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 small fortune in bets riding on his ability to hunt down and kill Jensen. He rubbed his hands together. He was looking forward to this.
Frederick von Hausen looked for his companions; they were just now rising stiffly from their blankets and moving around in their tents. The cook had been the first one up, and was now preparing breakfast, having first made coffee, a strong bitter brew that was not to von Hausen’s liking. But the twenty-odd men he’d hired along the way seemed to enjoy the black poisonous brew.
The first to leave their tent was von Hausen’s traveling companion, Marlene Ulbrich. Just as haughty and almost as rich as von Hausen, Marlene was blonde and beautiful and just as bloodthirsty as von Hausen. Gunter Balke and his fiancée, Maria Guhl, were the next ones up and moving about. They were followed by Hans Brodermann and his wife, Andrea. All reasonably young, in their early thirties, and all enormously wealthy, they all shared something else in common: they were easily bored, spoiled to the core, and considered everyone else on the face of the earth to be their inferior.
They had slaughtered the earth’s animals in every country that would allow them entry—and that was most. If a day’s hunt proved unproductive, they would shoot dogs or cats or people, if they felt they could get away with the latter bloodletting. And they always had before.
They were all dressed properly for the hunt and carried the most expensive weapons that could be handmade for them. And they all had spent weeks gathering the scum of the earth around them.
The twenty-odd men—odd in more ways than one—gathered in a quiet circle around the big fire, staying away from the aristocracy, as they had been instructed to do.
“How long do they figure on stretchin’ this thing out?” Al Hayre asked, after noisily slurping at his coffee.
“They plan on makin’ a springtime e-vent of it,” Leo Grant told him.
“I ain’t yet figured out just what it is we’re supposed to do,” Utah Bob said.
“Prod Jensen ‘til he makes a fight of it,” Larry Kelly told him. “But we’ll stay back, out of range, if we can, ’til we push him clear into the Rockies.”
“These people, do they not know Smoke’s reputation?” Angel Cortez asked in soft tones.
“Jensen’s reputation don’t spell crap to them or to me,” Tom Ritter said. “I don’t believe nothin’ I ever heard about that man. I think most of it is lies.”
Pat Gilman looked across the dancing flames at Tom. “There ain’t none of it lies, Tom. Smoke Jensen’s a he-coon from ’way back. I seen some of his graveyards; and they’s plenty more that I ain’t seen.”
Tom Ritter said a very ugly word.
John T. Matthey smiled. “You boys is all from Texas and Kansas and Arizona and New Mexico way. Me, I’m from Montana, like Montana Jess there. Pat there is from Colorado. He knows about Jensen, just like Utah Red do. Let me tell you this: they’s gonna be some of us ain’t gonna come back from this foolishness. Maybe a lot of us ain’t comin’ back. Them uppity, high-falutin’ folk over yonder, them barons and counts and princes and their snooty women think this is gonna be a real fun game. It ain’t gonna be no such of a thing. Right now Jensen is tryin’ to figure out why we’re trackin’ him close. Today, tomorrow, the next day, he’ll try to lose us. When we keep on comin‘, he’s gonna turn mean. And boys, that is one man who was born with the bark on. That man has faced six, eight, ten men eyeball to eyeball and tooken lead and kept on his boots. When the gunsmoke cleared, Smoke Jensen was still standin’. Now, I ain’t got no use for him; he’s kilt several of my pards. But I got respect for him. And you boys better have some respect for him, too.”
Von Hausen had been listening. He said, “Are you afraid of this penny-ante gunslinger, Mr. Matthey?”
“There ain’t nothin’ penny-ante about Jensen, Mr. Hausen. Wild Bill Hickok said Smoke Jensen was the fastest gun in all the west. Earp said he’d sooner be locked in a room full of mountain lions than face Jensen. Sam Bass was a pard of mine. He was offered thousands of dollars to kill Jensen. He threw the money back in the man’s face. Billy the Kid said Smoke Jensen was like a God. I could go on and on namin’ gunfighters who had better sense than brace Smoke Jensen. You don’t know the man ... I do. I’ve seen him work ... you haven’t. Now, you payin’ us top wages to track and corner him. And I tooken your money and when I do that I ride for the brand. But don’t none of you lowrate Jensen. That would be a fatal mistake.”
“You say you know him,” Hans said, strolling up. “What are his weak spots?”
“Mister, Smoke Jensen ain’t got no weak spots. He’s about two hundred and thirty pounds of pure poison when he’s riled up. Got arms on him ‘bout the size of an average man’s upper leg. He fist-fought men that stood six, eight and outweighed him seventy-five-eighty pounds and stomped them into a bloody pulp. He’ll fight you with guns, knives, or fists or clubs. It don’t make a damn to Smoke Jensen. He’s a man that don’t bother nobody ’til you start messin’ with him. Then he’s gonna come at you lookin’ like nine kinds of Hell. He was raised by mountain men during the day and suckled in the den by she-wolves at night. Don’t never sell Smoke Jensen short.”
“What an intriguing description,” Marlene said, stepping closer to the fire. “You make him sound like something out of mythology.”
“I don’t know what that means, your ladyship,” John T. Matthey said.
“Well, let me put it like this,” Marlene said. “You make it sound as though this Smoke Jensen person cannot be killed.”
“Oh, he can be killed, ma‘am. He’s a human bein’. But I know for a fact that he’s been shot a half a dozen times with rifles and pistols and just kept on comin’. That ain’t hearsay, ma’am. That’s fact.”
Marlene clapped her expensively gloved hands together. “Oh, I just love it, Frederick! This is going to be such an exciting hunt.”
“Quite, my dear,” von Hausen said. “Come, let’s have some breakfast.”
Lute had pulled out shortly after Smoke had told him to go on about his business. He wasn’t going to ambush the crowd supposedly chasing him-not yet, anyway-they’ d have to open fire on him. But he was going to try to lose them.
“I’ll be around, boy,” the old man had told him. “You might need some help further on up the trail.”
“I’m going up north to buy bulls, Lute.”
Lute grinned; what few teeth he had left were tobacco stained. “Shore you are, boy. I believe that. But them down yonder just might put a kink in your plans. See you, Smoke.”
Smoke broke camp and headed north toward the Green. He smiled as he settled into the saddle. These folks wanted to see some country. He’d show them some country. He decided to leave his friend up in Central Wyoming out of this.
Lute had told him that von Hausen had been on his trail for over a month, able to move much faster because of the trains. He had so much wealth that if the train was full, he’d just order up several more cars and hook on.
Smoke thought about that as he rode. Rock Springs was on the Union Pacific’s transcontinental line. He wondered if von Hausen would have supplies waiting for him there? Smoke bet he would. Either there or at the town of Green River just to the west of Rock Springs. Smoke’s smile toughened as he changed direction, heading southwest, into very tough country. He’d lose them in that area and then head for the little settlement he thought was still there at the old Fort Bridger site-if the Mormons hadn’t burned it down again like they burned it and Fort Supply back in ‘57 or ’58 during the Mormon War.