The Violent Land

by William W. Johnstone

  “Not exactly,” Smoke said. Von Hoffman had disappeared into the wagon he shared with his cousin. “The baron took a shot at them, but he missed. Lucky for us, the Pawnee were willing to listen to reason and accept our apology. It turns out they had a run-in with Klaus Berger, too, and were out searching for him.”

  Smoke didn’t go into details about what Berger and his men had done. Erica didn’t need to hear about all that.

  “Is there no end to the evil this man Klaus can do?” she murmured.

  “Not so far, it doesn’t seem like,” Matt said. “But there will be. Justice always catches up to buzzards like that sooner or later.”

  “I can only pray that you’re right, Matt.”

  “In the meantime,” Smoke went on, “the three of us and the baron are going to the Pawnee village for supper tonight. The chief invited us, and it didn’t seem like a good idea to turn him down.”

  “Really?” Erica was surprised by that, too. “I cannot imagine Friedrich sitting down to eat with savages.”

  “To the Injuns, we’re the savages,” Preacher said. “I reckon most of ’em has got good reason to feel that way, too.”

  “You won’t let anything happen to him, will you? He ... he is all I have left in the world.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Smoke assured her, “as long as he doesn’t do anything foolish.”

  From the look on Erica’s face, she might be starting to think that was asking a lot of her cousin, Smoke thought.

  Later that afternoon, the four men set out for the Pawnee village. Von Hoffman had cleaned up and put on fresh clothes. He was still dressed for riding, but he had added a cravat to his outfit.

  He had also buckled on a revolver, Smoke noted. As long as he didn’t plan on using it, that shouldn’t matter. Smoke was going to keep a close eye on the baron the whole time they were in the Pawnee village, anyway.

  After riding for several miles in a northwesterly direction, they came to a small creek. Bone Striker had told Smoke about the stream and instructed him to follow it to the west. They did so, and after a couple of miles they came to the village, which consisted of about fifty tepees scattered along both banks of the creek.

  The village’s dogs made quite a racket as the four white men approached, and the commotion drew the attention of the village’s inhabitants. The warriors gathered to welcome the riders, with the women and children behind them watching in rapt attention.

  Smoke glanced over at von Hoffman. The baron’s face was set in taut, stern lines, but Smoke could tell the man was nervous. Von Hoffman had never seen this many Indians at one time before. Even though he never would have admitted it, his attitudes toward the frontier and its inhabitants had probably been shaped by the popular image fostered in those dime novels, just like Dieter’s. Not to the same extent, since von Hoffman had visited America before, but some of the feelings were still there.

  The baron wouldn’t be able to see an Indian without worrying, at least a little, that his scalp was in danger.

  But as long as he didn’t do anything foolish, that didn’t matter.

  The four riders reined in and dismounted. Smoke clasped wrists with Bone Striker and said, “Thank you for inviting us to your village, Chief.”

  Bone Striker nodded gravely.

  “Come to my lodge. We will eat and talk of our enemies.”

  For Smoke, Matt, and Preacher, it was nothing new to sit cross-legged in a tepee and eat stew from wooden bowls with their fingers, using pieces of frybread to mop up all the juices. Von Hoffman was visibly less comfortable with the procedure, but he didn’t say anything and managed to nod with at least a semblance of enthusiasm when Bone Striker asked him if he liked the food.

  After they had eaten, they smoked a pipe, passing it from hand to hand. Smoke quietly told the baron what to do, and von Hoffman followed his instructions. So far, so good, Smoke thought.

  Bone Striker said, “Tell me of this pale man. Is he an evil spirit come to life in the form of a man?”

  “That is a good description of him, Chief,” von Hoffman agreed. “He works for political enemies of mine, and he will stop at nothing to carry out their schemes of vengeance.”

  Bone Striker frowned and shook his head.

  “I do not understand this ... political enemies. All I know about are enemies. What sort are these?”

  A bark of laughter came from Preacher.

