Pursuit Of The Mountain Man

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 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.”