Read Pursuit Of The Mountain Man Online
Authors: William W. Johnstone
Pursuit Of The Mountain Man (19 page)
“You know where the home of the man who runs this place is located?” Angel asked.
“North. Up near the Montana line. And von Hausen knows it, too.”
“I heard them talking, too, my friend.”
The men had stopped to rest their horses and to make plans. “We for sure got men comin’ after us, Angel,” Walt said. “He can’t afford to have us get free and bump our gums.”
“We’ll ride on until we find just the right spot,” Angel said. “Then we will take some of the pressure off of Mister Smoke Jensen, si, amigo?”
Walt grinned. “Right, my friend.”
The men swung into their saddles and headed north.
“We got to be careful with Ol’ Walt and Angel,” Mack Saxton said, when they had stopped to rest their horses. “That old man’s a pistolero from way back.”
“He ain’t nothin‘,” Lou Kennedy said. “I used to think he was, ’til he started takin’ Jensen’s side in this. He’s just a wore out old man is all he is.”
“An old rattler’ll kill you just as quick as a young one,” Mack said. “And Angel ain’t no one to fool with neither.”
“He’s just a damn greaser is all,” Nat Reed said. “Full of beans and hot air. I’ll take him.”
Mack walked away to relieve himself in the bushes, thinking: Get us all killed is what you’ll do. Angel Cortez is a bad man to fool with.
Smoke pushed his horses hard. He had the entire Washburn Plateau to travel before he reached the superintendent’s quarters. And he knew he also had to deal with those behind him at some point along the way. He had to take some of the pressure off.
Smoke made a cold camp that night, not wanting to risk a fire, and was stiff and sore when he rolled out of his blankets the next morning. It was dark as a bat’s cave so he couldn’t look at his leg. He’d do that later; but when he touched the area around the wound, the leg was not hot with infection. He saddled up and headed north.
“He ain’t makin’ no effort to hide his tracks,” Roy Drum said. “And he’s headin’ straight north.”
“To the park headquarters,” John T. said. “If he reaches there ...” He let that trail off.
“It won’t make any difference,” von Hausen said. “We can leave no one behind. No one. Man, woman, or child who knows we were in the park.” He looked at the men. “It has to be that way. We’ll all hang if word gets out about the soldiers. Do it my way, and you’ll all be rich men. I promise you that.” He looked up at the leaden sky. “What is wrong with this wretched place? It’s supposed to be summer, but the temperature seems to be falling and those clouds look like snow clouds.”
“They probably are,” Drum told him. “This is Yellowstone, Baron. Hell, it’s liable to snow in July.”
“But the vegetation is out and blooming,” Hans said.
“It ain’t gonna freeze hard enough to kill this stuff,” Drum told him. “It’s liable to be seventy-five degrees tomorrow. Let’s go find Jensen today and finish this.” He stepped into the saddle.
The temperature continued to drop during the day. Winter was not yet ready to completely lift its hand from the Yellowstone. It began to spit snow and the women began to complain (the men would have started it first but that was not the manly thing to do).
Von Hausen decided to stop for the night, although it was only mid-afternoon.
Smoke kept going, not pushing his horses as hard as the days behind him, but at a steady, mile-eating pace. He smelled the woodsmoke before he could see it through the snowfall. He dismounted and slipped through the foliage, strange now in green and white. He pulled up short with a smile on his lips. Then he went back to get his horses.
“Hello, the camp,” he called.
“Mister Jensen!” Charles Knudson called. “My word, didn’t the Army find you?”
“No. I found them.” He dismounted and stripped his horses of their burden and rubbed them down before he thought to see to himself. Warming his hands by the fire, he explained what had happened.
“All ... dead?” Gilbert the scientist asked. “The patrol has been murdered?”
“Yes.” Smoke poured a cup of coffee and drank it down. It was the first he’d had in several days. It was still too damn weak. “Where is the superintendent?”
