Pursuit Of The Mountain Man

by Johnstone, William W.

  Montana returned with the supplies and five new men. “This is all I could round up on short notice, boss,” he told von Hausen. “But they’re good boys and they’ll stick it out to the end. Roy Drum, Mack Saxton, Ray Harvey, Tony Addison, and this here is Don Langston. If he can see it, he can hit it with a rifle.”

  Von Hausen was impatient. Smoke had had days to hide his trail. There had been no sign of him, so all concluded he had pulled out. He voiced that shared opinion with Montana and the new men.

  “Don’t fret none,” Montana said. “Roy’s the best tracker in this part of the country. We’ll find Smoke. Roy’s got a personal reason to find him.”

  “Oh?” von Hausen looked at the man.

  “Killed my uncle ’bout ten year ago over in Utah. I hate Smoke Jensen.”

  “What did your uncle do to provoke Jensen?” Gunter asked.

  “That don’t make no nevermind. Jensen killed him, and I’m gonna spit on Smoke Jensen’s body. That’s all that matters.”

  “Get packed up. We pull out at first light.”

  The trail was cold, but Roy knew his business. He found Smoke’s trail and stayed on it. When Smoke crossed Cold Creek and turned more east than north, Roy pulled up and scratched his head. “This don’t make no sense. I think he’s leadin’ us on a fool’s chase.”

  “What do you mean?” Hans asked.

  “He’s just killin’ time. Just wanderin’ to wear us out. If I was gonna make me a stand up here, I’d do it in the canyon country. I think if we head north, we’ll pick up his trail after he crosses the Lamar. He’ll be headin’ west, over the plateau. Bet on it.”

  “We’d save how many days if you’re correct?” Gunter asked.

  “Week, maybe more ’un that.”

  “John T.?” von Hausen asked.

  “I’m with Roy. Let’s try it.”

  “Lead the way, Roy,” von Hausen ordered.

  Smoke didn’t know if his aimless wanderings would fool those behind him for very long. It really didn’t make much difference; the situation had to be settled sooner or later.

  He had made an early camp after killing a deer. He had skinned it out and was roasting a steak when he heard a rider coming. He reached for his rifle.

  “Hello, the camp!” came the shout. “We’re government surveyors.”

  “Come on in,” Smoke called through early twilight. “I’ve got food if you’ve got coffee.”

  “That we have, sir. My, but that venison does smell good.”

  There were four of them, all dressed like eastern dudes on an outing. But they were friendly and not heavily armed.

  Smoke pointed to the meat on the spit. “Help yourselves. I’ve plenty more to cook when that is gone.”

  “Say, this is very kind of you. I thought we had provisioned ourselves adequately. But I’m afraid we stayed out a bit longer than we should have. By the way, I’m Charles Knudson. This is Harold Bailey, Morris Robertson, and Perry Willard.”

  “Pleased,” Smoke said.

  The men fell to eating and with a smile, Smoke cut another hefty chunk off the hanging deer and fitted it on a fresh spit.

  “Haven’t eaten since last evening,” one of the government men said, coming up for air. “And would you believe that we haven’t even seen so much as a rabbit this day?”

  “I can believe it,” Smoke said. “I’ve been there a time or two myself.”

  Charles took a break to rest his jaws and said, “Sight-seeing, sir?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Unusual arrangement of pistols, sir,” Perry said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a rig quite like yours.”

  “Not too many of them around. I like it for a cross-draw. You boys aren’t from the west, are you?”

  “Why ... no. As a matter of fact, we’re not,” Charles replied. “What gave us away?”

  “Nothing in particular. I just guessed.”

  Smoke let them eat in peace for a moment, then asked, “Not that it’s any of my business, but what direction did you men come in from?”

  “From the north,” Harold said. “We’ve been working up near Tower Falls.” He looked puzzled. “Why would it not be any of your business? It was a perfectly harmless thing to ask?”

  “Out here, boys, it’s sometimes not healthy to ask too many questions about a man’s back trail.”

