The Violent Land

by William W. Johnstone

  Preacher drew himself up.

  “So you think I’m a crotchety old codger, do you?”

  “I didn’t say that, now did I?”

  “Maybe not.” Preacher shrugged. “But I see what you’re gettin’ at. Still, I’d be a mite wary of that one, Smoke. My instincts tell me she might be trouble.”

  “And I know better than to argue with your instincts,” Smoke murmured. “For what it’s worth, Preacher, I agree with you. I think we need to keep an eye on Frau Greta Schiller.”

  “Just don’t get too close while you’re doin’ it,” Preacher advised.

  That Smoke Jensen was a very handsome man, Greta thought as she walked toward her wagon. A year or two younger than her, perhaps, but that had never bothered her. Some of the best lovers she’d ever had were considerably younger than her. She had the experience, and they had the energy and enthusiasm of youth. It was a very potent combination.

  She wasn’t sure she had ever seen a man with such broad shoulders and brawny arms as Smoke. As she imagined what it would feel like to have those muscular arms of his close around her, a faint smile came to her lips. It would be good with him, she thought, so very good.

  Such a shame that he was married, although Greta was confident that she could have had her way with him, given enough time.

  And an even bigger shame that he would probably be dead, along with all the others, before that could come about.

  “Frau Schiller?”

  The thoughtful smile on her lips automatically turned into a seductive one as she looked around and saw the baron coming toward her.

  “Good morning, Friedrich,” she said.

  “You are well this morning?” he asked stiffly. That was always the way he behaved around her. But she would get him to unbend eventually, she thought confidently. Her charms had always gotten her what she wanted sooner or later.

  “Very well,” she told him. “A bit nervous, though, because of what happened last night. I fear that those horrible men will try to attack us again.”

  “If they do, we will defeat them again,” he said, as pompous as ever. He and Herman had been a good match, Greta thought, recalling what a stuffed shirt her late husband had been. It was no wonder that he and Friedrich von Hoffman had been close friends and political allies.

  Von Hoffman did have one distinct advantage over Herman. He was much more appealing physically, especially compared to the portly, balding Herman Schiller. His hawklike features held a certain tinge of cruelty. Greta didn’t mind that. Sometimes a little touch of cruelty just made the lovemaking that much more intense and satisfying.

  “Did you need to speak to me about something, Friedrich?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Please instruct your driver to place your wagon in line directly behind mine. I’d like to keep you nearer so that in case of more trouble, I can more easily insure your safety.”

  Finally! she thought. He was starting to come around at last. She had been sending him signs for weeks now, even since before their arrival in America. She’d begun to wonder if she was going to have to rip all her clothes off and throw herself at his feet before he got the idea.

  She said, “Why, Friedrich, that is so thoughtful of you! I’ll instruct Franz right away.”

  Von Hoffman cleared his throat again.

  “Herman was one of my dearest friends,” he said. “I would feel terrible if something happened to you, Frau Schiller ... Greta.”

  Carefully, she kept the look of triumph off her face. The baron had taken the first step, and now, whether he knew it or not, he was lost.

  She put her hand on his arm and squeezed lightly for a second, just enough for him to feel the warmth of her touch.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He nodded curtly, going all stiff again, and said, “Good day to you.” Greta watched for a few seconds as he walked off, then went straight to her wagon where her driver, Franz, had finished hitching up the team of oxen.

  She relayed the baron’s order about taking the second place in line to the stolid servant, who nodded his understanding. Then she climbed into the wagon and pulled a small chest out from under the built-in bunk. She sat on the thin mattress and opened it.

  Underneath the silk and lace of the garments packed inside the trunk, she felt the hard outlines of both the pistol and the sheathed dagger. She might not have to use either of them if Klaus Berger succeeded in his task, but she liked knowing that they were there if she needed them.

