“Check it out, Nick,” John T. ordered. “And goddamnit, be careful.”
The man with the busted mouth and nose-he wheezed like a steam engine when he talked-was back in a few minutes. “Jensen’s long gone. He rigged a booby trap with the shotgun. You better come look at this.” He cut his eyes to von Hausen. “But not the wimmen, sir.”
Smoke had secured the express gun in the fork of a tree, about head high, then cocked the triggers, pulling the cord taut, that was attached to a cord from the triggers to a trip wire. The loads of buckshot had hit Briscoe in the neck and face, completely blowing off his head. It was a very ugly scene.
Hans took one look and barfed all over the place.
Walt strolled up, shifted his tobacco and spat. The old gunfighter said, “I reckon we can scratch that one off the supper list, Angel.”
15
Briscoe was buried in the deep timber—minus his head. They couldn’t find enough of it to bother with scooping up. The hunters rode on a few very careful miles before making camp for the evening. When they made camp, the bounty hunters and outlaws each sat apart from one another, saying little or nothing. Briscoe’s death—more the way it happened than the thug’s demise—had deeply affected them all.
All had heard the stories that when pushed to his limits, Smoke Jensen was a ruthless man, who would fight like a cornered puma, stopping at nothing. The events of earlier today had damn sure proved that gossip out.
Hans sat with Gunter. The women were in their tents. Von Hausen was talking with John T. and Roy Drum. “Gunter,” Hans said.
His friend cut his eyes.
“Is going on worth it?” Hans was the first among the three to say the words.
“By now, every gambler from Monte Carlo to New York City knows of this hunt and is taking bets,” Gunter spoke softly. “If we left now, we would return home in disgrace. Yes. I’ve been giving it some thought. We have to press on. As we discussed before, it is a matter of honor. Are you really having second thoughts?”
“Yes. My God, Gunter, how many dead men have we left behind us. Nine? Ten? Heaven forgive me I can’t even remember!”
Gunter chuckled and patted his friend on the arm. “Well, let’s just hope that God has a sense of humor, Hans.”
“He might. Smoke Jensen doesn’t.”
Smoke softly whistled part of a tune he’d once heard played at a concert he and Sally had attended in San Francisco. Pretty piece. Something by Brahms, he thought. Or maybe Wagner. Whatever. It was a pretty piece of music.
He was waiting in thick underbrush, behind a fallen tree, just off the bank of a fast-moving creek. He had angled down into the Central Plateau. Not too many large mountains in this part of the range, but plenty of hills and marshes and excellent ambush sites. Smoke was cold-minded now. He had issued his final warning. If von Hausen chose to ignore it—that was too bad for them. Smoke intended to empty every saddle he saw that he knew an outlaw sat in. Or a nutty European sportsman—so called.
It was almost a shame to do it, Smoke thought. None of those following him seemed to have any imagination; they just stayed on his trail and pushed blindly ahead. Smoke picked his ambush spots several days apart, having observed through binoculars that those behind him would be cautious for a day or so when approaching a likely spot, but would become careless on the third or fourth day out.
They just never seemed to learn.
Like now, he thought, as he heard the sounds of riders approaching from the west. He eared back the hammer on his .44-.40, thinking: von Hausen and party damn sure made good time this trip. He wasn’t expecting them until late that afternoon or the next day.
He gently let the hammer down when he saw that this bunch was not von Hausen’s hunters. It was the army. Smoke lay behind the log, in the brush, and listened to the men gripe.
“Top Soldier,” a slick-sleeve private said to a sergeant major. “What are we gonna do with this von Hausen when we find him?”
“Order him from the park, MacBride.”
“And Jensen?”
“He ain’t done nothin’. Now, when we spot Jensen, just stand easy, men. Don’t make any sudden moves. Don’t do nothin’ to rile him.”
Smoke stood up. “Afternoon, troops,” he called. The army patrol stopped in the creek. The top soldier forded on across and waved his men on. He reined up and dismounted. “Loosen ‘em up and let ’em blow, men.” He turned to face Smoke. “Would you be Smoke Jensen?”
“I am.”
“I’m Sergeant Major Murphy. I got orders to say this, as silly as it sounds. Are you aware of a large group of men, and some ladies, following you with hostile intent?”
“I am quite aware of them, Top Soldier. I’ve emptied about ten or so saddles over the past month or so. I was waiting for them here.”
“So I see. Well, the hunt is over, Mister Jensen. You are now under the protection of the United States Army.”
“It’s going to be interesting to hear what von Hausen has to say about that, Top.”
“They will be escorted from the park and ordered to leave the country, Mister Jensen. Those American citizens with them will be placed under arrest—if you press charges.”
