The Violent Land

by William W. Johnstone

  “Who are you?” his captor demanded.

  “My name is ... Dieter Schumann.” An explanation for what was going on here occurred to him. “You are ... the hombre who owns this spread?”

  “Me?” The idea drew a curt laugh from the rifleman. “Not hardly, but I work for him. This is Sugarloaf range, and I ride for Smoke Jensen.”

  Dieter could see now that the man was too young to own a ranch, possibly not even twenty years old yet. But despite his youth, he seemed very calm and deadly as he pointed the rifle. Dieter recognized the weapon as one of the repeating rifles called a Winchester.

  “Would it be all right ... if I sat up?” he asked.

  The young man considered the request for a second, then nodded.

  “Don’t try anything funny, though. I’ll drill you if you do, I swear.”

  Dieter struggled to a sitting position and continued catching his breath. His voice was stronger as he said, “I will not try anything funny, I assure you. I am not that sort of galoot.”

  “Yeah, well, you got me wonderin’ just what sort of galoot you are, Peter.”

  “Dieter.”

  “Dieter,” the young cowboy repeated. “Don’t reckon I’ve ever met anybody with that name before.” He paused, then added, “I’m Cal. Calvin Woods.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Calvin. As long as you do not ventilate me.”

  Cal studied Dieter for another moment before shaking his head in amazement.

  “I got to admit, you’re about the oddest rustler I ever did see.”

  “Rustler!” Dieter exclaimed in surprise. “I am no rustler!”

  Cal inclined his head toward the cattle.

  “Those are Sugarloaf cows you were chousin’ along, and as far as I know, you don’t work for Smoke. To my way of thinkin’, that makes you a rustler.”

  “I was not stealing the cattle,” Dieter insisted. “I was merely moving them.”

  “And why would you do that?”

  “To clear this meadow so that the wagon train to which I belong might camp here.”

  Cal frowned and said, “Wagon train?”

  “Yes. Led by Baron Friedrich von Hoffman.” Dieter hesitated. “I warned the baron there might be trouble if we did not seek permission first.”

  “Yeah, it’s always a good idea to ask before you go traipsin’ across somebody’s range or movin’ his stock,” Cal agreed. “Stand up and back off, well away from that gun you dropped.”

  “I mean no trouble, I give you my word.”

  “Just do it,” Cal ordered with a slight jerk of the Winchester’s barrel.

  Dieter did as he was told, keeping his arms half-lifted and his hands in plain sight as he backed away from the Colt. Cal managed to dismount without the rifle ever wavering out of line. The young cowboy picked up the fallen revolver and tucked it behind his belt.

  “Now you can get back on your horse,” Cal said.

  “You are going to allow me to return to the wagon train?”

  “Shoot, no,” Cal said. “I’m takin’ you to see Smoke. Maybe he can figure out what to do with you, because I sure as blazes can’t.”

  Chapter Six

  Cal was still on Smoke’s mind when he spotted the riders coming toward the ranch headquarters. The fact that they were riding single file down a distant hill gave Smoke his first clue as to what was going on. As the riders came closer he was able to tell that the second man held a rifle. That confirmed Smoke’s hunch.

  Somebody was bringing in a prisoner, and considering the direction the riders were coming from, it was likely that one of them was Cal.

  But the question remained, was Cal the captor in this situation ... or the captive?

  “Riders comin’,” Preacher announced. The old-timer still had eyes like a hawk.

  “Yeah, I saw them, too,” Matt said.

  Smoke set his empty lemonade glass aside and got to his feet.

  “I think one of them is Cal,” he said.

  “Likely is,” Pearlie agreed. “Which one?”

  “It looks like they’re headed straight here,” Smoke said, “so I reckon we’ll find out in a little while.”

  Sally came out of the house, unaware of what was going on.

  “Supper will be ready—” She stopped short as she saw Smoke standing tensely at the porch railing. She couldn’t help but notice that the other three men were alert, too. “What’s wrong?”

