She came up to him and Erica and murmured, “Baron.”
“My dear Frau Schiller,” von Hoffman said. “What can I do for you?”
“Some of us are wondering when the wagons will resume their journey. Evening is not far away now.”
He felt a surge of irritation. Did she think he was blind? He could see for himself how low in the sky the sun was.
“And you were appointed to speak for the group?” he asked coolly.
She shrugged, which made her proud breasts do intriguing things under her dress.
“I volunteered,” she said. A smile curved her lips. “I hope that I have not presumed on our friendship, Friedrich. I thought that since you and my late husband were so close ...”
“Of course,” von Hoffman said. “You have every right to speak to me. But as for your question ... We’re waiting for the Schumann boy to return. He was searching for a suitable location for us to camp.”
“Dieter is not a boy, Friedrich,” Erica put in. “And I think something must have happened to him. He may be hurt. We should go ahead, so we can look for him.”
Von Hoffman hated being challenged that way. Erica was perhaps the only person alive whom he would allow to speak to him in that manner.
What was most irritating was the fact that she was right. It made no sense to just sit here. He knew the direction Dieter had gone. Perhaps the boy was hurt. Von Hoffman wasn’t particularly concerned about Dieter’s health, but he wanted to know what had happened.
He smiled at Greta and said, “Tell the others to prepare to get started again. We will resume our journey right away.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency.” Greta spoke in a tone of respect, but there was a coquettish gleam in her eyes.
Soon, von Hoffman told himself. Soon he would have to find out just exactly how far she was prepared to go.
Within minutes the wagons were rolling again. Von Hoffman rode in front of the first wagon, leading the way. Two hills rose in front of him, but the area between them was nice and wide and that seemed to be the way the trail should go. He headed for the gap, and everyone followed him.
Naturally.
He was the baron, after all. He sat straight and proud in the saddle and led his people between the hills. He turned to give them a confident smile and show them what a splendid leader he was.
That was when he heard something buzz past his ear like a giant insect, and a split second later, the crack of shot sounded from the hill to his right.
That must have been a signal, because suddenly guns began to roar on both sides of the wagon train.
Smoke told Pearlie and Cal to stay at the ranch headquarters. He and Dieter Schumann rode east from there, accompanied by Matt and Preacher.
“Tell me more about this Baron von Hoffman,” Smoke asked the young man from Germany.
“The baron is a fine man,” Dieter declared without hesitation. “I have never seen a more accomplished swordsman, or a better shot, or a more honorable gentleman. He served with valor and distinction in the army and was wounded in the war against the French.”
“You know,” Preacher said, “I never could keep track of who was fightin’ who over yonder in the old country. Seemed like I’d go to St. Louis and hear folks talkin’ about how some place was fightin’ some other place, and then the next time I went, those two bunches had thrown in together to fight against some other entirely different folks. You know what I mean?”
Dieter said, “Allegiances do seem to shift quite a bit. Politics are very important in my homeland.”
Preacher leaned over in the saddle and spat.
“Politics!” he said. “A bunch of vultures tryin’ to feather their own nests and devil take the hindmost, from what I’ve seen of it. And most of ’em are partnered up with out-and-out crooks, like that blasted Indian Ring.”
Dieter shook his head.
“I know nothing of this about which you speak.”
“It’s not important right now,” Smoke told him. “And all those European allegiances you were talking about don’t matter anymore, Dieter. You’re in America now. The country got started because people came here to lead new lives, and they’re still doing that.”
“Yes,” Dieter said with a nod. “New lives.”
“For example,” Matt said, “we don’t have barons over here. Now that you’re in America, you don’t have to bow and scrape to this von Hoffman hombre.”
“My family has served the von Hoffman family for generations,” Dieter protested. “It is the way of things.”
“It’s the way things used to be,” Matt argued. “Not anymore. Sure, you can work for him if you want to, but if you don’t, there’s nothing stopping you from going and doing something else.”
