The Violent Land

by William W. Johnstone

  “I greatly appreciate everything you have done for us, Herr Jensen,” the baron said as they rode along. “But you have been away from your ranch for quite a while now. Won’t your wife be starting to get concerned about you?”

  Smoke smiled and asked, “Are you trying to run me off, Baron?”

  “Not at all,” von Hoffman answered without hesitation. “As I said, we are greatly in your debt, all three of you men. But you have your own lives, your own responsibilities.”

  “Smoke’s got responsibilities,” Matt said with a grin. “I’ve got a horse.”

  “Sally knows better than to expect me back at a certain time,” Smoke said. “She knows that things can come up that you don’t expect. Like this ranch being in the shape that it’s in. Now, mind you, if a couple of months go by without any sign of me, she might be liable to send Pearlie and Cal and some of the boys up here to look for me ... but I don’t think it’ll come to that. When I do start home, I’ll stop in Laramie and send a wire to Big Rock letting her know that I’m on my way.”

  “Very well,” von Hoffman said. “I’ll certainly take your help as long as you’re willing to remain here.”

  Smoke had known all along that he and Matt and Preacher would probably stick around for a while, even if the ranch had been in fine running order. They couldn’t ride away with the threat of Klaus Berger hanging over the heads of the immigrants.

  Now, with the added menace of Jethro Kane thrown in, it was even more important that they not leave all those pilgrims to shift for themselves.

  Smoke located the landmarks and followed the trails Wynn Courtland had told him about, and after an hour or so the three men came to the first waterhole. It was bone dry. The bottom of what had been a nice-sized pool had cracked in the sun.

  Rocks surrounded the waterhole. Smoke and Matt dismounted and examined them, finding no sign of moisture. Smoke had brought along a shovel. He dug down into the hard ground for a ways, then handed the shovel to Matt, who deepened the hole even more.

  “No mud,” Matt said. “The spring that fed this hole has dried up good and proper.”

  “Is there any way to turn the water back in this direction?” von Hoffman asked.

  “Maybe,” Smoke said, “but we’d have to go onto Kane’s range to do it. And if we go to blasting on the Boxed JK, he’d be within his legal rights to shoot us down on sight.”

  Smoke tipped his head back and looked higher in the mountains that ran in a rugged line from west to east, forming the northern boundary of the vast basin that housed the Rafter 9, the Boxed JK, and the few smaller ranches that were left.

  That’s where the answer lay, he told himself. Kane had diverted the underground river that fed the springs.

  But that stream had another end somewhere else.

  Smoke kept those thoughts to himself for now. He and Matt and von Hoffman checked the other waterholes and found that the situation was the same at all of them.

  As they sat on their horses beside the last of the waterholes, the baron took his hat off and wearily scrubbed a hand over his face.

  “We have water at the ranch from the well,” he said. “What if we drilled more wells?”

  “You might be able to do that,” Smoke said, “and you could probably get enough water to support a small herd.”

  “Right now I have no herd,” von Hoffman said with a wry smile. “Perhaps starting small is what we should do.”

  “That’s a decent plan,” Smoke agreed. He had another idea in mind, but if it didn’t work out, the baron would have something else to fall back on. It would be slow, building up the ranch that way, but it could be done.

  Or at least, it could have been if the Rafter 9 hadn’t had Jethro Kane squeezing in on it, trying to take over. Trouble was bound to come from that direction sooner or later.

  For the time being, Smoke went on, “You can probably get somebody to come out from Laramie to drill a couple of wells for you. You might be able to buy some stock there, too. We’ll figure on making a trip to town in a week or so. By then, all the repairs should be done.”

  That would give him some time to investigate his other idea, too, he told himself.

  “Very well,” von Hoffman said. “As always, I will rely on your guidance, Herr Jensen.”

  That was an awfully humble thing for the baron to say. Maybe the frontier was starting to knock some of the pompousness out of him.

