The Violent Land

by William W. Johnstone

  “Everybody got your bead?” Smoke asked. When the other three answered in the affirmative, he said, “All right ... steady now ... we’ll fire on three ... one ... two ... three!”

  The four rifles cracked, the reports coming so closely together that they sounded like one shot. Preacher and Matt immediately stepped away from their horses, jacked a second round into their rifles, and fired again at the swiftly running antelope, all of which had taken off at top speed. The two of them threw several rounds after the animals, but Smoke didn’t see any more of the antelope fall or even falter.

  “I must’a seen a thousand o’ them varmints over the years, and I still can’t get over how blamed fast they are!” Preacher exclaimed.

  Smoke hadn’t wasted any lead on a second shot. He lowered his Winchester and said, “Looks like we’ve got four of them down. That’s good shooting, boys.”

  Indeed it was. At that range, it wouldn’t have been surprising if one or two of the shots had missed. Instead it looked like all four of the hunters had been successful.

  Or at least partially successful, Smoke saw as he and his companions mounted up and rode toward the ridge. Three of the antelope lay motionless in death, but one was still kicking and struggling to get up. It was only wounded.

  Smoke knew which one it was, too. The baron was the man who had failed to make a clean kill.

  From the dark, angry glower on his face, von Hoffman was aware of that, as well. He kicked his horse into a run and rode ahead of the others with his rifle still drawn.

  Matt said, “Well, at least he’s going to take care of it himself, instead of leaving it to us to do it for him like we’re his servants.”

  “You don’t like the ol’ boy much, do you?” Preacher asked.

  “I don’t like the way everybody else in that wagon train is scared of him,” Matt said. “You know there’s got to be a reason for it, or they wouldn’t all feel that way.”

  Von Hoffman rode up to the wounded antelope and aimed down at it from the saddle. The Winchester had to crack twice before the animal was finally out of its misery. The baron turned to look at Smoke, Matt, and Preacher with an unearned expression of triumph on his face.

  By this time, however, the three frontiersmen had reined in and were looking up at the top of the bluff beyond von Hoffman. Several dozen riders in buckskins and feathers had appeared there with no warning, and now they sat on the backs of their ponies gazing down at the white men.

  “Uh-oh,” Preacher said. “We got comp’ny.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Cheyenne, you think?” Smoke asked. His voice was cool and steady.

  “Could be,” Preacher said. “Maybe Pawnee.”

  “There’s a bunch of them, whoever they are,” Matt added.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Smoke said. “All the tribes in this area are at peace.”

  Preacher let out one of his characteristic snorts.

  “Right now they are, as far as you know,” he said. “That don’t mean somethin’ ain’t happened to put ’em on the warpath.” He paused, then went on, “That bunch don’t appear to be painted for war, though. Reckon they probably just heard the shootin’ and came to see what was goin’ on.”

  “So as long as we all keep our heads—” Matt began.

  “Includin’ the baron,” Preacher put in.

  “We’ll probably keep our hair,” Matt finished.

  “That would be my guess,” Smoke said. “We’d better tell von Hoffman to stay calm—”

  But it was too late for that. Seeing that they were looking past him at the bluff, the baron suddenly turned to peer up at the rim. Smoke couldn’t see his face, but he could imagine that von Hoffman’s eyes snapped wide open in fear and surprise.

  The baron did the worst thing he could have done. He jerked his rifle to his shoulder and pulled the trigger.

  Even as the whipcrack of the shot sounded, Smoke sent his horse plunging forward at top speed. He saw dirt fly from the face of the bluff, near the top, as von Hoffman’s hurried shot missed the Indians. The baron worked his rifle’s lever, but before he could fire again Smoke left his saddle in a diving tackle that sent him crashing into the man from behind. Von Hoffman’s rifle flew from his hands as Smoke’s weight drove him to the ground.

  “Stay down, damn it!” Smoke ordered as he pushed himself up on one knee.

