This Violent Land

The old man dressed in buckskin met Smoke at the door. “Damn, boy, this is the second time in the last three months you’ve showed up here. Are you tellin’ me I ain’t rid of you yet? I raised me a wolf oncet. Found ’im when he was a pup, I did. And when he growed big enough to take care of hisself, I set ’im free, but damn if he didn’t keep comin’ back. You ain’t no different from that wolf, ’ceptin’ at least there come a time when that critter quit comin’ around. When is that goin’ to happen to you?”

Smoke chuckled. In the old man’s eyes and the tone of his voice, he could read the pleasure Preacher felt at having him back.

“I figure I have to keep an eye on you, Preacher. You’re getting so old, I’m not sure you can even feed yourself, anymore.”

“Don’t you worry about me feedin’ myself. If I have to, I’ll take a fish out of a grizzly’s hand, and you know I can do it,” Preacher said, continuing the banter.

“I know that, old man. That’s why all the grizzlies steer well clear of you.”

“What brings you back? Did you get fired?”

“Sort of.”

“How the blazes can you get sort of fired?”

“I’m a deputy emeritus.”

“Boy, how am I gonna know what the Sam Hill you’re talkin’ about, if you don’t speak English?”

Smoke laughed. “Are you telling me that you don’t know what the word emeritus means?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m tellin’ you. I don’t have no idea what that word means.”

Smoke shook his head. “Why, I thought everybody knew what that word meant.” He had to laugh as Preacher glared at his joshing. He defined the word, then explained, as Marshal Holloway had explained to him, how it meant he could keep the badge but was free to do things on his own.

“Good, good. You got back just in time,” Preacher said.

“Just in time for what?”

“Just in time to move these half-broke horses we been gatherin’ to someplace where we can sell ’em. Especially since you ain’t gettin’ paid for wearin’ that tin star no more.”

“What were you going to do with them if I hadn’t come back when I did?” Smoke asked.

“I was gonna shoot ’em,” Preacher said.

Smoke laughed. “Preacher, you can go to hell for lying as well as stealing, you know.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll be among friends. I don’t hardly know no mountain man, from Jim Bridger to Pierre Gardeau to Kit Carson, who ain’t turned the air blue with their lies. Or did they turn it blue with their cussin’? I never could get that straight.”

“Are we going to round up the horses or are you just going to stand here all day with your jaw flapping?” Smoke asked.

“You’re the one doin’ all the talkin’, boy. Come on. Let’s get with it.” Preacher led the way.

It had been Smoke who, some time ago, got Preacher interested in raising and selling horses. With the beaver pelt business no longer profitable, it hadn’t been that hard to talk the old mountain man into the idea. Since most of the horses were wild mustangs they had captured and penned, there had been very little financial investment in the business.

Smoke had thought that the hardest thing would be finding and capturing them, but that proved to be less difficult than breaking them.

* * *

“You don’t want to break ’em all the way now,” Preacher said one spring day as Smoke got up painfully and started back toward the horse that had just thrown him. “You got to leave some spirit in ’em or they won’t be worth a damn.”

“Yeah? Well, I’ll try and keep that in mind,” Smoke said with a grin that was more of a grimace as he returned to his task.

* * *

Their first trip to market a couple weeks later wasn’t nearly as much of a chore as he had assumed. They kept the number of mounts they were moving relatively small, no more than thirty, and the horses considered it more desirable to stay with their own, rather than wander off.

* * *

Several weeks later, Smoke and Preacher were pushing nineteen head of half-broken mustangs and sixteen head of Appaloosa south into the wild country. They crossed the Colorado River, then cut southeast.

A few miles from the Dolores River the wind changed.

Smoke lifted his head. “Smell’s like somethin’s burning.”

Preacher brought them to a halt and stood up in his stirrups to sniff the air. “Yeah, somethin’ is burnin’, and there is more to it than wood. Take a sniff of that air, boy, and tell me what you smell.”

Smoke tried to identify the mixture of strange odors as he bunched the horses. “You’re right, it’s more than wood. Leather and burnt cloth maybe? And . . . something else . . . something I can’t figure out.”

Preacher’s reply was grim. “It’s burnt hair and flesh, that’s what it is. What do you say we put the horses in that box canyon over yonder, then go take us a look-see?”

“All right,” Smoke agreed.

