Smoke turned just as Lou was getting up. He measured his blow and put one hard right fist onto the side of Lou’s jaw. Lou’s eyes rolled back while he was falling, until only the whites were showing. He hit the floor, out cold.
Smoke walked back to the bar and drank his beer down. He turned to face the crowd. “These two are part of a gang that’s been hunting me ... for sport. I should have killed them both. But maybe this way is better. Maybe when the others come into town, the sight of these two will change some minds. Dusty, will you and some of these other good citizens drag these two over to the jail, lock them down, and bring the key to me?”
“We’ll shore do it,” Dusty said.
“I’ll be registering at the hotel and then I’ll be having me a bath and a shave.”
“I’ll find you,” Dusty said.
Smoke walked out the front door.
“Shoot!” one citizen said. “I was wantin’ to see a good gunfight.”
“If there had of been,” Dusty said, grabbing hold of Lou’s ankles, “if you’d blinked you’d a missed it.”
Smoke took the key to the cell holding Lou and Pride and dropped it down an old unused well. He had registered at the hotel and after disposing of the cell key, he walked to the barber shop and told the man to get some hot water ready for a bath. After his bath, he had himself a shave and a haircut. Then he went to the cafe for something to eat.
Smoke was eating roast beef and boiled potatoes and gravy when the marshal walked in, all dusty and tired-looking. The marshal paused in the door, gave the crowded cafe a once-over, spotted him, walked to the table, and sat down.
“Coffee, Pat,” he called to the waiter. “And a plate of food. I’m so hungry I could eat a skunk.” He cut his eyes. “You got to be Smoke Jensen.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you put those two beat-up lookin’ characters into my jail?”
Smoke chewed for a moment. “Nope.”
The marshal waited for a moment. “Well, if it wouldn’t be too much of a problem, would you mind telling me who did?”
“Some of your citizens. At my request.”
“Both of them yahoos wants a doctor.”
“I imagine they do. They were both in fairly poor condition the last time I saw them.”
The marshal looked at him. “One of them tagged you at least one good lick.”
“Yes, he did. The waiter said they had apple pie. Is it any good?”
“It’s very good. I have it every day. It’s the only kind of pie the damn cook knows how to bake. Mister Jensen, what the hell do you want me to do with those two gunslingers in my jail?” He lifted his coffee cup, blew, and took a sip.
“I imagine you’ll be keeping them for awhile. I threw away the cell key.”
The marshal choked on his coffee. “Damnit, man. I only had the one key for that cell.”
“I know.” Smoke smiled at him. “Don’t worry. The man who’ll be coming to get them has plenty of money. He’ll pay for rebricking the rear wall, after you have someone jerk it out to set them loose.”
Smoke was miles north of the settlement when Frederick von Hausen and his party arrived, looking for the two missing members. The German was not amused at what he found.
“I demand that you release those men immediately!” he told the marshal.
“I ain’t got no charges against either of them,” the marshal replied.
“Well ... turn them loose!”
“I surely wish I could. They’re eating the town’s treasury outta money. Never seen two men who could eat that much.”
“Release them!”
“I can’t.”
“You are straining my patience,” von Hausen told the man. “First you tell me there are no charges against either man, then you tell me that you cannot free them. This is all very confusing.”
“I can’t open the damn door,” the marshal said. “Smoke Jensen threw away the only key.”
Von Hausen cussed.
The marshal waited until the German had stopped swearing. “He said you probably wouldn’t see the humor in it.”
“Get us outta here!” Lou hollered.
“Where is the nearest locksmith?” von Hausen asked, getting a grip on his temper.
“Lord, I don’t know,” the marshal said, scratching his head. “Denver, I reckon.”
“My good man,” Hans stepped in. “We must free these men. It is an injustice to keep them locked up when they have done no wrong.”
The marshal looked at him. “You got any ideas?”
“We could get some dynamite and blow the wall,” John T. suggested.
“The hell you will!” Pride bellowed.
While the manhunters were arguing among themselves, the marshal opened a drawer of his desk and pulled out a pile of old wanted posters. Several of the gunslingers hit the saddle and left town.
“Just as well. Didn’t want to fool with them anyway,” the marshal muttered.
Smoke was a good twenty miles north of the town, camped along the banks of Fontenelle Creek, drinking coffee and cooking his supper before a team of mules was found and a chain hooked to the bars of the cell.
Frederick von Hausen had to count out the money for jail repairs and put it in the marshal’s hand before the townspeople would allow the wall to be pulled down.
“Now will you release my men?” the German asked.
“Take it down,” the marshal said.
The big Missouri Reds strained but the wall would not budge.
“Damnit, do something!” von Hausen yelled.
“You wanna get out there and get in harness with them mules?” the marshal asked him.
“You are a very impudent fellow,” von Hausen told him.
“And you’re beginnin’ to annoy me,” the marshal replied. “And when I get annoyed, I tend to get testy. The second best thing you could do is shut your mouth. The first best thing you could do is go back to wherever the hell it is you come from.”
