Brotherhood of Evil

by William W. Johnstone

  “It certainly is,” Sally said gratefully.

  “I warn you, they’ll be a mite big on you.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make them work.”

  Pearlie extended his hand and she grasped it. He helped her up behind him again, and the three of them started across the meadow toward the line shack.

  “You know,” she said, “the Gatling gun would have been nice, too.”

  Chapter 26

  The day after taking over the town, Trask sent Pike into the church and the town hall to talk to the people of Big Rock and explain to them that they would be allowed to return to their homes and businesses, but only under certain conditions. Closely guarded and kept overnight as they’d been, he figured they’d stewed in their fear so they wouldn’t get any ideas about resisting.

  “We’re gathering up all the guns and knives and anything else that can be used as a weapon,” Pike warned them. “Anybody who’s caught with a weapon or anybody who tries to harm any of my men, with or without one, will be executed on the spot. No exceptions and no mercy.”

  Some angry muttering came from the prisoners, but no one spoke up in objection to Pike’s edicts.

  “There will be a curfew,” he went on. “No one is to be on the streets except during daylight hours. If you’re caught outside your house after dark, you’ll be shot then and there. Try to leave town any time of the day or night, and you’ll be shot. Other than that, you’re free to go on about your business. We control all the ways in and out of Big Rock. We control the telegraph office. The railroad is blocked on both sides. For the time being, Big Rock is ours. Don’t interfere with us, and you’ll come out of this alive. Cause us any trouble, and you’re dead. Man, woman, child, it doesn’t matter. Disobey, and you’re dead. Simple as that.”

  A few of the townspeople still wore looks of defiance, but they didn’t say anything. For the most part, the population of Big Rock was completely cowed.

  Once they were released, they went back to their homes, their stores, their saloons, livery stables, and blacksmith shops, shuffling along under the watchful gazes of the leering, heavily armed killers. Nobody cared about business at the moment, but they needed something to do. They couldn’t just sit around all day being terrified.

  They had the nights for that.

  Inside the jail, Monte Carson fumed. He had gotten over being knocked out, and as his headache eased and his strength returned, his anger grew. He had sworn to protect the town, but he hadn’t been able to prevent its takeover by ruthless gunmen.

  He stood at the cell door for long hours, his hands gripping the bars.

  “You can’t blame yourself, Sheriff,” Curley told him. “Hell, they way outnumbered us. We put up a fight, but we couldn’t hope to win against those odds.”

  “You put up a fight,” Carson said bitterly. “You even gunned one down. I didn’t do a damn thing except get pistol-whipped by Trask.”

  “I reckon anybody can get taken by surprise, Sheriff. Even Smoke Jensen.” Curley paused. “Speakin’ of which . . . he was on his way back here, wasn’t he?”

  Carson nodded. He knew why his deputy asked that question. Curley thought that when Smoke showed up, he would put everything right. Folks had confidence in Smoke’s near-mystical ability to overcome any odds and defeat any enemy. They had a right to feel that way, given his history.

  At the same time, it was a little galling, Carson thought. He had once had a reputation of his own as a pretty tough hombre.

  All he wanted was a chance to prove he still could be one.

  While Major Pike was laying down the law in the settlement, Dr. Jonas Trask rode to Sugarloaf. He was a bit like an ancient Greek king, he thought, riding at the head of his army to claim the palace of a vanquished foe. Instead of spear-carrying centurions, he had hard-faced gunmen packing iron.

  He was moving his headquarters from the hotel to the ranch, where he would remain until he had what he wanted. All his equipment was loaded on a large wagon with an enclosed bed. It had arrived late the previous day, along with the hardcases escorting it.

  A large man rode on the wagon seat and handled the reins attached to the mule team pulling it. Powerful muscles in his arms, shoulders, and chest bulged under the shirt he wore. His body seemed filled with strength and vitality.

