The Violent Land

by William W. Johnstone

  Kane sneered and said, “You can go work for him if you think that highly of him.”

  Yancy’s face darkened with anger.

  “That’s not what I’m sayin’, and you know it, Mr. Kane. Any time you want me to take the men and go over there to roust them all out and kill ’em, you just give me the word.”

  “I’m not sure we have enough men left to do that,” Kane snapped.

  “Then let me send word to Cheyenne,” Yancy suggested. “I can have another ten or twelve men out here in a few days. Good men who know how to fight.”

  Kane pondered that idea. It was tempting, and those immigrants deserved to be wiped out. Stealing his water like that was the last straw. The level of his waterholes was already starting to drop. In another week or so, the situation would become desperate.

  “Do it,” he growled. “Send for more men. I’m tired of pussyfooting around with those European bastards.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Yancy said hesitantly.

  “Spit it out,” Kane told him.

  “Jim Hubbard didn’t make it back from the Rafter Nine.”

  “So?” Kane shrugged. “Jensen probably killed him.”

  Yancy shook his head.

  “One of the boys says he thought he saw Jensen tackle him and knock him off his horse. Hubbard could be their prisoner. They might figure on using him as a hostage.”

  A short bark of laughter came from Kane.

  “If they try to bargain for the life of one man, and a cheap gunman, at that, they’re going to be disappointed. I don’t give a damn what happens to Hubbard.”

  Yancy’s eyes narrowed.

  “I won’t tell the boys you said that. They wouldn’t care much for it. Hubbard’s one of us. But I get your point. What I was worried about was if they tried to get him to talk to the law. We already got rid of one fella who wound up in that situation, and the men didn’t like that very much, either.”

  “All right, I see your point,” Kane said. “If they have him, we’ll set him free when we wipe out that bunch. If he’s already dead, then we don’t have to worry about him, do we?”

  “I reckon not.” Yancy turned to leave the office. “I’ll send a rider to Cheyenne right now.”

  “Do that,” Kane said. “And don’t waste any time about it.”

  He waited until Yancy was gone, then stood up and went over to a bar built into one corner of the room. He picked up a crystal decanter that was half-full of brandy and poured himself a glass of the smooth but fiery liquor. It warmed his throat going down and kindled a small blaze in his belly.

  Kane didn’t take much comfort from that. He couldn’t forget how he had been well on his way to getting everything he wanted. His grip on this area was almost secure, with only a few holdouts like Wynn Courtland and old Case Plowright still holding on to their ranches. It was only a matter of time until he squeezed them out, as well.

  All he needed to do was put some pressure on Clarence Fisher at the trading post, and Fisher would stop selling supplies to them. And with the contacts he had in Laramie and Cheyenne, it wouldn’t be difficult to make sure that Courtland and Plowright no longer got top prices for their stock when they drove them to market.

  Kane had started out as a young man getting what he wanted with his fists. When that didn’t work, a sap or a knife or a gun did the trick. That ruthlessness had helped him rise in the gangs in New York, until the law had finally cracked down too hard and he had hopped on a freight out of town just in time to avoid being jailed.

  Since then he had worked in the mines and driven freight wagons and anything else he had to do in order to survive out here on the frontier, and over time he had become a wealthy man. The Boxed JK was his bid for real wealth, real power. He was damned if he was going to let a couple of gunfighters, an old mountain man, and a foreigner take it away from him!

  He wasn’t sure how much time he spent brooding about that. All he knew was that at some point he had taken the brandy and the glass back to the desk with him, and he was slumped there nursing another drink when Dick Yancy knocked on the office door and said, “Boss?”

  Kane sat up straight and scrubbed a hand over his face. He shoved the nearly empty decanter aside and growled, “What is it?”

  “There’s a fella here who wants to see you.”

  “Well, damn it, I don’t want to see anybody! Send him away!”

  “I really think you ought to talk to him,” Yancy persisted. “He says he’s got something to do with that baron hombre over on the Rafter Nine.”

