Pursuit Of The Mountain Man Page 8

  “What was he like—that you know of.”

  How could I tell you somethin’ about him that I didn’t know, you ninny? Walt thought. “Tough as rawhide and wild as the wind. He taught Smoke well. Give this hunt up, missy. You’re headin’ for grief if you don’t. Smoke’s done showed you how he fights. And if you think he’ll spare you ’cause you’re a woman, you’re flat wrong. You start shootin’ at him, he’ll put lead in you just as fast as he would a man.”

  “Frederick will never quit,” she said with a toss of her head. “This is the ultimate challenge for him, and for us.”

  “Well, you couldn’t have picked a prettier place to be buried, Missy.”

  “You can’t believe that Smoke Jensen is going to win this, do you? That is ludicrous!”

  “I don’t know what that means, Missy. But I do know this: Smoke cut down your party some yesterday. Tomorrow or the next day he’ll whittle it down by two or three more, all the while leading us north, always north, higher and higher into the mountains. And I’ll bet you a dollar that when we get to the north of this lake, Jensen will have cut west.” He smiled.

  “Why are you smiling and what significance does the direction have?”

  “I’m smilin’ ’cause Jensen is smarter than you folks; only the whole lot of you don’t have enough sense to see it. You’re all a bunch of arrogant fools. The direction means that if we follow his trail, we’ll soon be out of food and the only tradin’ post open to us is on the east side of Jackson Lake. Jensen will be on the west side, headin’ straight north. That’ll give him two/three days, at least, to get ready for us up yonder in the wilderness.”

  Marlene left the old cook’s side, in a huff because of his words. “Arrogant, indeed!” she said. She rode straight to Von Hausen and told him what the cook had said.

  “I know,” von Hausen said. “I’ve been looking at maps-such as they are. He’s right about that. What the old fool thinks of me, or us, is of no concern at all. And there is the head of the lake,” he said, pointing. “We’ll rest here for a time. I have to think.”

  Von Hausen walked back to the cook, gathering up a few men along the way. “Walt, you and these men take the pack horses and head up to the trading post on this little creek or river or whatever it is. We’ll rendezvous here on the Snake.” He looked at the old cook. “Marlene tells me you think we’re all on a fool’s mission.”

  “That’s right, your lordship on high.” There was no backup in Walt. None. He’d lived too long and seen the varmint too many times to back up from any man.

  Von Hausen laughed at him. “And she also tells me that you think we are all arrogant and not nearly as intelligent as Smoke Jensen.”

  “Tattlin’ little thing, ain’t she? That’s right. I shore said it. And meant every word of it.”

  “Old man, if you were younger, I’ll give you a thrashing for saying those things about us.”

  Walt stared at him and smiled slowly. “No, you wouldn’t, Baron von Hausen. And you won’t do it now, neither. But if you want to test your mettle, Baron, you just let me get my rig outta my pack and we’ll have us a showdown right here and now.”

  John T. had walked up, standing off to the side. He was slowly shaking his head at von Hausen, warning him off.

  Frederick smiled, then laughed. He patted Walt on the shoulder. “Perhaps later, Walt. Not now. We need you to cook for us.” He walked away, John T. following him.

  “Don’t never take up no challenge on fast gunnin’ out here, Baron,” John T. told him. “Walt Webster’s no man to fool with. That old man’s still poison with a short gun. He’s laid men a-plenty in their graves over the years.”

  “Why . . . the man must be seventy years old!”

  “That don’t make no difference. Not out here. His daddy was a mountain man. Come out here to Washington or Oregon Territory in 1810 or so. Married him a French lady that had something to do with the North West Company. Walt was raised by Injuns and mountain men and the like. He was a fast gun before it become a household word. And he’ll kill you, Baron. Don’t crowd that old man.”

  Smoke cooked his supper of fresh caught fish and fried potatoes, then he leaned back against his saddle and enjoyed a pot of coffee just as the sun was going down. It had been three days since he’d ambushed von Hausen’s party and Smoke lay in a little valley just north of Ranger Peak. He was under no illusions; knew that von Hausen was somewhere behind him, probably a day or day and a half. He’d climbed a high peak a couple of days back and picked them up through field glasses. Least he thought it was them. At that distance they were no more than dots, even magnified.

  He’d follow the Snake into the Red Mountains and wait for his pursuers to come to him. There might be a few people up in that area, since Smoke had heard talk about the federal government making it some sort of park a few years back. Called it Yellowstone. But Smoke didn’t figure there would be too many folks around. If there were some sightseers and gawkers, he’ll tell them to get the hell out of the way, there was about to be a shooting war.

  Smoke was letting his fire burn down to coals in the pit he’d dug. He’d wake up occasionally to add twigs and such to the coals, in order to keep it going through the cool night.

  Smoke poured his pot empty and leaned back, trying to figure out what month it was. After some ruminations, the closest he could come was maybe the latter part of March or the first part of April.

  He sipped the hot strong brew and frowned. Had it been that long? Yes. Von Hausen and his bunch had been on his backtrail for weeks, worrying at him, nipping at his heels like some small dog, and he was growing very weary of it. It was just a damned nuisance.

  Smoke had stopped worrying about any moral aspects of his situation, as he had started calling it in his mind. He’d done everything he could to end it without killing. So much for good intentions.