  Herman had been such a fool. It had been so easy to slip the pills into his beer, the pills that Klaus had given her. That had eliminated the baron’s staunchest ally. Von Hoffman would have been next, but Herman’s death had frightened him into leaving the country so quickly that Klaus’s employers had not had time to move against him. But when he was ready to leave Germany, he had asked her to come along, and there had never been any doubt about her answer.

  Yes, the gun and the knife were there, but they were just tools.

  She was truly the weapon of last resort for the baron’s enemies.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  For several days the wagons rolled steadily north toward Wyoming, covering the ground at a nice pace now that they were on the plains again with the Rocky Mountains looming off to the left. Matt continued scouting ahead of the wagon train, with Smoke and Preacher serving as outriders. They were alert for any sign of trouble, and they made sure that the camps were well guarded at night.

  Dieter was still alive. His fever had broken after a couple of days, thanks to luck and Erica’s efforts to take care of him, and while he was still extremely weak, he was awake part of the time now and able to eat a little. Smoke was confident that the young man would start getting his strength back soon.

  The first night that Dieter was coherent enough to know what was going on, Smoke sat in the baron’s wagon with him and told him what had happened three nights earlier.

  “I don’t think there’s any doubt you saved the wagon train,” Smoke said.

  Dieter shook his head.

  “You and Preacher would have ... stopped Berger and his men,” he insisted.

  “I don’t know about that. When you stood up and started blazing away at them, you wrecked their plans and kept them from starting so many fires that we never could have put them all out.” Smoke grinned. “It was like something out of one of those dime novels you read, the way you yelled at them to eat hot lead.”

  “I said that? I really ... don’t remember much ... about what happened.”

  “You said it, all right,” Smoke assured him. “And I think you ventilated several of the varmints, too. Nobody could have done any better than you did, Dieter.”

  “I was willing to die ... to save Erica and the others.”

  “Erica’s fine. She’s been taking care of you since we brought you in.”

  A faint smile appeared on the young man’s pale face.

  “I know. When I first woke ... I thought I was in heaven ... because there was an angel looking down at me... .”

  Smoke chuckled.

  “You be sure and tell her that.”

  Dieter gave a tiny shake of his head and looked solemn and sorrowful.

  “I cannot. It is not permitted. The baron would think—”

  “Sooner or later you need to realize that what the baron thinks isn’t as important as it used to be,” Smoke broke in. “Like we keep telling you, Dieter, you’re in America now. We don’t have barons and counts and dukes and such-like.”

  “The baron will always be the baron,” Dieter insisted, “no matter where he is.”

  Smoke didn’t argue with the young man. Dieter would either come around to the American way of thinking, or he wouldn’t. In the end, the choice was up to him.

  “Matt and Preacher, they are all right?” Dieter asked after a couple of moments of silence.

  “They’re fine,” Smoke told him. “None of us were hit while we were swapping bullets with Berger’s bu
nch.” He asked a question that had been nagging at him. “Did you overhear enough before the fight started to know if Klaus was with them?”

  “No. There was a man giving orders ... but no one used any names.”

  “I don’t guess it really matters.”

  “One of the men I heard ... I would know his voice again. It was high-pitched ... but it had a sound to it ... like a saw going through wood. I never heard anything ... quite like it before. It was the sound of ... evil.”

  Klaus Berger, Smoke thought. He would have bet a hat on it.

  He patted Dieter on the shoulder and said, “You’ve probably talked enough, son. You just rest now. And you can take it easy because you know you did good.”

  “Thank you, Herr Jensen ... Smoke. That means a great deal ... coming from a man such as yourself.”

  Dieter’s eyes slipped closed. His bandaged chest rose and fell steadily as sleep claimed him. Smoke went to the back of the wagon and stepped down from the tailgate.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw movement in the shadows just on the other side of the wagon. As he pivoted quickly and smoothly in that direction, his hand went to the butt of his Colt. Before he could draw the revolver, though, Matt said, “It’s just us, Smoke.”

