boy.”
“I’ll answer to just about anything.”
Lute chuckled and carefully rubbed salve on the healing cuts inflicted by the devil’s hatband. “I come in from the west. Smelled your fire and cut north. I didn’t want you to think I was part of that bunch that’s comin’ up behind you.”
“I knew I was being followed.”
“I’m sure you did. You appear to be a mighty careful man. You got the mark on you, son. I think you’ve spent some time in the high country.”
“For a fact.”
“Thought so. Brands a man deep. The burn don’t never come out. I come into the Lonesome back in ’39. Me and old Preacher was partners for years.”
“I knew him. He still alive?”
“Yep. Gettin’ fat and sassy in his old age. Him and a bunch of other old mountain men got ’em a place up in the mountains. Them old coots just sit and rock and tell lies all the damn day. Mountain Men and old gunfighters. I might go there myself some day. When all the fire gets burned out in me and there ain’t nothin’ but ashes left.”
“This bunch that’s on my trail: how many?”
“ ’Ppears to be a goodly bunch, boy. I bellied down on a rise and watched ’em. They ridin’ like men with a mission. Hardcases, I’d say. You wanted by the law?”
“Not that I know of.” Smoke rummaged around and found another cup. He poured the scalding coffee and passed a cup to Lute, who had finished doctoring his horse and had sat down by the fire.
“Much obliged to you, boy.” He warmed his hands on the hot tin cup, waiting a moment for the coffee to become drinkable. His eyes took in Smoke’s guns. “Don’t see a rig like yourn too often,” he remarked.
“Not often. But it suits me.” Smoke turned the rabbits to even the cooking.
“Jensen,” Lute said the words softly. “I knowed it would come to me. Smoke Jensen.”
“That’s right.”
“Ol’ Preacher sort of jerked you up after your pa died back in ‘66 or ’67.”
“That he did. But he never mentioned anyone named Lute. I find that odd.”
“Had to change my name after I killed a man down in civilization back in ’55. I hate towns ... hate the people in towns. They fearful people, afraid to go it alone. Bullies live in towns, too. It was a bully I opened up with my good knife.”
Smoke smiled at Lute’s words. He didn’t agree with the man in the main, but part of what he said held some truth to it.
“They comin’ after you, boy,” Lute said. “Has to be you. Someone has hired them to kill you. I know you got enemies.”
“Then why don’t they come on and try to do the job?”
“Don’t know. You and me, we’ll ambush ‘em in the mornin’. How ’bout it?”
Smoke shook his head. “Lute, they may or may not be after me. I don’t know that for sure and neither do you. I’m tired of killing. I just want to live in peace.”
The mountain man snorted. “Right nice thought, but it ain’t never gonna happen. As long as you’re alive, they’s them that’ll be wantin’ to try you. I shouldn’t have to be tellin’ you this.” He stood up. “I’ll get my grub. Told you I wouldn’t eat yourn.”
The fire burned down to coals several times and each time one of the men would rouse from his blankets to place wood on the coals. The stars began to fade when Lute rolled out of his blankets and disappeared into the brush outside of camp to do his morning business. Smoke took the other side of the camp, then came back and put coffee on to boil and to lay slices of bacon in the frying pan.
“Smoke,” Lute called. “You’ll wanna see this.”
Smoke climbed up the small hill and stood by the old mountain man. About five miles away, below where they stood, Smoke could see a half dozen fires twinkling in the darkness. He took off his hat and scratched his head.
“It makes no sense. It’s as if they want me to see them; they want me to know they’re after me.”
“Maybe they do, boy. You seen bear-baitin’, ain’t you?”
“Yes. It’s a cruel sport. What about it?”
“Maybe they do want you to know, boy. Maybe it’s a game to them.”
Smoke thought about that. “A game? Lute, what do you know that you’re not telling me. And don’t hand me any more crap about you just happening up on my camp yesterday afternoon.”
“Let’s get some coffee and bacon. I’ll level with you.”
They ate and drank their coffee. Eating was serious business and they wouldn’t talk until the food was gone and they’d settled back for a pipe or a hand-rolled and a cup of coffee.
“I come up on a buddy of mine about two weeks ago over yonder-ways on Badwater Crick. He’d just ridden the steam engine as fer as he could from Dodge City. Whilst he was in Dodge he overheard some talk about this German Count or Baron or something like that, name of Frederick von Hausen. He’s some sort of world traveler and ad-venture seeker. He was in some saloon there and askin’ who was the meanest, toughest man in the west. Somebody piped up and said Smoke Jensen.”
