Read Pursuit Of The Mountain Man Online
Authors: William W. Johnstone
Pursuit Of The Mountain Man (15 page)
Two riders appeared. Smoke lifted his field glasses and adjusted them for distance. He recognized one rider by his shirt and the horse. He did not think he’d ever seen the second man before. So that meant von Hausen had recruited more man-hunters. Smoke wondered where in the hell he’d found them up here and how many he’d hired?
He put those thoughts out of his head and concentrated on staying alive. The point men were still much too far away for any kind of accurate shooting when they reined up, obviously wary and suspecting an ambush. That told Smoke the men weren’t entirely stupid. That left greedy and rather foolish.
More men rode up. Smoke lifted his binoculars and pulled in von Hausen and more men than he’d seen previously. “Come on,” he muttered. “Come on. Let’s get this going.”
He was facing east, and the sun was bright. He did not want to risk any reflection from the lenses of the field glasses, so he cased them and settled back, rifle in hand, and waited. The point men rode closer. He saw one of them point to the ground, spotting Smoke’s tracks. The other one twisted in the saddle, calling back to the others and pumping his clenched fist up and down in the military signal to come on.
“Yeah,” Smoke muttered. “You do that.”
The point men passed the first landmark Smoke had fixed in his mind. Smoke lifted the rifle and jacked back the hammer on the .44-.40, sighting one of the riders in. He took up slack on the trigger and the rifle boomed, jarring his shoulder. Cosgrove was knocked from his horse as the big slug struck him dead center in his chest.
Smoke levered in another round and squeezed the trigger. But he shot high and blew the second man’s hat off. The winds caught the hat and sent it sailing. Smoke waited.
“Cosgrove’s had it,” Roy said, reaching the column. “Jensen shot him right through the heart.”
“Goddamnit!” Ford cussed. “Me and Cos buddied all over the west together.” Before anyone could stop him, Ford had spurred his horse and was racing up the trail. He shucked his rifle out of the boot just as he passed his ex-partner in crime, stone dead on the rocks beside the trail.
Smoke led the rider in the sights and let him come on. He could hear Ford cussing and hollering in his rage. “Come on,” Smoke muttered. “I want you close enough so maybe your horse will come this way and I can see if you’ve got anything to eat in your saddlebags.”
Ford was less than a hundred yards from Smoke’s position when Smoke pulled the trigger. The bullet caught Ford in the center of his chest and Ford joined his buddy on the trail. He hit the ground and did not move. His horse kept right on going. Smoke jumped down into the rocks and grabbed the horse’s trailing reins, talking to the spooked animal, calming it down.
He found some salt meat and biscuits wrapped in a clean cloth and nothing else of value. He stripped saddle and bridle from the animal and turned it loose. Then Smoke climbed back into position and had breakfast ... compliments of Frederick von Hausen.
13
Von Hausen studied Smoke’s position through binoculars, studying every angle carefully. Finally, with a curse and a shake of his head, he cased his field glasses and returned to where his group had gathered.
“Whatever else the man may be, he knows tactics,” von Hausen said. “He could hold off an army from his position. It would take several days to get to one end or the other of this canyon then find a way through and work our way behind him. If we split our people and try to trap him in there, he’d know it because of the damned flats on both sides of us, and the high ground to our rear. To charge him would be suicide. It’s a standoff.” He looked around him. “Where is Langston?”
“Trying to work his way out to get a shot at Jensen,” John T. told him.
Von Hausen had decided, several days back, that the sporting aspects of this hunt could go to hell. Just kill Jensen, he told his people.
“Where is he leading us?” von Hausen asked. “Or is he leading us anywhere? The man doesn’t think like anyone I ever knew. He’s unpredictable. In every war there are plans, tried and true, that are followed by both sides. This man is a ... a savage. I can’t work out what he is going to do from one day to the next.”
“Do we make camp here?” Walt asked. “I gotta know so’s I can start cookin’.”