After securing the open end of the canyon with brush and rope, the men rode slowly and carefully toward the smell of charred flesh, the odor becoming thicker as they rode. At the base of a small hill, they left their horses and crawled up to the crest. From there, they were able to look down on a scene reflecting the tragedy that had befallen the occupants of two partially burned wagons below.

Tied by his ankles from a limb, and hanging head down over a small fire, was a naked man. Even from the distance, Smoke and Preacher could see that his head, face, and shoulders were little more than blackened meat. The mutilated bodies of two other men were sprawled out on the ground, and a third was tied to the wheel of one of the burned wagons. Like the man hanging by his ankles, all had died hard.

“You said you heard gunfire about two hours ago,” Preacher whispered. “Turns out you was right. It was the damn Apache.”

“Apache, up here? Isn’t this a bit north of their territory?”

“Oh, they come up this far ever’ now and again. Most of the time so’s they can raid the Utes.”

Appalled, Smoke whispered, “What were these people doing here in the first place? And how the hell did they get the wagons this far? There’s no road and very little open ground to speak of.”

“Sheer stubbornness, I reckon. But I sure hope they warn’t no women with ’em. If so, God help ’em.”

“I wonder if the Indians are gone.” Smoke looked around.

“Yeah, they’re gone. If they warn’t I’d be able to smell ’em,” Preacher said.

Smoke wasn’t sure whether Preacher meant they really could smell them or if that was just his colorful way of saying he would feel it if they were present, but knowing Preacher as well as he did, he was ready to believe that Preacher actually could smell the Apaches.

“I think we should go down there and poke around some, then give those hombres a Christian burial. Maybe after we plant ’em, we can say a word or two.” Preacher spat on the ground. “Damn heathens.”

They slid down the hill to the charred wagons.

On the ground beside one, Smoke found a shovel with its handle intact. Taking turns, they dug a long, shallow grave, burying the remains of the men in one common grave. That done, they walked around picking rocks to cover the mound so as to keep wolves and coyotes from digging up the bodies and eating them. Preacher took off his battered old hat and stood alongside the grave. Smoke followed suit.

Preacher began speaking. “Lord, from seein’ what’s left of a Bible that was here in one of the wagons, I know the fellers that was travelin’ in ’em was most likely good Christian folk. There ain’t nothin’ more we can do for ’em now, other than turn ’em over to you. Amen.” He put his hat back on and looked over at Smoke. “That’ll do it, I reckon.” He turned and walked the area, cutting sign, trying to determine if anyone got away.

Smoke rummaged through what was left of the wagons and found what he didn’t want to find. “Preacher!” he called.

The mountain man turned back. Smoke held up a dress, then another, smaller than the first.

Preacher shook his shaggy head as he walked back. “You found any women’s bodies?”

“No.”

“God have mercy on their souls, that means the Injuns musta took’em,” Preacher said, fingering the gingham. “They won’t kill ’em, but it’s goin’ to be a hard life for ’em. Any man that would bring a woman down here to this part of the country is a damn fool.”

“Maybe the women got away,” Smoke said hopefully.

“It ain’t likely. But we’ll take a good look.”

Almost on the verge of giving up after an hour of looking, Smoke made one more sweep of the area. He saw shoe prints mixed in with marks and tracks. The prints were small—a child or a woman. He pointed them out to Preacher.

“Good Lord! Them is women’s tracks! Mayhap she got clear and run away.” Preacher circled the tracks until he got them separated. “Don’t seem like they was followin’ her. Get the horses, son. If she’s gonna have any chance o’ survivin’, we got to find her before dark.”

It didn’t take them long to track the woman who got away. They found her hiding behind some brush at the mouth of a canyon. Try as she could to be still, she gave away her position. Some of the branches of the bush where she was hiding showed movement.

“Girl,” Preacher called to her. “You can come out now. You’re among friends.”

Smoke could see one high-top button shoe. “Please come on out now. We’re not going to hurt you.”

There was no response from whomever was in the bush.

“Reason we’re tryin’ to get you to come out is we just seen a rattler crawlin’ in there with you,” Preacher lied.

With a little gasp of alarm, a young woman bolted from behind the bush and straight into Smoke’s arms.

Smoke had expected it to be a young girl, perhaps no more than eleven or twelve, but she was a young woman, at least eighteen or twenty. Her eyes were light blue, set in a heart-shaped face, framed with hair the color of wheat.

She was, Smoke realized, an exceptionally pretty woman.