  “There are a couple of men riding in,” Smoke explained. “One of them is holding a gun on the other. We figure Cal is one of them, but we don’t know if he’s the one in trouble. Why don’t you go back inside, Sally?”

  She drew in a deep breath that caused her breasts to lift and her nostrils to flare.

  “I’ll go back inside, all right,” she said. “To fetch my own Winchester.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Smoke said. “There are four of us and only two of them, at most. We’ve got ’em outnumbered.”

  Sally looked reluctant to retreat into the house, but she said, “Don’t let anything happen to Calvin.”

  “We won’t,” Smoke said.

  He hoped he could keep that promise.

  By the time the riders came close enough for the men on the porch to make out who was who, Sally had gone back into the house and all four men were waiting tensely at the railing. Smoke felt a wave of relief go through him as he recognized Cal riding behind the other man, who was a stranger. Cal had his rifle pointed in the general direction of the hombre’s back.

  A smile broke across Cal’s face as he saw Matt and Preacher standing on the porch.

  “Howdy, fellas!” he called to them. “Smoke told us you were supposed to show up today. I’m glad you did.”

  “Good to see you, too, younker,” Preacher said. “What in the sam hill is that you got there?”

  “I’m not quite sure,” Cal replied. “He’s some sort of foreigner, and he claims he comes from a wagon train.”

  Matt and Preacher glanced at each other, then at Smoke.

  “Told you we saw a wagon train,” Matt said.

  Smoke nodded.

  “You sure did.”

  He moved to the steps and went down them. As he approached the two newcomers, he saw that the stranger was young, probably only a few years older than Cal. He had dark blond hair and a face that might have been friendly if it wasn’t so nervous. The big hat and fringed shirt made him look like the fake cowboys Smoke had seen back East hanging around Wild West shows. Drugstore cowboys, somebody had called them.

  “Why are you pointing that rifle at him, Cal?” Smoke asked.

  “I caught him driving some of our stock out of the pasture over by Snake Creek,” Cal explained. “I thought he was a rustler, so I got the drop on him. He slapped leather anyway, and I had to put a warning shot over his head. His horse threw him and made him drop his gun.” Cal shrugged. “That’s about the size of it. Oh, yeah, he says his name is Dieter.”

  “Dieter Schumann,” the young man said. “I sincerely apologize for causing a ... a ruckus.”

  Smoke heard traces of an accent in Dieter’s voice and recognized it. He had met a number of people from Germany and had actually traveled to that country himself once, while he and Sally were touring Europe.

  “You’re Prussian, aren’t you?” Smoke asked.

  Dieter looked surprised but pleased.

  “Ja. Sprechen sie Deutsche?”

  “Just enough to know you asked me if I speak your native lingo,” Smoke said. “And I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “No matter,” Dieter said. “I speak very fine English. You are the man who owns this ranch?”

  “That’s right. Smoke Jensen’s my name.”

  “I am honored to meet you, Herr Jensen. May I dismount?”

  Smoke glanced at Cal.

  “You’ve got his gun?”

  Cal tapped the butt of the Colt stuck behind his belt and nodded.

  “Right here, Smoke. I didn’t search him, though. He might have
a hideout gun.”

  “I assure you, I am unarmed,” Dieter said.

  Smoke nodded and said, “Light and set, then. We believe in hospitality here on Sugarloaf. But we believe in being careful, too, so don’t get any ideas.”

  Dieter swung down from the saddle. He didn’t appear to represent any sort of threat, so Smoke went on, “I think you can put your rifle away, Cal. Why don’t you go tend to your horse, and Dieter’s, too, if you don’t mind.”

  Cal slid his Winchester back into its saddle boot.

  “Sure, Smoke,” he said. He held out his hand, and Dieter gave him the buckskin’s reins. Cal headed for the barn and the corral, leading the visitor’s horse.

  Sally came out onto the porch carrying another glass. Obviously, she had been listening to the conversation from just inside the door.

  “There’s a little lemonade left, Mr. Schumann, if you’d like some,” she said.

  Dieter snatched his hat off and bowed from the waist.

  “That sounds wonderful, fraulein,” he said.

