This Violent Land (17 page)

 

“Y
ou been hangin' around here for two weeks now,” Preacher said, pushing open the front door. “Sittin' out on the porch and starin' off into the trees ain't gonna bring Nicole and the boy back to you.”

Smoke looked toward Preacher with eyes that were more dead than alive. “I shoulda been there, Preacher. I shoulda been there when those men came.”

“Smoke, you had things to do. You was seein' to your horses, you was takin' care of business. A man can't spend his whole life just sittin' around with his woman. Life is hard, boy. You should know that more'n almost anyone.”

“I shoulda been there,” Smoke said again.

“How many was there?” Preacher asked.

“I don't know. I killed four of them. I think Nicole must've killed one. And I found another one dead, not too far from the cabin. His throat was cut.”

“So, six of 'em are dead?”

“Yes.”

“How come two of 'em are still living?”

A grim smile appeared on Smoke's face. “That's a good question. I'll tell you this. They won't be living very long after I find them.”

“Do you know where to start looking for 'em?”

“I thought I'd go back to the cabin and see if I could pick up the trail.”

“No need,” Preacher said. “I know where they are.”

“You do?” For the first time in a while, animation replaced the dull lethargy that had Smoke in its grip. “How do you know where they are?”

“When I was at Schemerhorn's yesterday, I heard an old prospector tellin' about two men who came into a minin' camp where he was. The tale them two was tellin' was that they come upon some Injuns who had raped and killed a white woman and her baby. Said they fought the Injuns off, then a crazy man come and started shootin' at them. I figure they have to be the two men you're lookin' for.”

“Yeah,” Smoke said. “That has to be them. Do you know where this mining camp is?”

“Yeah, I know. It's 'bout forty miles southwest of here, on the Uncompahgre. You can't miss it. It's the only settlement within fifty miles in any direction.”

Smoke nodded, then got up and went inside the cabin. Fifteen minutes later, he came back outside wearing his pistol.

Preacher had watched it all from his chair on the front porch. He didn't speak until Smoke was ready to mount. “Boy, take care of your business, but don't come back all shot up like I was.”

Smoke's only response was a silent nod of his head as he rode out.

 

 

 

A dozen men came riding in to the camp. It didn't take but one glance to see that they weren't hard-rock miners. They weren't prospectors, either. All twelve were wearing pistols. One had a cross-draw rig, another was wearing a shoulder holster, a couple were wearing two pistols, and one was carrying a rifle with bullet-studded bandoliers making an X across his chest.

None of the miners recognized any of them, at least, not by name, but they knew gunmen when they saw them. What they didn't know was why so many of them had showed up, all at the same time, and why they had come to the mining camp.

The gunmen stopped in front of the saloon, hitching their horses to every hitch rail for two tent buildings on either side. Stepping inside, they almost doubled the number of customers. All conversation stopped as everyone turned toward the men bunched together, just inside the door.

“Felter,” one of the men said, recognizing him.

“Hello, Deke.”

Smiling, Deke went over to take Felter's hand. “We heard you needed some help.”

“Where did you hear that? And who are all these men?” The expression on Felter's face was one of challenge.

“Same as you. We're ridin' for Richards, Potter, and Stratton. Richards said I should look you up and tell you that you're in charge.”

“He did, did he?” The look of challenge was replaced by a smile.

“Yeah.This feller, Smoke Jensen is it? Word we got is that Richards sent eight after him, and he kilt six.”

“He only kilt four,” Felter said. “He didn't have nothin' to do with Stoner or Austin.What's Richards payin' you?”

“He ain't paid us nothin' yet, but he said he'll give five hunnert dollars to each of us when we come back, after Jensen is dead. What is he payin' you?”

“Same thing. Five hundred when we go back and tell 'im the job is done.” Felter made no mention of the fact that he and the others he'd started with had already been paid five hundred in advance.

“So, you're in command, Sergeant. What do we do next? Where do we find him?” Deke had served in the army with Felter, and been dishonorably discharged, as well.

“We don't have to find him. I'm willing to bet a dollar to a horseshoe nail that he'll find us.” Felter grinned. “Onliest thing is, he thinks he's only lookin' for two of us. He don't have no idea how many of us there is now.”