  He didn’t have to worry about that. The impact had knocked all the air out of von Hoffman’s lungs, and all the baron could do was lie there gasping for breath, unable to move.

  When Smoke looked up, he saw that several of the warriors had crowded forward to the very edge of the bluff. They pointed rifles down at him. Making sure that his hands were in plain sight, he raised his arms to show the Indians that he wasn’t making any threatening moves.

  A glance over his shoulder told him that Matt and Preacher were still mounted. They had drawn their rifles but didn’t have the weapons pointed at the Indians.

  “That blasted furriner’s got us all killed,” Preacher called to Smoke.

  “Maybe not,” Smoke said. “Since the baron missed, and they didn’t start shooting back at us right away, maybe they’ll be willing to listen to reason.”

  Keeping his hands lifted, Smoke got to his feet. The bluff was about thirty feet tall, so the Indians were well within hearing distance. Now that he had gotten a better look at the decorations on their buckskins and the way they wore their hair, Smoke was sure they were Pawnee. That was a good thing, since the Pawnee were slightly less warlike than the Cheyenne, at least these days.

  “My name is Smoke Jensen,” he called to them in their language, hoping there might be some among them who would recognize the name. He had fought Indians in the past but had never made war on them unjustly, and he had friends among many of the tribes. “I would talk with your chief so that I can apologize to him for the mistake made by my companion.”

  The warriors on the rim pointing their rifles at him didn’t budge, except that two of them moved aside slightly to let another rider come forward. This man was older, Smoke saw, with a stern, weathered face.

  “I know you, Smoke Jensen,” he said in English. “It is said you helped the Paiutes save their land from greedy white men not long ago.”

  “That’s true,” Smoke replied. “Near the settlement known as Helltown.”

  The spokesman for the warriors raised an arm and pointed at Matt and Preacher.

  “The old man is the one known as Ghost Killer.”

  “I’d rather be called Preacher,” the old mountain man responded, “but I’ll answer to other names.”

  “And the young one is Matt Jensen,” the Pawnee leader went on.

  “That’s right,” Smoke said. “We’re all friends to the Indians, as long as they’re friends to us.”

  “Then who is the dog at your feet,” the chief demanded angrily, “the one who tries to kill the Pawnee for no reason?”

  The baron had caught his breath and gathered his wits enough to realized what had just been said about him. He started to get up, saying, “How dare that savage call me a dog! I’ll teach him to respect—”

  “You’ll stay on the ground unless you want to get us all killed, blast it!” Smoke grated. He was ready to plant a booted foot in the middle of von Hoffman’s back and shove him back down if he had to.

  Growling something in German that was undoubtedly a curse, von Hoffman subsided. As he lay there, he snapped, “This is unforgivable!”

  “No, it would be unforgivable for us to get ourselves killed for no good reason, so just keep your mouth shut,” Smoke told him. He looked up at the Pawnee chief again and went on, “This man is a stranger to our land and knows little of our ways. When he saw the warriors of the Pawnee, he was afraid and acted without thinking. I ask you to forgive him.”

  For a long moment, the chief didn’t say anything. Then, in a tone laced with dry humor, he responded, “If he was a better shot, you would all be dead now.”

  “Do
n’t I know it,” Smoke said with a smile.

  “Stay there,” the chief ordered. “I would speak with you.”

  Smoke nodded. He said quietly to von Hoffman, “All right, Baron, get up and go back to your horse. Leave your rifle. We’ll get it later, if all goes well.”

  Von Hoffman climbed to his feet and tried to brush mud off his clothes.

  “This is intolerable,” he said. “I will not be treated like this, Jensen.”

  “I know you’re a smart man, Baron. Keep your mouth shut and do what I tell you, and maybe we’ll all come out of this alive.”

  Von Hoffman looked like he wanted to argue some more, but after a moment he turned and stalked toward Matt and Preacher without saying anything else. Smoke stayed where he was with several of the Indians watching him while the Pawnee chief and some of the other warriors rode to a spot where they could descend the ridge.

