particularly interested in finding out.
“Slick-Finger Bob,” John T. pointed to another man.
Von Hausen waited for some explanation for the nickname.
John T. shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know why they call him that.”
Von Hausen sighed.
He was introduced to Henry Barton, Sandy Beecher, Frank Clover, John Flagg, Joe Elliot, Terry Smith, and Ed Clay.
They were the most disreputable-looking human beings Von Hausen had ever seen in all his life. He was loathe to turn his back on them. “We pull out in the morning,” he said.
Smoke stopped to chat with a drifting cowboy on the trail.
“They’s some bad ol’ boys camped up yonder by the crossin’,” the cowboy said. “That many bad ones all in a bunch spells trouble for somebody.”
“How far ahead?”
“No more’un five miles. You’ll see their smoke. Altogether there must be twenty or twenty-five of them. I got the hell outta there.”
Smoke thanked him and rode on. When he spotted the smoke from their campfires, he found a good place to picket his horse. Smoke took off his boots and slipped into his worn moccasins. He took the .44-.40 from the second saddle boot and moved out while he still had about an hour of light. He stopped about five hundred yards from the big camp and looked it over.
Then he threw back his head and howled like a great gray timber wolf.
“What the hell!” John Flagg said, as the wild howling came again.
“That ain’t no wolf,” Utah Red said. “It’s real close to it, but not quite.”
“Jensen,” John T. said. “He’s found us.”
The howling stopped for a few minutes. Everyone in the camp had armed themselves and taken cover where they could find it.
The howling came again. This time it was coming from a different direction. The men and women in the camp looked at each other nervously.
“He’s playin’ games,” Cat Brown said. “The dirty son is playin’ games with us.”
“Then he’s a damn fool,” Dick Dorman said. “One man against all of us. Who the hell does he think he is?”
A .44-.40 slug from Smoke’s rifle screamed off a rock about two inches from Dick’s head. Rock fragments bloodied Dick’s face and sent the outlaw hugging the ground. A second slug tore into his exposed boot and shattered his ankle. Dick screamed in pain and doubled up, both hands to his bullet-broken ankle.
Another slug punched a hole in the coffee pot and coffee spewed out into the fire. Another round from the .44- .40 whined wickedly off the big cook pot and started it rocking.
Paul Melham jumped up and jerked his rifle to his shoulder. That move got him a slug right between the eyes that blew out the back of his head. He fell backward without a sound.
“Damnit!” von Hausen yelled from his position behind a tree. “Rush him. Drive him back. If you don’t he’ll pick us off one at a time. It’s our only chance. Come on, let’s go!” von Hausen leaped from his position and zig-zagged a few yards forward.
The hired guns could not hang back while the man who was paying them risked his life. They charged, running and ducking and twisting.
Smoke faded back and slipped away into the waning light of early evening.
Roy Drum found his tracks. Cautiously, the men followed the tracker. “He’s runnin’ hard,” Drum pointed out. “See how his moccasins is diggin’ in? He’s way ahead of us.”
The men pressed on, cautious, but eager for the kill.
Smoke jumped into the saddle and headed straight back for the camp while the main body of men were a good three quarters of a mile away and getting further. Smoke hit the camp screaming like a wild man.
Marlene shrieked and grabbed for a rifle just as the shoulder of Smoke’s horse hit her and knocked her sprawling. She fell hard to the ground, knocking the wind from her.
Smoke rode right over a big tent, the Appaloosa’s hooves shredding the canvas and destroying equipment.
Andrea ran screaming from the onslaught. Smoke leaned over in the saddle, grabbed her by the belt and lifted her off the ground. She was wailing in fright. He dumped her unceremoniously on her butt into the river and left her splashing and sputtering and screaming. He turned and headed back for the camp. Maria was lifting a rifle to her shoulder when Smoke started putting rounds from his six-gun into the ground around her feet. She shrieked and made a run for it. She didn’t get far.
With the reins in his teeth, Smoke grabbed her by the seat of her pants and turned her flipping and rolling, her aristocratic posterior catching up with her boots. She landed on her belly and went sliding in the dirt.
He stampeded the horses, sending them racing in all directions, then made a final pass through the camp, tearing down the second big tent and dragging it into the fire. The barons and princes and princesses would have to sleep under the stars from now on.
Marlene was just getting to her feet, screaming her rage and calling Smoke some really terrible names, when Smoke turned and raced toward her. She reversed herself and took off. He grabbed her by the shirt collar and dragged her toward the river just as Andrea was reaching shore. He tossed Marlene into Andrea and the two women got dunked.
Smoke headed out, driving the frightened horses ahead of him and screaming like a Comanche.
