Read Pursuit Of The Mountain Man Online
Authors: William W. Johnstone
Pursuit Of The Mountain Man (12 page)
“True. But what they’re gonna get, Angel, is nothin’ but a very cold and lonely grave.”
“Is there such a thing as a grave that is not cold and lonely, senor?”
Smoke had laid down a trail that a one-eyed, city slicker could follow. And he was waiting for his pursuers. He had chosen his spot well, and only after careful scouting. He had a mountain pass at his back, a pass that he had found only after very carefully searching the area. Inside the pass, there was a small valley hollowed out by millions of years of winds and rains and slides. There was water for his horses and good graze for four or five days. He would move his horses into the green pocket when he spotted his hunters coming across a dusty plain some five miles in the distance. The area being chosen with just that thought in mind. Unless of course they moved through at night. But Smoke didn’t think any of them would be willing to take that chance. He’d probably still be able to smell the dust. Unless it rained, he thought with a warrior’s grim humor.
Now he was ready to get this show on the road. He had some bulls to buy before the summer was over and he was anxious to get back to the Sugarloaf ... and Sally.
The gunfighters and man-hunters traveling with von Hausen and party knew this was too easy; knew Smoke was setting them up. But none of them really knew this country. Only John T. and Utah had ever even been in this area, and maybe Montana Jess—except for Walt Webster, and the old cook had told only Angel about his knowledge of the wilderness. The two of them had become good friends on the long ride north. Valdes had begun to shun Angel, preferring instead the dubious company of the other gunslingers.
Angel had taken it philosophically with only a very Latin shrug of his shoulders. “He is a greedy man, that Valdes. And that is something I have told him to his face more times than once. It makes him ver’ angry. But he knows better than to draw on me.”
“You pretty good with that iron, huh, boy?” Walt asked.
“I am quick enough. But I have never started a fight in my life. Well ... only one. A vaquero down in New Mexico Territory tried to take my girl from me one night. He called me many bad names. I invited him to step outside. He stepped. He called me more bad names and went for his pistol. I was faster. Now I can never go back to New Mexico Territory.”
“And the girl?”
Angel smiled. “She married and now has two babies. I think she had forgotten about me before I had left the county.”
Walt nodded. “Monument Crick is just ahead, Angel. ’Bout five more miles. We’ll be off this plateau soon as we cross the crick.”
“And? ...”
“That’s when Jensen will open this dance.”
Mountains loomed up in front of the party. Von Hausen halted the parade and consulted a map. “Monument Creek,” he said. He turned his head and looked at the mesa to his right. He started cussing.
The others followed his gaze. Scratched into the side of the millions-year-old rock formation, in huge letters, was this message: STRAIGHT ACROSS THE CREEK, PEOPLE. The initials S.J. followed that.
“That arrogant
bastard!”
von Hausen said.
bastard!”
von Hausen said.
Walt and Angel exchanged glances.
John T. smiled as he took off his hat and scratched his head. They’d have to split up and ride cautious from here on in, riding with rifles across the saddle horn. Jensen was through playin’ games. He moved his horse forward, reining in by the still cussing Baron von Hausen.
“You’re doin’ ’xactly what he wants you to do,” John T. told the German. “Losin’ your temper.”
Von Hausen glared at the gunfighter for a long moment, then slowly began calming himself. He nodded his head in agreement. “You’re right, of course. Absolutely correct. Now is not the time to lose one’s composure. Not with the quarry so close. We’ll camp here for the night, John T. Put out guards.”
“Yes, sir.”
Von Hausen walked to where Walt was setting up the cook tent. “How are the supplies holding out?”
“Somebody better start killin’ some deer,” Walt told him. “The larder is gettin’ mighty low.”
“Is the shooting of animals permitted in a national park?” von Hausen asked.
Walt looked at him and smiled. “Now that is a right interestin’ question to ask, your nobleship. Here you done chased a man about five hundred miles tryin’ to kill him for sport, and now here you stand, worryin’ about whether it’s against the law to shoot a deer in a park. You are the beatin’est fellow I believe I have ever seen.”
“I see nothing unusual about it,” von Hausen said stiffly. “Nothing unusual at all. I have always considered myself a law-abiding man.”
Walt blinked a couple of times at that. He stared at the man to see if von Hausen was having fun with him. The German’s face was serious. “Do tell?” he finally said. “Well, now, that’s plumb admirable of you. Yes, sir. Shore is.”
“Thank you,” von Hausen said. He wheeled about and marched away.
“Angel,” Walt said. “That feller can act as crazy as a damn lizard on a hot rock.”
“Si,” the Mexican said. “But really he is just as sane as you or I. He is a man who has always gotten his way, I think. And a man who has no regard for the lives of others ... those who work for him, and those who he hunts.”
Walt nodded his head. “Let’s get the beans to cookin’. I’ll make a good bait of biscuits, too. We’ll feed ’em right tonight. For some of them, this just might be the last supper they ever get.”
Von Hausen and his party rode all the next day. The only sign they saw of Smoke were the stone arrows he placed along the trail, so von Hausen would be sure to see them. The more miles they put behind them, the madder von Hausen got. Every time von Hausen saw another stone arrow it set him off into fits of cussing.
They stopped for the night at a spring near the base of a towering mountain. Pat Gilman brought von Hausen a note he’d found under a small rock near the spring. Then the gunfighter got out of the way.
THOUGHT YOU MIGHT CAMP HERE. WATER’S GOOD. HOW’S YOUR SUPPLIES HOLDING OUT, VON HAUSEN? It was signed S.J.