  What the hell was this about, Kane wondered? Only one way to find out, so he shook off the stupor caused by the booze and said, “All right. I’ll talk to him.”

  The door opened, and the man who stepped inside was like nobody Kane had ever encountered before, not even back in New York, which had had more than its share of bizarre characters. This man was tall and gaunt, with the palest skin and hair Kane had ever seen. That just made the deep-set eyes seem even darker, like chunks of black agate.

  What it came down to, Kane realized, was that this man looked like he had just climbed out of a coffin ... a few weeks after he’d been put into it and buried.

  That thought shook Kane, and as he got to his feet, he looked past the visitor at Dick Yancy and saw that his foreman appeared to be shaken, too. It took a lot to get to a hard-bitten gunman and killer like Yancy.

  “Mr. Kane?” the stranger said in a high-pitched, grating voice like the squeal of rusty hinges.

  “That ... that’s right,” Kane blustered, upset with himself for the way he had hesitated. “What can I do for you?”

  “I think there is something I can do for you,” the pale man said. “Or rather, we can help each other. My name is Klaus Berger, and there is a man we both want to see dead ... Baron Friedrich von Hoffman.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  “How many of ’em do you want me to kill?” Preacher asked as he, Smoke, and Matt rode through the night toward the Boxed JK.

  Matt said, “You don’t mean to sneak in there and start cutting throats like they were Blackfoot Indians, do you?”

  “The Blackfeet and me never got along,” Preacher said. “I ever tell you about how they was gonna burn me at the stake?”

  “So you started preaching at them like that fella you saw in St. Louis and kept it up all night and all day until they decided you were crazy and turned you loose because they didn’t want you siccing any evil spirits on them?” Matt laughed. “Yeah, I believe you’ve mentioned it a time or two.”

  “Well, that’s what happened, dadblast it! And that’s why I say me and the Blackfeet didn’t get along. But I ain’t sure they was much worse’n those hired guns Kane’s got workin’ for him. At least the Injuns hated me ’cause they hated me, not ’cause they was paid to. And you didn’t answer my question, Smoke.”

  “We’ve got to find the place first,” Smoke said. “Then we’ll decide how to—Wait a minute. You fellas hear what I do?”

  “Sounds like horses,” Matt said.

  “A bunch of ’em,” Preacher added. “And they’re comin’ this way.”

  That was the way it sounded to Smoke, too. He reined his horse to the side, and Matt and Preacher followed suit.

  “There are some trees over there,” Smoke said, pointing to a dark mass visible in the light from the stars and a quarter-moon. “Let’s get out of sight.”

  They rode quickly into the shadows under the trees and dismounted. The sound of hoofbeats was louder now, loud enough to have masked the noises they’d made getting out of sight. As the three men stood there holding their reins, a large group of riders moved out from behind a ridge and came into sight.

  “How many of ’em you reckon there are?” Preacher asked quietly.

  “Fifty or sixty, I’d say,” Matt replied. “And they’re coming from the direction of the Boxed JK. Did you know Kane had that many men, Smoke?”

  “I don’t think he did,” Smoke replied. “But if you
put his crew together with the gunnies that Klaus Berger’s probably been rounding up over the past couple of weeks, it would add up to that many.”

  “Berger!” Preacher exclaimed, making the name sound like one of those German curses. “You reckon he’s back?”

  Smoke said, “I don’t know for sure, but it makes sense. He probably found out that Kane has a grudge against the baron and offered to throw in with him. Then they decided that the best thing to do would be to go ahead and attack the Rafter Nine and wipe out their enemies.”

  That was pure speculation, Smoke knew, but it made sense. And it made his own plans for tonight moot. With an armed force like that hurtling toward Baron von Hoffman and his people, a final showdown was inevitable.

  The riders swept past the trees where Smoke, Matt, and Preacher were concealed. Before the men were out of sight, Matt said urgently, “We’ve got to do something, Smoke! The baron has guards posted, but they won’t be expecting something like that.”