“Gone to Washington for a few weeks. My God!” Harold said, noticing the bloody bandana tied around Smoke’s leg. “You’ve hurt yourself.”
“They shot me. It’s all right. I dug the bullet out and cauterized the wound. I just keep the bandana on to hold the bandage in place.”
Paula stood up. “Please go over to the lean-to and sit down, Mister Jensen. Among other things, I am a trained nurse. Gilbert, get the first aid kit. And take off your pants, Mister Jensen.”
Smoke stopped at that. “I got some extra jeans, ma’am. I’ll just open the tear in this and let you ...”
“Take off your damn pants!” she yelled.
“Yes, ma’am,” Smoke said, and shucked out of his moccasins and jeans behind the blanket someone had rigged for privacy.
“I can see no sign of infection,” Carol said, after applying some sort of medicine on the healing wound and rebandaging it. “But that knife must have been awfully hot. There are burn scars all around the entry point.”
“Very hot, ma’am. But it still beat fillin’ it up with gunpowder and burning out the infection.”
She sighed. “I wish people would stop that practice. Gunpowder is not the most sanitary substance around.”
“But it works,” Smoke said.
Smoke gathered the group around him in the rapidly diminishing snowfall. It had dusted the land but would be gone shortly after sunup. “We’ve got problems, people. Big problems. Alone, I could shake those behind me and get out and tell the law about what happened to the Army patrol. But if I do that, you people will die. Von Hausen and his scummy bunch have to kill anybody that knows they were in the park. And that’s all of you...”
“But the superintendent knows,” Perry said.
“His word against twenty-five. Actually,” Smoke continued, “von Hausen is playing a fool’s game. I’m the only one who any defense lawyer would probably allow on the stand. You people have never seen him in here. But von Hausen and those with him are scared; they’re not thinking rationally. So that means you’re all in danger. Now I don’t know whether von Hausen is still coming at me through this snow, or not. I’d guess not. But they will be at first light. Bet on it. And they’re only about six or seven hours behind. We’ve got to come up with a plan for staying alive. And we don’t have much time to do it.”
“Run for it?” Charles suggested.
“We’re not fighters, Mister Jensen,” Gilbert said. “None of us here have ever fired a shot in anger at anything. None of us have combat experience. But if you say we stand and fight, we will.”
Smoke thought about that for a moment, then shook his head. “No. You people have to get out. I’ve got to buy you some time to get clear and get to the army. Are there any troops still in the park?”
“About half a dozen up at White Mountain. They’re Army engineers. I don’t even know whether they have guns.”
“They’re armed,” Smoke said. “There are still hostiles in the area. I want you people up and ready to go at first light. Head for White Mountain. Connect with the Army, and get the hell gone for the nearest town that has wires. Get a telegram off to Washington and let them know what’s happened in here and what is happening.”
“Where will you make your stand?” Morris asked.
“Up the trail somewhere. I’ll know it when I see it.”
“More coffee, Mister Jensen?” Thomas asked.
“Only if I can make a fresh pot.”
“I’ll have tea,” Gilbert said quickly.
“Their horses is gettin’ tired,” Mack said, looking down at the tracks left by Walt and Angel. “And them tracks is fresh. We’re closin’ in, boys.”
“I want Ol’ Walt,” Lou said. “I want that old bastard lookin’ at me when I drop him.”
“This ain’t gonna be no stand up and draw thing, Lou,” Mack told him. “Our orders is to kill them both the best and quickest way we can.”
“Hell with orders. I want to see what kind of stuff that old coot has.”
“You do that,” Mack said, “and he just might be the one standin’ over you when it’s done.”
Lou sneered and cussed as he swung back into the saddle. “No way, Mack. No way. We got about an hour of daylight left. Let’s go.”
“Come up lame,” Walt said, stripping the saddle and bridle from his horse and patting it on the rump. “I felt it when he hurt hisself back yonder on them rocks. Built a fire, Angel, let’s have us some coffee and bacon. I ’spect them that’s doggin’ us will be along right shortly. I’ll have me another horse right after dark.”
