The Family Jensen by William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone

nightfall again. I’d just as soon not have to do that. The longer those women and girls are in their hands…”
    His voice trailed off. He didn’t have to go into detail about what he meant. Crazy Bear understood as well as he did the risks that the prisoners faced. It was possible that some of the captives had already been assaulted. But the longer the outlaws had them, the worse it would be.
    “If we go ahead in the dark, we risk losing their trail,” Crazy Bear pointed out.
    “If we do, it ought to be easy enough to pick up again in the morning. They’ve been runnin’ parallel with the mountains all the way from Owl Rock.”
    The wagons were staying on the prairie, about half a mile from the edge of the foothills, and heading in a generally northward direction, curving gradually to the west to follow the Big Horn range. There weren’t many places for them to go. The mountains were too rugged for the outlaws to take the wagons across them.
    A couple more days of travel in the same direction would put them in the Montana country, where they could rendezvous with the Blackfeet or the Sioux. The Mayhews and their companions were running a considerable risk. It was possible the Indians they encountered would kill them, scalp them, and take the prisoners and the goods from the wagon train.
    Unless the men the Mayhews had joined up with had some sort of previous arrangement with the hostiles, Preacher mused. For years there had been certain white men who traded guns and whiskey with the Indians. He figured trash like that wouldn’t mind expanding their enterprise to slaves and stolen goods.
    He and Crazy Bear discussed the possibility for a few minutes, and the Crow chief agreed it might be true. He said, “I think we should go on and try to find their camp tonight.”
    “That’s what I think, too,” Preacher said. “We’ll take it slow and easy, so they won’t hear us comin’.”
    After resting the horses for a short time longer, the two men mounted up and rode northward again. The stars had come out, and the millions upon millions of pinpricks in the night sky cast enough illumination for them to see where they were going. The Big Horns loomed blackly on their left.
    Preacher and Crazy Bear weren’t in any hurry. The worst thing they could do was ride right into the middle of the enemy camp without knowing it was there. That wouldn’t accomplish anything except get them dead in a hurry.
    Their eyes constantly searched the darkness for the light of a campfire. There was nothing like that to be seen, so their other senses came into play. It was Preacher’s nose that warned him they were getting close to their quarry. He caught a faint whiff of wood smoke in the air, along with the smell of tobacco. He reined to a halt and put out a hand to signal Crazy Bear to do likewise.
    The Crow chief was already bringing his pony to a stop. “I smell it, too,” he whispered. “But I see nothing.”
    “They probably stopped just before dark and built a fire to cook their supper, then put it out,” Preacher replied, his own voice quiet enough that it couldn’t be heard more than a few feet away. “They’ve got their pipes goin’, too, but those don’t give off enough light for us to see them.”
    “We should go forward on foot now.”
    “Just what I was thinkin’.”
    Since it was likely the outlaws had made their camp at the edge of the foothills where there was more wood for a fire, Preacher and Crazy Bear dismounted and led their horses toward the hills. When they reached a small grove of slender trees, they tied the animals there and worked their way along the line of hills that curved to the northwest.
    Preacher and Crazy Bear moved in almost complete silence. Like shadows flitting through the darkness, they followed their noses toward the enemy camp. The smell of wood smoke faded, but the aroma of tobacco drew them on. As it grew stronger, they dropped to the ground and proceeded on their hands and