The Violent Land Read online

  Matt asked, “What if he doesn’t want us to come along? He strikes me as a pretty proud man. He may not want to admit that he can’t take care of those folks who are with him.”

  “Then he’d be plumb foolish,” Preacher said.

  Smoke leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee.

  “It’s possible von Hoffman could react that way,” he admitted. “If he does, we’ll try to talk some sense into his head. If he’s still stubborn about it”—Smoke’s broad shoulders rose and fell in a shrug—“he can’t very well stop us from taking a ride up Wyoming way on our own, now can he?”

  Matt’s smile widened into a grin.

  “I don’t rightly see how,” he said. “But I hope it doesn’t come to that. I wouldn’t mind getting to know that cousin of the baron’s a little better.”

  “You tarnal idjit!” Preacher snapped. “Don’t you know that gal’s the one ol’ Dieter was moonin’ over?”

  “Sure I do. But when it comes to romance, it’s every man for himself. If Dieter wants Erica, he needs to speak up. Maybe he’ll realize that if he sees that somebody else is interested in her.”

  That made Smoke wonder if Matt really felt any interest in Erica, other than admiring her beauty, or if he was just trying to goad Dieter into sticking up for himself and telling her how he felt. That was a strategy ripe with the potential for trouble....

  But everybody involved was a grown-up, and they could sort things out for themselves, Smoke decided.

  However, at moments such as this, he was very glad that he was happily married and didn’t have to worry about such nonsense.

  Before Smoke, Matt, and Preacher could leave the ranch, Pearlie rode in from the wagon camp.

  “I left the other three fellas over there to keep an eye on things,” the foreman explained. “I told the baron I’d bring back our ranch wagon and take the folks who were killed into town, to the undertaker’s.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Smoke said. “So the wagon train’s going to stay camped there for a few days?”

  “Yep. The families of the folks who were killed want ’em buried in the church cemetery, so that’s what they’re gonna do.”

  Smoke nodded and said, “All right. When you get back from town, Pearlie, I’ve got another chore for you.”

  “Gatherin’ up the bodies of them dead gunnies?” Pearlie asked grimly.

  “I’m afraid so. I’d say just leave them where they fell, but I don’t want them rotting on my range.”

  Pearlie frowned in thought as he nodded.

  “I know a nice deep gully where we can put ’em and maybe cave in the side,” he said. “That’d sure beat diggin’ a hole big enough for the whole bunch.”

  “Do whatever you need to do,” Smoke told the foreman. “We’re going to see the baron now.”

  “Gonna offer to go along and help ’em get to Wyoming?”

  Smoke laughed.

  “Does everybody know what I’m going to do before I know it myself?”

  “Well, you got to remember, we been around you for a long time. And none of us have ever seen you run from trouble, not once. More likely to be the other way around.”

  Smoke couldn’t deny that. He told Pearlie not to worry too much about the ranch chores today and to concentrate on helping the immigrants and cleaning up after the gun battle. Then he, Matt, and Preacher saddled their horses and rode toward the wagon camp.

  As they approached, Smoke saw quite a few people moving around the wagons. They were still grieving over the ones they had lost, but work still had to be done. It was good to keep busy, too. That helped with the sorrow by reminding folks that someday things would return to normal.

  Baron von Hoffman strode out to meet them and lifted a hand in greeting.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said.

  “Any more trouble last night?” Smoke asked, even though he knew there hadn’t been. If there had, Pearlie would have told him about it.

  Von Hoffman shook his head and said, “No, the night passed peacefully. I was about to come see you, Herr Jensen, and request permission to remain camped here on your land for another day or two.”

  Smoke swung down from the saddle and nodded.

  “That’s fine, Baron,” he said. “Pearlie told me that the folks you lost are going to be buried in the cemetery in town.”

  “If the church will have them,” von Hoffman said.

  “I’m sure that won’t be a problem. You can get them laid to rest this afternoon. But after that, feel free to stay as long as you’d like.”

