Massacre Canyon (17 page)

After a few minutes Smoke looked back and saw a dust cloud hanging in the air behind them, as if the guards from the prison were giving chase. Smoke figured by now they probably had come upon Jesperson and discovered that the superintendent had been a willing participant in the scheme. They could ride around in circles for all Smoke cared, as long as their horses kicked up that dust and made things look realistic.

Mordecai Kroll saw the dust, too, and said over his shoulder, “They're after us! I told you we should'a hung on to Jesperson!”

“We'll be all right,” Smoke told him. “We just have to make it to the Gila.”

“What good's that gonna do us?”

“You'll see,” Smoke said.

“Mister, who in blazes
are
you? I know damned well you ain't really a priest!”

Smoke laughed and said, “You never saw a gun-toting padre before?”

“Maybe there's been a few, but you ain't one of 'em,” Mordecai insisted. “You said my brother sent you. Did he pay you to get me outta there? Why didn't he come himself?”

“Just keep driving,” Smoke ordered. “All your questions will be answered in due time.”

Mordecai obviously didn't like being told what to do, or being kept in the dark, but he slapped the reins against the horses' rumps and called out to them again. The buggy kept rolling fast over the northbound trail.

They passed through some rolling, brushy hills as they approached the Gila River. The trail veered away from the Colorado. By the time they came in sight of the Gila, the confluence of the two rivers was about a mile west of where they were.

Up ahead, a rope-drawn ferry crossed the stream, which was about sixty feet wide at this point, with a fairly strong current. A horse could swim from one side to the other, but the crossing would be risky.

The ferryman had a shack on the southern bank; there was nothing on the northern bank except the landing that stuck out a few feet into the river. The thick rope that was attached to the ferry looped around a capstan on both sides. A mule was harnessed to one of the poles that stuck out from the capstan on the southern bank and provided the power for the ferry, which at the moment was at this end of the rope.

A stocky, gray-haired man came out of the shack as Mordecai drove the buggy up to the landing. As he walked toward them, he said, “Don't get many buggies goin' across the river. Mostly just prospectors with their mules and outfits—”

The garrulous ferryman stopped short at the sight of Mordecai in his prison garb. Being this close to Yuma, he had to be familiar with what the inmates wore. His eyes widened and he started to back off.

“Say, I can't—”

Smoke hopped down from the buggy and leveled the Colt at the man.

“Sure you can,” he said easily. “Let down the bar on the ferry. We don't have any time to waste.”

The gray-haired man swallowed hard. He moved to the ferry and let down the bar that closed it off.

“Drive on there,” Smoke told Mordecai, who eased the buggy onto the big raft with a railing around it.

Smoke stepped onto the ferry, too, and reached into the buggy to withdraw a Winchester he had placed on the floorboard before he ever drove out to the prison. He worked the rifle's lever and pointed it at the ferryman.

“Just in case you get any ideas about stranding us in the middle of the river,” Smoke said. “I promise you I can knock you down with this repeater before you could make it back to your shack.”

“Padre, I believe you,” the ferryman said fervently. “I never knowed a priest to lie yet.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Smoke had to make an effort not to chuckle.

The ferryman fastened the gate, then went to the mule and grasped its harness. He pulled on it and said, “Come on, you jughead. If you get me shot, I ain't never gonna forgive you.”

The mule began plodding in a circle. That turned the capstan and pulled the rope. The ferry lurched out away from the landing and started across the river. As it neared the middle of the stream, Smoke felt the current tugging on it, but the sturdy rope held easily and the crossing continued.

Smoke kept the rifle trained on the ferryman, who didn't know anything about the escape plan and had to assume that Smoke was really helping Mordecai Kroll get away from the prison. Believing his life to be in danger, the man followed orders and kept the capstan turning until the ferry reached the landing on the north side of the river.

There Smoke unlatched the gate and stepped off first so that he could cover Mordecai with the rifle, too. He backed away a few steps while Mordecai drove the buggy across the landing onto the bank.

“Hold it right there,” he said. He walked to the buggy and took out an ax he had concealed in the back along with the rifle.

Most men would need both arms to swing an ax like Smoke did then, but he accomplished it one-handed while he held the rifle in his other hand. With a few swift, accurate strokes, he chopped through the rope. When the first stroke landed, the ferryman shouted indignantly, “Hey!” but Smoke ignored him.

Mordecai laughed when he saw what Smoke was doing.

“Whoever you are, mister, you're pretty smart,” he said. “That posse won't be able to cross the river after us now. They ain't likely to try swimmin' their mounts across, anyway.”

