The Violent Land

by William W. Johnstone

  So far, that had worked out quite well. He had brought the wagons from Missouri across Kansas to Colorado and then had turned north to Wyoming. Admittedly, it was difficult to get lost. As long as he kept the rearing spires of the Rocky Mountains on his left hand, the wagons would be heading in the right direction.

  The baron felt a definite responsibility toward the people he was leading. Among them were other members of the Prussian nobility, his friends and relatives who were counting on him to establish a new homeland for them. The rest were commoners, but for the most part they were members of families that had worked for his family and the families of the other aristocrats for generations. The others were businessmen who had supported unpopular political positions, as had von Hoffman, and who had the money to escape from almost certain retribution at the hands of those who were now in power.

  All in all, it was a group that had the potential to become highly successful and extremely important in the mostly untamed land to which they were going, von Hoffman thought. He would take over the Rafter 9 ranch and build it into the most lucrative cattle operation in the state of Wyoming. Most of the others would form the foundation for the new town he would establish near the ranch. There were a few hamlets scattered across the region, but no major settlements. The town would fill a need not only for von Hoffman’s plans but also for the other settlers in the area.

  “I wish we would get there,” Erica went on. “This new land is so far from our home.”

  “This new land will be our home,” von Hoffman said firmly. “Never forget that, Erica. Wyoming is where we will live from now on, and we will be happy there.”

  Because there was no other alternative, he thought. They could not go back to Germany. To do that would be tantamount to signing his own death warrant. His political stands had made some powerful enemies. He worried that even coming this far, all the way to America, would not be enough to keep the men who wanted him dead from coming after him. Although they wouldn’t come themselves, of course....

  Rich, powerful men usually sent others to do their killing for them.

  The man sitting beside Erica and handling the lead wagon’s team said, “Baron, I see a rider coming.”

  Von Hoffman looked across the rolling prairie in front of them toward the foothills and mountains that rose in the distance and spotted the man on horseback. He seemed familiar, and after a moment von Hoffman nodded in recognition.

  “It’s Dieter,” he said. “I sent him ahead to scout our route. I’m sure he’s bringing back news about the best way for us to go.”

  Dieter Schumann was an ambitious young man, the son of an old von Hoffman family retainer. During the ocean voyage across the Atlantic and in the months since then, he had taught himself English by reading American dime novels. Because of that, he expected everything in the United States to be the same as the wild and woolly fictional West he had read about. It had come as a severe disappointment to him when there hadn’t been any gunfighters, outlaws, or savage Indians waiting for them on the docks of New York.

  Things had improved, at least in Dieter’s opinion, when the wagon train set out from Kansas City. At least they were moving into a world that bore some resemblance to the one he’d read about. He had seen some Indians, although they were all peaceful, and some men wore guns and looked like they knew how to use them.

  Von Hoffman signaled a halt and waited for Dieter to ride in. The young man came loping up on his horse a few minutes later. He had a broad, friendly peasant’s face under the ridiculously high-crowned cowboy hat he wore. His shirt was decorated with fringe, and a gunbelt with intricate designs worked into the leather was strapped around his waist. He carried a pearl-handled revolver in the holster attached to the belt. The outfit had cost him nearly all the money he had saved up and brought with him from Germany.

  “Well, Dieter, what did you find?” von Hoffman asked.

  “The trail runs into those hills,” Dieter replied, turning in his saddle to point. “It won’t be difficult to follow, Baron. But I saw quite a few cattle grazing in the hills as well. I think perhaps the land belongs to someone, probably the same man who owns the cattle. Perhaps we should seek to determine this and request his permission to cross his range.”

  “Nonsense,” von Hoffman said. “We will do no harm. There is plenty of water and grass for our animals. The man’s stock will never miss what our beasts consume.”

  “You’re right, of course, Your Excellency. I was merely concerned that some gun-totin’ rannihans might take offense at our presence.”