  “We will not abuse your hospitality, Herr Jensen.”

  Smoke smiled and waved a hand at their surroundings.

  “There’s plenty of grass and water for everybody,” he said. “I don’t see how you could abuse our hospitality if you tried.” He paused. “There’s something else we came over here to talk to you about, Baron.”

  “You must call me Friedrich.”

  Offering to put himself on familiar terms with a commoner probably cost him an effort, Smoke thought. He just smiled and nodded, though.

  “Sure, if you’ll call me Smoke.”

  “What was the other matter you wished to discuss?”

  “Matt and Preacher and I have talked it over,” Smoke said, “and we want to go to Wyoming with you.”

  Von Hoffman frowned in surprise.

  “But this is your home, is it not?”

  “We’re not going to stay,” Smoke explained.

  Preacher spoke up, saying, “Speak for yourself. My home’s wherever I hang my hat. I might just decide to settle down up yonder in the Medicine Bows.”

  That would never happen, and Smoke knew it. As long as Preacher was able, he would be on the move, and despite his age he didn’t really show any signs of slowing down or becoming any less fiddlefooted.

  “The same goes for me,” Matt added, smiling. “I might want to put down roots.”

  “You would be welcome, of course,” the baron said. “But the real reason you make this offer is because you think Klaus Berger and his gunmen will attack us again, is that not true?”

  Smoke shrugged and said, “There’s a good chance of it. We figure if he comes after you, you might need a hand.”

  “Of course. But, to be blunt, what do you get out of offering to assist us?”

  “The chance to ventilate some more of those low-down buzzards!” Preacher said.

  Smoke smiled and said, “That’s one thing about the frontier, Friedrich ... most of the time folks will help out just because it’s the right thing to do.”

  He could see emotions warring inside the baron as von Hoffman weighed the offer. Pride was uppermost. He wasn’t the sort of man to admit that he needed help.

  But he was worried about the people who had come to America with him, Smoke knew, and he was also realistic enough to be aware that their chances of reaching Wyoming safely would be higher with Smoke, Matt, and Preacher along.

  Before von Hoffman could reach a decision, Erica climbed out of the lead wagon and came over to them, looking happy to see them. She went straight to Matt and said, “Good morning, Herr Jensen. What brings you to our camp?”

  The baron answered before Matt could.

  “These three gentlemen have offered to accompany us to our destination and help keep us safe along the way.”

  “Why, that’s wonderful!” Erica exclaimed, smiling brightly up at Matt. “You told them how grateful we will be for their help, didn’t you, Friedrich?”

  “I haven’t told them anything yet,” von Hoffman said with an indulgent smile. “But under the circumstances, how can I refuse?” He turned to Smoke, Matt, and Preacher. “I accept your offer, gentlemen. Welcome to our group of humble pilgrims.”

  He extended his hand.

  There was nothing humble about Baron Friedrich von Hoffman, Smoke thought, but he gripped the man’s hand and was glad that von Hoffman had agreed to the proposal.

  “Looks like we’re off to Wyomin�
��,” Preacher said, “and devil take the hindmost!”

  “Not the devil,” von Hoffman said, his face growing solemn. “Rather Klaus Berger. But in every way that counts, they are practically one and the same... .”

  BOOK TWO

  Chapter Fifteen

  The combined funeral that afternoon for the five victims of the ambush was a solemn occasion, as funerals always are. Especially tragic was the death of the young boy struck down by bushwhack lead, leaving his parents gripped by sorrow and loss.

  Smoke and Sally, along with Matt, Preacher, and the entire crew from Sugarloaf, attended the service. Afterward, Pearlie, Cal, and the other punchers returned to the ranch while Smoke drove the buckboard he and Sally had brought to town back to the wagon camp. Matt and Preacher rode alongside.

  Sally and Erica sat on chairs brought out from one of the wagons while the men stood and discussed their plans.

  “I see no need to wait,” von Hoffman said. “I think we should start for Wyoming first thing in the morning.”