 

 

 

Jake Johnson had been in Colorado almost as long as Preacher, and back in the day had made a few rendezvous with him. He knew his way around the mountains and the forests and had crossed every river in Colorado. At the moment, he was drinking coffee as he watched a spitted rabbit sizzle and brown over a campfire. Perhaps he was paying too much attention to his lunch, and that was why he didn't hear Smoke come up on him.

“You got friends in that mining camp downriver?” Smoke asked.

The sudden appearance of another man when Jake Johnson thought he was all alone startled him so that he spilled hot coffee on his hand. “Damn!” he shouted, dropping the cup and shaking his hand. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“You got friends in that mining camp?” Smoke asked again.

“Yeah, I got friends there. Why do you ask?”

“My name is Smoke Jensen. I want you to go down and tell any friend you have there to ease on out of camp, because in one hour I'm coming down.”

“Smoke Jensen? You the one that's Preacher's friend?”

“Yes.”

The man smiled and extended his hand. “Well, I'm mighty glad to meet you, Smoke Jensen. I'm Jake Johnson. Me and Preacher go back a long way.”

Smoke returned the smile. “Yes, I've heard him tell a few stories about you.”

“Yeah, well, don't be abelievin' none of 'em,” Jake said, his smile broadening. “By the way, Smoke, most of the folks in that camp have heard of you, and near 'bout all of 'em is on your side. Felter and Canning come in there claimin' it was Indians that kilt your family, but there didn't none of us believe 'em.”

“That's their names? Felter and Canning?”

“Yes, but, it ain't just them.”

Smoke frowned. “What do you mean, it isn't just them?”

“There's twelve more that's come down to help 'em. Word we got is that someone is payin' 'em to kill you.”

“Yeah. That's the word I got, too.”

The old-timer looked straight at Smoke. “You're still goin' down there, though, ain't you?”

“Yeah, I'm still going. I've got to go.”

“I understand. I would probably do the same thing.”

“Jake, get your friends out of town. It's not going to be safe for them.”

“All right. I'll go down there and warn the miners. I've got time to eat my lunch, don't I?”

“Sure, I never like to interrupt a man at his meal.”

“Join me,” Jake invited. “Half a rabbit makes a pretty good meal.”

“Don't mind if I do,” Smoke said.

“By the way, I almost hate to ask you this, 'cause I'm not sure I want to hear the answer. But I was told that Preacher was bad shot up, and that he went off somewhere to die.”

Smoke pulled off some rabbit meat, stuck it in his mouth, then licked his finger before he replied, but the smile on his face eased Jake's concern, even before he said the words. “Jake, you know Preacher well enough to know that it's goin' to take more than a couple bullet wounds to kill that old man. He's still around, and still as ornery an old coot as he ever was.”

“That's good to hear,” Jake said with a relieved smile. “That's very good to hear.”

* * *

An hour later, Jake gathered several miners around him at one of the mining shacks. “I met a fella this mornin', and he sent me down here to warn you. To tell you to leave town for a little while.”

“Why?” asked one.

“Because he's comin' into town after Felter and Canning, and when he does, all hell is going to break loose. I don't think you want to be in the middle of it, Dugan, and neither do I.”

“What's put the burr under this fella's saddle?” another asked.

Jake explained. “You know the story that Felter and Canning are telling, about how Injuns killed a woman and her baby? Well that woman was the wife of the man I met this mornin', and the baby was his, too. The story that Felter and Canning is telling is all lies. They was eight men who done the killin' and the rapin', and they wasn't Injuns. They was all white. It was Felter, Canning, and six others. The other six is already dead, and now he's comin' to town to kill Felter and Canning, too.”

“Well, I can't say as I blame him for wantin' to kill Felter and Canning,” the miner called Dugan said, “but maybe he don't know that they was twelve more men come here a couple days ago to join up with Felter and Canning.”

Jake nodded. “Oh, yeah, he knows. I told him.”

“Wait a minute,” a tall, lanky miner named Henderson said. “Are you tellin' us that this feller knows they's fourteen men waitin' here for 'im, and he's acomin' anyway?”

Jake nodded again. “That's what I'm atellin' you, all right.”

“What kind of damn fool would take on fourteen men all by his ownself? What's this feller's name, anyhow?”

Jake smiled. “His name is Jensen. Smoke Jensen.”

“Smoke Jensen? Damn, I've heard of him,” Dugan said in awe.