  He stepped out of the shadows with Erica beside him. Smoke didn’t ask what they had been doing in the dark. He didn’t want to know.

  “How is Dieter?” Erica asked.

  “He’s asleep now,” Smoke replied. “He talked for a little while, but I could tell he was getting pretty tired so I told him to go ahead and get some rest.”

  The young woman nodded.

  “That’s good. Rest is what he needs more than anything else now.”

  Smoke wasn’t so sure about that. He thought maybe what Dieter needed the most was standing right in front of him. But that wasn’t any of his business before and it still wasn’t now.

  “You could probably use some rest yourself,” Smoke told Erica. “The way you’ve been taking care of him, you must be worn out.”

  “I’m tired,” she admitted with a nod. “Good night, Matt.”

  She reached out and squeezed his arm. He patted her hand. His eyes followed her as she climbed into the wagon and disappeared behind the canvas flap.

  “I’m glad that Dieter’s doing better,” Matt said. “For a while there, it looked like he might not make it.”

  “That’s true,” Smoke agreed. “Erica’s a good nurse.” He changed the subject by saying, “You want to take a turn on guard duty tonight?”

  “Sure. I’ll ride the circuit for a spell.”

  Smoke glanced at the night sky, his attention attracted by a flicker of lightning far in the distance.

  “Better make sure you’ve got your slicker with you,” he told Matt. “Looks like it might rain after a while.”

  Smoke’s prediction turned out to be true. Rain it did, in buckets, accompanied by earth-shaking peals of thunder and blazing bolts of lightning so bright that when they struck, the night seemed like day.

  The lightning was what made Matt and the other guards abandon their patrol around the wagon camp. On these plains, a man on horseback ran a real danger of being struck by one of the bolts, since his head was higher than most of his surroundings. Once lightning began striking in the vicinity, the riders headed for the wagons.

  As Matt was unsaddling his horse, Smoke and Preacher came up to him. Both of them wore slickers and carried their Winchesters under the oilcloth garments.

  “See anything out there before the storm started?” Smoke asked.

  Matt shook his head and said, “Not a thing except a lot of empty prairie.”

  Smoke pointed to one of the wagons.

  “That belongs to the blacksmith whose family has always worked for the von Hoffman family,” he said. “He volunteered to let you bunk on the floor of his wagon tonight. I already put your war bag in there. Go get some dry clothes on and get some rest. Preacher and I and a few other men are standing guard here in the camp. Nobody’s going to be able to start a prairie fire in this weather.”

  “That’s the truth!” Matt agreed emphatically. “Thanks, Smoke.”

  Matt started toward the blacksmith’s wagon, thinking that if they had gotten just the electrical storm, without the downpour, fire would have been a real danger again. A lot of forest fires and prairie fires alike had been started by lightning.

  When he reached the wagon, he climbed onto the seat and rapped his knuckles on the frame.

  “Howdy in there,” he called, announcing himself before he pushed the canvas flap aside.

  He had seen a light glowing through the wagon’s canvas cover, so he wasn’t surprised to see the vehicle’s occupant sitting on the bunk reading a book by the glow from a lantern. The man lifted his eyes from the pages and said in heavily accented English, “Come in, Herr Jensen. Wie gehts? I mean, how are you?”

  “Wet and tired,” Matt replied with a smile. “You’ve got the advantage of me.”

  “Eh? Oh, you mean I know your name, but you do not know mine.” The man stood up as much as he could inside the wagon and extended a big hand. “Rudolph Wolff, mein herr. A pleasure to meet you.”

  Rudolph Wolff wasn’t very tall. He was built like a lot of blacksmiths, broad and powerful, with massive shoulders and brawny arms. At first glance he looked fierce, with a rumpled thatch of dark hair and a bristling beard, but he had a quick grin and a booming laugh, Matt discovered as they talked while he put on dry clothes. He felt an instinctive liking for the man.

