Brotherhood of Evil (29 page)

Chapter 61

The hour was getting close to midnight by the time the five men approached Sugarloaf headquarters on horseback. They hadn't run into any patrols, and they certainly hadn't seen or heard any sign of a large force heading for Big Rock. It appeared that none of Trask's men had escaped during or after the battle for the settlement.

Smoke wanted to be sure of that before he made up his mind on a course of action and led the way to the top of a ridge from which they could see the valley where the ranch house and the other headquarters buildings were located. A few lights were visible in the main house, but the rest of the place was dark.

Preacher said, “Looks like most ever'body done turned in.”

Matt said, “It doesn't look like they're getting ready to ride to war, that's for sure.”

Before leaving Big Rock, he had stolen a few minutes to check on Lorena Morton and apologize for the danger in which she had found herself a short time earlier. She had told him not to be ridiculous, that none of what had happened was his fault—which was true enough.

The blame for everything could be laid at the feet of Dr. Jonas Trask.

With luck, he would be answering for it soon.

Smoke leaned forward in his saddle, resting his hands on the horn as he studied the ranch headquarters and frowned in thought. An idea had come to him, prompted by what he had done back in Big Rock. It would be a huge gamble, but if it was successful, it could give them an advantage in the fight to come.

He straightened, took off his hat, and ran his fingers through his thick ash blond hair. As he tugged the hat on again, he said, “I'm going to give myself up to Trask.”

Startled exclamations came from the other four men. Smoke lifted a hand to silence them.

“What the hell are you talkin' about?” Preacher asked. “After all we've gone through to keep that there loco weed from gettin' his hands on you, you aim to just ride in and say ‘Here I am, boss'?”

“Something like that,” Smoke replied with a smile at the old-timer's outrage. “But there's a little more to it.”

Preacher snorted. “There dang well better be.”

Matt said, “No matter what you've got in mind, Smoke, giving yourself up doesn't sound like a good idea to me.”

“Look,” Smoke said, attempting to explain his reasoning, “Trask has got to have a mighty important reason for wanting to get his hands on me, otherwise he wouldn't have gone to so much trouble. Hiring all those gunhands had to cost him a fortune. I want to find out what he's got on his mind, and the easiest way to do that is to let him tell me.”

Pearlie rubbed his chin and said slowly, “I dunno, Smoke. Sounds awful risky to me.”

“Yeah,” Cal said. “What if he shoots you as soon as you ride in?”

“If all Trask wanted was to see me dead, he could have sent those hundred men after me to kill me, instead of taking over Big Rock and Sugarloaf.”

“Unless he wants to be the one to kill you himself,” Matt pointed out.

Smoke couldn't argue with the younger man's logic. He shrugged. “I suppose that's possible. But my gut tells me there's something else at the bottom of this. Something more than a thirst for vengeance on me is driving Trask.”

“Mebbe you're right,” Preacher said, “but what good does it do for you to surrender?”

“It'll make Trask think that he's won. He'll let his guard down, and maybe his men will, too. Then, when Cal gets back from Big Rock with Monte Carson and the rest of the men who'll be siding him, I'll be right there to strike a blow at the heart of the enemy while the rest of you attack.”

“I'm riding to Big Rock?” Cal asked.

“That's right,” Smoke said. “Actually, now that I think about it, you and Pearlie are both going.”

“Dadgum it,” Pearlie said. “I wanted to shoot some of those fellers.”

“You'll get your chance,” Smoke assured him. “Getting word to Monte is an important job. I'm sending two riders because at least one of you has got to get through and bring those reinforcements back.”

“All right,” Pearlie said with grudging acceptance. “We'll make it. You can count on that.”

“I am,” Smoke told him.

“And there's a chance the ball won't start until we get back here, right?”

“A good chance. That's the way it'll be if everything goes according to plan.” Smoke looked up at the stars and gauged the time. “It'll be a little while before dawn by the time you get back. That'll be a good time to hit them.”

Matt suggested, “Why don't you wait until then to ride down and surrender?”

“I'll wait awhile,” Smoke said, “but I want to have a chance to talk to Trask and find out what's behind all this before hell starts to pop.”

