He paused to stuff and light his pipe and Smoke said, “You’ve been looking for me since then?”
“I owe Preacher,” was Lute’s response.
“You knew who I was all along, then?”
“I was pretty sure it was you. Anyways, this Baron—whatever the hell that means-said he wanted to mount a party and come lookin’ for you. He said it would be great sport to hunt you down and see just how tough you really was.”
Smoke’s coffee was cold in the cup and forgotten. He set the cup down and rolled a cigarette. Finally he said, “Lute, you can’t hunt a man down for sport like some animal!”
“ ’Ppears he’s doin’ it, boy.”
“Didn’t the law try to stop him?”
“The law ain’t got nothin’ to do with it, Smoke. And them men with him ain’t talkin”bout it. He’s payin“em big money.”
Smoke had never heard of such a thing, and his face mirrored his inner confusion. “It’s got to be a joke, Lute.”
“No joke, boy. They aim to hunt you down, run you until you can’t go no further, and then kill you.”
Smoke lit his cigarette and inhaled. “Well ... I have no option but to go to the law with this.”
Lute smiled. “And tell them what, boy? You ain’t got no proof that anybody’s doin’ anything wrong. Think about it.”
Smoke took his handroll down to the butt and tossed it into the fire before he spoke. He had been hunted before, certainly, by men who were after him in the heat of anger or for promise of a false bounty, but never for sport. Smoke was genuinely tired of all the killing. The west was being tamed; why in the hell didn’t people leave him alone and let him live in peace?
“I’ll not play their game, Lute. I’ll head for the high lonesome; I know places there where not even you could find me. He can’t keep these men on the payroll forever.”
“He’s worth millions, Smoke. And his family’s worth more millions. He ain’t never worked. He’s a so-called professional ad-venturer; whatever the hell that means. And yeah, he can keep these randy ol’ boys on the payroll forever, I reckon. Son, the more you run, the more ex-citin’ the hunt is for them.”
“That’s the reason you suggested we ambush them.”
“That’s right. Might as well get the un-pleasantness done with.”
Despite the situation facing him, Smoke had to chuckle at the old man’s coldness. Preacher had been the same way; mountain men were not known for their kind, loving attitudes toward anyone who might be planning to do them harm.
Smoke sighed. “I just can’t do it, Lute. I just can’t ambush a group of people who, so far, at least, have done me no harm. Don’t you see that?”
Lute refilled his own cup, tossed the cold out of Smoke’s, and filled it up. “No, I don’t. But I ain’t settled like you, neither. Tell me, would you have acted this way ten year ago? Or even last year?”
Smoke shook his head. “Probably not. Lute, the most famous gunfighters in all the west have killed no more than twenty or thirty men-at the most. Do you have any idea of the number of graves I’ve got on my backtrail?”
“I ’magine it’s a right large number.”
“Enough to populate a fair-sized town, and then some. And I’m tired of all the blood. I’m tired of all the killing. I’m tired of the looks people give me. I’m tired of being the most notorious gun in all the so-called wild west. Now, I haven’t turned over a whole new leaf; I’ll fight if I’m pushed to it, Lute.” He told him of the young man back in the saloon. “I didn’t want to draw on that kid, Lute. But I saw that he was working himself up into a frenzy to drag iron on me. And I wasn’t going to die so that he could live. I just wish to God that people would leave me and Sally alone and let us raise our kids and our cattle and our horses. Goddamnit!” Smoke cursed and threw his tin cup, hot coffee and all, against a boulder. “Is that too much to ask of people?”
Old Lute smiled a sad moving of the lips. “You’ll do what you have to do when the time comes to do it, boy. I see that writ all over you.”
Smoke said nothing.
“And them down yonder by the fires,” the old mountain man said. “They think that you’re the fox and they’s the hounds. Oh, they’ll run you, boy. I can see that, too. You’re gonna give them a long, hard run for their money. But I know something that they don’t: you ain’t no fox. You’re half great gray timber wolf and half puma. With some grizzly bar tossed in for spice. And when you get your fill of runnin‘, and turn to face them, you gonna chill ’em to the bone when you throw back your head and howl to the mountains.”
3
He was a man who had never failed at anything. No matter what the cost, no matter the misery caused or the price in human life, he always succeeded.
Frederick von Hausen had so much money not even he knew the total of his wealth. The money he was paying the men who rode with him on this quest was an enormous sum to them, to von Hausen it didn’t even amount to petty cash.
He was a handsome man; not even his constant sneer could take away from that. Tall and blond and muscular, he was highly educated at all the right schools in Europe. He was an expert swordsman, an expert shot with rifle or pistol. He wore a dueling scar on his cheek like a badge of honor.
Frederick stood by the fire on this cold morning and looked toward the north. This Smoke Jensen person was up there, not more than four or five miles away. Hausen smiled. All that claptrap and big scene back in that saloon in Dodge City had been staged for the benefit of others. Hausen had been planning this hunt for months. He had a
