Pursuit Of The Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Looks like I don’t buy any bulls this summer,” Smoke told his horse.

  Once von Hausen and party crossed the Greybull, they had about fifty or sixty miles of nothing until they hit the north/south stagecoach road. Smoke remembered a trading post—that by now might be a settlement of sorts-on the old Bridger Trail, at the confluence of Fifteen Mile Creek and the Big Horn River. They would have to stop there—the ladies would want that—and resupply. Sixteen or seventeen people went through a lot of groceries on the trail. Then too, there was another point to consider: from the trading post to the next settlement, that being on the North Platte, there was about a hundred miles of nothing.

  Smoke frowned as he rode. If they stayed on the route that he, himself would take, it would put John T. Matthey about twenty miles south of the Hole-In-The-Wall. John T. just might know some pretty salty ol’ boys who would like to pick up a few bucks—namely by killing one Smoke Jensen.

  It was something to keep in his mind.

  Von Hausen and party, with Roy Drum at the point, crossed the Greybull and pressed on. Some of the swelling in Jerry Watkins’ face had gone down, but he still looked like someone had taken an icepick to his face. Many of the birdshot had been picked out; the rest he would carry for the rest of his life. Which, with Smoke Jensen hard on them, might turn out to be very short.

  Tom Ritter’s left arm had to be carried in a sling, due to a .44 slug that had passed right through his shoulder. Pat Gilman had been wounded in the hip. He could ride, but his face was pale and his lips were tight against the pain. Paul Melham’s left arm was out of commission; like Tom, he toted that arm in a sling.

  It was a sad-looking bunch that rode toward the Big Horn.

  “You know any boys at the Hole, John T.?” Pat asked, riding alongside the man. They were walking their horses to save them.

  “Could be. I been thinkin’ on it. That’s a good hundred miles down the trail. But I don’t know how many of them would want to tangle with Smoke Jensen.”

  “If we could just slow him up some ...”

  “Yeah. I know. Jensen gave us more breaks during this ... craziness than I figured he would. That’s over now. He sees us, anywhere, anytime, he’s probably gonna drag iron. For a fact, he ain’t gonna give us no more breaks.”

  “I give up on tryin’ to ambush that feller. Seems like he can smell a set-up.”

  “He was raised up by mountain men. Preacher, in particular. He ain’t got no better honker on him than we do; but he senses danger. Preacher schooled him good.”

  “We’re just gonna have to make up our minds to stand and face him, John T.”

  “I been thinkin’ on that, too.”

  “And? ...”

  “You best keep in mind that if we do that, we’re gonna take some lead. Jensen ain’t gonna just step out in the street and face fifteen of us. He’s the farthest thing from a fool. He faced them old boys at that silver camp—eighteen or so of them—and he rode off after the dust settled. And he wasn’t nothin’ but a kid hisself. He’s a ring-tailed-tooter, Pat.”

  “Sounds like you sort of like the man, John T.”

  “Oh, I do, in a way. I ain’t really got nothin’ agin him. I’m just gonna kill him, that’s all. How’s your hip?”

  “Hurts bad. I’m gonna pull out at the settlement on the river. Maybe I’ll get lucky with Jensen.”

  A couple of days later, when they swung down from the dusty saddles at the settlement on the Big Horn, Valdes pulled his rifle from the boot and said, “No more of this for me. I am staying here and settling this affair once and for all. I am weary of running like a frightened child.”

  “Count me in on that, too,” Jerry Watkins mumbled through still-swollen lips. “I got a real personal score to settle with him.”

  “I can’t ride no more,” Gilman said. “I was plannin’ on pullin’ the pin here anyways.”

  The others just looked at the men and shook their heads. John T. said, “I wish you boys would think on that some. I’m goin’ to head for the Hole later on and round up some more boys.”

  Valdes shook his head. “No. This is as far as I run.” He handed von Hausen a slip of paper. “That is my mother’s name and address in Mexico. You will see that she gets my share of the money, por favor?”

  Von Hausen nodded his head. “Yes, I will, Valdes. I give you my word on that.”

  “This is adios, then.” He solemnly shook hands with everybody and led his horse to the stable.

  “See you, boys,” Pat said, meeting the eyes of the men and the women. The women seemed indifferent about the whole matter. Then limped off, following the Mexican gunslick.

  “I reckon that about sums it up,” Jerry mumbled, and followed Pat and Valdes.

  “We’ll resupply and immediately move on,” von Hausen said. “We can’t afford the luxury of bathing and grooming. Let’s buy what we need and get out!”

  Valdes, Jerry, and Pat watched the party ride out of town from a table by the window in a saloon. Pat had not sought the advice of the local doctor about the festering wound in his hip, because he didn’t figure he had much longer to live anyway.

  He took out a pen and started laboriously printing on a piece of paper he bummed from the bartender, who was nervous about the men being in his place of business. He had heard about von Hausen—news traveled swiftly in the west—and wanted no part of Smoke Jen—sen.

  “What are you doin’?” Jerry asked.

  “Makin’ out my last will and testament,” the gun-for-hire said. “Then I’m gonna give it to that lawyer acrost the street.”

  “I didn’t know you had anybody to leave nothin’ to.”

  “I don’t. I’m leavin’ it to my horse.”

  “Your horse?”

  “Yep. He’s a good’un. I ain’t worth a damn; but that shouldn’t be no reflection on my horse. I’m gonna see to it that he lives out the rest of his days eatin’ and gettin’ fat and bein’ lazy.”

  “That ain’t a bad idea,” Jerry said. “Do it for my hoss, too. How about you, Valdes?”

  “I don’t give a damn what happens to my horse,” he said sullenly. “And how do you know we’re not gonna ride out of this dismal place?”

  “ ’Cause the telegraph down the road says Smoke Jensen is about a half a day behind you boys,” a rancher spoke from a couple of tables over. “That’s why. I’ll see to it that you boys’ horses are put out to pasture and live a good life, if you want me to. I admire a man who takes care of his horse.”

  “Thanks,” Pat said.

  The rancher looked at Valdes. “You can go to hell.”

  Valdes started to get up from the table. He stopped halfway out at the sound of several hammers being eared back. Four of the rancher’s hands stood at the bar, six-guns in their hands.

  “Sit down,” one told him. “Way I figure it, you got maybe six or eight hours to live—at the most. You might as well enjoy that time. ’Sides, I don’t want to miss this fight.”

  Valdes sat, being very careful to keep both his hands on the table.

  “I’ll take care of your horse, too, Mex,” the rancher told him. “ ’Cause I like horses.”

  “You serve up food in this place?” Jerry said.

  “Got a stew that’s good,” the barkeep told him.

  “That’ll suit me just fine,” Pat said. “Then I’m gonna take me a snooze under that tree yonder.” He pointed. “I reckon I’d better get in the habit of bein’ stretched out,” he added drily.

  23

  The day wore on with its usual never-deviating pace. But to the three hired guns in the saloon, time seemed to drag. The saloon filled as word spread around the area. Buck-boards and wagons rattled into town, carrying entire families ; many had packed box suppers. This was the biggest thing to happen in the community since the outhouse behind the church collapsed and dumped the minister into the pit. Took twelve men half the day to haul him out. Folks never dreamed that a man of the cloth would know all those bad words.
<
br />   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’?”