“Yeah, me too. If there's any one man who could take on fourteen all by hisself, it would have to be someone like Smoke Jensen.”

“I'm takin' him at his word,” said a miner named Clyde who wore a patch over his left eye. “I believe all hell is goin' to break loose, and I'm plannin' on watchin' it with this one good eye I got left.”

“Not me. I'm getting' out of town. You should too, Clyde. Why, you'd be a fool to stay here and watch it. There's bound to be lead flyin' ever'where!”

“I didn't say I was goin' to stay here. All I said was I was goin' to watch it.”

“How you gonna do that?”

Clyde smiled, then pointed to the rise on the northwest side of the canyon. “From up there. I'll be able to see ever'thing that happens, and it ain't likely I'll get shot neither.”

“Yeah,” another said. “Yeah, that's a damn good idea. I'm goin' to watch it from up there as well.”

That idea was met with equal enthusiasm from all, and soon there was a mass exodus from the encampment.

It was going to be a show the likes of which that part of the country had never seen—and might not ever see again.

F
elter figured out what was happening as soon as the miners began leaving, and he asked Deke to get everyone together in the saloon.

“He's comin', ain't he?” Deke asked with a broad grin. “You was right. We didn't have to go lookin' for 'im. He's comin' to us.”

“Yeah,” Felter replied with a grin of his own. “The rabbit has fell into our trap.”

“How many men does he have with him?” one of the new men asked.

“He don't have nobody but his ownself,” Felter said. “You've heard the talk. Everybody else around here is too scared to throw in with him.”

“Ha! This is gonna be a piece o' cake,” one of the others suggested.

Felter frowned. “You think so?”

The man nodded. “Well, yeah. There are fourteen of us, and only one of him.”

“We'll see,” Felter said.

“Felter, you ain't afraid of this feller, are you?” Deke asked.

“Let's just say that I'm cautious,” Felter replied.

Deke had another question. “When do you reckon he'll get here?”

Felter shrugged. “I don't know, but I think we had better—”

“Felter!” The powerful shout rolled down the hillside.

It was clearly audible inside the tent building, and several men jumped a little when they heard it.

“Felter!”

“Damn. How'd Jensen find out my name?” Felter asked.

“Clark musta told him,” Canning said.

“Canning! Felter and Canning. I'm coming for you! . . . for you, for you, for you!” The last two words echoed and echoed from the canyon walls.

Felter and the other gunmen were the only ones in the saloon. The place had been abandoned by everyone who wanted to stay out of the line of fire, which was practically everyone in camp.

Felter stepped outside. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he called back, “I'm here! What do you want? . . . you want? . . . you want?”

“You and Canning want to settle this between us? . . . tween us . . . tween us?”

“Just the three of us, meeting standup out on the street, you two, and me. Two to one. What do you say? ... you say? . . . you say?”

Deke looked over at Felter. “From what I've heard of this feller, he ain't someone you want to go up against, not even two of you to his one.”

“Don't worry. It ain't gonna happen that way,” Felter replied.

“What do you say, Felter? . . . Felter? . . . Felter?” Smoke called down.

Felter cupped his hands around his mouth again. “Now, why would we want to do a thing like that, when we have twelve new friends down here, just waitin' for you? . . . for you? . . . for you?”

“You new men,” Smoke shouted. “It's Felter and Canning I want. I don't have anything against any of you. Ride on out of here now, and you can live. Stay here, and you'll die! . . . you'll die! . . . you'll die!”

“Mister, that's mighty bold talk for a man that's outnumbered as bad as you are,” one of the new men shouted back.

“I'm not outnumbered,” Smoke replied.

“What do you mean, you ain't outnumbered? They's only one of you. They's fourteen of us.”

“I've got fourteen bullets,” Smoke shouted back. “Like I said, I'm not outnumbered.”

“Who the hell is this man?” one of the men asked, awed by the response.

“He ain't nobody,” Felter replied. “You men get into position. Let's end this thing now.”

Shortly after the shouted dialogue with Felter and the others, Smoke shifted positions, slipping about twenty-five yards to his right. He saw a man dart from the camp, then start working his way up the side of the hill.