Von Hausen threw the note on the ground and jumped up and down on it, cussing and screaming like a mad-man. He stomped the note into muddy shreds.
Panting for breath, his chest heaving, von Hausen screamed, “Tomorrow, Jensen dies.” He pointed a finger at Utah. “You find him, Utah. When you do, report back to me immediately. We will launch a frontal assault.” He stomped off.
Briscoe said, “I ain’t real sure what that means,”
Walt cut his eyes to the gunfighter. “It means that some of you won’t be comin’ back, Briscoe.”
“Aw, shut up!” Briscoe told him. He looked at Angel. “What are you, now, the cook’s helper?”
“Si,” the Mexican said. “You have some objections to that?”
“Then I tell you now, your pay will be the same as the cook’s,” Gunter said.
“That is quite all right with me,” Angel replied. “I will sleep much better at night.” He took off his gunbelt and stowed it in his saddle bags.
Valdes walked over to his friend. “I cannot believe you are actually doing this, amigo. You are too good with a gun to make biscuits and stew.”
“What we are doing is wrong, Valdes. Smoke Jensen does not deserve to be hunted down like a rabid animal. I say to you in friendship, give up this madness.”
Valdes stared at him. “I never thought you would lose your nerve, Angel. You are a coward. You are no longer my friend. Go to hell!”
Valdes gave his friend an obscene gesture and walked away.
“Forget it,” Walt said. “He wasn’t never much of a friend to do something like that. Money’s cloudin’ his eyes. I tell you this for a fact, Angel: you and me’ll ’bout be the only ones ridin’ out of this mess.”
Angel’s good humor surfaced with a small smile. “But we will have callouses on our hands from all the grave digging, no?”
Walt chuckled. “But less cookin’ and washin’ up dishes, right?”
The rough humor was infectious and soon both men were laughing as they set up the cook tent.
“Sounds like a gaggle of old women. I think they both done lost their brains,” Tom Ritter said, listening to the men crack jokes and laugh.
“Or found ’em,” Leo Grant said, trying to ease his shot-up left arm into a less painful position in the sling.
“Now just what the hell does that mean?” Gary asked, a sour expression on his unshaved face. “Are you turnin’ yellow on us, too?”
John T. stepped quickly between the two men, just as Leo was dropping his hand to the butt of his .45. “Stand easy, boys. Look at it this way: with Angel out of the picture, they’s that much more money to be spread around. Think about that ’fore you start pluggin’ each other.”
Gary looked at the mountains looming around him, then nodded his head and returned his gaze to John T. “What the hell is a frontal as-sault, John T.?”
“Somethin’ that we’re not gonna do,” the gunfighter told him. “Von Hausen will cool down by mornin’. He’s just mad right now, that’s all. You boys get you some coffee and settle down. We might just bring this hunt to a close by this time tomorrow.”
“And when we do, we’ll be pocket heavy with money, won’t we?” Leo stated with a grin.
“Damn right! And Jensen will be
dead.”
dead.”
11
Utah Red sensed more than heard movement behind him and to his right. He twisted in the saddle just as the rope settled around him and jerked him from his horse. Utah hit the ground hard, knocking the wind from him. He struggled to free himself of the loop and managed to slip loose and was reaching for his guns when a hard fist connected solidly against the side of his jaw. The blow knocked him sprawling. His guns fell from leather.
Cursing, Utah scrambled to his boots and swung a big fist at his attacker’s head. Smoke ducked the blow and planted a left, then a right in Utah’s gut. Gasping for breath, Utah stumbled away, trying to suck air back into his lungs. Smoke pressed him hard, with left’s and right’s that bloodied Utah’s mouth and smashed his nose flat.
Utah made a dive for his guns, sliding belly-down on the rocks and the dirt. Smoke gave him a foot in the face that slowed his slide and further bloodied his mouth.
Reaching down, Smoke jerked the man to his boots and walloped him on the side of his face with a big right fist. The clubbing blow knocked Utah to his knees. The last thing Utah remembered before he lost consciousness was his daddy’s warning that if the boy didn’t straighten up, he’d never amount to a thing.
Pride Andcrson and Lou Kennedy untied the ropes that held Utah belly-down across his saddle. They noticed that Utah’s guns were gone, short guns and rifle. When they laid him on the ground, on his back, both of them grimaced at the mess that was once Utah’s face.
“Jensen shore whupped the snot outta him,” Walt said, walking up with a pan of water and a cloth. “He’s out of it for a week, at least.”
The party had stopped for their nooning and Utah had decided to scout on ahead for signs of Jensen. He found much more than he bargained for.
“Teeth knocked out, nose busted, both eyes swelled shut,” Pride said. “I ain’t seen but a couple of men whupped this bad in all my life.”
Marlene stood away from the growing circle of men, a worried look on her face and in her eyes. Nothing was turning out the way they’d planned. This was supposed to had been a fun trip: hunt down and shoot a western gunslinger, celebrate with a bottle of champagne, and return to Europe to boast about it among their limited circle of friends.
But none of them had taken into consideration that the men of the American west—who had helped tame the country-didn’t like to be hunted down. None of them had planned on their quarry fighting back so savagely. Marlene didn’t think Smoke Jensen was really in the spirit of things; he certainly wasn’t playing fair.
“I can’t feel that he’s got any ribs busted,” Pride said, standing over the conscious and moaning Utah Red. “But he’s sure out of it. I guess Jensen took his guns.”
“I’ll check his saddlebags,” Bob Hogan said, walking to Utah’s horse. “I know he’s got a bottle in there. He could use a drink, I reckon.”
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