The Violent Land

by William W. Johnstone

  Preacher stretched out beside him and said, “I’m gettin’ a mite old to be crawlin’ around like a snake.”

  “Just be careful you don’t go crawling over any actual snakes,” Smoke advised.

  With the stealth that only years of experience and their own natural skill could provide, the two men crawled toward the riders. They couldn’t move very fast because they had to be silent and they didn’t want to stir the grass too much, but Smoke’s gut told him they didn’t need to waste any time, either.

  Voices carried to them, even though the men were speaking quietly. Sound traveled well over these plains. At first Smoke thought he couldn’t understand the men because he and Preacher weren’t quite close enough to them yet, but then he realized they were speaking a foreign language.

  German, to be precise.

  Preacher heard the words, too, and breathed, “Germans. Got to be Klaus.”

  Smoke agreed, and he knew that Klaus wouldn’t have anything good in mind for Baron von Hoffman and the rest of the immigrants.

  Suddenly he smelled something. Taking a deeper whiff of the night air, he whispered, “That’s kerosene!”

  Preacher smelled it, too.

  “The buzzards are gonna set fire to the prairie!”

  A blaze like that was one of the most feared things on the frontier. The destructiveness of a prairie fire was terrible. If that was what was threatening the immigrants, there was no time for stealth anymore. Smoke and Preacher had to stop the hired killers any way they could.

  But as they leaped to their feet, a shout rang out.

  “Eat hot lead, you sons of bitches!”

  “Dieter!” Smoke exclaimed.

  Colt flame bloomed in the night as shots stabbed from gun muzzles. The blasts rolled across the plains like thunder.

  Guns drawn, Smoke and Preacher charged toward the fight.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The men bent on starting the fire had their hands full with the unexpected attack from Dieter, so they didn’t seem to notice two more men racing across the prairie toward them.

  They noticed, though, when Smoke and Preacher came within handgun range and opened fire on the shadowy figures mounted on nervous horses.

  Smoke heard a man shout, “Light the torches!”

  A second later, flame flared up as one of the men managed to scratch a lucifer into life and hold it to the head of a torch wrapped in kerosene-soaked fabric. In the glare, Smoke caught sight of Dieter falling under an onslaught of shots.

  There was no time to worry about the young man. Smoke had to stop that man from throwing his torch into the tall grass.

  He squeezed off another shot and saw the torch bearer reel in the saddle. The blazing torch slipped from his hand, but instead of wheeling through the air away from the group, it fell under the hooves of the horses as they danced around.

  That spooked the horses even more. Several of them bolted and inadvertently trampled right over the torch.

  Preacher had both Colts out. He had seen Dieter fall, too, and raced to the youngster’s side. Planting one foot on either side of the young man, he fired both guns and drove the marauders away from him.

  Smoke dashed to where the torch had fallen. The grass was burning in several places, but it was shorter here and he was able to stomp out the flames. The torch itself still burned, but it was dying down now because it had rolled through the dirt.

  Muzzle flashes continued to split the night. Smoke returned the shots, aiming by instinct as much as anything else.

  Someone yelled a command in harsh, high-pitched German. Men wheeled their horses and sent them galloping over the prairie. In the darkness, it was probably impossible to tell how many men they were facing. They might have stayed and made a fight of it if they had known that only two men opposed them.

  But as it was, they did what hired killers always did when they met more resistance than they expected.

  They cut their losses and ran.

  Smoke sent another shot after them to hurry them on their way. So did Preacher.

  Unfortunately, the would-be killers did more than flee. As they rode, several of the men managed to light their torches and fling the kerosene-soaked brands behind them. The grass caught fire and flames began to shoot up in several places.

  “Dadblast it!” Preacher yelled. “Now we got more trouble!”

  That was certainly true. It was going to be difficult if not impossible to stomp out these fires, unlike the one Smoke had caused the horses to put out.