  Von Hoffman rode ahead as they started back toward the ranch headquarters. Smoke hung back a little, and as he expected, Matt joined him.

  “I reckon you’ll be going to Laramie with the baron to show him the ropes,” the younger man said.

  “That’s right,” Smoke said, “but before we do that, you and I are going to take another little trip, Matt.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  A few days after the wagon train had arrived at the ranch, the baron had sent one of the wagons back down to Hawk Creek Station with orders for the driver to load up on supplies in Clarence Fisher’s trading post. Smoke had gone along to make sure the wagon got there and back safely and also to pick up a few things he needed.

  The next morning after their survey of the dried-up waterholes, Smoke and Matt packed some supplies and saddled their horses. When von Hoffman saw them getting ready to ride, he said, “I thought you weren’t leaving yet.”

  “We’re not,” Smoke said. “We’re just taking a little trip up into the hills to check out an idea of mine. We may be gone for a few days, that’s why we’re taking along provisions.”

  “Is this something that might help us?” the baron asked.

  “Maybe,” Smoke said, “but I don’t want to talk too much about it just yet. It might not pan out, and I don’t want to get everybody’s hopes up for no good reason.”

  Von Hoffman nodded.

  “I understand. And again I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  “We haven’t done anything yet,” Matt pointed out.

  “No, but you are trying to help. That is more than some people would do.”

  “Keep your guard up while we’re gone,” Smoke advised. “Listen to Preacher. That old man’s mighty canny, and he’s got the best instincts for trouble you’ll ever find.”

  “Of course,” von Hoffman said with a nod. “And it’s possible we’re still being watched, so the two of you should be careful as well. If spies see you ride out alone, they might try to come after you.”

  “They’ll be sorry if they do,” Matt declared.

  He and Smoke rode out a few minutes later. They had already explained their plan to Preacher, so there was no need to tell the old mountain man that they were leaving. They were all practical men, not given to sentimental good-byes.

  Smoke and Matt kept a close eye on the hills as they rode toward the more rugged terrain. They didn’t see any signs of anyone watching them ... but the spies could still be up there, being more careful now in their lurking.

  In all the paperwork that had been sent to Baron von Hoffman when he concluded the deal to buy the Rafter 9 had been a map of the area showing the boundaries of the ranch. Smoke had spent quite a bit of time pouring over that map, studying all the details of the ranch and the surrounding area.

  This was still open range country to a certain extent, although Washington was making efforts to get people to file legal claims on the land they were using. Jack Newton was one of the ranchers who had filed those claims, and the legal boundaries of the Rafter 9 stretched well up into the hills, even though they were too rugged and rocky to provide any good range.

  They might provide something else, though, Smoke hoped.

  As they rode, Matt said, “I reckon I’ve given up on Erica. Dieter’s won her over.”

  “I was thinking the same thing the other day,” Smoke said. “It’s probably for the best. The two of them have a lot more in common.”

  “I’m not sure it matters. The baron’s not gonna let Dieter marry her.”

  “She’s a grown woman,” Smoke po
inted out. “That decision’s up to her.”

  “You and I both know things don’t always work out that way, Smoke.”

  “They do if the woman’s strong-willed enough,” Smoke said with a smile, thinking about Sally. Her parents back in New Hampshire had never been all that sure it was a good idea for her to marry him, but that hadn’t made a lick of difference. Sally had been born with plenty of frontier spirit in her, although she’d had to go west to discover that. Once she had, there was no turning back for her. Smoke had a hunch Erica von Hoffman might be the same way.

  “Well, I hope things turn out all right for them,” Matt said. “I never figured on settling down just yet, anyway.”

  “I never thought you did,” Smoke said.

  By midday they had started to climb into the hills, which steadily grew more rugged and eventually turned into a range of small mountains. Smoke knew what he was looking for—the green of vegetation—but it took most of the afternoon to find it.

  When they did, though, his spirits rose as he studied a line of trees and brush angling through the hills from northwest to southeast. He pointed it out to Matt, who said, “That looks promising, all right. But it’ll depend on what we find there.”