“But ... what would I do?”
“Anything you want to. Drive a stagecoach, prospect for gold, start your own ranch if you want to.”
“My own ranch ...” Dieter said as a faraway look appeared in his eyes. “It is something to dream about. If only ...”
“There are no ‘if onlies’ here. If you want it bad enough, you can do it.”
Dieter sighed and shook his head.
“Not this. Even if I had my own ranch, I would need something else to make it complete.” He paused. “Someone else.”
Matt grinned.
“A girl, eh? Does she know how you feel about her?”
“No,” Dieter answered instantly. “I could never tell her!”
“Why not?”
“Because she ... she is not for the likes of me.”
“You’re talking about someone of noble birth? And you can’t approach her because you’re just a common man?”
“That’s right,” Dieter said.
Matt leaned over in the saddle and poked a finger against Dieter’s shoulder.
“Well, let me tell you something, amigo,” he said. “In this country, a man’s only as common as he wants to be. If you want to be an uncommon man, what you’ve got to do is reach out and grab whatever it is you’re after—”
Matt might have continued with his advice, but at that moment all four men reined in abruptly as the sound of gunfire filled the warm, late afternoon air. It came from somewhere ahead of them, and it sounded like the battle wasn’t far off.
“Come on!” Smoke said as he leaned forward in the saddle and heeled his horse into a gallop.
Chapter Eight
The baron wheeled his horse sharply as Erica screamed. Von Hoffman saw the stricken driver slumping against her as blood pumped from the bullet hole in his chest.
“Get inside the wagon!” von Hoffman shouted at his cousin as he jerked his rifle from its sheath and sent his horse plunging alongside the wagon. “Stay down!”
He knew that the bed of the big, canvas-covered wagon was filled with crates and bags and pieces of furniture, and Erica would be as safe there as anywhere. He paused until he saw her scrambling through the gap in the canvas before he galloped along the line of wagons, shouting for his people to take cover.
He heard more bullets whipping through the air nearby as rifles continued to crack on both of the hills flanking the wagon train’s route. This was not the first time von Hoffman had been under enemy fire. He knew that if he kept his head and stayed calm, he would have a better chance of surviving this ambush. He planned to take cover under one of the wagons as soon as he could.
But first he had to make sure his people were safe. He rode all the way to the back of the wagon train and saw the immigrants scrambling to get inside or under the heavy vehicles. The thick boards that formed the bodies of the wagons would stop most bullets, he thought.
Several of the oxen bellowed in pain as they were wounded. The outriders who accompanied the wagon train were fighting back as best they could, galloping back and forth and firing up toward the pine-covered slopes. Von Hoffman knew that wasn’t going to do much good—it would be pure luck if the defenders hit anything—but at least they were putting up some resistance.
“Take cover!” he shouted to them. “Take cover and make your shots count!”
It was time to follow his own advice, he thought as another slug sizzled past his ear. He had kept moving so the attackers would have a harder time drawing a bead on him, but now he needed to seek shelter.
He whirled his horse to head for the lead wagon again, so he would be closer to his cousin, but as he did, the stallion screamed in pain and reared upright to lash angrily at the air with his hooves. Von Hoffman caught a glimpse of the bloody furrow on the horse’s shoulder where a bullet had grazed him.
Normally, Baron von Hoffman was an excellent rider and would have been able to stay in the saddle no matter what, but this crisis took him by surprise. He felt himself slipping and grabbed for the saddlehorn, but he was too late. He toppled off the horse and crashed to the ground.
That made him an easier target for the ambushers. Grit stung his eyes as a bullet kicked up dirt only inches from his face. Still clutching his rifle, he rolled desperately for the cover of the nearest wagon. He barely avoided being stepped on by his panic-stricken mount.
Von Hoffman lunged underneath the wagon as a bullet rang off one of the iron-tired wheels. He crawled to the center of the space and lay there for a few moments trying to catch his breath. The fall from his horse had knocked the air out of his lungs.