  When they came up to him, the chief dismounted and regarded Smoke gravely.

  “I am called Bone Striker,” he said. “I lead this band of Pawnee.”

  Smoke had been thinking quickly while he was waiting for the Indians. It was unusual to see this large a group of warriors unless they were a hunting party or they had set out to make war. They weren’t painted for battle, but that could be because they hadn’t found their enemies yet.

  “Something has happened, hasn’t it, Bone Striker?” Smoke asked. “That’s why you and your warriors are away from your village.”

  “We are hunting,” the chief said. “Hunting men.”

  “Not us. We have done no harm to the Pawnee.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Smoke considered the question rapidly. It wouldn’t do much good to lie to Bone Striker. The chief stood a good chance of finding out the truth anyway. The wagon train would be passing through his country.

  “We are traveling to Wyoming with a group of settlers,” Smoke explained. “Immigrants. They’re camped south of here with their wagons.”

  “A wagon train?” Bone Striker’s face remained expressionless, but Smoke saw a flicker of surprise in the chief’s eyes. “Few white men travel in wagons anymore, since the iron horse goes so many places.”

  “I know,” Smoke said with a nod, “but these are. And they’ve been pursued by enemies, which makes them nervous. That’s why the baron took a shot at you.”

  “This baron is a foolish man.”

  “Sometimes,” Smoke said under his breath. “Anyway, we mean you no harm, Bone Striker, and wish only to follow the trail northward.”

  Bone Striker nodded slowly.

  “These enemies you speak of,” he said, “is one of them a man as pale as the moon? The whitest white man anyone has ever seen?”

  Smoke took a deep breath. That sounded like the description of Klaus Berger that the baron had given them.

  “A man with pale skin and long pale hair and very dark eyes?” he asked.

  Bone Striker nodded and said, “That is the man.”

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “He and some other men came upon a small group of my people. They murdered the warriors, then dishonored the women and female children before killing them as well.” Bone Striker’s voice was as flat and hard as stone. “They thought they had murdered all the young men as well, but one of them lived long enough to tell us what had happened when we found them. Since then we have been looking for these men but have not found them.”

  “They were probably moving pretty fast,” Smoke said. “I’m surprised they stopped long enough to harm your people. After everything that had happened, Berger probably wanted to keep his men from getting too impatient with him. He still needs them.”

  Bone Striker shook his head and said, “I do not understand.”

  “These are our enemies, too, Chief. They have been pursuing us, but now they ride ahead of us because we defeated them. They probably intend to regroup and attack the wagon train again later.”

  “These are very bad men.”

  “I know,” Smoke said. “The baron, the man who shot at you by mistake, is their biggest enemy.” Smoke paused. “That means he and the Pawnee should be good friends.”

  Bone Striker thought about that for a few seconds and then nodded.

  “This is true. I forgive the baron for his mistake.” The chief’s eyes narrowed. “But tell him not to shoot at the Pawnee again.”

  “Oh, I’ll tell him, Bone Striker,” Smoke promised. “You can count on that. Not only that, but I give you my word that if we find the pale man and his companions, we will avenge the deaths of your people.”

  “It is known throughout the land that Smoke Jensen is a man of his word.” Bone Striker extended his hand. “We will be friends.”

  Smoke gripped the chief’s hand.

  “We will be friends,” he agreed.

  “Your wagons may pass unharmed through Pawnee land.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You and Matt Jensen and the old man called Preacher will come to our village,” Bone Striker went on. “We will smoke and feast. Bring the one called the baron with you.”

  Smoke wasn’t sure that was a good idea, but under the circumstances, he couldn’t very well refuse.

  “We’ll be there,” he promised.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The baron was still upset when Smoke rejoined him, Matt, and Preacher, after the Pawnee had ridden off.

  “I demand an apology, Jensen,” he said with a scowl.

  “Well, you’re not going to get one,” Smoke snapped. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to apologize for saving your life.”