  “Not understandin’ politics is somethin’ you got in common with most folks, Bone Striker,” the old mountain man said. “I don’t reckon anybody really understands the dadblasted stuff !”

  Von Hoffman tried to explain anyway.

  “It has to do with who has power in the government and who decides how to make the laws.”

  Bone Striker shook his head and said, “Only the Great Spirit makes laws.”

  “What about the government in Washington?” Matt asked.

  “They say things, but what they say has little to do with us,” Bone Striker answered serenely. “When it rains, the ground is wet. When the wind blows in the winter, it is cold. These are laws. What men say ...” He made a dismissive gesture. “Only words easily blown away by the wind or washed away by the rain. They mean nothing.”

  The world might be a lot better off if Bone Striker was right, Smoke thought, but unfortunately, the words men said in Washington and in all the other world capitals did have an effect on people’s lives. Someday, those words would mean that Bone Striker and his people could no longer live as they chose. No one could. Smoke knew it was inevitable, the way things were going in this world.

  He just hoped that day wouldn’t come until long after he had gone on to his reward.

  “The pale man’s name is Klaus Berger,” Smoke said, getting the conversation back on track. “He and his men have attacked the baron’s wagon train three times and killed some of the baron’s people.”

  Bone Striker looked at von Hoffman and said, “Baron is like chief.”

  “Yes, you could say that,” von Hoffman replied with a nod. “In fact, I rather like the comparison.”

  “Every time Berger’s men attacked us, we killed some of them, too,” Smoke went on. “More of them than they killed of our people. They aren’t strong enough anymore to keep on attacking us, so I think they’ve left this part of the country for now.”

  “But they will come back,” Bone Striker said.

  “Probably not here. Berger will have to hire more men. The closest place for him to do that is Cheyenne.”

  “We cannot pursue him that far,” the chief said with a frown. “The deaths of our people will go unavenged.”

  “No, because sooner or later Berger will attack the baron’s people again, and when he does, we’ll deal with him, like I told you this afternoon,” Smoke said. “When we kill him, it will be for all the people he has ever harmed.”

  “And I have your word on this?”

  “You do.”

  Bone Striker looked at the others. Matt and Preacher nodded, and von Hoffman said, “I swear a solemn oath to you, Chief, that we will avenge your people as well as our own.”

  “This is not as good as killing him ourselves,” Bone Striker said, “but as long as this man Berger dies, I will accept it. And in return I promise you and your wagons safe passage through the land of the Pawnee.”

  “We have struck a bargain,” von Hoffman said.

  “We smoke again, to seal it,” Bone Striker decreed.

  By the time the four white men were ready to leave and ride back to the wagon camp, von Hoffman had relaxed. Smoke was glad to see that. Whenever the baron took that stick out of his backside, he seemed to be a pretty decent hombre. Given his history, he might not ever fully adapt to the frontier, but at least there was some hope of that happening.

  They said their good-byes and rode out of the Pawnee village. Night had fallen, but Smoke knew he would have no trouble following the stars back to the camp.

  “That went well, did it not?” von Hoffman asked.r />
  “It did,” Smoke admitted. “You did good by promising to avenge Bone Striker’s people.”

  Von Hoffman waved a hand.

  “A promise to a savage means nothing,” he said. “I want Berger dead for my own reasons.”

  That just showed how different he and the baron were, and always would be, Smoke thought. He had given his word to Bone Striker, too, and he intended to keep it.

  Because to Smoke Jensen, his word meant just about everything.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  A hard wind sprang up overnight, and that helped to dry out the ground. By morning, the wagons were able to move out with their wheels rolling much easier.

  By the next day, the situation was even better, and the miles began to fall behind the wagon train. Day followed day, with Smoke, Matt, and Preacher alternating the scouting duties, one man riding far in front of the wagons while the other two flanked them.

  The storm and the various troubles the immigrants had encountered had slowed down the wagon train to a certain extent, so by the time a week had passed since leaving the Sugarloaf, they had not yet reached their destination. Smoke estimated it would take them only a few more days, however.