“That's the idea,” Smoke said. He grunted and swung the ax one more time. The keen edge bit through the last strands of the rope. It collapsed into the water.

The ferryman howled in anger at the destruction.

The damage could be repaired, Smoke knew, and anyway, he intended to see to it that the man was compensated for his trouble. It was all part of the price of saving Luke's life. This ought to finish the job of convincing Mordecai that the escape was genuine.

Leaving the ferryman yelling curses at them, Smoke swung up into the buggy and said, “Let's go.” Mordecai got the team moving again.

“You still haven't told me who you are, mister. You sure as hell ain't Father Hannigan.”

“Keep driving,” Smoke told him. “Putting the ferry out of commission will stop any pursuit for a while, but a posse could always go upstream and find a ford somewhere else.”

“Not for a good long ways,” Mordecai said. “I know this part of the country. By the time they can get on our trail again, we'll be so far ahead of them they won't be able to catch up.” He laughed. “I'm free, damn it! Free!”

Smoke had seen Mordecai eyeing his guns more than once. He knew what was going through the outlaw's mind now that they were well clear of the prison. If Mordecai could get his hands on a gun, he could kill his rescuer and set off on his own. That would simplify matters.

Besides, Mordecai wouldn't like owing a debt to anybody. There was too big a chance they would want something in return. Easier just to accept a benefactor's help . . . then kill him.

Smoke wasn't going to let that happen.

Mordecai drove for several more miles. The farther they got from the river, the more arid and rugged the landscape became. Smoke finally pointed to a canyon formed by twin buttes that jutted up from the ground and told Mordecai, “Drive up in there.”

“What for?”

“I want to rest the horses, and that looks like a spot where nobody will be likely to see us.”

Mordecai shrugged as if that made sense to him. He steered the buggy into the canyon, which was about twenty yards wide.

Smoke, Matt, and Preacher had scouted out this spot a day earlier. It was where Matt and Preacher would pick up their trail, rather than having to follow the buggy all the way from the prison. Smoke's plan was to leave marks along the way to make trailing them easier, without Mordecai noticing what he was doing, of course.

A couple of small cottonwood trees grew at the base of one of the mesas, and marked the location of a tiny spring that wasn't much more than a trickle. It was enough to keep some grass growing there, however. That grass provided graze for the four saddle mounts Smoke had picketed here.

Mordecai saw the horses and grinned.

“You planned out this whole thing, didn't you?” he said. “I was afraid we were gonna have to keep using this buggy.”

“No, we'll be leaving it here,” Smoke said.

He saw the cunning expression that appeared for a second on Mordecai's face. The outlaw was already trying to figure out his next move, which Smoke was sure would involve getting rid of him.

Unfortunately for Mordecai, Smoke was already a couple of steps ahead of him.

“Pull up over there next to the spring,” Smoke said as he pointed toward the trees.

Mordecai brought the buggy to a halt and jumped down from it. He stretched and grinned in satisfaction.

“The air sure smells better when a man is free,” he said.

“I reckon you're right about that,” Smoke said as he stepped down to the ground. “Hold the horses so they don't drink too much. As small as that spring is, they might drink it dry.”

“Yeah, wouldn't want that,” Mordecai said. “This is dry country around here.”

Smoke set the Winchester on the wagon seat and took off the cassock. It was hot and hampered his movements, and he was glad to be rid of it. He threw it behind the seat, took the collar off, and tossed it into the buggy as well. Under the cassock he wore his usual range clothes, denim trousers and a faded butternut work shirt. He traded the priest's hat for his own Stetson, which was also hidden behind the buggy's rear seat along with his gun belt. When he had buckled it on and slipped the Colt into its holster, he felt normal again for the first time since the masquerade began.

“See, I knew you weren't no priest,” Mordecai said as Smoke walked up to him, carrying the Winchester again.

“You're right,” Smoke said. “A priest wouldn't do this.”

He moved so fast that Mordecai had no chance to stop him. He brought the rifle up and smashed the butt against the back of Mordecai's head, dropping the outlaw senseless to the ground at his feet.

By the time Mordecai Kroll groaned, shifted on the ground, and started to come around, Smoke had him tied hand and foot. He had dragged Mordecai into the shade cast by the mesa, thus sparing him the blazing Arizona sun.

As far as Smoke was concerned, that was more consideration than the outlaw deserved. Mordecai dying of heatstroke wouldn't bring him any closer to freeing Luke, however.