  The broad face under the brim of his hat, though, was utterly vacant. Eyes that should have been bright were dull and almost lifeless. His mouth hung open slightly as he swayed back and forth on the wagon seat. He was aware enough of his surroundings to keep the team moving, but that was all.

  As they came in sight of the ranch house, Trask felt excitement quicken inside him. It would be the site of his greatest triumph, he thought. That was where his work would finally reach its culmination.

  But he didn’t need to get ahead of himself. He still needed to get his hands on the final piece needed to complete his grand design—Smoke Jensen.

  Trask reined his horse to the side and fell back a little to ride next to the wagon. He pointed to the house and said to the driver, “That’s where you’re going to take the wagon. Do you understand, Dan?”

  “Yes, Doctor,” the man said heavily. His voice was as dull as his eyes.

  “Carry all the crates inside and put them in the dining room. That will be my surgery. And be careful with them. Some of the instruments are quite delicate.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” Dan said again. His powerful muscles would make short work of toting the heavy crates.

  Trask knew he could work all day and never seem to get tired.

  A rider galloped out from the ranch headquarters to meet the newcomers. Trask recognized him as Eli Putnam, who he had left in charge the night before when he and Major Pike had returned to Big Rock.

  Putnam lifted a hand in greeting. “Howdy, Doctor. We got everything moved around and ready for you in the house, the way you wanted it.”

  “Very good,” Trask said briskly. “Have you found Mrs. Jensen?”

  Putnam grimaced slightly. “No, sir, I’m afraid we haven’t. Not yet. But several search parties are out lookin’ for her and those fellas she rode off with, so it’s only a matter of time until we locate ’em.”

  “Time is one thing we don’t have an abundance of,” Trask said as they moved to the side so the wagon and the other riders could go on past. His voice was sharp with irritation. “I’ve let it be known in Big Rock that Sally Jensen is my prisoner. It’s vital to my plans that that claim be true by the time her husband shows up.”

  “Yes, sir.” Putnam frowned. “But it seems to me that as long as Smoke Jensen believes that you’re holding his wife prisoner, that’s as good as actually havin’ her, ain’t it?”

  “A bluff is only successful as long as you don’t have to produce what the other man thinks you have. There may well come a time when Jensen will have to lay eyes on his wife in order to believe that her life is actually in danger.”

  Putnam nodded. “Yeah, I reckon that makes sense.”

  “Of course it does.” Trask’s words were like a whiplash. “Do you think I’m stupid, Putnam?”

  “Uh, no, sir!” the gunman responded hastily. His eyes had gone wide with fear. “No, sir, that’s not what I think at all. Everybody knows you’re the smartest fella around these parts or any other.”

  “All right. Find Mrs. Jensen.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Trask heeled his horse into motion and rode on to the ranch house. As soon as he dismounted, a man was there to take his horse and lead it toward the barn. He knew the mount would be well cared for. None of his men would dare do any less.

  As he strode into the house, he pulled off the black gloves he wore for riding and dropped them on a small table in the parlor. He looked around. A sneer gradually appeared on his face.

  The house was furnished in simple, comfortable style, although everything was of top quality. Smoke Jensen was rumored to be a rich man. Not only was his ranch quite successful, but there was also something in h
is past about a lost gold mine or some such thing. Trask hadn’t investigated that matter thoroughly, since it wasn’t important to his overall plans.

  Jensen wasn’t really special, though. He was just another frontier bumpkin. Except for one thing.

  One secret that he possessed.

  A secret that Jonas Trask intended to make his own.

  All the furniture had been moved out of the dining room except the long table, over which pieces of canvas had been draped. While Trask looked around, Dan carried in the crates from the wagon and placed them along the wall. Trask would open them and remove all the equipment later. Some of it was so delicate he didn’t trust anyone except himself to handle it.

  After setting down one of the crates, Dan straightened and asked, “Who lives here, Doctor?”

  The question took Trask by surprise. He swung around to look at his assistant. He wondered if Dan had begun to regain more of what he had lost. It had been a long time since the big man had asked a question or shown any real interest in his surroundings. For a while, he hadn’t even been able to speak or take care of his personal needs. He had been little more than a giant infant.

