Smoke took the key to the cell holding Lou and Pride and dropped it down an old unused well. He had registered at the hotel and after disposing of the cell key, he walked to the barber shop and told the man to get some hot water ready for a bath. After his bath, he had himself a shave and a haircut. Then he went to the cafe for something to eat.
Smoke was eating roast beef and boiled potatoes and gravy when the marshal walked in, all dusty and tired-looking. The marshal paused in the door, gave the crowded cafe a once-over, spotted him, walked to the table, and sat down.
“Coffee, Pat,” he called to the waiter. “And a plate of food. I’m so hungry I could eat a skunk.” He cut his eyes. “You got to be Smoke Jensen.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you put those two beat-up lookin’ characters into my jail?”
Smoke chewed for a moment. “Nope.”
The marshal waited for a moment. “Well, if it wouldn’t be too much of a problem, would you mind telling me who did?”
“Some of your citizens. At my request.”
“Both of them yahoos wants a doctor.”
“I imagine they do. They were both in fairly poor condition the last time I saw them.”
The marshal looked at him. “One of them tagged you at least one good lick.”
“Yes, he did. The waiter said they had apple pie. Is it any good?”
“It’s very good. I have it every day. It’s the only kind of pie the damn cook knows how to bake. Mister Jensen, what the hell do you want me to do with those two gunslingers in my jail?” He lifted his coffee cup, blew, and took a sip.
“I imagine you’ll be keeping them for awhile. I threw away the cell key.”
The marshal choked on his coffee. “Damnit, man. I only had the one key for that cell.”
“I know.” Smoke smiled at him. “Don’t worry. The man who’ll be coming to get them has plenty of money. He’ll pay for rebricking the rear wall, after you have someone jerk it out to set them loose.”
Smoke was miles north of the settlement when Frederick von Hausen and his party arrived, looking for the two missing members. The German was not amused at what he found.
“I demand that you release those men immediately!” he told the marshal.
“I ain’t got no charges against either of them,” the marshal replied.
“Well ... turn them loose!”
“I surely wish I could. They’re eating the town’s treasury outta money. Never seen two men who could eat that much.”
“Release them!”
“I can’t.”
“You are straining my patience,” von Hausen told the man. “First you tell me there are no charges against either man, then you tell me that you cannot free them. This is all very confusing.”
“I can’t open the damn door,” the marshal said. “Smoke Jensen threw away the only key.”
Von Hausen cussed.
The marshal waited until the German had stopped swearing. “He said you probably wouldn’t see the humor in it.”
“Get us outta here!” Lou hollered.
“Where is the nearest locksmith?” von Hausen asked, getting a grip on his temper.
“Lord, I don’t know,” the marshal said, scratching his head. “Denver, I reckon.”
“My good man,” Hans stepped in. “We must free these men. It is an injustice to keep them locked up when they have done no wrong.”
The marshal looked at him. “You got any ideas?”
“We could get some dynamite and blow the wall,” John T. suggested.
“The hell you will!” Pride bellowed.
While the manhunters were arguing among themselves, the marshal opened a drawer of his desk and pulled out a pile of old wanted posters. Several of the gunslingers hit the saddle and left town.
“Just as well. Didn’t want to fool with them anyway,” the marshal muttered.
Smoke was a good twenty miles north of the town, camped along the banks of Fontenelle Creek, drinking coffee and cooking his supper before a team of mules was found and a chain hooked to the bars of the cell.
Frederick von Hausen had to count out the money for jail repairs and put it in the marshal’s hand before the townspeople would allow the wall to be pulled down.
“Now will you release my men?” the German asked.
“Take it down,” the marshal said.
The big Missouri Reds strained but the wall would not budge.
“Damnit, do something!” von Hausen yelled.
“You wanna get out there and get in harness with them mules?” the marshal asked him.
“You are a very impudent fellow,” von Hausen told him.
“And you’re beginnin’ to annoy me,” the marshal replied. “And when I get annoyed, I tend to get testy. The second best thing you could do is shut your mouth. The first best thing you could do is go back to wherever the hell it is you come from.”
“Pull, babies!” the mule’s owner yelled and the wall finally came down in a cloud of dust.
Lou and Pride staggered out, both of them looking as though they had picked a fight with a tornado.
They told their stories to an incredulous von Hausen.
“He whipped both of you?” the German said.
“Incredible,” Gunter said.
“I warned you about Jensen,” John T. reminded them.
While the back of the jail was being demolished, the ladies in the group had been enjoying hot baths and the boys in the town had been enjoying them a whole lot more by peeking through holes in the fence back of the barber shop.
By the time the men had been released, it was late in the day and pointless to continue. Von Hausen and his party stayed at the small hotel while the gunslingers slept wherever they could.
When the morning dawned and the European community and their scummy entourage finally got underway, Smoke was riding along the Fontenelle, with Commissary Ridge to the west.
He’d had his fun, and now the game would turn serious, he guessed. He had insulted his majesty and his lordship, and the prince and their ladies, and the Germans would not take it lightly.
But Smoke was still not going to start tossing lead at this point. He just could not accept that this was going to turn lethal. He just couldn’t. Those following him were going to have to show that they really intended to kill him before he turned and made his stand.
He hoped von Hausen would call it off.
Deep inside him, he knew the German would not.
5
“He’s stopped tryin’ to hide his trail,” Gil Webb said. “That makes me wonder what he’s up to.”
Nat Reed nodded his head in agreement. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. “What you gonna do with all the money them crazy people is payin’ us, Gil?”
“Spend it on women and booze,” the man-hunter said simply and honestly.
They were waiting for the main party to catch up, taking a few minutes to rest.
“That’s a lot of damn money to spend on women and whiskey.”
“So what are you gonna do with your pay?”
Nat grinned. “Spend it on women and whiskey.”
The men laughed.
“You ever been up in this part of the country, Nat?”
“Nope. I’m a plains and desert man, myself. That map we looked at the other day showed some hellacious mountains just a few miles north of here.”
“Yeah. John T. and Utah and them other high-country boys is gonna have to take the point from here on out. I ain’t got no idea where we are.”
John T. sat his saddle and looked down at the clear tracks Smoke was leaving. His smile held no humor. “He’s leadin’ us straight into the wilderness. I got a hunch he’s gonna take us into the big canyon country.”
“What is that?” Gunter asked.
“A damn good place to stay out of,” John T. told him. “Smoke was raised by mountain men, so he’ll know the High Lonesome mighty well.”
“The what?” Andrea asked.
“A place where it’s hotter than hell and colder than ice. Where the winds blow all the time and they don’t never blow. Places were you can crawl to the edge and look down for more ’un five thousand feet-straight down.” (Only a slight exaggeration). “Wild lost rivers that don’t go nowhere.” (Actually they do). “They’s still Injuns in there that ain’t never seen a white man.” (Probably true). “Unless it was a mountain man. Like Smoke Jensen.”