  That mixture of formality and dime novel Western vernacular was the way Dieter talked now, and von Hoffman found it grating at times. He also didn’t like the way the young man looked at Erica when he thought no one was watching.

  There was nothing lecherous about Dieter’s gazes. Instead, they were the longing, calf-eyed looks of a young man desperately in love with a young woman who was unattainable.

  And most definitely, Erica was unattainable for the likes of Dieter Schumann. She was noble-born; he was a commoner. The only thing he could ever do for her was serve her. If he kept looking at her like that, von Hoffman would have to do something to put a stop to it. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, because despite Dieter’s bizarre affectations, he had proven to be a capable scout and outrider.

  Von Hoffman waved the wagons into motion again. Dieter turned his horse and fell in alongside the lead wagon. He doffed his hat and nodded politely to Erica.

  “Fraulein von Hoffman,” he said. “The afternoon light treats you well. Or perhaps it is you who makes the light seem so radiant.”

  Erica smiled.

  “That’s a lovely thing to say, Herr Schumann,” she told him.

  Dieter was about to say something else, a compliment, no doubt, but before he could speak, von Hoffman said, “Ride ahead again, Schumann. Locate a suitable place for us to camp for the night.”

  “Of course, Baron.” He clapped his hat back on his head and added to Erica, “I’ll be seein’ you, ma’am.”

  Erica was smiling as Dieter rode away. Von Hoffman’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at her. She enjoyed having the young man play up to her like that, he thought. Perhaps it would be wise if he spoke to her, too.

  Dieter’s horse was a leggy buckskin. It carried him easily away from the wagon train and into the foothills. As he rode, he reached down and checked the gun at his hip, making sure it rode loosely in its holster, so he could get it out quickly if need be.

  This was America, after all. One never knew when one would run smack-dab into a desperado bent on robbery or a savage Comanche after scalps.

  Of course, an adventure such as that would liven things up, Dieter told himself. So far the trip had been, well, boring. There had been some nice scenery, but nothing nearly as impressive as there was to be found back in Germany. Every day was the same, the ox-drawn wagons rolling at their slow, steady pace across the plains. At least now their route was starting to pass through more rugged country. The hills and mountains would make travel more difficult, but still they would provide a welcome break from the monotony.

  Dieter began looking for a good place to camp when he had ridden only a short distance into the hills. The afternoon was well advanced, and it would still take the wagons a while to come this far.

  It didn’t take him long to find a broad, level stretch of ground beside a tiny creek that flowed down from the higher elevations to twist its way through the hills and finally out onto the plains in a meandering path. This was the perfect spot, Dieter thought as he looked it over. Plenty of grass and water, just as the baron had predicted.

  But as Dieter had warned him, there were also cattle grazing here, probably fifty or sixty of them. Dieter tried to count them but kept losing track and finally gave up. The cows would probably move on when the wagons showed up, he thought, but perhaps it would be better if they weren’t even here when the baron and the others arrived. He had never herded cattle from horseback
before, although he had sometimes worked as a herdsman back in Germany. That job had been carried out on foot.

  How difficult could it be? Dieter was a good rider. He sent his horse toward the cattle and took his hat off. When he got closer, he waved the hat and shouted at the beasts. As he expected, they began walking away from the creek, not getting in any hurry about it.

  Dieter rode back and forth, bunching the cattle up and hazing them ahead of him toward some trees. He would push them up there, he thought, and then when the wagons arrived, the open land beside the stream would be unoccupied, just waiting for the immigrants to make camp.

  The cattle began to enter the trees. Dieter didn’t know how far these woods extended or what was on the other side of them, but that wasn’t really his concern. He just wanted to impress Baron von Hoffman by showing some initiative.

  And the baron’s cousin, Fraulein von Hoffman, as well, of course, although Dieter was reluctant to admit that even to himself.

  “Ah, Erica,” he said with a sigh, now that there was no one around to hear him. “Mein liebchen ...”

  “Hold it right there, mister!” a voice barked behind him.

