“Town’s yours again,” Smoke said.
Smoke made his purchases that afternoon, and although the owner of the general store was curious about what the stranger bought, he asked no questions.
Smoke bought several hundred feet of rope, dynamite, caps, and fuses. He bought a rifle and several hundred rounds of .44’s, then bought a sawed-off shotgun and several boxes of shells. He carried his purchases back to the livery and packed it very carefully.
“Thanks for not spreading my name around town,” he told the liveryman.
“I figured you wanted it that way. You got people on your backtrail, Smoke?”
“Yes. A big bunch of them.”
“They must be fools,” the man said.
“I haven’t figured out exactly what they are, to tell the truth. I’m trying to avoid a fight, and they just keep on coming at me.”
“I think,” the liveryman said drily, after seeing Smoke’s purchases, “them folks comin’ up behind you are gonna be awful sorry when they do catch up with you.”
Smoke had a long, hot bath-figuring this might be the last chance he’d have to take one for some time—and then a shave. He ate an early supper at the cafe but heard no mention of Tom Lilly nor his gang among the townspeople. It was a closed chapter in their lives and probably would never be discussed outside the home. There are an awful lot of people buried in unmarked graves throughout the west.
Smoke went to bed shortly after dark and was up long before dawn. The liveryman had his quarters in the big barn and had coffee boiling when Smoke climbed down from the loft.
“I ain’t fitten for nothin’ ’til I have my coffee,” the liveryman said. “Some folks say I’m plumb grouchy. I figured you for a coffee-drinkin’ man, too.”
“You figured right. What’s between here and the Montana line?”
“Damn little. Couple of old tradin’ posts is all.”
“That’s what I thought.” Smoke sipped his coffee and took a bite of the cold biscuit with a piece of salt meat in it the liveryman had offered. That meant that von Hausen would have to carry a lot of supplies with him, for once they passed this little settlement, there was nothing for a lot of long hard miles.
“You got a wicked look in your eyes,” the liveryman said.
“I got wicked thoughts in my head,” Smoke replied with a smile.
The liveryman went off to get the coffee pot and Smoke took that quiet time to think. The Tetons had been explored a half dozen times by the government, the last one being only a couple of years back. Settlers were now coming into that area, entering by way of the Gros Ventre River and Teton Pass. What the liveryman didn’t know was that two little villages were already established in that area; there might be more but if so, Smoke hadn’t heard of them. But once past the junction of the two narrow roads, just south of Pacific Creek, there was nothing except wilderness until you got up into Montana. And Smoke doubted that von Hausen and company had ever seen wilderness like where he was leading them.
“Tell the people in this town that while they might think they owe me, don’t refuse any type of service to this bunch that’ll be coming along the next day or two. They’re a bad bunch, so don’t cross them.”
“I understand, Smoke.”
“Be sure you do.” He shook hands with the man and saddled up. “See you around, partner,” he said from the saddle.
“See you around, Smoke.”
Smoke rode out into the cold early morning air and headed north.
Angel Cortez picked up Smoke’s trail on the west side of Salt River. Some rocks had been disturbed and that was enough to put the Mexican on the trail. Satisfied he had the right trail, Angel rode back to the main party and told them the news.
“Excellent!” von Hausen said.
“I know where he’s goin’, now,” John T. said. “Little settlement just a few miles north of here. Tom Lilly’s town, so I been told.”
Utah Red spat a stream of tobacco juice. “I bet it ain’t if Jensen rode through there.”
“No bets there,” John T. said, picking up the reins. “We’ll soon find out.”
The townspeople heeded Smoke’s warning, but they didn’t like it and made that very clear by having every man and woman in the town armed when von Hausen and party rode in. It made for quite a show of force.
“He’s been here,” John T. said glumly. “Don’t nobody make any quick moves or act hostile. Smoke’s done shoved some steel up these folks’ backbone and they gonna be quick on the shoot. You boys understand all that?”
They understood, and so did von Hausen and his party of adventurers.
“We’ll have us a bite to eat, conduct our business quietly, and we shall be gone in one hour,” von Hausen instructed.
“Probably be gone sooner than that,” Leo Grant told him. “They’s a closed sign in the cafe winder.” He looked at the abundance of sawed-off shotguns in the hands of grim-faced men and shuddered. He’d seen men cut in two with those things. Sickenin’ sight.
“Saloon’s closed, too,” Nat Reed observed. “I think that we’d just better tend to our business as quickly as possible and ride on.”
“I concur,” Gunter Balke said. “What say you, Frederick?”
“Yes. From the looks of things, this Tom Lilly, and I would assume his men too, are no longer around.”
“Oh, they’re around,” John T. said. “Six feet under.”
“Yonder’s the hangin’ tree,” Cosgrove said softly. “With the rope still on it.”
“Makes my throat hurt just lookin’ at it,” Paul Melham said. “I got an idea: why don’t the most of us just ride on through and we’ll be waitin’ for y’all outside of town? This is a stacked deck if I ever seen one. They’s men on rooftops with rifles, too.”
“Boss?” John T. looked at von Hausen.
“Yes. Good idea. Ride on. You men leading the pack animals stay to help load.”
Von Hausen’s stomach muscles knotted up when he led his group into the general store. There were men all around the store, all armed with sawed-off shotguns.
“We mean no harm to anyone,” Gunter said. “We just want to resupply and we’ll be gone within the hour.”
“Fine,” the owner of the general store said. “But you gonna find this mighty expensive shoppin’.”
Marlene looked at a freshly printed sign and smiled. Beans: $4.00 a lb. Taters: $6.00 a lb. Sugar: $15.00 a lb. Coffee: $20.00 a lb. And so on.
Von Hausen found the whole thing humorous and laughed when she pointed out the sign to him. “Obviously a depressed area, my dear. Let them have their fun. Spread our wealth among the colonials, so to speak. It’s good public relations, you know.”
They bought their supplies, paid for them, and were gone in thirty minutes. At the edge of town, Bob Hogan pointed out a row of fresh-dug graves, the mounds still muddy. “Smoke Jensen came through,” was all he had to say.
Frederick glanced at Hans and arched an eyebrow. “Formidable opponent,” he said, and rode on.
Ol’ Preacher talked about this country, and took Smoke through it when he was just a boy. The old mountain man told Smoke all about the rendezvous he’d attended in the Snake River country back in the early ’30’s. The event was held close to where three Wyoming rivers meet: the Snake, Greys, and Salt.
Smoke rode deeper into the High Lonesome, memories of Ol’ Preacher all around him. It seemed to Smoke that his friend and mentor was guiding him on.
After leaving the settlement, Smoke had angled over, crossed the Salt River Range, and followed the Greys up. He was not far from where the old mountain man, William Sublette, had reached a particularly beautiful and lonesome place and named it Jackson Hole, after another mountain man and close friend, David Jackson. Preacher had told him that was back in ’29, long before the damn settlers started coming in and civilizing everything they touched.