“Pull, babies!” the mule’s owner yelled and the wall finally came down in a cloud of dust.
Lou and Pride staggered out, both of them looking as though they had picked a fight with a tornado.
They told their stories to an incredulous von Hausen.
“He whipped both of you?” the German said.
“Incredible,” Gunter said.
“I warned you about Jensen,” John T. reminded them.
While the back of the jail was being demolished, the ladies in the group had been enjoying hot baths and the boys in the town had been enjoying them a whole lot more by peeking through holes in the fence back of the barber shop.
By the time the men had been released, it was late in the day and pointless to continue. Von Hausen and his party stayed at the small hotel while the gunslingers slept wherever they could.
When the morning dawned and the European community and their scummy entourage finally got underway, Smoke was riding along the Fontenelle, with Commissary Ridge to the west.
He’d had his fun, and now the game would turn serious, he guessed. He had insulted his majesty and his lordship, and the prince and their ladies, and the Germans would not take it lightly.
But Smoke was still not going to start tossing lead at this point. He just could not accept that this was going to turn lethal. He just couldn’t. Those following him were going to have to show that they really intended to kill him before he turned and made his stand.
He hoped von Hausen would call it off.
Deep inside him, he knew the German would not.
5
“He’s stopped tryin’ to hide his trail,” Gil Webb said. “That makes me wonder what he’s up to.”
Nat Reed nodded his head in agreement. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. “What you gonna do with all the money them crazy people is payin’ us, Gil?”
“Spend it on women and booze,” the man-hunter said simply and honestly.
They were waiting for the mai
n party to catch up, taking a few minutes to rest.
“That’s a lot of damn money to spend on women and whiskey.”
“So what are you gonna do with your pay?”
Nat grinned. “Spend it on women and whiskey.”
The men laughed.
“You ever been up in this part of the country, Nat?”
“Nope. I’m a plains and desert man, myself. That map we looked at the other day showed some hellacious mountains just a few miles north of here.”
“Yeah. John T. and Utah and them other high-country boys is gonna have to take the point from here on out. I ain’t got no idea where we are.”
John T. sat his saddle and looked down at the clear tracks Smoke was leaving. His smile held no humor. “He’s leadin’ us straight into the wilderness. I got a hunch he’s gonna take us into the big canyon country.”
“What is that?” Gunter asked.
“A damn good place to stay out of,” John T. told him. “Smoke was raised by mountain men, so he’ll know the High Lonesome mighty well.”
“The what?” Andrea asked.
“A place where it’s hotter than hell and colder than ice. Where the winds blow all the time and they don’t never blow. Places were you can crawl to the edge and look down for more ’un five thousand feet-straight down.” (Only a slight exaggeration). “Wild lost rivers that don’t go nowhere.” (Actually they do). “They’s still Injuns in there that ain’t never seen a white man.” (Probably true). “Unless it was a mountain man. Like Smoke Jensen.”
“Has it been explored?” Gunter asked.
“Rivers been traveled on some. Mountain men and Injuns know it. And smoke Jensen.”
“How big is this place?” von Hausen asked.
“Don’t nobody know for sure. If that’s where Jensen is takin’ us, he’ll find a good spot to stash his horses and start to give us pure-dee hell. Jim Bridger country. It’s wild, people, and it gets wilder the further north you go. Any of you ever seen a lightnin’ storm in the high-up? They’re terrible. You claim to have studied him, von Hausen; but I bet you got most of your information from gossip and from them damn Penny Dreadful books. The same with you boys from the plains and the flats. So I’ll tell you what Jensen is and ain’t.
“He’s a mountain man. He knows ‘em, he ain’t scared of ’em, and he can climb ’em. He’s at home in the mountains. And when he makes his stand, it’ll be in the mountains.”
John T. paused to roll a cigarette and light up. “You see, people, this is just a game to him right now. He’s havin’ fun with us. If he was takin’ this serious, why they’d be some of us layin’ back yonder on the trail, dead from ambush. You real sure you want to go on with this so-called sporting e-vent, von Hausen?”
“Of course, I do!”
“Just checkin’.”
“Mount up and let’s go,” von Hausen said.
Smoke crossed and recrossed the Fontenelle several times, knowing that would slow up those behind him. He could have taken a much easier route, but he didn’t want to make things easy for his pursuers. He was hoping-knowing it was a slim chance-that if he took them over the roughest terrain he could find, they might decide to call off the chase.
Maybe.
He was going to ride straight north, up through the Salt River Range, have some fun with them up in Jim Bridger country-maybe get them good and lost for a time-and then head up the Snake Range, through the Teton Range, and then over the Divide. If they were still after him, and had proved hostile, there he would make his stand.
He had considered talking to the German, but decided that probably wouldn’t do a bit of good. He had thought about leaving them a note, stuck to a tree, warning them off. But von Hausen might decide that was a challenge and really put on the pressure. Smoke had never been in any situation quite like this one and didn’t really know how to handle it.
His rancher friend was not expecting him—Smoke had told him he’d be up sometime in the spring or summer-so his friend would not be worried about him.