  “Maybe we’re the ones you oughta be apologizin’ to for that,” Preacher muttered.

  “Don’t just make it worse,” Smoke told him. He turned back to von Hoffman. “Listen, Baron, Bone Striker—that’s the Pawnee chief—has invited the four of us to come to their village this evening. I told him we would.”

  “Ride into the camp of those savages so they can murder us?” Von Hoffman snorted in contempt and shook his head. “I think not.”

  “If they wanted us dead, we wouldn’t still be breathing,” Matt pointed out. “They could have massacred us a dozen times over without any trouble.”

  “Anyway, most Injuns are hospitable sorts,” Preacher added. “If you ride into their villages, they’ll welcome you, feed you, make you feel at home. Of course, they might kill you when it comes time for you to leave, if they’re of a mind to.” He looked at Smoke. “I know, I still ain’t helpin’, am I?”

  “Bone Striker considers us friends now, because we’re enemies with Klaus Berger,” Smoke said.

  Von Hoffman looked surprised again.

  “What does Berger have to do with this?” he asked.

  “He and his men came across a small band of Pawnee and attacked them,” Smoke explained. “They killed the men, raped and murdered the women, and even killed the children. One of the youngsters they left for dead lived awhile, though, and he was able to tell the warriors who found them what happened and describe Berger. So Bone Striker and his men are out hunting for him.”

  “Too bad they didn’t find him,” Matt said. “A war party that big would have wiped out Berger and his bunch.”

  “Yeah, but Berger probably had them moving pretty fast again once they finished with the Pawnee.”

  The baron said, “I fail to see what any of this has to do with me.”

  “There’s an old saying about how the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Smoke said. “That’s how Bone Striker feels about you now, Baron, even though you shot at him. Which he’s still not happy about, by the way, but he’s willing to forgive and forget, especially since I told him that if we found Berger, we would avenge the deaths of his people.”

  “I have sufficient reasons of my own for wanting to see Klaus Berger dead, and they don’t including placating some feathered savage.”

  Smoke suppressed a sigh of exasperation. Von Hoffman had his good qualities, but just when Smoke would start
to think he wasn’t a bad hombre, the baron would turn pompous and obnoxious again.

  “Dead’s dead, no matter what the reason. Let’s just leave it at that. But we still need to go to Bone Striker’s village and sit down to powwow with him. It’s the smart thing to do.”

  Von Hoffman didn’t look convinced, but he said, “How will we know how to find the camp?”

  “He told me where it was,” Smoke said. “It won’t be hard to find. We’ll dress out those antelope, take the meat back to the wagons, and let folks there know what’s going on.”

  “What if Berger attacks while we’re gone?” von Hoffman asked.

  “That’s not likely. After what happened with those Pawnee, probably the last thing Berger wants to do is double back. He’ll keep going north so he and his bunch can put some distance between themselves and the Indians.”

  Von Hoffman thought about it for a moment and then shrugged.

  “I suppose you’re right.” He looked down at his muddy clothes. “I must clean up. I wouldn’t visit even savages looking like this.”

  The glare he directed toward Smoke made it clear that he blamed him for getting knocked down. It would have made more sense for the baron to blame his own stupidity and recklessness, Smoke mused, but clearly, that wasn’t going to happen.

  “Let’s get busy,” Smoke suggested. “We don’t want any of that meat to spoil.”

  The wagons were in a circle, the teams were unhitched, and everyone had settled in at the camp by the time Smoke, Matt, Preacher, and von Hoffman returned. Even though the ground was muddy, there was enough dry brush around to fuel several fires, so some of the women got busy cooking the meat the four men had brought back with them.

  Erica said, “When we heard shots, we knew you must have found some game.”

  “We found more than that,” Matt said. “Or rather, they found us.”

  “They?”

  “A Pawnee war party.”

  Erica’s blue eyes widened in alarm.

  “Wild Indians?” she said. “Like in the books Dieter reads?”