  “Preacher, get back to the camp!” Smoke said. “Tell Matt and the baron to grab some blankets and soak them in water and get out here!”

  “What about Dieter?” Preacher asked.

  “I’ll see to him,” Smoke snapped.

  He holstered his gun and ran over to the young man while Preacher headed for the camp as fast as his long legs would carry him. Smoke bent, grabbed hold of Dieter, and hoisted the young man onto his shoulder. He could tell that Dieter’s shirt was wet with blood but didn’t know how badly the youngster was wounded. There was no time now to check.

  Smoke had carried Dieter only a few yards when hoofbeats pounded in front of him and a rider loomed up and swept past them. In the light from the moon and stars, Smoke recognized Matt riding bareback. Something trailed from one of Matt’s hands.

  Smoke turned to watch as Matt reached the closest of the fires. Matt flung himself off the horse and began slapping at the flames with the thing he was carrying. Smoke knew then that Matt hadn’t needed any instructions. He must have seen the glare when the first torch was lit and taken action immediately, soaking a blanket and jumping on a horse to get out here as fast as he could. Matt had enough experience to know how dangerous even the slightest wayward spark could be on the prairie.

  Hearing more horses coming, Smoke moved quickly to the side to get out of their way. Several riders raced past, also trailing wet blankets behind them. They spread out and started fighting the fires.

  Smoke hoofed it on toward the wagons. Dieter’s weight was no problem for his great strength. He hoped the young man was still alive.

  The whole camp was in a state of alarm by now. As Smoke trotted up to the wagons, several people met him and willing hands reached out to take Dieter.

  “Be careful with him!” Smoke warned. “He’s been shot!”

  He heard a horrified exclamation and looked over to see Erica von Hoffman standing there with one trembling hand raised to her mouth.

  “Why don’t you see how bad he’s hurt?” Smoke suggested in a firm voice.

  That urgency got through to her. She nodded and followed the men who were carrying Dieter, telling them, “Take him to my wagon! Quickly!”

  Smoke looked around for Preacher. When he spotted the old mountain man, he went over to him. Preacher looked winded.

  “Matt rode past me ... ’fore I got here,” Preacher explained as he bent over and rested his hands on his thighs. “Then the baron and some other fellas ... followed him.”

  Smoke nodded.

  “I saw them. Matt didn’t waste any time getting out there. I reckon he saw the first torch being lit and knew something bad was about to happen.”

  “The boy’s right smart,” Preacher agreed. The old-timer seemed to have most of his breath back now.

  The two of them turned to look out at the plains where the men were still battling the scattered wildfires. Silhouetted against the flames, figures dashed back and forth, slapping at them with the blankets. Even if the blankets weren’t very wet by now, they could still be used to put out small fires.

  “Reckon we better go help ’em?” Preacher asked.

  “I think they’re about to get the fires under control,” Smoke said. “But it wouldn’t hurt if we went out to stand guard just in case Klaus and his men came back.”

  “Good thinkin’,” Preacher agreed. They went to get their rifles and then strode out onto the prairie.

  All but two of the fires had been snuffed out by the
time Smoke and Preacher had covered the two hundred yards. Matt saw them coming and stepped back while Baron von Hoffman and several men from the wagon train finished the job. As Smoke and Preacher came up to him, Matt asked, “Are you fellas all right?”

  “We’re fine,” Smoke told him. “How about you?”

  “I’m a mite singed here and there,” Matt replied with a smile, “but I’ll live.”

  “Hope the same thing’s true of Dieter,” Preacher said.

  Matt’s face instantly turned worried.

  “Dieter? How was he mixed up in this?”

  “He may have saved the wagon train,” Smoke said. “I’m not sure Preacher and I were close enough to have stopped Klaus and his men from starting a whole line of fires, instead of just a few blazes scattered here and there.”

  The baron was close enough to overhear Smoke’s comments. He stalked over to the three men and asked, “This was Klaus Berger’s doing?”