They stood for several long heartbeats, gazing at each other, neither of them speaking.

“What’s your name?” he finally asked.

“Nicole. Nicole Woodward. Are they . . . is everyone dead?”

“I’m afraid so.” Smoke knew the news was harsh, but he spoke as softly as he could, trying to break it to her gently.

Nicole put her face in her small hands and began crying. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t have any family to go back to. I don’t have anyone.”

Smoke put his arms around her and pulled her to him. He quickly became aware of two things—he felt intensely protective of her, and she felt soft and vulnerable in his arms. “Sure you do, Nicole. You have us.”

She pulled away after a long moment of being in his embrace and saw the deputy marshal’s star on his chest. “You’re a sheriff? Where were you? Why weren’t you here before? Why weren’t you here when we needed you?”

“I’m not a sheriff. I’m a deputy U.S. marshal. And believe me, Nicole, I would give anything to have been here earlier when you needed me.”

Preacher cleared his throat. “We best be gettin’ a move on.”

She shook her head at Smoke. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’m just so . . . so—” She was unable to finish the sentence.

“I know,” Smoke said. “You don’t have to apologize. Come on. Let’s go back to the wagons and see what we can find for you.”

“Are they . . . I mean . . .” Nicole put her hands over her eyes. “I don’t want to see anyone.”

“You won’t,” Preacher promised. “We already buried ’em. Come on. Nothing to see now but burned wagons and scattered goods.”

Rummaging around in the debris, Smoke found a few garments, including a lace corset, which a red-faced Nicole quickly snatched from him. He also found a saddle that had suffered only minor damage. Everything else was lost.

“You can ride Seven,” Smoke said. “He’ll be gentle with you if I tell him. I’ll throw this saddle on one of our trade mounts.”

“Now, how you figure she’s gonna set that saddle?” Preacher demanded. “What with all them skirts and pretty thingees she’s more’n likely wearin’ underneath?”

“She won’t be wearin’ that. She found a pair of men’s trousers that belonged to her uncle. She can put them on and ride astride.”

“Ridin’ astride ain’t fittin’ for no decent woman to do. Nobody except a soiled dove would do that.”

“Well, Preacher, just what the hell do you suggest we do with her? Build a travois and drag her?” Smoke grumbled.

Preacher walked away muttering to himself as the girl came to Smoke’s side.

“I can sit a saddle. I rode as a child in Illinois.”

“Is that what you’re from?”

“No. I’m from Boston. My parents died when I was just a little girl, and I moved to Illinois to live with my uncle and aunt. What’s your name?”

“Smoke.” He jerked his thumb. “That’s Preacher. Don’t pay him any never-mind. He always talks gruff, but he doesn’t really mean it.”

“I already had that figured out.” She smiled.

Smoke swallowed. She was beautiful.

“Your name is Smoke?”

“That’s what I’m called.”

“At the trading post, we heard talk of a gunfighter called Smoke. Is that you?”

“I guess so.”

“They say you killed fifty men.” There was no fear in her eyes as she said it.

Smoke laughed. “I reckon I’ve killed more than my share, but I don’t think I’ve killed fifty. And the ones I did kill were all trying to kill me. They were fair fights.”

“You’ve had a lot of people try to kill you?”

“Yes.”

“You must piss a lot of people off.”

The answer was so unexpected that Smoke laughed out loud. He laughed so hard that his sides began to ache.

“What in Sam Hill is so damn funny?” Preacher asked, coming back to them.

“Nothing,” Smoke said, still laughing. “There’s nothing funny at all.”

“Well?” Nicole asked, innocently unaware of how funny her response had been. “Do you?”

“I seem to have a habit of running into people who are doing things they shouldn’t be doing, especially since I’ve put on this badge.” Smoke indicated the star on his shirt. “People like that do tend to get angry with me, and then they try to shoot me. I’ve been fortunate enough to be faster and more accurate than them.”

“You don’t look like a gunfighter.”

Smoke frowned. “I don’t?”

“No, not at all.”

“What does a gunfighter look like?”

“Mean and menacing, like this.” Nicole squinted her eyes, and turned the corner of her lips down, trying to snarl, but she couldn’t hold it and broke into a laugh.

She was joined by Smoke.

“I swear, the way you two is carryin’ on is like a couple o’ schoolkids,” Preacher said. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I don’t expect the Injuns to come back, but I got no desire to test that thought out, neither.”