Read Pursuit Of The Mountain Man Online
Authors: William W. Johnstone
Pursuit Of The Mountain Man (27 page)
A cowboy galloped into town and jumped from the saddle in front of the saloon. He slapped the dust from him and ran inside. “Rider comin’! Big man on a big Appaloosa.”
“That’s Jensen,” Jerry Watkins said.
Valdes stood up and slipped the thongs from the hammers of his guns. Jerry rose and slipped his guns in and out of leather a couple of times. Pat Gilman shifted his chair around. His hip was hurting him so bad he was afraid if he stood up, he’d fall down.
Smoke rode slowly up the short street. Jerry started to pull iron and shoot him through the window. He froze as the rancher who had stayed at the table through the long afternoon eared back the hammer on his Colt.
“I’ll shoot you myself, boy,” he said. “Lord God, you got him three to one as it is. What kind of lowdown snakes are you people?” He shifted his gaze to Gilman. “Git up and take it like a man.”
Pat got to his boots and stood with an effort. “I’m surrenderin’,” he said. “I want a trial.”
“We ain’t got no badge-toter here,” a cowboy said. “Law’s a hundred miles away, near ‘bouts. ’Sides, we heard all about you boys ambushin’ that Army patrol and tryin’ to murder them women in the park. You’re gonna get a trial, all right. And the judge is comin’ through the door right about now.”
Spurs jingled on the rough boardwalk and the batwings were slowly pushed open. Smoke stepped inside, and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that this was Smoke Jensen. He seemed to fill the whole doorway and his cold eyes put a sudden chill in the room. Smoke sized up the situation and deliberately turned his back to the hired guns, walking to the bar.
“Beer,” he told the nervous barkeep.
Every inch of space along the front of the saloon was filled with people. The minister who had first-hand knowledge of excrement and knew it when he saw it, began praying for the lost souls of the hired guns.
Smoke drank his mug of beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and turned to face the trio. “Mighty good beer. Tasted good.”
“I’ll buy you another,” the rancher said.
“I’ll take you up on that in just a few minutes,” Smoke said. He stared at Valdes. “Valdes,” he said softly. “The backshooter. Angel told me about you.”
Valdes spat on the floor and cussed his former friend until he was near breathless.
“Pat Gilman,” Smoke shifted his gaze. “Raped and then killed your stepsister. Broke jail and killed a deputy in the process.”
“You writin’ a book, Jensen?” Gilman asked. His face was shiny with pain and fear.
Smoke smiled and looked at Jerry, with his birdshot-peppered face. “One of the women you big brave boys were trying to kill did that to you. I don’t know your name.”
“Watkins. Jerry Watkins. If I’d a got my hands on that woman, she’da been fun for a couple of days.”
“Yeah,” Smoke spoke softly. “That’s just about what I figured. Scum, all of you.”
“I don’t take that kind of talk from any man,” Valdes said. His voice was high-pitched, and he was sweating. He was in a half crouch, tensed, his hands over his guns.
“Then I guess it’s time, Valdes,” Smoke uttered the quiet, deadly words. That was his only warning that their time was up. He drew his right hand .44 and let it bang.
The reports of the .44 were enormous in the room. Smoke fired six times, the shots seeming to be as one long, thundering roar. Valdes took two slugs in his chest and fell back against a wall, his hands empty. Smoke’s draw had been so swift that the Mexican gunfighter had not even seen the initial move.
Pat Gilman took a round in his chest and another slug in the hollow of his throat as he was stumbling backward. He went crashing through the window to fall on the feet of those gathered on the boardwalk.
Jerry Watkins did not have to worry about his birdshot-peppered face any longer. He had a bigger hole right in the center of his forehead and another hole in his cheek.
The barroom was very quiet after the thunder of the deadly gunfight. Smoke ejected the empties and they fell tinkling to the floor. He reloaded calmly. No one spoke. No one even moved. Outside, the minister was shouting to the heavens.
“Sweet Jesus,” a cowboy breathed. “I never even seen his pull.”