  Something had prompted Trask to keep him around, and he had seen Dan make slow progress until he was capable of being a servant. “I live here now, Dan. This house used to belong to a man named Smoke Jensen.”

  Dan just grunted, turned away, and lumbered out to continue unloading the wagon. Trask watched him go and smiled. Whatever brief spark of intelligence had surfaced in the big man’s brain, it had flickered out after only seconds.

  But what was science, after all, but one long chain of such sparks, springing to life, burning brightly, then dying, until finally a flame of new knowledge was born?

  Jonas Trask rubbed his hands together lightly. He couldn’t wait to get started on the momentous events that would transpire.

  All he needed was Smoke Jensen.

  BOOK TWO

  Chapter 27

  Smoke, Matt, and Preacher stopped in Raton, New Mexico Territory, near the Colorado border, for several days. Preacher’s horse had gone lame. Smoke, an expert on horseflesh, told them the animal, the latest in a long line of big gray stallions Preacher never called anything except Horse, would be fine after a few days’ rest.

  He sent a wire to Sally in care of the telegraph office in Big Rock saying that he would be delayed briefly but not explaining why. He got a reply back the next morning declaring that she would be happy to see him when he arrived but telling him that he should take however much time he needed getting home.

  Something about the wire from Sally seemed a little off to him, but it was hard to read too much into a few words printed on a yellow telegraph flimsy. It was possible she might be just a little under the weather.

  He was a mite out of sorts himself. Luke had followed through on his decision to go his own way again, and he had parted company from the other three men in Taos.

  He had every right to do so, of course. Smoke wasn’t denying that, but he had gone way too many years believing that Luke was dead and hadn’t laid eyes on him during all that time. Since learning differently, he saw his older brother only occasionally, one or two times a year, and he missed Luke whenever he wasn’t around. Family ties were powerful as far as Smoke was concerned, and such ties extended to those who weren’t blood relatives but were just as close that they might as well have been. Those like Matt and Preacher.

  Once Horse had recuperated and was able to travel again, the three men set off northward, climbing through Raton Pass with its spectacular view, soon finding themselves across the border, crossing the plains and rolling hills of south-central Colorado with the snowcapped Sangre de Cristos looming to the west.

  Not wanting to push the gray stallion too hard, they continued their slow but steady pace for several days. Eventually they angled northwest, through another pass, and headed straight for the Sugarloaf. They would reach Big Rock first, where Smoke planned to stop and say hello to Monte Carson—but only briefly. He was eager to get home and be reunited with Sally.

  As the terrain grew more rugged, they could have followed the roads to Big Rock, including a last stretch that paralleled the railroad tracks, but there wasn’t a shortcut anywhere in that part of Colorado that the three men didn’t know.

  For that matter, there weren’t many trails anywhere in the West that at least one of them hadn’t traveled a time or two.

  They came to find themselves riding along a wooded slope about two hundred yards above the wagon road parallel to the steel rails of the Denver and Rio Grande that twisted back and forth considerably as they followed the course of a fast-flowing stream. The way Smoke, Matt, and Preacher were going was much straighter and would cut half an hour or more off the trip. Big Rock was only a mile or two ahead of them.

  Smoke felt his anticipation growing. Reaching Big Rock meant he was that much closer to home—and Sally.

  Maybe that was the reason he wasn’t quite as alert as he might have been.

  Preacher was the one who said in a low voice, “Hold on a minute, boys. Might be some trouble down there. I don’t much like what I’m seein’.”

  All three men reined in. Smoke asked, “Whereabouts, Preacher?” His thoughts of home had vanished. He had complete faith in the old mountain man, and if Preacher suspected trouble might be lurking in the vicinity, Smoke wanted to know what it was.

  “Look in that thick stand of trees down yonder, between the railroad and the creek,” Preacher said. “Just to the right o’ that rock that’s sittin’ next to the trail.”