A single shot rang out. Von Hausen ran to the rocks, the others right behind him. Don Langston lay sprawled on his back below them, his fancy inlaid rifle shining in the sunlight, on the rocks some twenty feet from the body. Langston had been shot right between the eyes.
Walt shifted his chewing tobacco and spat. “I’d say he got a mite too close. I’ll go put the beans on.”
“Hey, Baron!” the shout came across the rocky flats. “How about you and me settling this?”
“What do you mean, Jensen?” von Hausen yelled.
“Just what I said. You and me, pretty-boy. Stand up, bareknuckle fight. The best man wins.”
“Marquess of Queensberry rules?”
Smoke’s laughter was taunting. “Anyway you want it, Baron. We’ll hold it in Denver.”
“Denver!”
von Hausen shouted.
von Hausen shouted.
“That’s right-Denver. In front of a crowd at a ring. I’m not going to take a chance out here on one of your rabid skunks shooting me after I beat your face in.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Utah Red said. He was now able to see out of both eyes, but his face was lumpy and still mottled with bruises.
“Oh, I could take him in a ring,” von Hausen boasted. “It might be fun.”
“How about it?” Smoke shouted.
“I think not, Jensen. You can’t run forever.”
“Hell, I’m not running now, von Horse-face. Why don’t you come on across and get me.”
Von Hausen’s face reddened at the slur upon his name. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”
Smoke told von Hausen what he thought about the German’s ancestry.
Obviously, Walt concluded, he don’t think much of it.
“You are a foul, stupid man, Jensen,” von Hausen hurled the words.
“But I’m a better man than you, von Hose-nose,” Smoke called. “I don’t need an army to do my fighting.”
Frederick touched his nose.
Hose-nose!
“Fill that area with lead!” he shouted.
Hose-nose!
“Fill that area with lead!” he shouted.
The men fired, but it was done half-heartedly. The distance was just too great to hope for any damage.
After the firing had ceased, von Hausen called, “How about that, Jensen?”
Silence was his reply.
“You don’t suppose we got him with a ricochet?” Cat Brown questioned.
“We wouldn’t be that lucky,” Pat Gilman said. “He’s just playin’ ’possum, hopin’ one of us will go over there to check it out.”
“Hold your positions,” von Hausen said. “We’ve already lost three this day.”
“Ford died ’cause he was stupid,” Mike Hunt said. “You can’t lose your control when fightin’ a man like Jensen. Ford better be a lesson to us all.”
“Agreed,” von Hausen said.
The group waited, all bunched up, for almost half an ho An explosion jarred the area, followed by a dust cloud drifting up out of the rocks.
“Now what the hell? ...” Gary muttered.
“I betcha he blew the pass,” John T. said. “And I betcha it’s the only pass for miles, north or south. Time we work around over there it’s gonna be another cold trail.”
“I’ll find it,” Roy said. “I told you all: I aim to kill that man.”
“Collect the bodies,” von Hausen said wearily. “Get your Bible, Walt.”
“Now let me get this straight,” the superintendent of the park said to the four young surveyors. “Smoke Jensen
-the
Smoke Jensen, the most famous gunfighter in all the world -is here in this park?”
-the
Smoke Jensen, the most famous gunfighter in all the world -is here in this park?”
“That is correct, sir,” Charles told him. “He shared his food with us.”
“He was a very nice man, I thought,” Morris said.
“Smoke Jensen ... was a very nice man?”
“Yes, sir. Much younger than any of us thought. I would say he is in his mid-thirties.”
“That’s about right. And people are hunting him? To kill him. In
my
park?”
my
park?”
“Yes, sir. Quite a large gang, I understand. Led by someone named Baron Frederick von Hausen.”
“Von Hausen. I’m not familiar with the name. A Baron, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who are the men with him?”
“Bounty-hunters, professional killers. Men of very low quality,” Perry said.
“Quite,” Charles added.
“Well, this cannot be allowed to continue,” the superintendent said. “I’ll get word to the army. They’ll do something about it. This is federal land, after all.”
