee-drinking man, and he wasn’t going to be out of coffee for very long. He could live off of fish and rabbits and berries, but damned if he was going to be denied coffee.
On the second day after fording the Yellowstone, he spotted a thin plume of smoke in the distance and headed for it. He rode up to the camp, stopping a respectable distance from it, and eyeballed those in the camp who were, by now, eyeballing him.
The three men and three women were dressed in some sort of safari clothes; Smoke thought that was the right description for it. The women dressed just like the men, in britches and high-top, lace-up boots. He’d never seen hats like they were wearing. Looked like a gourd hollowed out. Funniest looking things he’d ever seen.
“Hello, the camp,” Smoke called. “I’ll approach with your permission.”
“Why, of course. Come right in, sir,” a rather plump man returned the call.
Smoke rode in and dismounted. He loosened the cinch strap on the horses and picketed them on graze.
The men and women—none of whom were armed—quickly noticed Smoke’s guns. One of the women thought the stranger moved like a great predator cat. And my, what a ruggedly handsome man. She fanned herself at his approach.
They were scientists, Smoke was told. Gilbert, Carol, Robert, Paula, Thomas, and Blanche. Anthropologists and some other names that sounded to Smoke like they were clearing their throats. He didn’t have the foggiest idea what they meant.
“Share our lunch with us?” Robert asked.
“I’d be obliged. I ran out of supplies several days ago.”
“You poor man!” Blanche said. “You must be starved.”
“Oh, no,” Smoke told her, “I’ve been living off the land.” He smiled at her. My word, what a handsome man, she thought. “No reason for anybody to go hungry in this land of bounty, ma’am. You just have to know something about surviving out here. The only bad thing is running out of coffee.”
“Well, we have plenty of that,” Thomas said.
Something popped in the timber and suddenly the stranger was on his feet from his kneeling by the fire and he had a gun in his hand. His draw had been so smooth and so fast none of the scientists were aware of it. It just seemed to appear in his hand.
All did notice, however, how hard and tight his face had become, and how cold were his eyes.
“One of our mules,” Paula said quickly.
Smoke nodded and walked to the edge of the small clearing. He could see mules and horses picketed. “Pull them in closer,” he said, returning to the fire and the coffee pot. “You got your picket line too far away from camp. There are folks out here who’d steal from you. The west has tamed somewhat, but not that much. Move it right over there.” He pointed. “You see anybody trying to steal your livestock, shoot ’em.”
“
