“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.”
11
Utah Red sensed more than heard movement behind him and to his right. He twisted in the saddle just as the rope settled around him and jerked him from his horse. Utah hit the ground hard, knocking the wind from him. He struggled to free himself of the loop and managed to slip loose and was reaching for his guns when a hard fist connected solidly against the side of his jaw. The blow knocked him sprawling. His guns fell from leather.
Cursing, Utah scrambled to his boots and swung a big fist at his attacker’s head. Smoke ducked the blow and planted a left, then a right in Utah’s gut. Gasping for breath, Utah stumbled away, trying to suck air back into his lungs. Smoke pressed him hard, with left’s and right’s that bloodied Utah’s mouth and smashed his nose flat.
Utah made a dive for his guns, sliding belly-down on the rocks and the dirt. Smoke gave him a foot in the face that slowed his slide and further bloodied his mouth.
Reaching down, Smoke jerked the man to his boots and walloped him on the side of his face with a big right fist. The clubbing blow knocked Utah to his knees. The last thing Utah remembered before he lost consciousness was his daddy’s warning that if the boy didn’t straighten up, he’d never amount to a thing.
Pride Andcrson and Lou Kennedy untied the ropes that held Utah belly-down across his saddle. They noticed that Utah’s guns were gone, short guns and rifle. When they laid him on the ground, on his back, both of them grimaced at the mess that was once Utah’s face.
“Jensen shore whupped the snot outta him,” Walt said, walking up with a pan of water and a cloth. “He’s out of it for a week, at least.”
The party had stopped for their nooning and Utah had decided to scout on ahead for signs of Jensen. He found much more than he bargained for.
“Teeth knocked out, nose busted, both eyes swelled shut,” Pride said. “I ain’t seen but a couple of men whupped this bad in all my life.”
Marlene stood away from the growing circle of men, a worried look on her face and in her eyes. Nothing was turning out the way they’d planned. This was supposed to had been a fun trip: hunt down and shoot a western gunslinger, celebrate with a bottle of champagne, and return to Europe to boast about it among their limited circle of friends.
But none of them had taken into consideration that the men of the American west—who had helped tame the country-didn’t like to be hunted down. None of them had planned on their quarry fighting back so savagely. Marlene didn’t think Smoke Jensen was really in the spirit of things; he certainly wasn’t playing fair.
“I can’t feel that he’s got any ribs busted,” Pride said, standing over the conscious and moaning Utah Red. “But he’s sure out of it. I guess Jensen took his guns.”
“I’ll check his saddlebags,” Bob Hogan said, walking to Utah’s horse. “I know he’s got a bottle in there. He could use a drink, I reckon.”
Seconds later Bob screamed out a shriek that chilled all in the camp. They whirled to look at the man. A rattlesnake was wound around his right arm, the big fanged mouth striking at his face again and again. Marlene and Maria and Andrea started screaming and the men stood around helplessly. There was nothing they could do. The big rattler presented no target with its writhing and striking.
Bob fell backward to the ground, his face blackened and swelling from the venom. His hands were clenched into fists of pain and his throat was too swollen to allow sound to push through. He kicked and jerked a couple of times and then lay still as the massive injection of poison killed him stone dead.
The women had turned away, weeping and sickened by the sight.
“What kind of man would think to do something like that?” Gunter questioned. His face was pale, his hands shaking, and he wanted to throw up.
“A man like Smoke Jensen,” Walt said bluntly. “One of you boys kill that rattler and somebody get the shovels. Angel, get a blanket to wrap Bob up in. I’ll go get the Good Book outta my gear.”
Von Hausen’s legs were trembling so badly he had to sit down on a log and try to regain his composure. He was in mild shock, sweating profusely. He clenched his hands into fists to still the trembling. He had never seen anything like this in all his years. He tried to put himself into the mind of Smoke Jensen. He could not. But it never occurred to him to call off the hunt.
Less than a half mile away, Smoke sat on the ground and ate jerky for his lunch while he thumbed the cartridges out of Utah’s gunbelt and put them in a small sack.
Finding the rattlesnake and sticking it into Utah’s saddlebags had been a nice touch, Smoke thought. He bet it sure got everyone’s attention. He picked up his pack and rifle and moved out. He was smiling.
“Be interestin’ to see what the Baron does now,” Walt said to Angel.
“Yes. Utah is out for a good three or four days-his face is so swollen he can’t open his eyes-and Bob is dead. That’s three dead and two wounded and nobody has yet to get a clear shot at Jensen. A smart man would give this up.”
“You don’t see any of these man-hunters and so-called gunslingers pullin’ out, do you?”
“No.”
“That tells you how smart they are right there.”
