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peeking through holes in the fence back of the barber shop.
    By the time the men had been released, it was late in the day and pointless to continue. Von Hausen and his party stayed at the small hotel while the gunslingers slept wherever they could.
    When the morning dawned and the European community and their scummy entourage finally got underway, Smoke was riding along the Fontenelle, with Commissary Ridge to the west.
    He’d had his fun, and now the game would turn serious, he guessed. He had insulted his majesty and his lordship, and the prince and their ladies, and the Germans would not take it lightly.
    But Smoke was still not going to start tossing lead at this point. He just could not accept that this was going to turn lethal. He just couldn’t. Those following him were going to have to show that they really intended to kill him before he turned and made his stand.
    He hoped von Hausen would call it off.
    Deep inside him, he knew the German would not.

5
     
    “He’s stopped tryin’ to hide his trail,” Gil Webb said. “That makes me wonder what he’s up to.”
    Nat Reed nodded his head in agreement. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. “What you gonna do with all the money them crazy people is payin’ us, Gil?”
    “Spend it on women and booze,” the man-hunter said simply and honestly.
    They were waiting for the main party to catch up, taking a few minutes to rest.
    “That’s a lot of damn money to spend on women and whiskey.”
    “So what are you gonna do with your pay?”
    Nat grinned. “Spend it on women and whiskey.”
    The men laughed.
    “You ever been up in this part of the country, Nat?”
    “Nope. I’m a plains and desert man, myself. That map we looked at the other day showed some hellacious mountains just a few miles north of here.”
    “Yeah. John T. and Utah and them other high-country boys is gonna have to take the point from here on out. I ain’t got no idea where we are.”
    John T. sat his saddle and looked down at the clear tracks Smoke was leaving. His smile held no humor. “He’s leadin’ us straight into the wilderness. I got a hunch he’s gonna take us into the big canyon country.”
    “What is that?” Gunter asked.
    “A damn good place to stay out of,” John T. told him. “Smoke was raised by mountain men, so he’ll know the High Lonesome mighty well.”
    “The what?” Andrea asked.
    “A place where it’s hotter than hell and colder than ice. Where the winds blow all the time and they don’t never blow. Places were you can crawl to the edge and look down for more ’un five thousand feet-straight down.” (Only a slight exaggeration). “Wild lost rivers that don’t go nowhere.” (Actually they do). “They’s still Injuns in there that ain’t never seen a white man.” (Probably true). “Unless it was a mountain man. Like Smoke Jensen.”
    “Has it been explored?” Gunter asked.
    “Rivers been traveled on some. Mountain men and Injuns know it. And smoke Jensen.”
    “How big is this place?” von Hausen asked.
    “Don’t nobody know for sure. If that’s where Jensen is takin’ us, he’ll find a good spot to stash his horses and start to give us pure-dee hell. Jim Bridger country. It’s wild, people, and it gets wilder the further north you go. Any of you ever seen a lightnin’ storm in the high-up? They’re terrible. You claim to have studied him, von Hausen; but I bet you got most of your information from gossip and from them damn Penny Dreadful books. The same with you boys from the plains and the flats. So I’ll tell you what Jensen is and ain’t.
    “He’s a mountain man. He knows ‘em, he ain’t scared of ’em, and he can climb ’em. He’s at home in the mountains. And when he makes his stand, it’ll be in the mountains.”
    John T. paused to roll a cigarette and light up. “You see, people, this is just a game to him right now. He’s havin’ fun with us. If he was takin’ this serious, why