Angel grinned and began gathering up firewood while Walt rigged a shelter-half for them in the timber. Walt had strapped on his guns and tied them down. He spun the cylinders, checking the loads.
Angel was thinking: I’d not want to mess with that old man. He knew Walt had given up gunfighting simply because he was tired of the killing, tired of the blood, tired of having to prove himself against every two-bit punk that came along. But he was still snake-quick and a dead shot. And now he was ready to go again. Walt Webster was a living legend. Not in Smoke’s class, but close. Real close.
The two men drank their coffee and ate the bacon, then moved back into the timber, after building the fire up. It could not be missed by anyone coming up in the fading light.
“Lou Kennedy was always bragging about how he could take you any day, Walt,” Angel said.
“He’s a loud-mouthed tinhorn,” the old gunfighter said. “All bluster and no brains.”
“What will you do if he calls you out?”
“Walk out and shoot him dead.”
“I will have a rifle on the others should that be the way it happens.”
“Obliged. Here they come.”
“It’s a trap,” Mack said, spotting the fire. “One of the horses come up lame back yonder and they’re sitting up there waitin’ on us to ride in.”
Before anyone could stop him, Lou Kennedy yelled, “Walt Webster! This is Lou Kennedy. Can you hear me, Walt?”
“I hear you, you big-mouth,” Walt called. “You probably scared all the little critters within half a mile flappin’ your gums. What the hell do you want?”
“You and me, Walt. How about it?”
“With that scum with you backin’ you up, Lou?”
“No. Just me and you, Walt.”
“Damnit, Lou!” Mack said. “Back off now, you hear?”
“No way, Mack.” Lou shook off the other man’s hand. “I want him. If I gun Walt Webster down, I can write my own ticket, you know that.”
“Then go on!” Mack said, anger and disgust in his voice. “Walt. Walt Webster. This is Mack. You can have him, Walt. I give you my word, we won’t interfere. You got my word on it.”
“How about the others with you?” Walt called, hoping they’d fall for the question.
They did. “Walt, this is Leo Grant. We’re out of it, Walt. Me and Nat’ll stand clear. And that’s as good as gold, Walt. If you drop him, you can get on back to cover.”
“Four of them,” Angel said. “And the light’s fading, amigo.”
“Let it go.” He raised his voice. “Let’s get this done, Lou. We walk out on a five count. You count it down, Nat. Draw whenever you feel lucky, boy.”
Leo looked at Lou with disgust in his eyes. “You’re a fool,” he said flatly. “Did you ever stop to think that old man just might get lucky and blow a hole in you?”
“He ain’t even gonna clear leather. Start countin’, Nat.”
On five both men stepped out of the timber. Walt stayed close to the timber, forcing Lou to come to him. “How’s it feel, Lou?” Walt called.
“How’s what feel, you old fart?”
“Knowin’ you’re about to die.”
Lou cussed him as he walked up the slope. Walt stood, a smile on his lips. Lou was a fool, playing right into Walt’s plan. The slope was slippery, and by the time Lou got within shooting range, he’d be winded. Add to that he would have to shoot uphill—that is, should he be lucky enough to clear leather—and Walt didn’t believe he had it in him to do that.
“Come on, you punk tinhorn,” Walt called. “My coffee’s gettin’ cold.”
Lou called him several very ugly names as he struggled to get up the slope.
“He’s dead,” Mack said. “Dead and he don’t even know it. He’ll be wore out time he gets into range. Ol’ Walt planned it that way.”
“Sure, he did,” Leo said. “But I gave my word and I’m keepin’ it.”
“We all did,” Nat said. “And we’ll all keep it.”
Lou stopped about sixty feet from Walt. The climb up the snow-slick slope had been hard and the much younger gunslick was winded. “You got any relatives you want me to notify, you old fart?”
Walt laughed. “When did you learn to write, you ignorant whelp?”
“Draw!” Lou yelled.
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