  “That’s what I figure,” Smoke said. “We heard men talking in German. Either Klaus was with them, or he set the whole thing up.”

  “I told you he is a monster. A man would have to be in order to use flames against innocent people.”

  “You’d better check and make sure all the embers are out,” Smoke advised. “Preacher and I will stand guard while you’re doing that. You don’t want any of those little fires flaring up again.”

  Von Hoffman nodded in agreement and said, “Of course.” He issued orders, and he and the men who had come out to fight the fires with him spent several minutes making sure even the smallest glowing ember was put out completely.

  Eventually the men gathered up their horses and started walking back to the camp. As Matt led his mount, he said, “I want to check on Dieter. How in the world did he know what was going on, anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” Smoke said. “Preacher and I figured he was out walking around, trying to cool off after that ruckus with you, and we went to look for him. Before we could find him, we heard some riders coming, and then Dieter was right there among them, yelling and shooting at them. I reckon he must have heard them coming, too, and took cover until he found out what was going on.”

  “Then you’re right,” Matt said. “He probably did save the camp. I hope he’s not hurt too bad.” He paused. “I’m not going to apologize for what happened between him and me, though, or for being fond of Erica.”

  “Nobody’s askin’ you to,” Preacher said.

  They went straight to Erica’s wagon. Quite a few people were gathered outside the vehicle. The crowd parted when they saw the baron striding toward them. Von Hoffman went to the lowered tailgate and climbed in, while Smoke, Matt, and Preacher waited tensely outside.

  A few minutes later, von Hoffman reappeared and said, “Young Schumann is still alive, but he suffered two serious wounds and lost a considerable amount of blood. My personal physician is with him now.”

  So the baron had brought along his own sawbones, Smoke thought. He supposed von Hoffman had the money and influence to do something like that. So far, Smoke had met only a few of the immigrants, so there was no telling who else von Hoffman had brought with him.

  Smoke said, “If there’s anything we can do to help, Baron ...”

  Von Hoffman shook his head.

  “It is out of our hands now, Herr Jensen. What I need is some advice on how to keep an attack like this from happening again.”

  “You’ve already been posting guards at night,” Smoke said. “Maybe you should move them out farther away from the wagons. Maybe put a couple of men on horseback, too, circling the camp all the time. I can tell you this ... if Klaus is determined enough, and it appears that he is, you’re not going to be able to stop him from making another try for you. All you can do is be prepared and outfight him when it happens.”

  “You are telling me that more of my people will die before we reach Wyoming,” von Hoffman said grimly.

  Smoke nodded and said, “I think there’s a mighty good chance of it.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Dieter was still alive the next morning. Smoke climbed into the wagon and found Erica sitting on a short, three-legged stool next to one of the built-in bunks. Dieter lay on his side on that bunk, his torso swathed in bandages. Erica wiped his forehead with a damp cloth and frowned in concern as Smoke asked quietly, “How’s he doing?”

  “He has a fever,” Erica replied in a hushed tone. “Dr. Gruber said it is from the shock of being shot. The doctor cleaned and bandaged the wounds and said there is nothing more he can do. The bullets went all the way through Dieter’s body, so at least he did not have to operate to remove them.”

  “Well, I reckon that’s good,” Smoke said. “Has Dieter been awake?”

  Erica shook her head.

  “No. I suppose he is fortunate not to know what is happening to him. The doctor told me to keep him as cool as I can and make him comfortable, and that’s all that can be done. I wish there was more. I wish—”

  Erica’s voice broke into a sob.

  Dealing with crying women wasn’t something Smoke was particularly good at. He wished Sally was here. She would know what to do.

  But she was back at Sugarloaf, so he just gave Erica’s shoulder an awkward pat. He probably wasn’t supposed to do that, since he was a commoner and she was an aristocrat, but he didn’t particularly give a hoot about such things. She was just a fellow human being in pain as far as he was concerned.

  “I’m sure you’re doing all you can for him, and I’ve got a hunch Dieter knows that and appreciates it,” he told her.