  Smoke said, “That’s all right with me as long as Matt and Preacher agree.”

  “It don’t make me no never-mind when we go,” Preacher said. “I’m pert-near as free as the wind.”

  “So am I,” Matt added. “I reckon we’ll be ready, Baron.”

  “Excellent,” von Hoffman said. “I will have my people ready to roll the wagons at dawn.”

  “We’ll be there,” Smoke promised.

  “In the meantime,” Sally said, “won’t you and Erica join us for supper again tonight?”

  Von Hoffman smiled and said, “I appreciate your gracious offer, Frau Jensen, but there is a great deal to do between now and tomorrow morning. I want to take advantage of this opportunity to check all the wagons and make sure they are in the best condition possible.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Smoke said. “You’ve still got a ways to go before you get to Wyoming, and you don’t want any breakdowns if you can avoid them.”

  Once the decision when to leave was made, Smoke, Sally, Matt, and Preacher headed back to the ranch house. Being drifters, Matt and Preacher always traveled light, and whenever Smoke hit the trail, he did, too. So packing for the trip wouldn’t take long.

  Smoke had other things to take care of, though. He might be away for as long as a month, so he wanted to make sure that he and Sally said a proper good-bye.

  Maybe more than once.

  The next morning, in the gray light of approaching dawn, she kissed him good-bye as he stood by his horse holding the reins in one hand while his other arm was around her waist, holding her closely against him.

  “Be careful,” Sally whispered as she broke the kiss. “I know it doesn’t do much good to say that, but ...”

  “I’m always as careful as I can be,” Smoke said, “because I know I’ve got you to come home to.”

  “Are you sure you shouldn’t take Pearlie and Cal with you?”

  Smoke shook his head.

  “I’m counting on those two to keep things running smoothly here on Sugarloaf. It shouldn’t be much of a problem since we don’t have anything big coming up, but you never know.”

  “And I don’t want you worrying about what’s going on here when you should be thinking about keeping those immigrants safe, as well as you and Matt and Preacher.” Sally smiled. “We’ll be fine here. Don’t even think about us while you’re gone.”

  “Now, I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Smoke said as he returned her smile.

  “Sun’ll be up ’fore you know it,” Preacher called impatiently from where he and Matt were already sitting on their horses.

  “Don’t you have any romance left in your soul?” Matt asked with a grin.

  “Boy, I’ve forgotten more about womenfolks than you’ll ever know,” Preacher responded.

  “Well, I believe you’ve forgotten it, anyway.”

  Matt held the reins of a loaded pack horse. They were taking along their own supplies, so they wouldn’t cut into the provisions that the baron’s people had brought. Although if it became necessary, all three of them could easily live off the land for a while.

  “I’m coming,” Smoke said. He bent his head to give Sally one more quick, sweet kiss, then let her go and swung up into the saddle. As he lifted a hand in farewell, he told her, “I’ll be back in a few weeks.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” she said.

  This was hardly the first time he had ridden away from his wife and his home, Smoke thought as he turned his horse and went to join Matt and Preacher. Responsibilities to family and friends had taken him all over the frontier and plunged him into some of the wildest adventures any man could ever have.

  At times his own thirst for excitement had done the same thing. But when the moment came to leave, it was never easy, even though it was his own choice to do so. The grim possibility that he might never see Sally again was always in the back of his mind. He had lost his first wife and their son that way, years earlier.

  But a man couldn’t live always waiting for something bad to happen. It wouldn’t take long for that to drive a fella plumb loco. It was better to think that something good was going to happen, that he was going to accomplish great things and make a difference in the world. When a man set out with that attitude, that was usually what happened.

  Fate sometimes had other plans, though, and Smoke couldn’t completely forget that, either.

  He pushed those thoughts out of his mind and concentrated on what a beautiful early summer day it was going to be. At this elevation, the mornings were always cool, and today was no exception. The air was crisp and clean, and the eastern sky had streaks of gold and pale blue in it as sunrise approached. The birds were already singing.