The rancher, western born and western reared, shook his head in disbelief. Up to this point, he thought he’d seen it all.
The barkeep stood rooted to the floor, his mouth hanging open, his hands on the bar.
Smoke holstered his .44. “They have plenty of money on them,” he said to no one in particular. “Von Hausen was paying them well to kill me. You can either give them a fancy funeral, or roll them up in a blanket and dump them into a hole. I don’t give a damn.” He looked at the rancher. “I’ll take my horse over to the stable and see to his needs. Then I’ll be back for that beer.”
The rancher nodded his head. “My pleasure. Jim, take his horse and see to it, will you?”
“Right now, boss,” a cowboy said, and stepped gingerly around Smoke.
“Grain, hay, and have him rubbed down good.”
“Yes, sir, Mister Jensen,” the cowboy said. “I’ll see to it personal.”
“Get that crap outta my saloon!” the barkeep finally found his voice. It was high and shrill with excitement. “Drag ’em over behind the barber shop.”
Some of the good ladies of the town started singing church songs, still standing on the bloody boardwalk.
“When we heard about this von Hosensnoot feller,” the rancher said, “I sent a hand down to the nearest wire office and telegraphed the sheriffs office. Told him I’d be glad to round up some boys and tend to this matter personal. He wired back and told me that couldn’t nobody arrest this feller. Is that right?”
“I’m afraid so,” Smoke said, sitting down just as the bodies of Valdes and Watkins were being dragged past his table. “I don’t really understand it all. Something about being immune from prosecution.”
“Well, that don’t make a damn bit of sense to me!”
“It doesn’t me either. But I guess it’s the law.” The barkeep sat his mug of beer down on the table, gave Smoke a nod, and quickly backed off.
The church ladies were singing the Lord’s praises loudly, as they all trooped across the street, following the men dragging the bodies. The minister, when he’d heard Smoke telling about the dead outlaws having lots of money, was really pouring on the shouting and preaching and planning an elaborate funeral. He followed the singing ladies. A giggling gaggle of young boys and girls followed the minister. A pack of the town’s dogs followed the kids, barking and playing and rolling in the dirt. All in all it was quite a parade.
“The sheriff said that you’d probably be in trouble if you killed this von Hossenhoof,” the rancher said.
“Well, I’ll just have to get in trouble then. ’Cause I’m damn sure going to kill him.”
“What about them women?”
Smoke shook his head. “I don’t know. I’d sure hate to hurt a woman. If I can help it, I won’t.” Then he told the rancher about Andrea killing her husband, and how she shot him and left him to die.
“You don’t mean it!”
“Sure do. I talked with the fellow for a few minutes before he died. He was a real prince.”
“I seen ‘em when they come in this mornin’. Them was some hard ol’ boys ridin’ with the no-bility. I recognized John T. and Cat Brown. Funny thing, Smoke, that von Hossenheifer and them folks with him all dressed up like nothin’ I ever seen ... they didn’t none of them look crazy.” He thought about that; took off his hat and scratched his head. “Well, them hats looked sort of stupid.”
“Pith.”
“Oh. Sure.” He pointed. “It’s out back.”
“No,” Smoke said. “That’s what they call those hats.”
“You got to be jokin’!”
“No. Pith helmets. P-I-T-H. I think that’s the way it’s spelled.”
“Well, that makes it some better,” the rancher said.
“I’ve got to rest my horse,” Smoke said, after draining his mug. “Then get something to eat and rest.”
“They may try to recruit more men at the Hole.”
“Yeah. They probably will. These people seem to have money to burn. I’ll just have to deal with that problem—if it arises-when I come to it.” He pushed back his chair and stood up.
The rancher sized him up. ’Bout six, three, and probably two hundred and twenty or thirty pounds. One hell of a big fellow.
Smoke smiled at the man. “Thanks for the beer.”
“Luck to you, Smoke.”
“What exactly is the Hole?” Gunter asked.
They had camped for the night, eaten supper, and were drinking coffee before turning in.