  Startled, Dieter jerked on the buckskin’s reins. The horse turned sharply. As Dieter swung around, he caught a glimpse of another man on horseback sitting in the trees and pointing a rifle at him.

  “Don’t reach for that gun!” the stranger warned.

  It was too late. Dieter’s hand slapped against the pearl-handled butt of the holstered Colt, just like in the dime novels, and before he knew what he was doing, he had pulled out the revolver and was trying to lift it.

  The stranger’s rifle cracked sharply, the report echoing from foothill to foothill.

  Chapter Five

  With snow-capped mountains looming nearby, rolling hills covered with pines, valleys dotted with aspens, and broad, grassy meadows next to icy, spring-fed, fast-flowing streams, the ranch called Sugarloaf was the prettiest place Smoke Jensen had ever seen. Every day of his life, he counted himself lucky to live here.

  Of course, the fact that he lived here with a beautiful, intelligent, courageous, and loving woman probably had something to do with how fortunate he considered himself.

  Sally Jensen was a schoolteacher by training. That was what she’d been doing when Smoke met her in Idaho. She had given up that job when she married him and they established the ranch in Colorado, except for brief stints filling in whenever the school in Big Rock didn’t have a regular teacher. She didn’t miss it. Her marriage to Smoke and their life together on the ranch filled her days quite satisfactorily.

  She enjoyed having company, though, Smoke knew, and seeing some new faces, even if they were old familiar faces in their way. She was standing on the porch when Smoke, Matt, and Preacher rode up later that afternoon.

  By the time Smoke dismounted, Sally had come down the steps. She put a hand on his arm for a second, then turned to Preacher and hugged the old mountain man.

  “Preacher, it’s so good to see you again,” she said.

  “And it’s mighty good to be here,” he said, patting her on the back a little awkwardly. Open displays of affection always embarrassed the old-timer, but he didn’t mind too much when they involved being hugged by a pretty gal.

  Sally certainly fit that description with her sparkling eyes and long, thick brown hair. She hugged Matt, too, and said, “I’m glad the two of you were able to make it here today. I have a big supper planned.”

  “I’m glad they got here when they did, too,” Smoke said. “I reckon Preacher probably saved my life ... again.”

  Sally’s eyes widened slightly.

  “Saved your life?” she repeated. “Smoke, what in the world happened? Was there some sort of trouble in town?”

  “I’m afraid so,” he said with a solemn expression on his rugged face now. “A gang of owlhoots tried to rob the bank. The bank president was killed, along with Mitch Byrd, one of the tellers. And Elaine Harris was wounded in the shooting, as well.”

  Sally lifted a hand to her mouth as she made a noise of horror and sympathy.

  “Oh, no! That’s terrible, Smoke. How badly is Mrs. Harris hurt? Is she going to be all right?”

  “Doc Simpson thinks she’ll live, but she may not ever be a hundred percent again.”

  “That poor woman. I’ll have to take the buckboard and go into town tomorrow to visit her. And to pay my respects to Mr. Byrd’s wife, of course. I didn’t know the new bank president very well.”

  “Nobody around here did, since he hadn’t been in town for long,” Smoke said.

  Sally’s features hardened with anger.

  “What about the outlaws?” she asked. “What happened to them?”

  “One of them’s locked up in Monte’s jail with a bullet hole in his leg.” Smoke shrugged. “The rest of ’em are at the undertaker’s, I reckon. I don’t think there’s been time to plant them yet.”

  “Good,” Sally said with a note of savagery in her voice. She hated lawbreakers every bit as much as Smoke did, and had as little patience with them. To her way of thinking, justice needed to be both swift and effective, and it usually was whenever Smoke was involved. She looked at Matt and Preacher and went on, “I suppose you two were in the middle of the ruckus, too?”

  “We got there just as it was getting over with,” Matt said.

  “Just in time for me to blow the head off one of the varmints with my old Sharps,” Preacher added with a bloodthirsty grin.