Smoke watched the man pause and get set to take a shot. Smoke raised the Henry rifle and put a slug in the man's belly, slamming him backward. The man screamed, dropped his rifle, and tumbled back down the hill. He landed in the single street, then struggled back to his feet. Smoke had worked the rifle's lever by then, throwing another cartridge in the chamber, so he shot him again.

The man fell forward. There was no further movement.

The miners across the way cheered.

Smoke watched as more men fanned out in the town, moving too quickly for him to get a clear shot. He fired anyway and hit one of the men in the lower leg. The wounded man shouted a curse, then darted into one of the many mining shacks that lined the street.

“Are you boys that close with Felter and Canning?” Smoke yelled. “You sure you want to stay around for this? It's gonna get pretty hot down there.”

“You go to hell, Jensen!” The voice came from a shack.

A dozen other voices shouted curses at Smoke.

Two men sprang from behind the saloon tent, rifles in their hands. They raced into one of the small shacks. Smoke put half a dozen rounds into the shack, working the lever and firing as he swung the Henry from left to right. One man screamed and stumbled through the door, out into the street, dropping his rifle and dying in the dirt. The second man came out and Smoke aimed, but he held his fire. That man's chest and belly were already crimson. He sat down in the street, remained that way for a moment, then toppled over to die.

Smoke shifted positions once more, reloaded, and called out, “Any more of you boys want to give it a try?”

Canning looked at Felter. They had left the saloon and were in the largest of the mining shacks, both crouched behind crates of machinery.

“Come on, Felter. Let's just kill Jensen and be done with it.”

“Yeah, well, ain't that just what we're tryin' to do?”

“We ain't tryin' hard enough. There's fourteen of us, for cryin' out loud.”

Felter shook his head . “Only eleven now. They's three men lying out there, dead in the street. Or ain't you noticed?”

“All the more reason for us to kill him and get this over with.”

Felter was thoughtful for a moment. The whole plan had been a disaster from the very beginning. Jensen was a pure devil, right out of hell. They had torn the cabin apart searching for gold, but it had been fruitless. Maybe there wasn't any gold. For all Felter knew, Jensen's pa might've spent it all on whiskey and women.

One thing Felter was sure of, though. If he failed at the job, he could never set foot in the Idaho territory again. Richards, Stratton, and Potter would see to that.

“All right. Maybe there's only eleven of us now, but there's still only one of him,” Canning said. “I say we rush him. We've got to kill Jensen, or he's goin' to kill us, sure as a gun is iron.”

Felter was sorry he had ever gotten mixed up in it. For the first time in his evil life, he was really afraid of another man. He took a deep breath to screw up his courage. “You're right, we've got him outnumbered. It would be foolish to let him just pick us off, one at a time. Let's take the damn man.”

He passed orders down the street, from shack to shack. The plan was for three men to advance on the right, three men on the left, and three men to circle around behind Jensen, coming in from the rear. Felter and Canning would remain behind to “offer help, where help was needed.”

In truth, Felter hoped no help would be needed. It was his hope that Jensen would be killed before either he or Canning would have to encounter him.

* * *

Smoke walked into the empty saloon. From the lack of alarmed shouts in the camp, none of his enemies had seen him slip down the hillside and into the settlement. They were all too busy being scared and trying to figure out what to do next.

He went behind the bar, drew himself a beer from the keg the saloonkeeper had left behind, then drank it casually as he looked through the window and saw men moving carefully along the street. He strolled over to the open-flap doorway, picked out the man he had wounded, aimed, and fired. Another of the hired killers went down, screaming, spasmed a couple of times, then lay still as death claimed him.

“There are only ten of you left,” Smoke shouted. “Still time for the rest of you men to leave. I've got nothing against any of you. It's Felter and Canning I want. You men don't owe anything to them.”

“Damn it, Felter!” one of the new outlaws shouted, running across the dusty street. “Jensen is in the saloon!”

Smoke's Henry thundered again, and the outlaw who had given the warning spun in the street, crying out as a bleeding bullet hole soaked the front of his shirt red with blood. Dropping his gun, he tumbled forward into the dirt and didn't move again.

One of the other outlaws, thinking he could get lucky, ran down the side of the street, darting in and out of doorways shooting at anything he thought he saw.

Smoke went back to the bar, laid his rifle on the hardwood, and reached under it to pick up a double-barreled shotgun from the shelf. He checked to see that it was loaded and stuffed a handful of shells from a box sitting next to it into his pocket. He walked back to the entrance just as the panic-stricken outlaw approached.