“Still sounds plumb loco to me,” Preacher said, “but I know once you've got your mind made up, there ain't no changin' it. Pearlie, you and the boy rattle your hocks on back to Big Rock and fetch Monte. Don't lollygag none.”

“No chance of that.” Pearlie turned his horse toward town. “Come on, kid.”

He and Cal rode away, vanishing in the night.

Once they were gone, Matt said, “So Smoke, what do Preacher and I do while you're down there having your little parley with Trask?”

“You'll wait here. The two of you will lead the attack when the others get back. Even with reinforcements, you'll be outnumbered, so you'll have to hit them hard and fast if you're going to have any chance of winning.”

“We can do that,” Preacher said. “Ain't gonna be easy waitin' up here until dawn, though.”

“Smoke's got the harder job,” Matt said. “Staying alive until then.”

Smoke chuckled at that.

The stars wheeled through the ebony sky overhead as the three men waited, talking quietly among themselves. The conversation was of little consequence. Preacher explained how he had run into Isaac Herschkowitz and decided to take on the role of a traveling peddler and tinker. Mostly, though, it was the sort of talk a family would share while sitting around enjoying each other's company.

Finally, Smoke lifted a hand in farewell and nudged his horse into motion.

As he started down the slope, Preacher called after him, “Wonder what you're gonna find down there.”

So did Smoke, but he still didn't have any answers. Major Pike might have known what Trask's goal was, but Pike was dead.

Actually, the only thing Smoke was sure of was that whatever awaited him at Sugarloaf, it wouldn't be anything good.

Chapter 62

Jonas Trask was asleep, his slumber haunted by nightmares of the war as usual, when someone pounded on the door of the room he had claimed as his own. He cried out, lost for a second on seas of blood, then struggled to wakefulness and sat up in bed. He ran his fingers through his tangled hair.

The darkened window told him it was still night. Whoever was out there in the hall had better have a good reason for disturbing him, he thought. “What is it?”

“Hate to bother you, Doctor,” came the voice of one of his men, “but, uh, something's happened. You need to come see.”

Trask got out of bed and stomped to the door. He was dressed in shirt, vest, and trousers, although he had taken off his boots before stretching out. He jerked the door open and snapped at the unshaven, clearly nervous outlaw who stood there. “Don't be mysterious. Tell me what this is about.”

“Smoke Jensen just rode in and surrendered.”

The words struck Trask like a physical blow. The news was what he had wanted all along, of course. Getting his hands on the legendary Smoke Jensen had been his goal for a long time, ever since he had first postulated his theory. But a part of him had been doubtful that it would ever happen.

“You're sure it's Jensen?” he asked when he'd recovered enough from his shock to speak again.

“Yeah, I've seen pictures of him in the illustrated magazines. It's Jensen, all right.”

“Where is he now?”

“Sitting on his horse in front of the house with a dozen men around him, holding guns on him.”

“Get more men,” Trask ordered curtly. “A dozen might not be enough where Smoke Jensen is concerned. I'll be down in a moment.”

The gunman nodded and turned away.

Trask put his boots on, then went to the dresser and lit the lamp. He buttoned his shirt collar, picked up a string tie, and fastened it around his neck. He ran his fingers through his hair again to get it in some semblance of order.

It was a momentous occasion. He wanted to dignify it by looking presentable.

He didn't put on his gun belt before he left the room. He wasn't going to need a weapon, he thought. He was fairly proficient with a revolver, but more than anything else he was a man of science and reason.
Those
were his true weapons.

He smiled as he went down the stairs, knowing that he was going to meet his destiny.

 

 

The biggest danger in riding in like Smoke had done was trigger-happy guards. It was why he had identified himself as quickly and as loudly as possible. He wanted all the outlaws around to know that he was the man Trask was after, and that they needed to keep him alive.

It had worked. He was sitting his saddle in front of the house—
his
house, he thought as he tamped down the fires of anger burning inside him—and waited for the man who had brought hell to Sugarloaf.

A tall, lean figure with a shock of dark hair stepped out onto the porch. He was well-dressed, although his clothes were a little rumpled as if he had slept in them. His eyes blazed with the fires of madness as he gazed intently at Smoke. “It really is you,” the man said by way of greeting. “You're Smoke Jensen.”

