“You’re not riding anywhere, hombre. This is your last day to do anything. You should have stayed at the Hole.”
Frank looked puzzled. How in the hell had Jensen known about that?
“My name’s Frank Clover.”
“Heard of you. Two-bit thief and back-shooter. Like to slap women around. You’re a real brave boy. Drag iron, punk.”
Frank tried. He got as far as closing his fingers around the butt of his .45. Two shots rang out, twin lightning and thunder bolts that slammed into his chest and knocked him down. The last thing Frank Clover remembered was that the sky was so blue. So blue...
Smoke unsaddled the horse and turned him loose. He left Frank Clover stretched out on the trail. Both his guns were still in leather. He should have listened to his mother and stayed on the farm in Minnesota.
John Flagg found the body and looked nervously around him. He was growing increasingly nervous until Joe Elliot and Terry Smith rode up. That made him feel better.
The howling of a wolf sent chills scampering up and down their spines. The wolf howl came again, and their horses got jittery at the sound.
A rock about the size of a grapefruit came hurling down from a mesa and slammed into Joe Elliot’s shoulder, knocking the man to the ground.
“Jesus Christ!” he bellered. “My shoulder’s broke. Oh, damn, it hurts.”
Another rock about the size of a big fist came flying down and hit Terry Smith in the head, knocking him flat on the ground and unconscious.
John Flagg hit the saddle and got the hell gone from that crazy place.
Joe Elliot looked up and saw Smoke Jensen standing in the rock above him.
“Strip,” Smoke told him. “Right down to the skin. Then get your canteen and pour some water on your buddy on the ground.”
Elliot peeled down to the pale buff. He was in very bad need of a bath. Terry could not talk due to his badly swollen and very busted jaw. But he could strip down and did. He was even nastier than Elliot.
“Throw your guns in the bushes,” Smoke told them. “Then start hiking.”
“This ain’t decent!” Elliot hollered.
Smoke jacked back the hammer on his .44. The naked pair started hiking back to camp.
“And take a damn bath when you get to the river,” Smoke shouted at them. “You stink!”
Dick Dorman saw them coming. His wound had been cleaned out and his ankle set and he was in camp with the women. “You ladies best turn your heads,” he called. “We got some company comin’ and they’re nekkid as a new born.”
“Tell them to take a bath in the river before they come in,” Andrea said. She picked up a bar of soap and hurled it at the limping men. “Bathe, goddamnit!” she yelled at them.
Dorman, using a sturdy branch for a crutch, hobbled over to the men’s bedrolls and found clothing for them.
“And tell them not to put on those stinking pile of rags until they wash them, too,” Andrea screamed.
“Yes’um,” Dorman said.
“And it wouldn’t hurt you to take a bath, either,” Marlene squalled at him.
“Yes‘um,” Dorman said, thinking for the umpteenth time that day that if he could find his horse he’d leave this crazy bunch ’fore Jensen kilt them all. Never again would he be so stupid as to tie up with anybody who wanted to hunt down Smoke Jensen.
Von Hausen and Gunter rode in and looked at the men, bathing in the river.
“Jensen kilt Frank Clover and took our clothes,” Elliot said. “We had to walk back.”
Von Hausen had a dozen questions to ask about that. But he only shook his head and walked his weary horse over to the picket line. Marlene met him.
“Any luck?” she asked.
“We couldn’t even find his trail,” von Hausen admitted. “The man’s hid his horse somewhere and is on foot. And he’s not leaving any tracks.”
All the women were bruised and somewhat the worse for wear after their brief encounter with Smoke, and they were in no mood for excuses.
Marlene said, “We have hunted man-killers all over the world. We have always been successful. Tomorrow, we,” she waved at Andrea and Maria, “shall take to the field and show you big, brave men how to hunt.”
“Marlene,” von Hausen said, his temper barely under control, “as of this moment, I do not give a damn what you ladies do.”
Marlene tossed her head and stalked off, Maria and Andrea with her.
Von Hausen had to clench his fists in order not to give the backs of the ladies a very vulgar gesture.
25
Smoke shook his head when he spotted the women the next morning. They were riding without men. Smoke concluded they were either the dumbest females he had ever run into, or just so arrogant they did not realize the danger they were in. He decided on the latter. He flattened out and let them come on. His clothing blended with the earth and Smoke had the patience of an Apache. Ol’ Preacher had drilled into his head that many times movement gives away position more than noise.
Smoke did not want to hurt the women. A dunk in the river and a good shaking up was about the limit he was prepared to go with them, even though they were as vicious as any man he had ever encountered. What would he do if they started shooting at him? He didn’t know.
As they drew closer, Smoke thought again that this was not his favorite terrain for fighting. He liked the high mountains and deep timber. Where he was now was rocky and sparse. There were peaks here: Roughlock Peak was to his north, Deadman Butte lay to the west, but nothing to compare to the High Lonesome.
Andrea made up his mind.
The women reined up about ten feet from him and Andrea said, “This is a good spot. I’ll stay here. Marlene, you ride on about two hundred and fifty yards. Maria, you ride on an equal distance past Marlene. We’ve got rocks behind us and a good field of view in front of us. As long as we stay within shouting distance of each other, we’ll be fine.”
Maria and Marlene rode on. Andrea dismounted. The last thing she would remember for about an hour was something crashing into her jaw and the ground coming up to meet her.
“What the hell do you mean, she’s gone?” von Hausen roared.
“I mean she’s vanished,” Marlene screamed at him. “One minute she was there, the next minute she was gone. The tracks lead straight north.”
“Break camp,” von Hausen ordered. “Jensen’s got her.”
The men had found most of their horses and repaired the cinch straps. They quickly saddled up and broke camp. Dick Dorman could sit a saddle. But he had to have help dismounting. He gritted his teeth against the pain and rode. Joe Elliot’s left arm was in a sling, and he was hurting something awful, but he followed along, riding Frank’s horse. Searchers had found Terry’s horse and brought it to him.
Henry Barton was riding a pack horse that had the worst gait of any animal he had ever tried to ride. Sandy Beecher rode a mule that tried to bite him every time he mounted and tried to kick him every time he dismounted.
“You are the most despicable man I have ever met in all my life,” Andrea told Smoke. “This is outrageous. I have never been treated like this in my life. This is kidnapping. I will have you arrested.”
“Shut up,” Smoke told her.
He had tied her hands to the saddlehorn and was seriously considering wrapping a sack around her mouth.
“I suppose you intend to violate me,” Andrea said.
Smoke looked back at her. “You have to be kidding! I’d sooner bed down with a skunk.”
She spat at him. She wasn’t a very good spitter. With spit on her chin, she said, “You are certainly no gentleman. You are a brute and a boorish oaf.”
“Lady, shut up.”
She screamed so loud it hurt Smoke’s ears.
“Go right ahead and squall, lady. No one’s going to hear you. In case you’re interested in geography, that’s Roughlock Hill right over there.”