  Smoke nodded.

  “That’s why you’ve got to get around them and warn everybody at the Rafter Nine,” he said. “Your horse is just as fast as mine or Preacher’s, and you can organize a defense. There’s no time to waste.”

  “What about the two of you?” Matt wanted to know.

  “We’re going to follow them, and when they attack the ranch, we’ll hit them where they least expect it ... from behind.”

  “Damn right we will!” Preacher said. “We’ll have those varmints in a trap, right where we want ’em!”

  She had waited long enough, Greta Schiller had decided. Weeks now of this endless cat-and-mouse game, and Friedrich von Hoffman was still alive. In the aftermath of the stampede that had come tantalizingly close to wrecking the ranch that afternoon, everyone was still upset and distracted, but they were looking for threats from without.

  They weren’t worried about threats from within.

  She adjusted the neckline of the dressing gown so that more of the creamy valley between her breasts was visible. In her other hand she gripped the neck of a bottle of wine. When Friedrich opened the door of his bedroom and saw her standing there, he wouldn’t be able to resist her. Once they were alone ...

  Well, she would just have to wait and see about that. Should she wait until after they had enjoyed each other and then slip out the knife she had hidden in the pocket of the gown?

  Or should she just go ahead and get it over with as soon as he closed the door behind them?

  He wouldn’t be expecting anything. It would be simple if she was waiting for him to turn around. One swift jab to the throat, a hard rip to the side ... Of course, some blood might get on her as it came fountaining out from his ruined neck, but she could wipe herself clean with the sheets from his bed and then slip back to her room to get dressed and wait for his body to be found.

  Perhaps she ought to take the gown off first and toss it aside, she mused. That way it wouldn’t get bloody, and the last thing he saw would be the compelling sight of her nude beauty. Surely that would be enough to transfix him long enough for her to put the knife in him.

  He might even die with a smile on his face.

  Yes, she thought as she raised her hand and poised it to knock on the door. That was how she would do it. Mere moments now, and it would all be over.

  She froze as shots blasted outside the house, followed by a man shouting. Heavy footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. Before she could move, von Hoffman jerked it open.

  “Greta!” he exclaimed. “What are you—”

  The sight of her in the dressing gown, plus the bottle of wine in her hand, must have told him why she was here. Friedrich was thick and callous, but he wasn’t stupid. A spark of interest flickered in his eyes, but only for a second.

  “Sorry,” he muttered as he pushed past her. “Something’s wrong. I must go.”

  With that he rushed along the corridor to the stairs and clattered down them. She had missed her chance, she realized bitterly. Not that it had been much of one. Now she would have to wait until this latest commotion, whatever it was, was over.

  But at least she had planted the seed in his mind. He would be more receptive next time.

  And then he would die.

  Matt asked everything he could of the rangy stallion he was riding. It wouldn’t do any good if he ran the horse so hard that its heart burst. That would just leave him afoot before he got back to the Rafter 9. But he pushed the horse as hard as he dared as he swung wide around the group of gunmen heading for the ranch.

  He was going to feel foolish if he charged in, scared everybody, and then the riders turned out not to be a combined force of hired killers working for Jethro Kane and Klaus Berger.

  But the chances of that were so small that Matt wasn’t going to worry about it. He couldn’t afford to run that risk.

  On and on he drove the stallion, hoping that the animal wouldn’t step in a hole or trip over some other obstacle in the dark. That would be ruinous, too.

  He was relying on his instincts and his natural sense of direction to guide him since he didn’t know the baron’s range all that well. Having to avoid the small army of gunmen meant that he couldn’t just retrace the route he and Smoke and Preacher had taken. He had to strike out on his own and find a new trail that would take him where he needed to go.

  From time to time he paused to let the horse blow. During those brief moments, he listened intently but didn’t hear any hoofbeats. He took that to mean that he had gotten ahead of the enemy. That was what he was going to tell himself until he found out otherwise, anyway.