  “Ahhh!” Charles said. “I see. The person to whom the question is directed might be a road agent?”

  “Something like that.” Smoke fixed his plate and poured a cup of coffee.

  “Would it offend you if I inquired as to your name, sir?” Morris asked.

  Smoke smiled. The young men all looked to be about the same age. Early twenties at best. “My name is Jensen. People call me Smoke.”

  The young men stopped eating as if on command. They froze. Smoke went right on eating his supper and sipping his coffee. Finally he lifted his eyes and looked at them. “Eat, eat, boys. Your supper’s getting cold.” He smiled again. “I don’t bite, boys, and I’ve never shot a man who wasn’t trying to do me harm. So relax.”

  “I ... ah ... thought you would be a much older man,” Harold said when he finally found his voice.

  “We’ve read all the books about you and we saw the play about you in New York City our senior year in college,” Morris said. “Did you really ride with Jesse James?”

  “Nope. Only met the man one time. I was just a boy during the war when Jesse and his bunch stopped by the farm and I gave them a poke of food. He give me a pistol; Navy .36 it was, and an extra cylinder. That’s the only time I ever saw him.”

  “You’ve killed a ... ah ... uh ...” Perry stopped, an embarrassed look on his face.

  “A lot of men,” Smoke finished it for him. “Yes. I have. First white men I killed was down in Rico, just west of the Needle Mountains. Back in ’69 or ’70. Me and a mountain man name of Preacher was riding over to Pagosa Springs to find the men who killed my father. A man by the name of Pike and a buddy of his-I never did know his name-braced me in the trading post. They were a little slow on the draw.”

  “You killed both of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “And since then?” Charles asked softly.

  “Long bloody years. I changed my name for several years. Married and had children. But trouble came my way and I faced it. I’m Smoke Jensen and if people don’t like it they can go to hell.”

  “Mind another question, sir?” Harold asked.

  “Go right ahead.”

  “I—we—heard that you were a successful rancher over in Colorado.”

  “That’s correct. My wife and I own a spread we call the Sugarloaf.”

  “Yet ... here you are in the middle of the wilderness. The first national park in America. There are no cattle here, Mister Jensen.”

  “No. But there is plenty of cover here, and no people to get hurt when the lead starts flying. I’ve got about twenty-five or thirty hardcases on my backtrail, led by a crazy European Baron name of Frederick von Hausen. They plan on killing me ... for sport.”

  All four young men stared at Smoke, disbelief in their eyes. Morris broke the silence. “They plan on killing you, sir?”

  “Yeah. It’s a sporting event, according to them. Track me down, corner me, kill me, and then go home and boast about it, I suppose.”

  “Have, uh, they found? ...” He shook his head and frowned. “Well, it’s quite obvious they haven’t found you. You’re still alive.”

  “Oh, they’ve found me a couple of times. I killed three or four of them, beat the crap out of one, and nicked two or three more. I blew up their camp last week. I suspect von Hausen has sent for more men. He seems to be a very determined man.”

  “You killed three or four, sir?” Charles said.

  “Yeah. I could have killed them all when I Injuned into their camp one night and laid down a warning to one of the women in the bunch. But I didn’t.”

  “They have ladies with them?” Perry was hor
rified at just the thought.

  “I don’t think they’re ladies. That’d be stretching the point some. But they’re definitely female.”

  “And this bunch of hooligans ... they are here, in the park?”

  “Oh, yeah. I blew their camp up down on the Monument, then hauled my ashes after I watched several men head out to re-supply. Probably at that trading post up on the Shoshone. But they’re coming after me. So you boys rest easy here tonight, and I’ll fill you full of deer meat for breakfast and then you best be on your way ’fore the lead starts flying.”

  “But we can’t have anything like that going on here!” Charles said. “Good heavens, sir. This is a national park. We have many visitors every year. Many come just to see Old Faithful erupt.”

  “Old what?” Smoke asked.