“Over here,” Smoke called as he stepped out of the saloon. The man lurched to a terrified halt only a few yards away. He looked like he wanted to be somewhere—anywhere—else, but there was no time to get there.

Smoke pulled both shotgun triggers. The blast lifted the man off his feet, almost cutting him in half.

Smoke reloaded the shotgun as he ducked behind one of the shacks and then started up the alley. He came face-to-face with one of Richards's hired bounty hunters. The bounty hunter fired, the lead creasing Smoke's left arm, drawing blood. Smoke triggered both barrels of the shotgun again and blew the man's head right off his shoulders.

Smoke stepped into an open door just as a man ran toward him, firing at him with a pistol in each hand. The thunderous volley echoed back from the slopes around the camp. Splinters from the doorframe gouged painfully into Smoke's cheek as he dropped the shotgun and pulled his pistol. He shot the man in the chest and the belly.

The street erupted in black powder, whining lead, and wild cursing. Gray powder smoke billowed. Spooked horses broke from their hitch rails and charged down the street, clouding the air with dust, rearing and screaming in fear. A bullet from Canning's gun punched into Smoke's right leg, and he flung himself out of the doorway and behind the protection of a water trough.

Canning hobbled painfully into the street, shouting, “I've got you now, Jensen. You are dead meat!” His pistols belched smoke and flame, and his eyes were wild with hate.

One of Canning's slugs hit Smoke in the left side, passing through a fleshy part and exiting out the back. The shock spun him around and knocked him down.

“Ha!” Canning shouted. “That hurts, don't it?”

Smoke raised up on one elbow and leveled his pistol. He shot Canning in the right eye, taking off part of his face. Canning's legs jerked out from under him and he fell on his back, dead.

“Probably not as much as that,” Smoke mumbled as slowly, painfully, he stood up.

Two men ran into the smoky, dusty street, and Smoke shot both of them just as one fired at him. The outlaw's bullet ricocheted off a rock in the street, part of the lead hitting Smoke in the chest, bringing blood and a grunt of pain. He dragged himself into a doorway and quickly reloaded.

Bleeding from wounds in his side, leg, face, and chest, he returned the fire of another outlaw shooting at him. The man doubled over, dying in the center of the street.

Lead began whining down the alley, and Smoke, moving slowly and painfully, managed to find shelter behind a building, where he paused to reload.

Deke left the shack and called out to Smoke, firing as he yelled. His round struck the handle of a spare pistol Smoke had stuck behind his belt. Pain doubled him over for a second, but he lifted his pistol and dropped the outlaw in his tracks. It was almost over. Smoke took a deep breath, feeling a twinge of pain from at least one broken rib, maybe two.

Felter had not left the comparative safety of the machine crate in the mining shack. He'd watched the entire battle without taking part, counting the men Jensen had shot. He realized, with a real degree of shock and fear, that everyone—Canning, Deke, and all the others—had been killed. “No. No, that isn't possible.”

He had started the day with an advantage of fourteen to one, and he was the only one left. He knew that he couldn't get away. Smoke Jensen was a man with a mission—to kill everyone who'd had anything to do with killing his wife and kid. Except for Felter, Jensen had done just that.

Felter lifted up the bottle of whiskey he'd brought with him when he left the saloon earlier and took several Adam's-apple-bobbing swallows. Then, lowering the bottle, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shook his head. “You ain't goin' away, are you, Jensen? You know what? I believe I can take you now. You have to be running out of steam.” He said it to bolster his courage and his confidence.

“Felter!” Smoke called. “Step out here and face me.”

Felter stepped out into the street and was shocked at Smoke's appearance. “Well, now, boy, you look like you're hurtin' real bad.” He smiled at the apparition in front of him. “Just about shot to pieces, ain't you?”

Smoke was bleeding from several wounds, which gave Felter a renewed courage. The two men advanced toward each other until they were separated by no more than twenty-five feet. Smoke's advance was slow and halting, each movement bringing him pain.

Felter lifted the whiskey bottle toward him. “Here's to you, Jensen,” he said with a chuckle. “Damn if you didn't kill thirteen men here, today. You got shot up pretty bad doin' it, though, didn't you? I've got to give you credit. You almost pulled it off.”