  Finally, he spotted lights glowing up ahead in the darkness. Those would be coming from the ranch buildings, he knew. Even though some of the windows were shuttered and others were boarded up, lamplight could escape through the cracks around them. Matt homed in on those faint glows.

  When he came in sight of the ranch headquarters at last, everything seemed to be quiet and peaceful. It wouldn’t be that way for long, he thought as he slipped his Colt from its holster. He had beaten the gunmen here, but he didn’t know how much time they had before the enemy arrived.

  He pointed the revolver into the air and squeezed off three fast shots, the universal signal for trouble.

  “Everybody up!” he bellowed as he rode into the ranch yard. “Baron! Dieter! Everybody! Trouble coming! Trouble!”

  Where were the guards? Why had no one challenged him?

  Was he too late already?

  That wasn’t possible, Matt thought wildly. If the baron and his people had been wiped out, he would have heard the shooting. It would have sounded like a full-fledged war.

  “Where is everybody? Baron!”

  Someone flung open the front door of the ranch house. Matt swung his Colt in that direction but held off on the trigger as he recognized Dieter in the light that spilled through the door. The young man clutched a Winchester.

  “Matt!” Dieter cried. “What’s wrong?”

  “A bunch of men are on their way here,” Matt explained as he turned his horse in a circle in front of the porch. “Smoke thinks it’s Kane’s men, and maybe Klaus Berger’s, too. Everybody needs to get ready to fight! Now!”

  “Berger!” a new voice roared. Baron von Hoffman rushed out of the house to join them. “I knew that devil would return!”

  More hoofbeats pounded. Matt swung around, thinking the attack was upon them, but he saw right away that there were only a few men riding in.

  “Herr Baron! Herr Baron!” one of them called. “Someone rushed past us! We could not stop him—”

  The guards, Matt realized. They weren’t dead after all. He had just been moving so fast that he was past them before they figured out what was going on.

  He swung down from the saddle and told von Hoffman, “Get all your men in defensive positions, Baron. Make sure they have plenty of ammunition. The women and children need to be in the house, lying low where they’ll be safe. The house, the bunkhouse, and the barn are all sturdy. W
e can defend them. And the odds are pretty close to even.”

  “My men are not professional fighters,” von Hoffman said worriedly.

  “Maybe not, but this is their home now, and any man worth his salt will fight to protect his home!”

  Dieter turned toward the door, saying, “I must speak to Erica—”

  “Schumann!”

  The baron’s harsh voice stopped the young man. Matt figured Dieter just wanted to tell Erica that he loved her, in case he didn’t make it through the fight. Even though they had been rivals for her affections for a short time, Matt felt a surge of anger that von Hoffman was going to stop Dieter from saying what he wanted to say, just because of some outdated ideas about nobility and commoners.

  Maybe that was what von Hoffman had been about to do, but in the light that came from the house, something changed in his hawklike face. He drew in a deep breath and said, “Tell her to be careful, Dieter ... and tell her that I love her, too.”

  Dieter swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Ja, Herr Baron,” he said. Then he ran into the house.

  Von Hoffman turned to Matt.

  “Now, Herr Jensen, let us prepare to meet the enemy.”

  The next few minutes were hectic ones. The commotion had drawn out most of the men, and Matt and von Hoffman placed them around the ranch in positions with good cover, so they could fight off the attackers. Matt rushed from place to place, checking on the defenses, and when he was satisfied that they were as ready as they were going to be with such short notice, he hurried to the house where von Hoffman stood on the porch. Dieter had returned and was waiting there, too.

  “There are men at every window in the bunkhouse,” Matt reported, “as well as inside the barn and in the hayloft. The men up there will have the high ground.”

  “As will the ones on the second floor of the house,” von Hoffman agreed. “I took the liberty of placing a keg of blasting powder in that wagon there, as well.”

  He pointed to one of the immigrant wagons that was parked by itself in the middle of the open space between the ranch house and the bunkhouse and barn.