  He smiled as the face of his wife entered his mind. He wondered if Sally was enjoying her vacation back east. He sure hoped she was having more fun than he was.

  10

  The more Smoke thought about people being in the park area-although it was still early and the nights were cold—the more he decided against following the Snake into the area. He abruptly cut east, crossed a road that had not been here the last time Smoke was in the area, and headed for the Continental Divide. The point he was looking for was just east of Pacific Creek. He crossed the Divide and then cut due north when he reached the Yellowstone River.

  One thing about it, Smoke thought with a faint smile, he was sure giving those behind him a chance to see some wild and beautiful country. Although he doubted that few, if any, among his pursuers would take the time or have the mental capability to appreciate the view.

  Smoke made his camp in a long, narrow valley sandwiched by low hills, the high peaks behind them. He’d killed a deer before entering the park boundaries and spent a day jerking some meat. He wanted to have something in his pockets to eat on in case he got cut off from his horses and supplies.

  He took a very quick bath in a creek, in waters that almost turned him blue. But he got most of the dirt and all the fleas off him by using strong soap. He was shaking with cold by the time he dried off and climbed into clean dry longhandles and dressed in brown shirt and jeans. He put his boots and spurs away and stayed with high-top moccasins, his britches tucked inside and laced up.

  He caught some fish and broiled them over a low fire. He was out of beans and flour and lard; but, he thought, smiling, von Hausen’s group had probably resupplied at the post down by Jackson Lake and they would have plenty. He’d have to see about stealing some of their supplies some night. And maybe doing some headhunting while he was at it.

  He’d cross the Yellowstone tomorrow, and once he crossed Monument Creek, he’d be in the big lonesome once more. There he’d start the fireworks.

  “He crossed the road,” Montana Jess said, riding back to the main party. “He’s headin’ for the Divide.”

  “Why, for God’s sake?
” Hans blurted. “I thought he was going to take us into this park area?”

  “He is,” John T. told him. “But he don’t want to get amongst a bunch of visitors when he opens this dance. He’s probably waitin’ for us ’tween the Beaverdam and the Monument. And it’ll take us a good week to get over there.”

  Ol’ Walt smiled with deadly humor. And he’s runnin’ you yahoos out of supplies, too, the cook thought. You folks just ain’t yet figured out that you’re up agin a professional.

  Ol’ Walt had given a lot of thought to just pullin’ out some night and leavin’ these blood-crazy people. But he wanted to stick it out and see the final outcome. He figured it was gonna be right interestin’.

  “Take the point, Utah,” John T. told the man. “Jensen ain’t makin’ any effort to hide his tracks.”

  That became very apparent the next day when Utah gave a whoop and the party came on a gallop.

  “Those are mine!” Andrea shrieked, looking at a pair of bloomers hanging from a tree limb by the trail. “I lost them when the packhorses bolted and scattered the supplies.” She snatched the bloomers from the limb and stuffed them in her saddlebags, her face crimson. “The nerve of that man,” she fumed. “The gall of that . . . that ... heathen.”

  “Jensen has a very strange sense of humor,” Gunter remarked. “Especially when one considers he does not have that much longer to live.”

  Walt shook his head at that remark. These people still hadn’t got it through their noggins that Jensen wasn’t plannin’ on dyin’. Jensen was plannin’ on killin’ them.

  Walt met the dark and serious eyes of Angel Cortez. The Mexican gunfighter knows, the cook thought. He knows just how deadly this business is. Of all of them here, Angel’ll be the one to hold back and maybe come out of this alive. Angel had told him the only reason he came along was that he’d been buddyin’ with Valdes and the outlaw had convinced him to come along. He had nothing against Smoke Jensen and had yet to fire upon the elusive Smoke.

  Angel nodded his head and smiled at Walt. The two men reached a silent understanding.

  They swung back into the saddle and pulled out, both of them hanging back at the rear of the column.

  “These people,” Angel said, “I think they are playing a fool’s game.”

  “I know they are,” Walt told him.

  “I have tried to convince my compadre, Valdes, that what we are doing is the same as hunting a panther in his own territory while armed with no more than a stick. He does not see it that way. I think Valdes will die in this terrible wilderness.”

  “If his lordship up yonder don’t call this fool thing off, they’s gonna be a lot of people die up here,” Walt said.

  “Do you think Jensen would harm the women?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. No decent man wants to harm a female. And Jensen is a decent man. I think he’ll do everything in his power not to harm them. He might turn them female manhunters over his knee and wallop the beJesus out of their backsides. Lord knows they sure need it.”

  Angel grinned. “Now to witness that would be worth the ride, I think.”

  Walt chuckled. “Shore would be some caterwaulin’ goin’ on, for a fact.”

  “Why can’t the men we ride with see that Jensen is goading us on? He is deliberately leading us into another ambush. He is going to whittle us down one by one. You see it, I see it, why not the others?”

  “Them blue-bloods up yonder is too damned arrogant to see anything past the end of their noses. The rest of these outlaws and gunslicks ... well, all they can see is big money danglin’ in front of them.”

  “And the reputation of being among the men who killed Smoke Jensen,” Angel added.

  “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.

  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 fiv
e 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.