“He is just one man,” Valdes said.
“I used to think you had good sense,” Montana replied. “Now I’m beginnin’ to think you fell off your hoss and landed on your head one too many times. He’s acomin’ after us, Valdes. And he’s mad clear through. And when he’s mad, and knows he’s in the right, Smoke Jensen don’t give a damn about the law. They’s been a dozen times over the years when more men than us tried to stop him. When the gunsmoke cleared, Jensen was still standin’.”
“I think I am in the company of old women,” Valdes said scornfully.
John T. Matthey smoothed out the saddle blanket, slung his saddle on and cinched it up. He said nothing. But he felt that Valdes’ pride was setting the Mexican gunfighter up for a killing. His own.
It had been four days since the fight at the fort on the ridge, and the men had swung wide and then cut east. Dodge City, Kansas, where their money was being held, was a long way off. And those of them with any sense knew that Smoke Jensen was coming hard after them.
“Where are we?” von Hausen asked, walking up to the men.
“Wyoming,” Roy Drum told him. “Just a few miles south of the Montana line. ‘Bout twenty miles south of us, on the Shoshone River, they’s a little settlement. It ain’t got a name. ’Least it didn’t have last time I was through there.”
“Is there a railroad there?” Gunter asked. “We have to get east as quickly as possible.”
“Don’t know. But I’d fight shy of railroads, was I you,” Roy told him. “I got me a good strong hunch that the word’s done gone out on us. The law’ll be lookin’ hard at folks buyin’ train tickets.”
“That doesn’t leave us many options, then, does it?” von Hausen asked.
“We done run out of options,” Gil Webb said. “Slap dab out of them. All but one.”
“And that one is? ...” Andrea asked, a haughty note in her voice.
“We run, lady,” John T. said. He was tying his bedroll in place behind his saddle. “We ride hard for Dodge, you folks pay us off, and then we all scatter like leaves in the wind. Jensen’s comin’, lady. Comin’ hard. And he’s mad. Killin’ mad. He’s snarlin’ like a big lobo wolf, sniffin’ the ground and stayin’ on our scent. We run.”
“You ever seen a buffalo wolf, lady?” Roy Drum asked. “No. ‘Course you hadn’t. They ’bout all gone now. Folks killed them out. Big one would weigh a hundred an’ fifty to hundred an’ seventy five pounds. One—just
“We have to have supplies,” von Hausen said. “We’ll travel to that settlement you talked about.”
Roy opened his mouth to argue. John T. cut him off. “We’re out of coffee, Roy. We lost several pack horses back yonder in that meadow. We ain’t got no bacon, no flour, no beans. We’ll head for the settlement.”
“All right!” Drum said savagely. “Then damnit, let’s ride.”
They managed to get Ray Harvey on his horse. His broken leg was swollen badly and it was all he could do to keep from screaming out in pain.
“We got to leave you when we get to the settlement, Ray,” John T. said. “You got to get some doctorin’ on that leg ’fore gangrene sets in and you die. We’ll make sure you get your money. And that’s a promise.”
That was a lie and both men knew it. Ray’s leg was stinking from infection. Gangrene had already set in and his blood was poisoned by it.
The party provisioned at the trading post and pulled out that same day, leaving Ray Harvey in the barn on some hay. Jerry Watkins took all the man’s money. So much for honor among thieves. The settlement had no doctor. Smoke rode in the next day, early, and found Harvey nearly gone.
“Shoot me, Jensen!” the hired gun begged. “Put me out of my misery. I can’t stand the pain no more.”
Smoke shook his head. “I won’t do that, but I will buy you a case of whiskey. You can die drunk if you like.”
“I’d appreciate it. That’ll help a lot. They’ve gone for Dodge, Jensen. You ain’t but about a day behind them. They stole my money and left me here to die. I don’t figure I owe none of them a damn thing.”
Smoke bought a case of whiskey and arranged with the livery owner to let Harvey stay there until he died. Which was not going to be long. His leg had turned black and vivid streaks of infection were shooting out from the poisoned leg.
Smoke rested his horses, feeding them all the grain they wanted. He had a bath and a haircut and a shave and had his clothing washed and ironed. He left his packhorse, taking only a few things he could carry in his saddlebags and rolled up behind his saddle.
At dawn, he swung up into the saddle. “Let’s go, boy,” he told his big Appaloosa. The horse stepped out eagerly, knowing the hunt was on.
The livery owner watched Smoke ride out in the darkness. He told a buddy, “I’d not want that man after me. They’ll be hell to pay when he catches up with them folks that wronged him.”
“I hope he gut-shoots Watkins,” Harvey said, his words slurry from the whiskey.
Roy Drum had cut south from the small settlement, and Smoke knew then the route he was taking. They would angle southeast and cross the North Platte at that little town just east of Emigrant Gap. From there, they would touch the corner of Colorado then turn due south toward Dodge.
“Looks like I don’t buy any bulls this summer,” Smoke told his horse.
Once von Hausen and party crossed the Greybull, they had about fifty or sixty miles of nothing until they hit the north/south stagecoach road. Smoke remembered a trading post—that by now might be a settlement of sorts-on the old Bridger Trail, at the confluence of Fifteen Mile Creek and the Big Horn River. They would have to stop there—the ladies would want that—and resupply. Sixteen or seventeen people went through a lot of groceries on the trail. Then too, there was another point to consider: from the trading post to the next settlement, that being on the North Platte, there was about a hundred miles of nothing.