  “See those mountains in the distance?” he asked von Hoffman as they rode side by side and he pointed out the dim gray shapes on the northern horizon. “Those are the Medicine Bows. From what you told me, that’s where your new ranch is located.”

  The baron nodded.

  “I have a map the previous owner sent to me,” he said. “The Rafter Nine is near a small settlement called Hawk Creek Station.”

  “I think I’ve heard of it, but I don’t reckon I’ve ever been there,” Smoke said. “I thought you told me there wasn’t a town nearby, so you plan on starting one.”

  “This Hawk Creek Station does not amount to much, as you might say,” the baron explained. “There is a trading post and tavern there, but that’s all.”

  “Probably was a stop on the stage line at one time, and that’s how the place got its name,” Smoke mused.

  “I want a real town,” von Hoffman said firmly. “It will be called New Holtzberg, after the town where I was born.”

  “New Holtzberg, Wyoming.” Smoke grinned. “Doesn’t really have the same sort of ring as Laramie or Cheyenne, but I reckon you’ve got the right to call it whatever you want, if you’re the one starting it up.”

  The wagon train had bypassed those two towns Smoke had mentioned. Supplies were starting to run a little low, but it would have been out of the way to visit either place, not to mention it would increase the chances of them running into Klaus Berger and more of the man’s hired killers. Smoke still thought it would be smart to get to the Rafter 9 and dig in there while they waited for the next attack.

  Dieter was strong enough now that he was able to sit up inside the wagon. Sometimes he even rode on the seat next to the driver for short periods of time while Erica was inside the vehicle.

  He was upset that he had missed the chance to see the Pawnee village, telling Preacher one day, “That may be my only opportunity to become acquainted with some of the noble red men of the plains.”

  “I thought you was worried all the Injuns wanted to scalp you,” the old mountain man said with a grin as he rode alongside the wagon.

  “Well, it is true they are fearsome warriors, but they also possess a great deal of dignity and nobility.”

  “Some of ’em do,” Preacher admitted, “but some of ’em are just low-down, good-for-nothin’ skunks who are dumber’n dirt and nastier than snakes.”

  Dieter’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “I thought you were a friend to the Indians,” he said, “and yet you talk of them this way?”

  “Some of them, I said. Just like there are white men who are low-down, good-for-nothin’ skunks who ... well, you get the idea. I’ve knowed white men, red men, black men, brown men, and yellow men, and I’ve never run into a dang one of ’em you could say had to be a certain way just ’cause of what color he was. That’s what some folks can’t seem to understand. You can’t say all white men are one way and all Injuns is another. That just ain’t true. There’s good and bad amongst all kinds.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Dieter admitted. “And that may be the most I’ve ever heard you talk, Preacher.”

  The old-timer let out a snort.

  “Just don’t get me to speechifyin’, that’s all.”

  Things were still a little tense between Dieter and Matt, who hadn’t been able to spend much time with Erica because she had been busy taking care of Dieter.

  Smoke figured both young men were wasting their time worrying about Erica. Her cousin was never going to allow either of them to court her seriously, let alone marry her. And it was doubtful, in Smoke’s opinion, that Erica would ever develop enough backbone to stand up to the baron.

  From time to time the wagon train had passed an isolated farm or ranch, but southern Wyoming was desolate country and difficult to wrest a living from. Those were the only signs of human habitation.

  But as they neared the foothills of the Medicine Bow mountains, eleven days after leaving the Sugarloaf, Matt came riding back in from his scouting position in front of the wagons and reported, “That trading post the baron talked about is only a couple of miles ahead of us.”

  “Did you ride in and talk to anybody?” Smoke asked.

  “Nope,” Matt replied. “When I saw the place I turned around to come back here and let the rest of you know. It’s not abandoned, though, I can tell you that. I got close enough to see smoke coming from the chimney.”

  “Civilization,” Erica said.