  “I’m told that he saved the camp from Klaus Berger,” Erica said as she used the back of her free hand to wipe away her tears while she continued stroking Dieter’s face with the damp cloth.

  “I’d say that’s true. He played a big part in it, anyway. So did Matt and your cousin and some of the other men.”

  “And you and Herr Preacher,” Erica said. “The woman who brought my breakfast was full of talk about the gunfight with Berger and his men.”

  “We all did what we could,” Smoke said.

  “This makes twice you have saved our lives. How many more times will someone try to wipe us out before we reach our destination?”

  “I can’t answer that, but I can tell you that we’ll be ready for whatever they try next,” Smoke promised.

  Erica nodded and said, “I hope Dieter lives to see Wyoming. He talked about it so much.”

  “I hope he does, too.”

  There was nothing else Smoke could say, so he left the wagon. Men were hitching up the teams now, getting the big, canvas-covered vehicles ready to roll.

  Smoke was checking the saddle on his horse when a woman came up behind him and said, “Herr Jensen?”

  Smoke looked around and was impressed by what he saw. The fact that he was happily married didn’t render him blind, nor did it keep him from recognizing beauty when he saw it. The woman who stood there with her sunbonnet pushed back from thick, wavy masses of auburn hair was beautiful, no doubt about that.

  “I’m Smoke Jensen,” he said in reply to her question.

  The smile she gave him in return was brilliant.

  “Oh, I know that,” she said. “I merely wished to thank you for what you did last night. If not for what you and your friends did, surely those evil men would have wiped us all out.” The woman extended a hand. “My name is Greta Schiller.”

  Smoke took her hand, even as he noted the wedding ring on her other hand.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Frau Schiller. I reckon your husband must be one of the baron’s friends?”

  “He was,” Greta replied, with emphasis on the second word. “I’m a widow.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Smoke told her honestly.

  “Life sometimes deals harshly with us all. But it also constantly presents us with new opportunities.”

  She still had hold of his hand. Her fingers were cool and smooth and soft, and strong enough that he couldn’
t slip his hand out of her grasp without being obvious about it. So he said, “That sounds like something my wife would say.”

  “You are married, then?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Wait, of course, I knew that.” She finally let go of his hand. “Friedrich and Erica went to dine at your ranch house.”

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s your brother who is unmarried ... and quite taken with our little Erica. I remember now.”

  Smoke didn’t particularly want to discuss the troublesome triangle involving Matt, Erica, and Dieter, and he didn’t really want to prolong this conversation with Greta Schiller, either. Despite her beauty, there was something ... predatory ... about her. He didn’t think it was fair to blame that on her being a widow, but she certainly gave off the impression that she might be searching for a new husband.

  She could do her looking elsewhere as far as Smoke was concerned. He was a one-woman man, and had been ever since he had met Sally up in Idaho, in a town he had wound up almost wiping off the map.

  He put his left hand to the brim of his hat and said, “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I need to make sure this horse of mine is ready to travel.”

  “Of course. We’ll be leaving soon, won’t we?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I feel much safer knowing that you and your brother and your ... father, is it?”

  “Preacher’s like a father to me and has been for a lot of years,” Smoke said, “but he’s not blood kin.”

  “Well, I feel safer with the three of you coming along with us, I was about to say.” She gave him that brilliant smile again. “Good day, Herr Jensen.”

  Greta moved off along the line of wagons. Smoke was glad to see her go.

  Preacher came over to him a few minutes later and asked, “Who was that redheaded gal talkin’ to you?”

  “Her name’s Greta Schiller,” Smoke explained. “Her late husband was one of the baron’s friends.”

  “Late, eh?” Preacher said. “That means she’s a widow woman now. You know what folks say about widow women, Smoke.”

  “Yeah, I know what they say about crotchety old codgers, too,” Smoke replied with a chuckle. “That doesn’t necessarily make any of it true.”