  Smoke and Matt watched closely the area Preacher had indicated.

  After a moment Matt said, “There’s somebody in there on horseback.”

  “More than one somebody,” Smoke said. “I make it three men. How about you, Preacher?”

  “Yup,” Preacher agreed. “Three it is. And there ain’t no reason for ’em to be sittin’ there all hidey-holed up like that unless they’re up to no good.”

  “Maybe they just stopped to roll quirlies and let their horses rest,” Matt suggested.

  Smoke shook his head. “If that’s all they were doing, likely they’d just move over to the side of the road and stay out in the open. It looks to me like they’re hiding.”

  “Bunch o’ dang bushwhackers, if you ask me,” Preacher said.

  Matt nodded. “Could be. What are we going to do about it?”

  “You know it’s probably not any of our business,” Smoke pointed out.

  Matt grinned at the comment. “Since when did that ever keep us from poking around?”

  Smoke had to admit that Matt had a point.

  Preacher rested his hands on his saddle horn. “Listen, you go to pokin’ at a beehive with a stick and you’re liable to get stung less ’n you’ve smoked it first. Reckon that’s what we’d better do. You boys ride back a ways, work your way down to the road, and then ride along it like you don’t have a care in the world. That might draw them varmints out.”

  “Yeah, and it might just paint targets on us,” Matt pointed out. “What do you plan to be doing while Smoke and I are doing that?”

  Preacher pointed with his beard-stubbled chin. “Figured Dog and me would circle around and come up behind those boys. Maybe they’ll be talkin’ and let slip what they’re up to.”

  “And if they do open fire on us . . . ?” Smoke asked.

  Preacher patted the butts of his revolvers. “Then I’ll be right there to blow holes in ’em.”

  Smoke didn’t doubt that the old mountain man could do it. Age had neither dimmed Preacher’s vision nor slowed his reflexes. Oh, he might be a hair less quick on the draw, but that meant Preacher was still faster with a gun than nine out of ten men.

  He was about as stealthy in the woods as ever, too. He could get behind the men lurking in the trees without them knowing he was there. The Blackfeet hadn’t nicknamed him Ghost Killer without a good reason.

  “Gimme twenty minutes or so,” Preach
er went on, “then you fellas commence to ridin’ along that road like it’s a Sunday afternoon and you ain’t got nothin’ better to do.”

  “Is it Sunday afternoon?” Matt asked. “I think I’ve lost track.”

  “No, I believe it’s Tuesday.” Smoke lifted his horse’s reins and turned the animal back in the direction they had come. “Come on.”

  Chapter 28

  Smoke and Matt went one way, Preacher the other. The old mountain man had confidence in the plan he had come up with. He had turned the tables on numerous bushwhackers during the adventurous life he’d led.

  Of course, it was possible that Matt was right and the men hiding in the trees didn’t have anything bad in mind. Preacher didn’t believe it, though. Trouble had a habit of finding the three of them when they were apart; put them together and it was almost inevitable that hell would pop.

  It had been almost a week since anybody had shot at them. Preacher didn’t like that. He sometimes figured that dodging bullets was what kept him young.

  With Dog padding along with him, he rode on well past the spot where the mysterious hombres were lurking. He was pretty sure he recalled a place where the railroad tracks and the road made a bend around a fairly sharp curve. That ought to shield him from the hidden watchers’ view. When he felt like he had passed it, he worked his way down the slope until he reached the edge of the trees and brush.

  Preacher brought Horse to a stop and swung down from the saddle. He took off his hat and stuck his head out to take a look. Right away, he saw that he had guessed right. He was past the curve and could cross the road and the steel rails without being seen.

  That is, if nobody else was skulking around. Preacher stood still for a long moment, eyes squinted, head cocked a little to the side as he listened intently and sniffed the air. He didn’t hear anything except small animals moving around, didn’t smell human sweat or horseflesh or tobacco smoke. His senses told him he was alone, and his instincts agreed with them.