“That's right. And I reckon you're Jonas Trask.”

“
Doctor
Jonas Trask,” the man corrected.

Smoke shrugged slightly as if the title didn't mean anything to him. In truth, it didn't. No man responsible for so much death and destruction deserved to be called
Doctor
as far as he was concerned.

“You have my wife,” Smoke said harshly. He knew that wasn't true but wanted Trask to think he believed Sally's life was in danger. It would make Trask more likely to believe Smoke's surrender was real.

“She has not been harmed,” Trask said. “You have my word on that. I wish her no ill will, and I regret any inconvenience we've caused the lady. I had to ensure, though, that you would accept my invitation.”

“Invitation?” Smoke repeated. “Is that what you call it? Seems to me more like you declared war on this whole part of the country.”

“Not at all. You have to understand. The mission in which I'm engaged will change the course of medical history. It will change the world. Some small . . . sacrifices . . . are necessary for progress to take place. They always have been.”

Smoke still wore his gun. Even though he was surrounded by gun-swift killers, he knew he could have his Colt out and put a bullet in Trask's brain before any of them could stop him. For a second, he considered doing just that, to make certain whatever evil scheme Trask had in mind would never come about.

He discarded the idea. He wasn't ready to die yet, not when he still had plans of his own to put into action. “What is it you want?” he asked in a hard, flat voice.

“Why don't you come in?” Trask suggested. “I'd like to explain everything to you.” He smiled. “I realize I'm inviting you into your own house. I don't mean to insult you by doing that. It's just the situation.”

“All right.” Smoke started to swing down from the saddle.

Trask held up a hand to stop him. “I'm sorry, but I have to insist that you hand over your gun first. You see, I've studied your life as a pistoleer with great interest, Mr. Jensen. I know you're quite possibly the fastest man with a gun who has ever lived.”

Smoke didn't like being unarmed, but he had known all along that was a possibility. He held up both hands, then reached across with his left to take the Colt from its holster. One of Trask's men stepped forward and snatched the gun out of his fingers.

“Thank you,” Trask said. “Now, please come in.”

Smoke dismounted. With more than a dozen guns still trained on him, he climbed the steps to the porch. Several of Trask's hired killers were up there, too, flanking the so-called doctor. They kept Smoke covered as he followed Trask inside.

They went to the parlor, where Trask lit a lamp. As the yellow glow filled the room, Smoke caught his breath at the sight of a man who had been standing in the darkness. The man was tall, with arms and shoulders that appeared massively powerful. His eyes were open, but like the rest of his features, they were utterly devoid of expression.

Trask noticed Smoke's reaction. “Don't mind Dan. He's my servant.”

“He was just standing here in the dark.”

“Yes, Dan doesn't require sleep anymore. One of the unexpected effects of his involvement in my project.”

That made no sense to Smoke, but he supposed if he waited, Trask might explain it. In the meantime, he didn't look at the big man called Dan. As Preacher would have put it, the sight of those empty eyes gave him the fantods.

Several of the outlaws followed them into the parlor. Trask said, “I'd send these men away so that we could discuss this matter in private, Mr. Jensen, but I'm afraid I can't run the risk of you doing something foolish. I don't expect you to understand—yet—the great honor I'm about to bestow on you.”

“I want to see my wife,” Smoke said. That seemed like something a prisoner in his situation would demand.

Trask shook his head. “I'm afraid that's not possible, but I give you my word, on my sacred oath as a physician, that she is unharmed. Perhaps you'll see her later.”

Trask was lying and Smoke knew it. Trask didn't have Sally, and even if he did, he had no intention of letting Smoke see her. All he cared about was his damned
project
, whatever it was.

“Could I offer you something to drink?” Trask went on.

“I don't want anything to drink,” Smoke snapped. “I just want to know what the hell this is all about. What's so important about me that you'd go to all this trouble just to get your hands on me?”

Trask smiled. “Well . . . to tell the truth, it's not actually
you
that I want to get my hands on, Mr. Jensen. It's your
brain.”