“Hell of a mess,” Smoke muttered, and headed north.
“This is the goddamnest country I ever seen in my life,”
*What is now Yellowstone National Park Marty Boswell griped. “The sun’s out now and it’s warm; tonight it’ll be so damned cold a body’s gotta jump up and down to keep his feet from freezin’.”
“At least Jensen’s just as colds,” Paul Melham said.
“No, he ain‘t,” John T. corrected. “He’s used to it and come prepared. He can build him a lean-to and a soft bed outta sweet smellin’ boughs near ’bouts as fast as you boys can unsaddle your horse.”
“Why do you constantly try to discourage the men?” Marlene asked him.
“I ain’t tryin’ to discourage ‘em. I just want the soft ones to quit and get long gone away from me ’fore we tangle with Jensen. I don’t want nobody but hardcases with me when that hombre decides to fight.”
“Am I a hardcase, John T.?” she asked teasingly.
“You-all are payin’ the bulldog, your ladyship. I just don’t want no little puppy dogs around me when push comes to shove.”
“What do you have against Smoke Jensen, John T.?”
“I don’t like him. He’s too damn high and mighty to suit me. Somebody needs to slap him down a time or two.”
“And you think you’re that man?”
“I might be. I do think that all of us-if we get real lucky and work real careful-can put an end to Smoke Jensen.”
“Oh, I assure you, John T., that we are going to most definitely do that. Frederick has never failed-never.”
He ain’t never run up on the likes of Smoke Jensen, neither, John T. thought, but didn’t put it into words.
Smoke figured he was at least two full days ahead of his hunters, and perhaps even three. He was going to have to re-supply, and discard some gear while adding things more practical if this game turned deadly, as he feared it would.
He knew of a tiny town located on the west side of the Salt River Range, not more than three or four miles from the Idaho border. He’d head there, but he’d do so carefully, and try to lose his pursuers—at least for a time.
Smoke headed out and put Salt River Pass behind him, then he cut west and stayed on the east side of the Salt River, leaving plenty of tracks. He rode across a rocky flat, then stopped and tore a blanket up and tied squares of cloth over his horses’ hooves so they would not scar the rock, then doubled back to the river and stayed in it, as best he could, for several miles. He found another rocky flat and exited the river there.
He swung down from the saddle and spent some time working out his tracks. Satisfied, he mounted up and headed for the settlement. He had probably gained another day; if he was lucky, maybe two days.
He spent a night in a cold camp, not wanting to chance a fire, on the off chance his hunters had gained on him, and Smoke was in no mood for nonsense when he rode into the tiny town the next day, at mid-morning.
He told the man at the livery to rub his horses down good and give them all the grain they wanted to eat.
“Payable in ad-vance,” the man said sourly.
Smoke looked at him for a moment through the coldest, most dangerous eyes the man had ever seen.
“It’s for ever’body, mister,” he spoke gently. “Boss’s orders. I just work here.”
Smoke smiled and handed the man some coins, including a little extra. “Have yourself a drink on me at day’s end.”
“I’ll do it,” the man said with a returning smile. “Thanks. They’s beds over the saloon or you’re welcome to bed down here. Beth’s is our only cafe and she serves up some pretty good grub.”
“I’ll check it out. Much obliged.”
“Ain’t I seen you before, mister?”
“Never been here before in my life.”
“Shore looks familiar,” the man muttered, when Smoke had walked away. Then he stood still as a post as recognition struck him. “Good God!” he said. “And I
got lippy with him?”
Smoke checked out the rooms over the saloon, saw fleas and various other crawling and hopping creatures on the dirty sheets, and decided he would sleep in the loft of the barn. He’d always liked the smell of hay.
“You mighty goddamn particular,” the combination barkeep and desk clerk told him.
That did it. Smoke grabbed the man by the shirt, picked him up about a foot off the floor, and pinned him to the wall. “Would it too much of a problem for you to be civil?”
“You better put me down, mister. Tom Lilly runs this town, and he’s a personal friend of mine.”
“And you’ll run tell him about this little incident and he’ll do your fighting for you, right?”
“Something like that. And he’ll clean your plow, drifter.”
Smoke dragged him to the landing and threw him down the stairs. “Then go tell him, you weasel. I’ll be having a drink at the bar. From the good bottle.”
The man scrambled to his feet and ran out the front door. Smoke walked down the steps, rummaged around behind the bar until he found the good bottle of whiskey, and poured himself a drink. Although not much of a drinking man, the whiskey was smooth and felt good going down.
He fixed himself a sandwich from the fresh-laid out lunch selection and poured a cup of coffee, then walked to a table in the back of the room. He took off his coat and sat down. Slipping the hammer-thong from his Colts was something he did the instant his boots touched ground out of the stirrups.
The front door opened and the lippy barkeep entered, followed by a huge bear of a man.
“There he is,” the barkeep said, pointing Smoke out. Then he ran back behind the bar. “And that’ll be fifty cents for that drink of good whiskey.”
Pursuit Of The Mountain Man Page 4