His pulse was pounding heavily, too, but it slowed somewhat as he lay there. Anger burned fiercely inside him. He was sure that some of his people were wounded, perhaps even dead. He wanted to strike back at the men who had done this.
The question of who they were nagged at von Hoffman’s brain. It was possible the wagon train had been attacked by outlaws who had lain in wait to rob the immigrants, the sort of bloodthirsty desperadoes Dieter Schumann read about in his precious dime novels. Just because they were used in fiction didn’t mean they couldn’t exist in real life as well.
Or perhaps the wagons were under attack by hostile Indians, although to the best of the baron’s knowledge, all the tribes in this area were currently at peace with the white men. This might be a band of renegades. After all, less than a decade earlier the famous Colonel Custer and his men had been wiped out by a huge force of savages.
But even though those possibilities went through his head, von Hoffman knew what the most likely explanation for this ambush had to be.
His enemies from the old country had caught up to him, or rather, killers hired by those enemies to settle all the old political scores.
So, when you looked at it that way, von Hoffman thought grimly, this was his fault.
He crawled over behind one of the wagon wheels and stuck the barrel of his Winchester through a gap between spokes. His eyes searched the hillside he could see from here, and after a moment he spotted a puff of powder smoke from behind a tree. The smoke gave away the location of one of the hidden riflemen.
Von Hoffman nestled his cheek against the smooth wood of the rifle’s stock, squinted over the sights, and drew a bead on the spot. He waited patiently, and after a moment he caught a glimpse of a man’s hat.
The baron squeezed the trigger.
The Winchester cracked as it bucked against his shoulder. He was an excellent marksman. A split second later, a man tumbled out from behind the tree the baron had been watching. The man sprawled on the hillside and didn’t move, and von Hoffman knew he had drilled the ambusher through the head. It was a fine shot, especially considering the range and the angle.
He shifted the Winchester’s barrel and searched for another target. This fight was just getting started.
The baron hoped that not too many of his people would die before it was over.
As Smoke, Matt, Preacher, and Dieter galloped toward the sound of shots, Smoke caught a glimpse of white between the hills known as East and West Kiowa Peaks. He pointed it out to the others and called, “Wagons?”
“Looks like it to me!” Matt answered. “Come on!”
He didn’t have to urge the other men. They all leaned forward in their saddles and pounded toward the hills at top speed.
As they came closer, Smoke saw that his guess was right. A long line of several dozen wagons had entered the gap, and now the immigrants appeared to be pinned down by rifle fire from both hills. He pointed to the eastern peak and said, “Matt, you and Preacher see if you can roust out some of the varmints on that side! Dieter and I will head west!”
“Got it!” Matt replied. He and the old mountain man veered their horses toward the east.
Smoke angled west and looked over to make sure Dieter was coming with him. The young man urged his horse ahead, doing his best to keep up with Smoke. Dieter looked a little scared, and Smoke figured this would be his first real gun battle.
“Herr Jensen!” Dieter called. “I am unarmed!”
Smoke grimaced. He had forgotten that Cal had taken Dieter’s pistol and hadn’t given it back. He couldn’t lead the youngster into the middle of this ruckus when Dieter didn’t have any way to fight.
“Can you handle a rifle?” Smoke asked.
“I have shot a Winchester a few times!”
Smoke pulled his rifle from the saddle boot and brought his horse close enough to Dieter’s mount that he could pass the weapon over to the young man.
“Here you go! It’s got fifteen rounds in it! You’ll have to work the lever between shots!”
“I understand!” Dieter said over the pounding hoofbeats.
Smoke pulled slightly ahead again to lead the way. He had circled far enough to the west that he and Dieter were able to start up the back side of the hill. Smoke’s horse was fresher and took the slope easier. Dieter began to fall back. Smoke waved for the young man to follow him and kept going. Delay might mean that more innocent people would be killed.
