“Has it been explored?” Gunter asked.
“Rivers been traveled on some. Mountain men and Injuns know it. And smoke Jensen.”
“How big is this place?” von Hausen asked.
“Don’t nobody know for sure. If that’s where Jensen is takin’ us, he’ll find a good spot to stash his horses and start to give us pure-dee hell. Jim Bridger country. It’s wild, people, and it gets wilder the further north you go. Any of you ever seen a lightnin’ storm in the high-up? They’re terrible. You claim to have studied him, von Hausen; but I bet you got most of your information from gossip and from them damn Penny Dreadful books. The same with you boys from the plains and the flats. So I’ll tell you what Jensen is and ain’t.
“He’s a mountain man. He knows ‘em, he ain’t scared of ’em, and he can climb ’em. He’s at home in the mountains. And when he makes his stand, it’ll be in the mountains.”
John T. paused to roll a cigarette and light up. “You see, people, this is just a game to him right now. He’s havin’ fun with us. If he was takin’ this serious, why they’d be some of us layin’ back yonder on the trail, dead from ambush. You real sure you want to go on with this so-called sporting e-vent, von Hausen?”
“Of course, I do!”
“Just checkin’.”
“Mount up and let’s go,” von Hausen said.
Smoke crossed and recrossed the Fontenelle several times, knowing that would slow up those behind him. He could have taken a much easier route, but he didn’t want to make things easy for his pursuers. He was hoping-knowing it was a slim chance-that if he took them over the roughest terrain he could find, they might decide to call off the chase.
Maybe.
He was going to ride straight north, up through the Salt River Range, have some fun with them up in Jim Bridger country-maybe get them good and lost for a time-and then head up the Snake Range, through the Teton Range, and then over the Divide. If they were still after him, and had proved hostile, there he would make his stand.
He had considered talking to the German, but decided that probably wouldn’t do a bit of good. He had thought about leaving them a note, stuck to a tree, warning them off. But von Hausen might decide that was a challenge and really put on the pressure. Smoke had never been in any situation quite like this one and didn’t really know how to handle it.
His rancher friend was not expecting him—Smoke had told him he’d be up sometime in the spring or summer-so his friend would not be worried about him.
“Hell of a mess,” Smoke muttered, and headed north.
“This is the goddamnest country I ever seen in my life,”
*What is now Yellowstone National Park Marty Boswell griped. “The sun’s out now and it’s warm; tonight it’ll be so damned cold a body’s gotta jump up and down to keep his feet from freezin’.”
“At least Jensen’s just as colds,” Paul Melham said.
“No, he ain‘t,” John T. corrected. “He’s used to it and come prepared. He can build him a lean-to and a soft bed outta sweet smellin’ boughs near ’bouts as fast as you boys can unsaddle your horse.”
“Why do you constantly try to discourage the men?” Marlene asked him.
“I ain’t tryin’ to discourage ‘em. I just want the soft ones to quit and get long gone away from me ’fore we tangle with Jensen. I don’t want nobody but hardcases with me when that hombre decides to fight.”
“Am I a hardcase, John T.?” she asked teasingly.
“You-all are payin’ the bulldog, your ladyship. I just don’t want no little puppy dogs around me when push comes to shove.”
“What do you have against Smoke Jensen, John T.?”
“I don’t like him. He’s too damn high and mighty to suit me. Somebody needs to slap him down a time or two.”
“And you think you’re that man?”
“I might be. I do think that all of us-if we get real lucky and work real careful-can put an end to Smoke Jensen.”
“Oh, I assure you, John T., that we are going to most definitely do that. Frederick has never failed-never.”
He ain’t never run up on the likes of Smoke Jensen, neither, John T. thought, but didn’t put it into words.
Smoke figured he was at least two full days ahead of his hunters, and perhaps even three. He was going to have to re-supply, and discard some gear while adding things more practical if this game turned deadly, as he feared it would.
He knew of a tiny town located on the west side of the Salt River Range, not more than three or four miles from the Idaho border. He’d head there, but he’d do so carefully, and try to lose his pursuers—at least for a time.
Smoke headed out and put Salt River Pass behind him, then he cut west and stayed on the east side of the Salt River, leaving plenty of tracks. He rode across a rocky flat, then stopped and tore a blanket up and tied squares of cloth over his horses’ hooves so they would not scar the rock, then doubled back to the river and stayed in it, as best he could, for several miles. He found another rocky flat and exited the river there.
He swung down from the saddle and spent some time working out his tracks. Satisfied, he mounted up and headed for the settlement. He had probably gained another day; if he was lucky, maybe two days.
He spent a night in a cold camp, not wanting to chance a fire, on the off chance his hunters had gained on him, and Smoke was in no mood for nonsense when he rode into the tiny town the next day, at mid-morning.
He told the man at the livery to rub his horses down good and give them all the grain they wanted to eat.
“Payable in ad-vance,” the man said sourly.
Smoke looked at him for a moment through the coldest, most dangerous eyes the man had ever seen.
“It’s for ever’body, mister,” he spoke gently. “Boss’s orders. I just work here.”
Smoke smiled and handed the man some coins, including a little extra. “Have yourself a drink on me at day’s end.”
“I’ll do it,” the man said with a returning smile. “Thanks. They’s beds over the saloon or you’re welcome to bed down here. Beth’s is our only cafe and she serves up some pretty good grub.”
“I’ll check it out. Much obliged.”
“Ain’t I seen you before, mister?”
“Never been here before in my life.”
“Shore looks familiar,” the man muttered, when Smoke had walked away. Then he stood still as a post as recognition struck him. “Good God!” he said. “And I got lippy with him?”
Smoke checked out the rooms over the saloon, saw fleas and various other crawling and hopping creatures on the dirty sheets, and decided he would sleep in the loft of the barn. He’d always liked the smell of hay.
“You mighty goddamn particular,” the combination barkeep and desk clerk told him.
That did it. Smoke grabbed the man by the shirt, picked him up about a foot off the floor, and pinned him to the wall. “Would it too much of a problem for you to be civil?”
“You better put me down, mister. Tom Lilly runs this town, and he’s a personal friend of mine.”
“And you’ll run tell him about this little incident and he’ll do your fighting for you, right?”
“Something like that. And he’ll clean your plow, drifter.”
Smoke dragged him to the landing and threw him down the stairs. “Then go tell him, you weasel. I’ll be having a drink at the bar. From the good bottle.”
The man scrambled to his feet and ran out the front door. Smoke walked down the steps, rummaged around behind the bar until he found the good bottle of whiskey, and poured himself a drink. Although not much of a drinking man, the whiskey was smooth and felt good going down.