  “It’s frau,” Sally told him. “I’m Mrs. Jensen, Smoke’s wife.”

  “It is an honor and a pleasure.”

  “Don’t get any ideas about kissin’ the back of her hand,” Preacher warned. “She’s the spunky sort. Liable to punch you if you do.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Mr. Schumann,” Sally said with a smile. “Visitors are always welcome on Sugarloaf ... if they’re not looking for trouble.”

  “Such an idea is the farthest thing from my intention, I assure you.”

  Dieter came up onto the porch. Smoke and the others watched him closely, but he appeared as harmless as he claimed to be. He sat down in one of the rocking chairs and swallowed nervously as the four frontiersmen surrounded him.

  “Oh, back off and let the poor man breathe,” Sally said as she poured the last of the lemonade into the clean glass. She handed it to him and went on, “Here you are, Mr. Schumann.”

  “I’m much obliged, ma’am.” Dieter took a long swallow of the cool, tart liquid. When he lowered the glass, he licked his lips and said, “That’s larrupin’ good.”

  “Where’d you say you were from?” Matt asked with a frown.

  “Germany. Prussia, to be precise.”

  “What’s this about a wagon train?” Smoke asked.

  “Baron Friedrich von Hoffman is our leader,” Dieter answered. “He is taking a large group of settlers to the American state called Wyoming. The baron has bought a ranch there and intends to establish a town as well.”

  “Sounds like a fella with big plans,” Preacher commented.

  Dieter took another drink of lemonade and nodded eagerly.

  “Oh, yes, very much so. He intends to be another sort of baron as well. A cattle baron!”

  Smoke said, “Where are these wagons now?”

  “Coming up the trail that runs east of the mountains. It curves through these hills on its way north.”

  “That’s right,” Smoke said. “But we’ve never had a wagon train come through here before. The ones bound for Wyoming, Idaho, and Oregon usually take a more northerly route across Kansas and Nebraska. Your wagonmaster shouldn’t have brought you this far south. Nothing wrong with the trail, but it’s a longer way around. It’ll take you at least a couple of weeks longer than it would have if you’d gone the other way.”

  Dieter looked uncomfortable as he said, “My apologies, Herr Jensen. The baron did not engage the services of a guide or wagonmaster. He said that he has visited America enough times and is familiar enough with the Western frontier that he could lead us and determine our route himself.”

  “Oh,” Preacher said. “A greenhorn know-it-all furriner.”

  Dieter set his glass aside on the table.

  “Them’s fightin’ words,” he said.

  “Take it easy,” Smoke said. “Preacher doesn’t mean anything by it.”

  Preacher snorted.

  “That’s what this old mossyhorn is called, by the way,” Smoke went on. “As for the rest of us, this is Matt Jensen, my brother, and my foreman Pearlie. The young fella who brought you in is Calvin Woods.”

  Dieter nodded and said, “Yes, Calvin introduced himself to me. I am pleased to make the acquaintance of the rest of you rannies.”

  Matt laughed.

  “You’re an unusual sort of fella, Dieter,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Dieter said with a smile. He turned back to Smoke. “My apologies for trespassing on your range, Herr Jensen. I swear, I was not trying to rustle your cattle.”

  “I believe you. And call me Smoke.”

  “If you would like, Smoke, I will return to the wagons and inform the baron that we are not allowed to travel through this area. The wagons may have already reached the boundaries of your range, but they can turn around and go back the way they came until we are able to circle around the hills.”

  “Smoke ...” Sally said, and he knew what she was getting at. She didn’t want them to be inhospitable.

  Smoke said to Dieter, “There’s no need for you folks to do that. That would just add more time to your trip, and it’s already going to take you longer to get to Wyoming than it ought to. I don’t mind you passing through, although it would have been nice if this baron of yours would have looked me up and asked me about it first.”

  Dieter came to his feet and bowed again.

  “You are a true gentleman, Herr Jensen ... I mean, Smoke.”