John T. walked over to von Hausen, who was sitting in a camp chair in front of his tent, drinking coffee. He looked up at
John T. and shook his head.
“Barbaric act on Jensen’s part.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I wonder how long he had that snake?”
“He probably just caught it and come up with the idea. The snake got away ’fore anyone could shoot it.”
“Wonderful,” von Hausen said sarcastically.
“Hole’s dug and Bob’s ready for plantin’. Walt’s gonna read words over him.”
“The ladies are still quite distraught. They won’t be attending. Andrea had to take to her bed.”
“Sorry to hear that, Baron.”
“I’ll get my jacket and be right with you. I’ll join you at the services.”
At the gravesite, John T. noticed that both Angel and Walt were wearing white handkerchiefs tied around their upper arm. “What the hell’s all that about?”
“We want Jensen to know we ain’t huntin’ him,” Walt told him. Just in case he decides to attend the services, he added silently.
John T. shook his head in disgust.
The entire camp-except for the ladies-gathered around the grave and Walt read from the Bible. The body was dumped in the hole and Walt closed his Bible. Just as two men picked up shovels and started covering Bob, a sputtering stick of dynamite landed in the center of the camp with a thud-about a hundred yards from the burial site.
“What was that?” Montana asked.
The dynamite blew and the horses tore loose their picket pins and went galloping in all directions. One of them ran behind Gunter and Maria’s tent, a rope tangling around the horse’s neck and bringing the tent down and taking it with him. Maria was in the middle of a sponge bath one second and standing smooth out in the open the next second, frozen in wide-eyed, open-mouthed shock for all to see. And she had a lot for the men to see.
It didn’t take her long to find her voice and let out a shriek that probably echoed around the mountains for days. Then she fainted.
Smoke was busy setting the other big tents on fire. He touched the flame to a very short fuse and let another stick of dynamite fly just as the men-minus Walt and Angel who had the good sense to jump behind the mound of earth at the gravesite—came running toward the dust-swirled camp grounds.
“Get down!” John T. bellowed, seeing the dynamite come sputtering through the dust.
This stick of dynamite took out the cook tent, ruined the pot of beans and demolished the dutch oven.
“Crap!” Walt said. “I wish he hadn’t a done that.”
“Least he saved the coffee pot,” Angel said.
No sooner had the words left his mouth before Smoke’s .44-.40 barked twice and the coffee pot got punctured.
Andrea and Marlene came staggering out of what was left of their burning tents, in various stages of undress, both of them coughing and choking, hair all disheveled and looking like sisters of Medusa.
Smoke couldn’t see because of all the dust and billowing smoke from the fires he’d started so he chose that time to haul his ashes out of there. He hit the timber running and slipped away. But he was very curious about the two men he’d spotted at the gravesite with white handkerchiefs tied around their arm. And neither one of them had been wearing guns. One of them looked like the old gunfighter, Walt Webster, and the other was a Mexican. Maybe he had two allies in camp?
The tents were gone and most of their contents went up with them. The women had been hustled off-after Maria was revived and a robe draped over her-and positioned safely behind a jumble of rocks, under guard.
“One big coffee pot left,” Walt said. “The cook pot’s busted. The oven’s bent plumb outta shape and broke besides. The big skillet ain’t got no handle. They’s flour and beans and lard all over the damn place.”
Men were out looking for and rounding up their horses. They never did find the horse that took Maria’s tent with it, but they did find what was left of the tent.
Von Hausen found his camp chair, sat down in it, and the chair collapsed, sending the Baron sprawling on his butt in the dirt. He picked himself up with as much dignity as he could muster, and brushed off the dirt from his riding breeches.
“How far are we from civilization?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“There’s a tradin’ post up on the Shoshone,” Montana said. “That’d be north and east of us. As the crow flies, about thirty miles or so.”
“Could you get there?” Gunter asked.
“Oh, yeah. Best way to go would be to stay on the south side of Eagle Peak, then crost the north end of the Absaroka Range and hit either Eagle or Kitty Creek. Follow that on up to the Shoshone.”
“And that would take how long?” Hans asked.
“Days. Some of that is mighty rough country.”
Von Hausen tossed a small sack to the man. “There is more than ample funds to re-supply and to hire more men—if you can find them. We’re going to fall back to that plateau we crossed several miles back and set up a defensive position. That’s where we’ll be. Assign men to go with him, John T.” He looked toward the north. “I shall not leave this wilderness until I have spat upon your grave, Smoke Jensen. I swear that.”
Smoke didn’t figure von Hausen would be sending anyone after him-if he could get anyone to come after him—so he returned to his camp and set about fixing supper. He wanted all fires out by dark, just in case.