  “Old Faithful. It’s a geyser just north of Shoshone Basin. It was named by the Washburn-Langford-Doane expedition back in ’70 because it spouts so faithfully.”

  “Valley of the Roaring Clouds,” Smoke said. “That’s what Preacher says the Indians called it. Sure. I know what you’re talking about now.” He smiled a very wicked smile. “That thing still go off regular?”

  “Certainly does. Every 65 to 70 minutes.”

  “Do tell? That’s interesting. A man could get badly burned if he got caught out in that stuff, now couldn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Badly burned. That is extremely hot water coming out of the earth.”

  “Might work,” Smoke muttered.

  “I beg your pardon?” Perry asked.

  “Nothing of importance,” Smoke told him. “You boys getting enough to eat?”

  “Oh, plenty, sir. Mister Jensen,” Charles said, “I must report this deadly game to the superintendent. You understand my position?”

  “Sure. Go right ahead. I imagine it’ll take you boys three or four days to get to him-after you’ve re-supplied at your base camp—then three of four days to get back here. But I’ll be long gone by that time. Then what will you do?”

  The young government surveyors looked at each other. “The important thing, I believe, Mister Jensen, is what will you do?”

  “Survive,” Smoke told him.

  “There they are,” Roy said, pointing to the now familiar tracks of Smoke’s horses. “He’s headin’ for the canyons.”

  “Will there be many people there?” Hans asked. “Sightseers?”

  Roy shook his head. “Doubtful. It’s too early in the season. ’Sides, this place is about three thousand square miles. Take a lot of gawkers to fill that up. We’ll find a place to corner and kill him.” He lifted the reins and moved out.

  “How long will Smoke keep this up, you wonder?” Angel questioned.

  “He’s kept it up longer than I thought he would,” Walt replied. “I reckon he’s hopin’ they’ll give it up and go on back home. When he does decide to make his stand, Angel, it’s gonna be a terrible sight to behold.”

  “That rattlesnake business told me that,” Angel said soberly. “I do not ever wish to see another sight like that.”

  “I ’spect Jensen’s got tricks up his sleeve that’ll equal it,” the old gunfighter said, as the two men rode along, bringing up the rear of the column.

  Angel shuddered. “What in God’s name could be worse than that?”

  “Jensen’ll think of something. Bet your boots on it. He ain’t even got mad yet.”

  “I have a brother in Chihuahua. He is a lawyer. I think I will visit him when this is over.”

  “Least you’ll be able to visit, son. That’s more’un them thirty-odd fools up ahead of us’ll be able to do. And them three gettin’ stiff in the ground behind us.”

  Smoke found the canyon area along the Yellowstone River completely void of human life. And he had never seen a more perfect place for an ambush.

  He carefully scouted out the area where he’d chosen to raise some hell, locating a retreat route that wound down to the river, and selected a place in the narrow pass to plant dynamite. He’d light the fuse on his way out and block the pass, forcing those behind him to detour miles before being able to ford the river. By that time, he’d have chosen another place of ambush and would be lying in deadly wait.

  He picketed his horses close to the narrow, torturously twisting pass, near water and graze, and moved into position just at dusk, about half a mile from the river and high above it. He awakened long before dawn and built a tiny fire to boil his coffee. He put out the fire as soon as he had warmed his hands and boiled his coffee. His breakfast was jerky and hardtack. He had already sighted in his .44-.40 for long-range shooting and fixed in his mind the landmarks he’d chosen for distance markers along his approach to the area. Now he waited.

  Two riders appeared. Smoke lifted his field glasses and adjusted them for distance. He recognized one rider by his shirt and the horse. He did not think he’d ever seen the second man before. So that meant von Hausen had recruited more man-hunters. Smoke wondered where in the hell he’d found them up here and how many he’d hired?

  He put those thoughts out of his head and concentrated on staying alive. The point men were still much too far away for any kind of accurate shooting when they reined up, obviously wary and suspecting an ambush. That told Smoke the men weren’t entirely stupid. That left greedy and rather foolish.