  By the time the three men reached the wagon camp beside Snake Creek, the blue had climbed higher into the sky and the eastern horizon was bathed in reddish-gold light.

  Preacher said, “Gonna be a pretty day.”

  “I think you’re right,” Smoke said.

  Baron von Hoffman and Dieter Schumann galloped out to meet them. The baron raised a hand as he used the other to bring his horse to a halt.

  “Good morning!” he said. “Are we ready to depart?”

  “That’s for you to say, Baron, not us,” Smoke replied.

  “The three of us are rarin’ to go whenever you are,” Preacher added.

  “The wagons are ready to roll,” von Hoffman declared. “Young Schumann has been serving as our scout. Would you prefer to ride with him?”

  “Matt, why don’t you take the point with Dieter?” Smoke suggested. “Preacher and I will take the flanks.”

  “As long as you don’t stick me in the drag, I don’t care where else you want me to ride,” Preacher said. “I’m too old to breathin’ that much dust.”

  “This isn’t a cattle drive,” Matt pointed out. “There won’t be that much dust.”

  “There’ll be some,” Preacher insisted. “There always is when you got this many critters movin’.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter today,” Smoke said, “because you can take the right flank, and I’ll take the left.”

  Preacher nodded and said, “Sounds good to me.”

  He heeled his horse into motion and rode toward the right side of the wagons that had formed up into a long, northward-facing column.

  “And I’m fine with taking the point,” Matt said as he handed the reins of the pack horse to Smoke. “Come on, Dieter.”

  Smoke noticed that as the two of them rode past the lead wagon, both young men glanced in that direction. Matt even waved at somebody.

  Likely Erica von Hoffman was sitting on the seat of that wagon, Smoke thought. He hoped he hadn’t made a mistake by suggesting that Matt and Dieter work together as scouts. He’d thought it would be a good chance for them to get to know each other and maybe, just maybe, clear the air a little between them.

  Either that, or their mutual interest in Erica von Hoffman would make their pairing like putting togeth
er a lit match and a fuse attached to a stick of dynamite.

  Matt and Dieter rode across the shallow, rocky bed of Snake Creek. Their horses’ hooves splashed water in the air, the droplets gleaming golden in the dawn light. Neither man said anything for several minutes as they headed north, until Matt finally commented, “Pretty morning, isn’t it?”

  “A beautiful morning,” Dieter agreed. “As pretty as a speckled pup.”

  Matt grinned over at him.

  “You know, no offense here, Dieter, but you don’t talk like any other German I’ve ever met.”

  “Have you met very many Germans?” Dieter asked.

  “Not really, but a few. Some of them barely spoke English, and some of them spoke it pretty well. But none of them came out with some of the things you say.”

  “But this is how people talk on your American frontier, is it not?”

  “Well, sort of. Where’d you learn it?”

  “From your American literature. Ned Buntline, Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, John B. Boothe, Frank Reade ... wonderful authors such as those.”

  It was all Matt could do not to throw his head back and hoot with laughter.

  “You mean those fellas who write dime novels, don’t you?”

  “I believe that is what their publications are called,” Dieter said. “American literature.”

  “Well, they’re American,” Matt said. “I’m not so sure about the literature part. You realize a lot of those fellas just make things up, don’t you? They live back East and don’t know much about what really goes on out here on the frontier. And what they don’t know, they just make up out of their own heads. Like that steam-powered mechanical man I read about in one of those Frank Reade books. You don’t think such things really exist, do you, Dieter?”

  “No, I knew that story was just a figment of the imagination,” Dieter admitted. “But surely there are gunfighters and outlaws and savage Indians like in the other books.”

  Matt shrugged.

  “I reckon so, but even there, you’ll find differences in the way they really are and the way they’re portrayed in those books. Smoke, for example. Smoke’s one of the fastest, deadliest gunfighters there ever was. But you wouldn’t know it to see him sitting at the dinner table with Sally or joshin’ around with Pearlie and Cal, now would you?”