John T. said, “It’s about fifty miles south of a brand new town called Buffalo, and due east of the Powder River. Used to be run by a man called Poker-Face Carey. I don’t know whether he’s still there or not. It’s a shanty town of shacks and a couple of saloons. I’ll angle over that way in a couple of days and see if anyone’s interested in hookin’ up with us.”
“How many days to Dodge City?” Marlene asked.
“Long-hard ride, missy,” Utah Red said. “I’d hate to even guess. We’re days away from Dodge.”
“Get ten men,” she told John T. “Ten good men who are fast with a gun and who aren’t afraid of Smoke Jensen. We’ll pay each one a hundred dollars a day and a thousand dollar bonus apiece if they’ll get us to Dodge City.”
John T. smiled. “I don’t except I’ll have much trouble gettin’ ten pretty good ol’ boys.”
“One-Eye’s there,” Gil Webb said. “I know him. And I’m pretty sure Dick Dorman’s still there.”
“You know Dick?”
“Sure.”
“Soon as we hit the Bighorn‘s, you angle off and beat it for the Hole. We’ll meet up on the south fork of the Powder. You know the crossin’?”
Gil nodded.
“I had me a partner once. Name of Slick-Finger Bob. He’ll do to ride the river with. He was usin’ the Hole ’fore it became so known. Get him if he’s there.”
“See if an ol’ boy named of Barton is there,” Paul Melham said. “Henry Barton’s his name. Tell him to come on; mention my name.”
“Ask around for Sandy Beecher,” Utah Red said. “He’s a good one, too.”
Later, Marlene lay beside von Hausen. They talked in whispers. “Getting to Dodge City is only part of the trip, mein
liebling,”
she said. “What happens to us after the men are paid off and gone?”
liebling,”
she said. “What happens to us after the men are paid off and gone?”
“Gunter will go in alone. You’ve noticed the beard he’s growing? He’ll be dressed like a cowhand. He’ll contact that attorney and get the money. We’ll pay the men off and one by one go in and catch the train. Jensen will be looking for us east. We won’t go east. We’ll head back west, to San Francisco, and take the long way home. By the time we get back, all this will have been forgotten.”
“I wish we did not have to go to Dodge City. We are placing ourselves in a great deal of danger by doing so.”
“So do I. But we couldn’t risk taking that much money with us. These desperadoes would have killed us the first night on the trail. I had to set it up this way for our safety. I think with the men from this Hole place, we’ll make it. If nothing else they’ll buy us some time.”
“Do you suppose Valdes and the others might have killed Jensen?”
“I doubt it. But it’s a nice thought to go to sleep on, isn’t it?”
She laughed. But it was an ugly laugh.
When Smoke crossed the Bighorn River he cut slightly south, skirting the Bighorn Mountains and angling down to catch the stagecoach road that led to the settlement slowly being build around Fort Caspar on the North Platte.
He had a plan, and he thought it would work. Alone, with the big strong Appaloosa under him, he was making about ten miles a day more than those in the large von Hausen party. He’d get to Fort Caspar at least two days ahead of their planned arrival. At Fort Caspar, he would resupply and then head back west and see what damage he could do, plus he wanted to turn the party more north.
Von Hausen would not dare show his face at the Fort, so the only flaw in Smoke’s plan was if the party decided to change directions on him. But he didn’t think they do that. They had to have supplies. Von Hausen and party would camp well away from the fort and send some of their hired guns in for supplies.
Fort Caspar was named for Lt. Caspar Collins, who was killed by Indians while trying to rescue a wagon train. Casper came about due to the misspelling of the railroad clerk who filed the plat for the town.
Gil Webb rode to the Hole and came away with ten salty ol’ boys who thought they could handle Smoke Jensen. What they were were thugs and petty thieves and riff-raff and horse-stealing bums. They were good with a gun, give the devil his due, and any of them would kill for the pennies off a dead man’s eyes.
Smoke had found a tinker on the stagecoach road who was more than willing to sell him coffee and bacon and flour for inflated prices. Since he did not have to go to Fort Caspar, he headed straight north about the time Gil was leaving the Hole with his band of thugs.
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