He’d grabbed up a side of bacon and a sack of potatoes in the jumble of supplies he’d rooted through before getting down to business at the camp, and now planned on having a hot meal and a pot of coffee. But first he saw to his horses and found them looking fat and sleek and contented.
Smoke fixed his supper, drank a pot of coffee, and then rolled up in his blankets. He went to sleep with a smile on his face.
John T. assigned four guards to a shift, the shift to be changed every two hours so no one would get sleepy and let Jensen slip into this new camp. John T. still planned to kill Smoke, but he had to admit that his admiration for the man had grown over the long weeks of tracking him. Smoke Jensen was every bit the warrior rumors made him out to be. That was one hell of a daring move, coming into their camp in daylight and blowing things up and setting tents on fire. Man could move like a Injun, for sure. But he had to have a weak spot. John T. would find it. He was sure of that.
“Keep a sharp eye out, boys,” he called across the elevated flat to the guards. “And keep in mind that Jensen can move like a damn ghost.”
At that moment, Frederick, Hans, and Gunter were making a pact that they would carry out this campaign down to the last man. Smoke Jensen would die, or they would all die trying.
“It’s now a matter of honor,” Gunter said. “If we fail in this hunt, we’ll be ridiculed back home. I won’t have that.”
“Nor will I,” Hans agreed.
Von Hausen nodded his head in agreement. “We may possess all the money in the world, but if we are stripped of our honor, we would have nothing. We must go on with this hunt. And we must be victorious.”
“I have spoken with the women,” Gunter said. “They are also in agreement that this sporting event must continue. They have been humiliated and they are very angry.”
“The mood of the men?” von Hausen asked.
“John T. is testing the waters now, so to speak,” Hans informed him.
“Work’s hard enough to get for men like us,” John T. said offhandedly to a small group of gunslingers. “Times are changin’ all around us. I just can’t see turnin’ my back on no good-payin’ job like this one.”
“I ain’t about to give up this here hunt,” Pat Gilman said. “We stand to make more money doin’ this than we could make in five years doin’ anything else.”
“Count me in,” Ford said.
“And, me,” Al Hayre echoed.
“Montana and them with him told me that they was in all the way,” John T. said. “Lemme go talk with the others.”
Tom Ritter and Gil Webb and Marty Boswell were in. So were Pride Anderson, Lou Kennedy, Cat Brown, Paul Melham
and Nat Reed. Utah Red mumbled that he’d done swore on his mother’s tintype to kill Smoke Jensen; wanted to torture him first. Make it last a long time. Ford, Jerry Watkins, Mike Hunt, and Nick were in all the way.
“They’re in,” John T. reported to his bosses. “For the money and because their pride’s been hurt.”
“Excellent,” von Hausen said, and smiled for the first time since Smoke’s attack that day. “Montana said he could probably round up three or four more men. He thought he knew where there was a long-range shooter. I wanted Mike Savage, but he’s somewhere down in Arizona Territory at this time. Montana said the man he had in mind was better. We’ll see.”
“All this waitin’ is just givin’ Jensen more time to dig in and plan,” John T. pointed out.
Von Hausen brushed that aside. “It can’t be helped. We’ve got to be resupplied if this expedition is to continue with any hope of success. Look at it this way: There is no way Jensen can get to us up here on this flat. We have an excellent view in all directions and a fine field of fire. And the supplies will afford us some much-needed creature comforts. We have to keep the ladies in mind, John T.”
John T. nodded. “Whatever you say, boss. I sent a couple of the men south to see if they could kill a deer or elk so we’ll have a change from beans and hardtack.”
“Excellent. I wish them a successful hunt.”
After John T. had walked away from the group, von Hausen rubbed his hands together and smiled, a cruel glint in his eyes. “I feel better now. We’ve had our set-backs, but that is to be expected in any campaign. I feel that we’ve ironed out the kinks and learned some hard but valuable lessons. I think that from this point on, success is inevitable. Let’s drink to it, gentlemen. To the death of Smoke Jensen!”
12
Smoke had watched the camp on the flats through long-lenses and decided that now was a dandy time to pull out. He returned to his own camp, packed up his gear, and pulled out, heading straight north. He crossed the Beaverdam, keeping on the west side of Atkins Peak. He spent a couple of days camped along the Columbine and then once more headed north. After crossing the Clear, he pointed his horse’s nose northeast and headed up toward the northern end of the Absaroka Range, recalling a camp he and Preacher had made between the Lamar River and Miller Creek, up near Saddle Mountain. He spent a couple of days there then headed west, for the Mirror Plateau; from there, he’d take his followers into canyon country and see how they liked that. He had a strong hunch that some of them would spend eternity there.
Pursuit Of The Mountain Man Page 9