  More men rode up. Smoke lifted his binoculars and pulled in von Hausen and more men than he’d seen previously. “Come on,” he muttered. “Come on. Let’s get this going.”

  He was facing east, and the sun was bright. He did not want to risk any reflection from the lenses of the field glasses, so he cased them and settled back, rifle in hand, and waited. The point men rode closer. He saw one of them point to the ground, spotting Smoke’s tracks. The other one twisted in the saddle, calling back to the others and pumping his clenched fist up and down in the military signal to come on.

  “Yeah,” Smoke muttered. “You do that.”

  The point men passed the first landmark Smoke had fixed in his mind. Smoke lifted the rifle and jacked back the hammer on the .44-.40, sighting one of the riders in. He took up slack on the trigger and the rifle boomed, jarring his shoulder. Cosgrove was knocked from his horse as the big slug struck him dead center in his chest.

  Smoke levered in another round and squeezed the trigger. But he shot high and blew the second man’s hat off. The winds caught the hat and sent it sailing. Smoke waited.

  “Cosgrove’s had it,” Roy said, reaching the column. “Jensen shot him right through the heart.”

  “Goddamnit!” Ford cussed. “Me and Cos buddied all over the west together.” Before anyone could stop him, Ford had spurred his horse and was racing up the trail. He shucked his rifle out of the boot just as he passed his ex-partner in crime, stone dead on the rocks beside the trail.

  Smoke led the rider in the sights and let him come on. He could hear Ford cussing and hollering in his rage. “Come on,” Smoke muttered. “I want you close enough so maybe your horse will come this way and I can see if you’ve got anything to eat in your saddlebags.”

  Ford was less than a hundred yards from Smoke’s position when Smoke pulled the trigger. The bullet caught Ford in the center of his chest and Ford joined his buddy on the trail. He hit the ground and did not move. His horse kept right on going. Smoke jumped down into the rocks and grabbed the horse’s trailing reins, talking to the spooked animal, calming it down.

  He found some salt meat and biscuits wrapped in a clean cloth and nothing else of value. He stripped saddle and bridle from the animal and turned it loose. Then Smoke climbed back into position and had breakfast ... compliments of Frederick von Hausen.

  13

  Von Hausen studied Smoke’s position through binoculars, studying every angle carefully. Finally, with a curse and a shake of his head, he cased his field glasses and returned to where his group had gathered.

  “Whatever else the man may be, he knows tactics,” von Hausen said. “He could hold off an army from his position. It wo
uld take several days to get to one end or the other of this canyon then find a way through and work our way behind him. If we split our people and try to trap him in there, he’d know it because of the damned flats on both sides of us, and the high ground to our rear. To charge him would be suicide. It’s a standoff.” He looked around him. “Where is Langston?”

  “Trying to work his way out to get a shot at Jensen,” John T. told him.

  Von Hausen had decided, several days back, that the sporting aspects of this hunt could go to hell. Just kill Jensen, he told his people.

  “Where is he leading us?” von Hausen asked. “Or is he leading us anywhere? The man doesn’t think like anyone I ever knew. He’s unpredictable. In every war there are plans, tried and true, that are followed by both sides. This man is a ... a savage. I can’t work out what he is going to do from one day to the next.”

  “Do we make camp here?” Walt asked. “I gotta know so’s I can start cookin’.”

  A single shot rang out. Von Hausen ran to the rocks, the others right behind him. Don Langston lay sprawled on his back below them, his fancy inlaid rifle shining in the sunlight, on the rocks some twenty feet from the body. Langston had been shot right between the eyes.

  Walt shifted his chewing tobacco and spat. “I’d say he got a mite too close. I’ll go put the beans on.”

  “Hey, Baron!” the shout came across the rocky flats. “How about you and me settling this?”

  “What do you mean, Jensen?” von Hausen yelled.

  “Just what I said. You and me, pretty-boy. Stand up, bareknuckle fight. The best man wins.”