  Sally shuddered, and Matt explained, “The fella was about to set off both barrels of a sawed-off shotgun at Smoke and Sheriff Carson.”

  “Is Monte all right?” Sally asked quickly.

  “He’s fine,” Smoke assured her. “The trouble’s over.”

  “Well, I’m sorry about the townspeople who died,” Sally said, “but I’m sure it would have been a lot worse if you hadn’t been there. Let’s try to think about more pleasant things instead. If you men want to sit out here on the porch and enjoy what’s left of the afternoon, I’ll bring out a pitcher of lemonade.”

  Preacher licked his lips for a second, as if he would have preferred something a mite more potent than lemonade, but he said, “That sounds mighty nice, Sally gal.”

  “We’ll do that as soon as we’ve tended to the horses,” Smoke said.

  While they were taking care of their mounts, Pearlie rode in. Sugarloaf’s foreman was a tall, lanky cowboy with a drooping mustache and graying dark hair. Like Monte Carson he had been a hired gun at one time in his life. Also like Monte, he had started off as one of Smoke’s enemies but had become a staunch friend and ally instead. Smoke relied heavily on him to keep the ranch running smoothly and to supervise the crew of half a dozen cowboys who worked there.

  Pearlie swung down from his saddle and shook hands with Matt and Preacher.

  “It’s mighty fine to see you fellas again,” he declared. “Been too long since you visited.”

  “We feel the same way,” Matt told him.

  “Where’s Cal?” Smoke asked. Pearlie and Cal were fast friends despite the fondness for arguing, and they often rode the range together.

  “I sent him over to check that east pasture along Snake Creek,” Pearlie said. The stream had gotten its name because of the way it twisted back and forth. “Saw some wolf sign over there a day or two ago, so I figured it’d be a good idea to keep a little closer eye on the stock. We start losin’ many cows, we’ll have to get up a hunt.”

  Smoke nodded. Usually the wolves stayed up higher in the mountains, but they roamed down into the lower elevations from time to time.

  Pearlie unsaddled his mount and turned the horse into the corral with the others. The four men walked toward the house, where Sally was setting a tray containing a pitcher of lemonade and three glasses on a small table on the porch, next to several rocking chairs.

  “I didn’t know you’d come in, Pearlie,” she said as they reached the steps. “I’ll fetch another glass.”

 
“I’m much obliged, Miss Sally,” Pearlie said as he took off his battered old hat and held it in front of him. Like all the other men who worked on Sugarloaf, he treated Sally like she was a queen.

  Sally had just turned toward the door of the ranch house when the sound of a shot drifted through the late afternoon air. She paused and looked toward the east, just like the four men were doing. The shot had come from quite a distance away, but it sounded like it was in that direction.

  “Cal’s over yonder,” Smoke said quietly.

  “Yeah, but there was only the one shot,” Pearlie said. “If he was in trouble, he would have fired more than that. Chances are, he spotted one of those dang lobos and took a shot at it.”

  After a moment, Smoke nodded.

  “I think you’re right,” he said. “We’ll go ahead and have our lemonade. Cal’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself.”

  But despite the confidence he felt in the young cowboy, Smoke caught himself glancing off to the east as he sat there with the others and sipped lemonade.

  He would be mighty glad when Cal came riding in, just so he could be sure that the youngster was all right.

  Spooked by the shot, the buckskin reared sharply as the bullet whistled over Dieter’s head. He felt himself slipping and let out an alarmed yell as he grabbed for a better hold. The effort failed, and he toppled backwards out of the saddle, landing with stunning force on the ground. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs and the gun from his hand.

  Which meant that the man with the rifle would now kill him, he thought.

  And he would never see Erica von Hoffman again. He would die without ever having told her how he felt about her.

  Instead of shooting him, the stranger merely pointed the rifle at him and said, “Stay where you are, mister. The next shot won’t be a warning.”

  Dieter didn’t move except to gasp for breath and drag air into his lungs. When he could speak again, he said, “Danke ... I mean thank you ... for not killing me.”