Mordecai pried his eyes open and saw Smoke hunkered next to a small fire, sipping from a cup of coffee. The pot sat at the edge of the flames, staying hot.

Right away, Mordecai started to curse. Venom and obscenity poured from his mouth. Smoke let the filth spew for a few moments. Then when Mordecai paused to take a breath, he said calmly, “Keep that up, Kroll, and I'll gag you.”

“You can't—”

“Try me and see.”

Mordecai lay there glaring murderously at him, then said with a whine in his voice, “Why'd you wallop me? I thought you were helpin' me get away.”

“I am,” Smoke said. “But I can't afford to let you double-cross me. You were already thinking about killing me since you figure I'm not any more use to you now that you're out of prison.”

Mordecai didn't bother trying to deny that. Instead, he asked sullenly, “What is it you want from me? You intend to make my brother pay ransom to get me back?”

“In a way, that's exactly what I'm going to do. You said you don't think I'm really a priest. You're right about that, Kroll. My name is Smoke Jensen. That mean anything to you?”

“Same last name as that no-good bounty hunter who got lucky and caught me.” Mordecai frowned. “Seems like I've heard of you, too. Smoke Jensen . . . Hell, yeah! You're that Colorado gunfighter.”

“I'm also Luke Jensen's brother,” Smoke said.

Mordecai sneered at him.

“I'd say I can see the family resemblance, but to tell the truth, I can't. I don't even remember that well what the damn bounty hunter looks like.”

“Maybe you'll recognize him when you see him again.”

“You're takin' me to him?” Mordecai asked as a worried look appeared on his face.

“In a manner of speaking,” Smoke said. He took another sip of the coffee. “Your brother is holding him prisoner. Rudolph sent me a letter saying that if I didn't bust you out of prison and bring you to him, he was going to kill Luke.”

Mordecai just stared at him for several seconds. Then, abruptly, the outlaw threw his head back and brayed with laughter.

“Mister, that's just about the funniest turn of events I ever heard of,” he said as the echoes of his ugly laughter bounced between the twin buttes. “Your brother is responsible for me bein' in that hellhole, and you have to get me out to save his life! Mighty fittin', don't you think?”

Smoke didn't think so at all, but he wasn't going to waste time saying as much to Mordecai Kroll. Instead, he told the outlaw, “Rudolph gave me instructions in his letter. He said I was to get you out of Yuma—although he didn't say how, he left that up to me—and told me I was to bring you to the gang's hideout by myself. He said you'd tell me how to find it and that if I didn't come alone, he'd kill Luke. Once I've turned you over safely to him, he'll let Luke and me go.”

Mordecai nodded, solemn now, and said, “He'll do it, too, if that's what he told you. My brother's a man of his word. Just because he's an outlaw, that don't make him a liar.”

Smoke didn't believe that for a second, but he wasn't going to make an issue of it at this point. Instead, he said, “I hope you're right, because I've risked everything in order save
my
brother.”

Mordecai wiggled around in an effort to get more comfortable where he was sitting with his back propped against a rock. He said, “Now that you've told me all this, how come you got me tied up? Seems to me like we're workin' together, not against each other?”

“I need you alive and well to tell me how to find the hideout, but like I said before, you don't really need me anymore. If you got a chance, you'd kill me and take off back to your brother and the rest of the gang on your own. Once you got there, you could kill Luke. I'm sure you'd enjoy that.”

“I won't lie to you,” Mordecai said. “I surely would enjoy it. But a deal's a deal. You made one with Rudolph, and he'd be upset with me if I didn't honor it. So you can turn me loose now—”

“Forget it,” Smoke cut in. “You're staying tied up until we get where we're going. That's my best chance to get my brother out of this mess alive.”

Mordecai glared at him again.

“I'm gonna tell Rudolph how you mistreated me,” he threatened. “This is gonna backfire on you, Jensen.”

“I'll take that chance. In the meantime, after the horses have rested for a few more minutes, I'll get you in a saddle and tie you onto one of the mounts. We're taking all six animals with us, so we'll always have fresh horses for the journey. If you want to, you can go ahead and tell me where the hideout is.”

“So
you
can kill
me
and go after your bounty-huntin' brother by yourself?” Mordecai shook his head. “No thanks. Like you said, you need me alive as long as you don't know where the hideout is. I reckon we'll keep it that way.” He grinned. “And we'll see who stays alive the longest. . . .”

 

 

Once Marshal Simon Ford had told Darcy all about Smoke Jensen's plan, it hadn't taken long for her to find out even more.