  Matt, Smoke, and Preacher had been sleeping under various wagons since joining the group of immigrants. That was fine as long as the weather was halfway decent. Matt had gotten many a good night’s sleep on the ground.

  But in a storm like this, when the ground turned to mud even underneath the wagons, it was nice to have a place to get out of the weather. Matt said as much to Wolff, thanking him for his hospitality, and the blacksmith replied, “I am glad to have you here, Herr Jensen. You and your friends have done a great deal to help us.”

  “Well, we want to see you folks get to Wyoming and settle down to your new lives there,” Matt explained. “The West needs fine new settlers like you, and it’ll be a chance for all of you to live a whole new sort of life.”

  A frown appeared on Wolff’s bearded face.

  “I do not know if things will change all that much, whether we are in Wyoming or Germany,” he said. “The baron will still be the baron.”

  That was the same attitude Dieter had, Matt thought, and hearing it from the blacksmith bothered him just as much as some of the things Dieter had said.

  “There’s no need for you to feel like that,” he told Wolff. “In this country, you’re no different from the baron. He may have more money, but he can’t tell you what to do any more than any man you work for can.”

  The blacksmith grunted.

  “So you say, Herr Jensen. But when we get there, and you and your friends go back to where you came from, nothing will change.” Wolff suddenly looked nervous. “I should not be saying these things. You and the baron are friends as well—”

  “Not so’s you’d notice,” Matt said. “Don’t worry about me repeating anything you might say to me. As far as I’m concerned, that’s nobody’s business.”

  “I hope you are telling the truth. Otherwise, the baron may be angry with me.”

  “And you wouldn’t like that?”

  “Baron von Hoffman is a hard man,” Wolff said. “He comes from a long line of men accustomed to being the absolute rulers of their domain. When something happens to displease him, or when someone opposes his will, he can act harshly at times.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry,” Matt said again. “I’m not all that fond of the baron, either. I don’t like the way he lords it over that cousin of his.”

  Wolff nodded in agreement.

  “Fraulein von Hoffman is a lovely young woman, but she has no will of her own,” he said. “The baron rule
s her with an iron hand, just as he does everyone else.”

  “If he tries to keep that up here, he’s in for a rude awakening,” Matt said. “Americans won’t stand for it. They may put up with it for a while because they’re good-hearted enough to give just about anybody the benefit of the doubt at first, but if somebody tries to push them around, sooner or later they’ll dig in their heels and let the hombre know that they won’t put up with it anymore. And if the varmint keeps trying to lord it over them anyway, well, he might just be in for a whippin’.”

  That brought a grin to Rudolph Wolff’s face.

  “This is a good thing to hear, Herr Jensen,” he said. “I believe I may like it in your country after all—”

  He might have said more, but at that moment, a series of booming sounds came from outside the wagon, and it wasn’t thunder this time.

  Or rather, it was gun-thunder.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Rainwater ran in steady streams from the brim of Smoke’s hat as he walked around the camp. He had spent plenty of wet nights on the trail, so it didn’t particularly bother him. He had been on cattle drives where it seemed like it rained all the time, and back when he had been wanted unjustly by the law, he had been at the mercy of the elements on many occasions.

  At least it wasn’t cold tonight. A cold, steady rain truly was miserable.

  The downpour also meant that campfires weren’t possible, so everyone had had a cold supper and the only lights came from candles or oil lamps or kerosene lanterns inside the wagons. Most of the vehicles were dark, though. After a long day on the trail, people were worn out and ready to sleep.

  Smoke, Preacher, and four other men walked their patrol around the wagons, spread out so they could cover the whole camp fairly well. Smoke knew that no one expected any trouble on a night such as this....

  And that just made him even more wary than usual. If he knew that the immigrants might let down their guard because of the storm, then Klaus Berger was probably aware of it, too. Smoke knew he didn’t have to worry about Preacher, but he had tried to impress on the other sentries that they had to remain alert at all times.