As Smoke neared the top of the hill, he reined in and swung down from the saddle to go ahead on foot. His Colt was in his hand as soon as his boots hit the ground.
There was a good chance the bushwhackers had left their horses somewhere up here in the trees, along with some men to keep an eye on the animals. Smoke didn’t want to blunder right into them, so he moved forward with caution.
A racket in the brush behind him made him look over his shoulder. Dieter had sort of caught up and had dismounted, too. Now the young man was stomping forward through the brush, trying to catch up even more. Smoke motioned for him to slow down and take it easier ... and quieter.
Dieter did so. His eyes were so big now they looked like they were going to jump right out of their sockets. Smoke decided it might be better to wait for him, so he paused until Dieter came up and joined him at the hill’s crest.
The sound of shots from lower down the slope filled the air. Smoke said, “Stay with me, and if you have to shoot, don’t waste any time, but don’t rush it, either. Make sure the rifle’s pointing at one of them and not me before you pull the trigger.”
“Jawohl,” Dieter said with a nervous, eager nod. “I mean, yes, Smoke. I understand. Who are these men?”
“I don’t have any idea, but they’re shooting at your wagon train. That’s enough for me.”
“For me, too,” Dieter declared. “Let us ventilate some of the mangy polecats.”
“Yeah, we’ll do that,” Smoke said. He was going to have to ask Dieter how come he talked that way ... if they both lived through this fight, of course.
They began stalking down the slope. From the corner of his eye, Smoke spotted movement through the trees and underbrush and motioned for Dieter to follow him as he moved to the left. A moment later Smoke saw the movement again and recognized it as several horses moving around nervously. He pointed out the animals to Dieter, who nodded.
Putting his mouth close to the young man’s ear, Smoke said, “There’ll be at least two of the bushwhackers with the horses, maybe more. They won’t expect anybody to be coming up behind them, so we ought to be able to get the drop on them. If they put up a fight, though, don’t hesitate to shoot.”
“I won’t, Her
r Jensen ... I mean, Smoke. I will do what I have to.”
“That’s all I can ask of any man,” Smoke said with a grim smile. “Come on.”
Chapter Nine
On the far slope of the eastern hill, Matt and Preacher brought their horses to a halt and swung down from their saddles.
“Split up?” Matt suggested.
“I don’t need no nursemaid, if that’s what you’re askin’,” Preacher replied with a snort.
Matt grinned.
“It wasn’t, but I reckon I can take care of myself, too,” he said. “Good luck. Be careful, Preacher.”
The old-timer snorted again. He wore a pair of holstered Colts and as he drew both guns, he said, “I got all the luck I need right here, and careful men die in their beds. I’ll be damned if I want that!”
He started off into the trees, and in little more than the blink of an eye, he was gone, completely vanished from sight. Matt recalled Smoke telling him that in Preacher’s younger days, some of the Indians had called him Ghost Killer, because he could glide into their camps like a phantom, slit the throats of some of his enemies, and slip back out again without anybody knowing he had been there until the bodies were discovered.
Age hadn’t robbed the old man of much of his stealth.
Matt could move pretty silently himself when he needed to, although he wasn’t as skilled at it as Preacher. He made his way through the trees until he heard some horses blowing and stamping. He knew he was close to the spot where the bushwhackers had left their mounts.
Crouching, he held his Colt in one hand and parted the brush with the other. Through the gap he made he was able to see several horses. A man passed through his line of sight as well. The hombre was roughly dressed in range clothes, and dark beard stubble covered his hard-planed jaw. He looked like the sort of hardcase that was much too common on the frontier, a man who was capable of ruthless, brutal violence if the price was right ... and that price probably wouldn’t be too high, either.
Matt edged forward as the man went out of sight. He wanted to get an idea of how many of them were close by before he made his move.
The Violent Land Page 5