  Matt grinned and said, “Calling it that might be a stretch. But it’s as close as you’ll find in these parts, I reckon.”

  “Matt and I will ride ahead and get the lay of the land,” Smoke decided. “Preacher, you can bring the wagons in the rest of the way.”

  The old mountain man nodded his agreement.

  “You’re worried that fella Klaus might be layin’ for us, ain’t you?” he asked.

  “It’s a possibility,” Smoke said grimly. “It won’t hurt anything to take a quick look around first.”

  “Then I should come with you, too,” von Hoffman declared.

  Smoke shook his head, hoping this wasn’t going to turn into an argument.

  “I think it would be better for you to stay with the wagons, Baron,” he said. “Now that we’re this close, we don’t want anything else happening.”

  Von Hoffman shrugged and nodded.

  “As you wish, Herr Jensen.”

  He seemed to have gotten over his anger at the way Smoke had manhandled him during the first encounter with the Pawnee, but Smoke figured he was just bottling it up. He didn’t really care one way or the other as long as von Hoffman didn’t cause any trouble.

  Matt pointed out the exact direction to Hawk Creek Station.

  “Not that you could miss it,” he added, “sticking up from the prairie the way it does. It’s a two-story building, and looks to be the only building of any sort for miles around.”

  He and Smoke left the wagon train behind and rode toward the trading post. When the place came into view, Smoke saw that Matt was right: It was hard to miss the big, ugly building with the corral out back.

  Half a dozen horses were tied to a couple of hitch racks in front of the trading post. A buggy was parked nearby.

  “Place appears to be doing some business,” Smoke commented.

  “I’m not surprised,” Matt said. “Where else around here are you going to get supplies or a drink?”

  Smoke rasped his fingertips over the sandy stubble on his chin as he frowned in thought.

  “What about women?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me a bit,” Matt said. “The proprietor’s got to make some use of those upstairs rooms.”

  There were some single men among the immigrants, and they would probably welcome the chance to guzzle down some booze and take a soiled
dove upstairs. In those respects, Germans were like every other nationality. After the long, dangerous journey they had made, Smoke didn’t have any objection to the fellows cutting loose a little, but Baron von Hoffman might. If he tried to put the pleasures Hawk Creek Station had to offer off-limits, he might have a riot on his hands.

  But there was no point in getting ahead of himself, Smoke thought. That was one reason he and Matt had ridden ahead of the wagon train like this, to find out exactly what sort of situation was waiting for the immigrants.

  The trading post had a low porch with several chairs on it. Two of those chairs were occupied by men passing a jug back and forth. Smoke’s eyes studied the men as he rode up, and he knew Matt was doing the same thing. Men such as them, men who all too often lived by their guns, couldn’t ever afford to let down their guard.

  The man on the left wore a buffalo coat despite the heat. Lank black hair hung from under his hat, which had a flat brim and a round crown. An equally dark mustache drooped over his wide mouth, the corners of which turned down in what appeared to be a perpetually sour expression.

  The other man, in contrast, wore a broad grin on his freckled, sun-burned face. His hat was thumbed back on faded red hair. He gazed up at Smoke and Matt and nudged his companion in the side with a sharp elbow.

  “Lookee here, Tyrone,” he said. “We got strangers comin’ into town.”

  “I see ’em,” Tyrone grunted. “Don’t give a damn.”

  “I think you better give a damn,” the redhead said. “That there’s Smoke Jensen. I don’t know who the other one is, but if he’s ridin’ with Jensen, chances are he’s pretty gun-handy, too.”

  Smoke didn’t like the way this was shaping up. He hadn’t liked it as soon as he laid eyes on the two men, because he recognized both of them, just as the redhead had recognized him. They all belonged to the same brotherhood.

  The brotherhood of fast guns.

  The man in the buffalo coat was Tyrone Wilkes. Some said he was from Canada. He had killed a dozen men in the Dakotas and Montana. Smoke hadn’t heard anything about him drifting as far south and west as Wyoming, but here he was, big as life and twice as ugly.