  Preacher said, “Better be careful with that bowin’, boy. You’ll throw your back out. We don’t much hold with it in these parts, anyway. This is America, where folks don’t have to bow to each other. Every man’s as good as the next one.”

  “This is what I have heard, Mr. Preacher. Coming from the old country as I do, such a concept is ... difficult to grasp.”

  “Just Preacher,” the old mountain man growled. “No mister.”

  Sally said, “You’ll stay and have supper with us, won’t you, Dieter?”

  The young man shook his head regretfully.

  “I cannot. I must return to the wagons, report to the baron, and assist in setting up camp. With your permission, of course, Smoke.”

  “You’ve got it,” Smoke said. “But I’m coming with you. I want to meet this baron of yours.”

  “So do I,” Matt said. “I’m not sure I’ve ever met a baron.”

  Preacher grunted and said, “I have. They ain’t nothin’ special.”

  Sally asked, “Does Baron von Hoffman have a family?”

  “A cousin,” Dieter said. “She is his only close relative.”

  “Smoke, I can hold off on getting supper ready for a while,” Sally said. “If you’re going out to the wagon train, why don’t you ask the baron and his cousin if they’ll come and eat with us?”

  “That’s a good idea,” Smoke said. “And you, too, Dieter.”

  The young man’s eyes widened.

  “I could not—” he began.

  “Sure you can,” Smoke said. “Like Preacher told you, you’re in America. We do things a mite differently here.”

  “I understand that, but I’m not sure the baron will.”

  “One way to find out.” Smoke nodded toward the corral. “Let’s go saddle some horses.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Dieter should have been back by now,” Erica said.

  Von Hoffman heard the worried tone in his cousin’s voice and was annoyed by it.

  Not as annoyed as he was by Dieter’s failure to reappear, though. He had been counting on the young man to guide them to a suitable campground. When Dieter hadn’t come back, von Hoffman had called a temporary halt to wait for him.

  The wagons had been stopped for a while now, however, and still there was no sign of Dieter Schumann.

  Something had happened to him, von Hoffman thought. Perhaps he had finally run into outlaws or savages or one of the other frontier perils he seemed so eager to see.

  “We can’t just sit here and wait for darkness to
overtake us,” von Hoffman said as he paced back and forth next to the lead wagon, having dismounted to let his stallion rest for a few minutes. “This is not a good place to camp. There’s grass for the animals, but no water.”

  “Perhaps we should continue on,” Erica suggested from where she sat on the wagon seat. The driver had gotten down earlier to put some water from one of the barrels into a bucket so the oxen could drink. “Dieter said the trail was easy to follow.”

  Von Hoffman scowled but didn’t say anything. Young Schumann might think the trail was obvious, but the baron was having trouble seeing it, although he wouldn’t have admitted that to anyone else. He didn’t relish the idea of wasting time, but he certainly didn’t want to get them lost, either.

  “Help me down, please, Friedrich,” Erica went on. “I would like to stretch my limbs while we’re stopped.” She smiled ruefully. “And this seat is hardly what one would call comfortable.”

  “Of course,” von Hoffman said. He stepped over to the wagon to assist his cousin. A moment later, Erica’s feet were on the ground.

  She glanced along the line of wagons and suddenly frowned. Von Hoffman noticed the expression and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Frau Schiller is coming,” Erica said.

  The baron looked toward the rear of the wagon train and saw that she was right. Greta Schiller was walking toward them with a determined stride. Her lovely face wore a frown of concern.

  At any other time, von Hoffman wouldn’t have minded talking to the beautiful redheaded widow. He knew that Greta might well have designs on him, and he didn’t discourage her interest. A man would have to be a fool to do that. With her thick auburn hair, her richly curved body, her sensuous lips, and her provocative green eyes, Greta Schiller was as tasty a morsel as von Hoffman had ever seen in his life.

  She was also the widow of an old friend of his, so decorum demanded that he treat her with respect when what he really wanted to do was tumble her into a comfortable bed and have his way with her. Greta’s bold gazes sometimes made him think that was exactly what she wanted, too.

  But right now he had much more important things on his mind than finding the right time and place to bed a randy widow.