She had sent several telegrams and within a couple of days had received replies that told her considerably more not only about Smoke and Matt, but also about an old mountain man known as Preacher who seemed to be a close friend of the Jensen brothers. Close enough to be considered an adopted uncle or even a surrogate father.

Although the details were sketchy, it was rumored that in the past the Jensens and Preacher had banded together to clash with several powerful politicians and businessmen. In certain circles, they were regarded with suspicion and outright hostility.

This case had nothing to do with their political activities, but that background was still enough to make it a more interesting story. Readers loved tales of corruption and chicanery in the halls of power. The slightest connection to that was enough to perk up a story.

The public also enjoyed reading about outlaws and gunmen. Jesse James, although he seemed to be lying low in recent months, was still a major celebrity known from one end of the country to the other. Before Darcy was through, the Kroll brothers would be even more notorious than Jesse and
his
brother Frank.

Blood and thunder, political wheeling and dealing—what else could you call that meeting with Governor Frémont?—lawbreakers, brotherly love on both sides.... It was too bad there wasn't a beautiful woman involved somewhere, preferably as the object of romantic rivalry between two men, she thought as she walked toward a livery stable in the town of Yuma, Arizona Territory. Then the story would have everything.

She would just have to do the best with what she had, she told herself.

To further that end, she wore a riding outfit today, a split brown riding skirt, a white shirt open at the throat, a brown vest, and a flat-crowned brown hat. She knew she looked fetching, which never hurt when she was about to ask a favor of a man. Or in this case, two men.

Persistent inquiries had led her to Smoke Jensen, and once she'd found Smoke, she found his two companions as well. The young, big, handsome blond man was Matt Jensen. The grizzled old-timer in buckskins was Preacher. They were in the stable saddling their horses when Darcy came in. A couple of pack animals, already loaded with supplies, were hitched nearby.

Matt Jensen glanced at her, then looked again. Darcy was used to that reaction from men, but she had to make an effort not to smile anyway. She nodded and said, “Mr. Jensen?”

She spoke to Matt instead of Preacher because she had already noticed that the older man was regarding her warily. A man of his years was more likely to prove immune to her charms, although if she could get him to remember the days of his youth, she could probably change that.

“I'm Matt Jensen,” he said politely. “Have we met, ma'am?”

“Not until now. I'm Darcy Garnett.”

Now she smiled. Matt smiled back, which she took as an encouraging sign.

“Matt Jensen, Miss Garnett,” he said as he reached up to tug on the brim of his hat. “It is
Miss
Garnett?”

“It is,” Darcy said.

Matt leaned his head toward his companion and said, “This is Preacher.”

Preacher nodded, but the only sound he made was an unfriendly grunt.

“Don't mind him,” Matt went on. “He's rough as an old cob. Not used to being around civilized folks. What can we do for you, Miss Garnett?”

“Well, you see, I'm a reporter. I've been writing for
Harper's Weekly
.”

It was only one story she had sold to the magazine, but she didn't consider her statement too much of a stretch.

“When I heard that the famous Jensen brothers were in town,” she continued, “I knew I had to see if the two of you would grant me an interview.”

Now Matt looked almost as wary as Preacher. He shook his head and said, “No offense, miss, but nobody would want to read about Smoke and me.”

“Are you having a bit of sport with me, Mr. Jensen? Your brother is one of the most famous gunfighters in the West, and you're making a name for yourself that's going to rank you as his equal very soon. Everyone wants to read about the two of you.”

She paused, weighed the situation, and decided she might as well go ahead and play her trump card. She wasn't going to get anywhere with flattery or playing up to Matt. He might enjoy it, but it wouldn't sway his decisions.

“Especially since you've joined forces to rescue your other brother from the clutches of the Kroll gang,” she said.

Matt drew in a sharp breath, obviously trying not to reveal his surprise but failing.

“You know about Luke?” he asked.

“I wrote about his capture of Mordecai Kroll, as well as Mordecai's trial and conviction. And I know that he's been captured by Rudolph Kroll, who has threatened his life if your brother Smoke doesn't rescue Mordecai.”

“How the hell—Beg your pardon, Miss Garnett.”

“It's all right,” Darcy said. “I'd be startled, too, if I were you. You thought all of this was a secret, didn't you?”

Preacher asked in a harsh voice, “What do you want, gal?”

“It's really quite simple,” Darcy said. “I know the two of you are going to trail Smoke and Mordecai back to the Kroll stronghold.” She smiled again. “I want you to take me with you.”