After crossing the Yellowstone, Smoke headed north, into the Washburn Range. He knew he had bought himself a day, maybe a day and a half; no more than that. He was out of supplies, except for a little coffee, and he was living off the land, just as he and Preacher had done during those early years. But Smoke, like most western men, was a coffee-drinking man, and he wasn’t going to be out of coffee for very long. He could live off of fish and rabbits and berries, but damned if he was going to be denied coffee.
On the second day after fording the Yellowstone, he spotted a thin plume of smoke in the distance and headed for it. He rode up to the camp, stopping a respectable distance from it, and eyeballed those in the camp who were, by now, eyeballing him.
The three men and three women were dressed in some sort of safari clothes; Smoke thought that was the right description for it. The women dressed just like the men, in britches and high-top, lace-up boots. He’d never seen hats like they were wearing. Looked like a gourd hollowed out. Funniest looking things he’d ever seen.
“Hello, the camp,” Smoke called. “I’ll approach with your permission.”
“Why, of course. Come right in, sir,” a rather plump man returned the call.
Smoke rode in and dismounted. He loosened the cinch strap on the horses and picketed them on graze.
The men and women—none of whom were armed—quickly noticed Smoke’s guns. One of the women thought the stranger moved like a great predator cat. And my, what a ruggedly handsome man. She fanned herself at his approach.
They were scientists, Smoke was told. Gilbert, Carol, Robert, Paula, Thomas, and Blanche. Anthropologists and some other names that sounded to Smoke like they were clearing their throats. He didn’t have the foggiest idea what they meant.
“Share our lunch with us?” Robert asked.
“I’d be obliged. I ran out of supplies several days ago.”
“You poor man!” Blanche said. “You must be starved.”
“Oh, no,” Smoke told her, “I’ve been living off the land.” He smiled at her. My word, what a handsome man, she thought. “No reason for anybody to go hungry in this land of bounty, ma’am. You just have to know something about surviving out here. The only bad thing is running out of coffee.”
“Well, we have plenty of that,” Thomas said.
Something popped in the timber and suddenly the stranger was on his feet from his kneeling by the fire and he had a gun in his hand. His draw had been so smooth and so fast none of the scientists were aware of it. It just seemed to appear in his hand.
All did notice, however, how hard and tight his face had become, and how cold were his eyes.
“One of our mules,” Paula said quickly.
Smoke nodded and walked to the edge of the small clearing. He could see mules and horses picketed. “Pull them in closer,” he said, returning to the fire and the coffee pot. “You got your picket line too far away from camp. There are folks out here who’d steal from you. The west has tamed somewhat, but not that much. Move it right over there.” He pointed. “You see anybody trying to steal your livestock, shoot ’em.”
“
Shoot
them?” Gilbert said.
Shoot
them?” Gilbert said.
“Yes. You do have weapons, don’t you?”
“We have a rifle and a shotgun,” Thomas said. “And Robert has a sidearm.”
“That’s good. Keep them close by.” He walked to his packhorse and returned with two gunbelts he’d taken from bounty-hunters in von Hausen“s party. ”Here,” he said, handing the guns and leather to Gilbert. ”I’m gettin’ loaded down with weapons. I’ll give you folks a .44 carbine, too.”
“This is very generous of you, sir,” Gilbert said. “Let us pay you for these fine weapons. We’re out here on a government grant.”
Smoke shook his head. “The people I took them from don’t need them any longer.”
“You’re a lawman?” Blanche asked.
“No, ma’am. Those guns belonged to some ol’ boys who were chasing me. They caught up with me.” He looked at her confused expression and smiled, transforming his entire face, taking years from him. “I’m not an outlaw, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m a rancher from down in Colorado. My wife is the former Sally Reynolds of New Hampshire.”
“How marvelous!” Paula said. “The banking family. Very old and respected name.” She closed her mouth and looked at the others in her group. “Then you must be? ... It was in all the newspapers ... Some thought it was so scandalous ... For her to marry a ... Oh, my God!”
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