  Smoke knew that, but the lay of the land was good. They climbed higher, aiming for the trees.

  A short time later they came to the stream, which was bordered by brush and aspen as it zigzagged down a hillside. Smoke dismounted and knelt beside the creek. He stuck his hand in the water and felt how cold it was. Cupping his hand, he brought it to his mouth and tasted the water.

  “Mighty good,” he announced to Matt. “Let’s see where it goes.”

  They turned their horses and followed the creek downstream, moving away from it some so they wouldn’t have to fight their way through the brush. Late in the afternoon, they came to a spot where a hollow in the rocks had formed a pool. That appeared to be where the creek ended.

  Smoke knew that wasn’t the case. The flow of water into the pool had to be going somewhere, so that meant this was where the stream went underground. Assuming it continued in roughly the same direction, that would take its course across a corner of Jethro Kane’s land before it entered the Rafter 9 to feed those springs that had formed waterholes.

  And it was in that stretch of Boxed JK range that Kane had diverted the water.

  Now, if Smoke’s plan worked, they were going to give Kane a taste of his own medicine.

  Matt studied the rocky walls of the pool and then stood up in the stirrups to gaze to the south.

  “There’s a little valley that runs right through the middle of the baron’s range. If we can make a hole in that rock, the water ought to work its way down and eventually form a creek that runs across the Rafter Nine.”

  “That’s the idea,” Smoke said. “Maybe it’ll start those springs flowing again, or maybe it won’t, but at least the baron will have the creek. Put in a few wells here and there, and in time that’ll be enough to water the range again. The Rafter Nine will be able to support some fine herds of cattle then.”

  Matt frowned slightly.

  “It’ll take a hell of a lot of hard work to chip out a new course in that rock using picks,” he said.

  Smoke smiled and said, “I know. That’s why I brought dynamite.”

  Matt let out a little whistle.

  “I didn’t know you were carrying any of that hellish stuff. I would’ve ridden a little farther away from you if I had.”

  “It’s safe enough as long as you know what you’re doing. I’ve used it on the Sugarloaf. I didn’t know if Fisher would have any at the trading post, but I asked him about it when I was there a few days ago. Turns out he keeps a small supply on hand for the prospectors who go up into the mountains looking for gold.” Smoke patted his saddlebags. “I’ve got a few sticks of it wrapped up in here.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” Matt asked with a grin. “Let’s blow that rock wall to smithereens. We’ll see how Kane likes it when all his water dries up.”

  Smoke shook his head.

  “We’ll wait until morning to set off the blast. I’d like to place the dynamite so we don’t divert all the water, just part of it.”

  “You don’t want to do to Kane what he did to that fella Newton?”

  “I don’t give a damn about Kane,” Smoke said bluntly, “but his cows didn’t do anything wrong, and they don’t deserve to die of thirst.”

  “Well, you’re right about that,” Matt said with a shrug. “So we’re going to make camp here for the night?”

  “That’s the plan,” Smoke said as he swung down from the saddle.

  He spent the rest of the afternoon closely studying the area around the pool, figuring out exactly where he wanted to place the dynamite. He would start out using just one or two sticks of the explosive, he decided, in the hope that would create a big enough gap to provide a sufficient flow of water without diverting the whole stream.

  Matt gathered wood and built a small fire near the pool, then put a pot of coffee on to boil while he got out a frying pan and a side of bacon. The horses had plenty of water, and there was even some grass growing along the edges of the pool so they could graze. It was a pleasant spot, no doubt about that.

  “I wouldn’t mind spending some time up here,” Matt said as he fried up a mess of bacon. “There’s probably some pretty good hunting in these hills. Might be some fish higher up in that stream, too.”

  “Maybe we’ll come back here sometime,” Smoke said.

  “When we don’t have to worry as much about bushwhackers?” Matt asked with a smile.

  “I didn’t see anybody on our trail today. That doesn’t mean they weren’t back there, though.”

  “I know.”

  Matt set the bacon aside and started mixing up some dough for biscuits. Both he and Smoke were being careful not to look directly into the fire. That would ruin a man’s night vision quicker than anything, and darkness had descended around the camp with the suddenness it always displayed in the high country.

  “Have you figured out where you’re going to put the dynamite?” Matt asked.

  Smoke nodded and said, “I think so. I’ll have to use a pick to chip out a place for it, but that’s all. The dynamite ought to do the rest of the work.”

  “That’s fine with me. I swung a pick enough when the two of us were mining down in Colorado, when I was just a kid.”

  Smoke remembered those days. Back then, the tragedy that had wiped out Matt’s family wasn’t that far in the past. He’d been Matt Cavanaugh then, but he had put that name aside and taken the name Jensen when he was old enough to set out on his own. That was his way of declaring that he and Smoke were brothers, and Smoke had always been touched by the gesture.

  Earlier this evening, when he unsaddled the horses, Smoke had taken the saddlebag containing the sticks of dynamite and draped it over a rock that was well away from the campfire. The explosive managed the difficult trick of being unstable and hard to set off, at the same time. If you dropped a stick of dynamite and it landed hard enough on a rock, it might blow. On the other hand, you could burn it without it going off, at least sometimes. It was hellish stuff, as Matt had said, but Smoke was confident that it would accomplish their goals.

  If they got the chance to use it, which was suddenly in doubt because as Matt reached for the frying pan to put the uncooked biscuits he had formed into it, a bullet whipped past his head and ricocheted off the cast-iron pan with a sinister whine like the keening of a lost soul.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Smoke and Matt reacted instantly and instinctively, throwing themselves in opposite directions away from the campfire. More shots blasted out as they rolled across the ground, out of the circle of light cast by the flames.

  By the time Smoke came to a stop, his gun was already in his hand without him even having to think about it. He lay on his belly and searched the darkness for muzzle flashes.

  Whoever had ambushed them had alre
ady stopped firing, though. The echoes of the shots rolled away over the hills, but no more reports followed.

  “Did they tag you, Smoke?” Matt called softly from the shadows on the other side of the fire.

  “Nope. You?”

  “I’m fine,” Matt replied. “I’m not sure that frying pan will ever be the same, though. And since I dropped my biscuits, I reckon they’re probably ruined.”

  Smoke grinned in the darkness. Leave it to Matt to make light of nearly being drilled by a bushwhacker, he thought.

  “You see where the shot came from?”

  “Not really. I think it came from over my shoulder somewhere.”

  Smoke’s instincts agreed with Matt’s. That would put the gunman somewhere above them in the hills.

  Gunmen, rather, because the shooting started again, but this time at least two guns were cracking as slugs clawed through the shadows, searching for Smoke and Matt.

  Smoke winced as he realized that some of the shots were coming pretty close to those saddlebags he had placed on the rock, away from the fire. He had half a dozen sticks of dynamite in there, and if a bullet struck them, it might set off all six sticks. That would produce an explosion big enough to blow the pool to Kingdom Come and take Smoke and Matt along with it.

  “Matt, I’m going to draw them off,” Smoke said. “When I do, you grab the saddlebags with that dynamite and toss them up in the rocks as far as you can.”

  “Isn’t that liable to set it off?”

  “I don’t think so. I wrapped them up pretty good. But if they do blow, I’d rather they were farther away from us.”

  “You and me both,” Matt said. “What happens after that?”

  “We work our way up there and see if we can find the buzzards,” Smoke said grimly.

  “I like the sound of that. Good luck.”

  “You, too.”

  Smoke took a deep breath, gathered himself, and suddenly surged to his feet. He ran upstream, crashing through the brush and emptying his Colt in the direction the shots were coming from. He saw orange spurts of muzzle flame winking at him and sensed as much as heard bullets sizzling through the air around his head.