Pursuit Of The Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  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.”

  “Marquess of Queensberry rules?”

  Smoke’s laughter was taunting. “Anyway you want it, Baron. We’ll hold it in Denver.”

  “Denver!” von Hausen shouted.

  “That’s right-Denver. In front of a crowd at a ring. I’m not going to take a chance out here on one of your rabid skunks shooting me after I beat your face in.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it,” Utah Red said. He was now able to see out of both eyes, but his face was lumpy and still mottled with bruises.

  “Oh, I could take him in a ring,” von Hausen boasted. “It might be fun.”

  “How about it?” Smoke shouted.

  “I think not, Jensen. You can’t run forever.”

  “Hell, I’m not running now, von Horse-face. Why don’t you come on across and get me.”

  Von Hausen’s face reddened at the slur upon his name. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”

  Smoke told von Hausen what he thought about the German’s ancestry.

  Obviously, Walt concluded, he don’t think much of it.

  “You are a foul, stupid man, Jensen,” von Hausen hurled the words.

  “But I’m a better man than you, von Hose-nose,” Smoke called. “I don’t need an army to do my fighting.”

  Frederick touched his nose. Hose-nose! “Fill that area with lead!” he shouted.

  The men fired, but it was done half-heartedly. The distance was just too great to hope for any damage.

  After the firing had ceased, von Hausen called, “How about that, Jensen?”

  Silence was his reply.

  “You don’t suppose we got him with a ricochet?” Cat Brown questioned.

  “We wouldn’t be that lucky,” Pat Gilman said. “He’s just playin’ ’possum, hopin’ one of us will go over there to check it out.”

  “Hold your positions,” von Hausen said. “We’ve already lost three this day.”

  “Ford died ’cause he was stupid,” Mike Hunt said. “You can’t lose your control when fightin’ a man like Jensen. Ford better be a lesson to us all.”

  “Agreed,” von Hausen said.

  The group waited, all bunched up, for almost half an ho An explosion jarred the area, followed by a dust cloud drifting up out of the rocks.

  “Now what the hell? ...” Gary muttered.

  “I betcha he blew the pass,” John T. said. “And I betcha it’s the only pass for miles, north or south. Time we work around over there it’s gonna be another cold trail.”

  “I’ll find it,” Roy said. “I told you all: I aim to kill that man.”

  “Collect the bodies,” von Hausen said wearily. “Get your Bible, Walt.”

  “Now let me get this straight,” the superintendent of the park said to the four young surveyors. “Smoke Jensen -the Smoke Jensen, the most famous gunfighter in all the world -is here in this park?”

  “That is correct, sir,” Charles told him. “He shared his food with us.”

  “He was a very nice man, I thought,” Morris said.

  “Smoke Jensen ... was a very nice man?”

  “Yes, sir. Much younger than any of us thought. I would say he is in his mid-thirties.”

  “That’s about right. And people are hunting him? To kill him. In my park?”

  “Yes, sir. Quite a large gang, I understand. Led by someone named Baron Frederick von Hausen.”

  “Von Hausen. I’m not familiar with the name. A Baron, you say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who are the men with him?”

  “Bounty-hunters, professional killers. Men of very low quality,” Perry said.

  “Quite,” Charles added.

  “Well, this cannot be allowed to continue,” the superintendent said. “I’ll get word to the army. They’ll do something about it. This is federal land, after all.”

  After crossing the Yellowstone, Smoke headed north, into the Washburn Range. He knew he had bought himself a day, maybe a day and a half; no more than that. He was out of supplies, except for a little coffee, and he was living off the land, just as he and Preacher had done during those early years. But Smoke, like most western men, was a coffee-drinking man, and he wasn’t going to be out of coffee for very long. He could live off of fish and rabbits and berries, but damned if he was going to be denied coffee.

  On the second day after fording the Yellowstone, he spotted a thin plume of smoke in the distance and headed for it. He rode up to the camp, stopping a respectable distance from it, and eyeballed those in the camp who were, by now, eyeballing him.

  The three men and three women were dressed in some sort of safari clothes; Smoke thought that was the right description for it. The women dressed just like the men, in britches and high-top, lace-up boots. He’d never seen hats like they were wearing. Looked like a gourd hollowed out. Funniest looking things he’d ever seen.

  “Hello, the camp,” Smoke called. “I’ll approach with your permission.”

  “Why, of course. Come right in, sir,” a rather plump man returned the call.

  Smoke rode in and dismounted. He loosened the cinch strap on the horses and picketed them on graze.

  The men and women—none of whom were armed—quickly noticed Smoke’s guns. One of the women thought the stranger moved like a great predator cat. And my, what a ruggedly handsome man. She fanned herself at his approach.

  They were scientists, Smoke was told. Gilbert, Carol, Robert, Paula, Thomas, and Blanche. Anthropologists and some other names that sounded to Smoke like they were clearing their throats. He didn’t have the foggiest idea what they meant.

  “Share our lunch with us?” Robert asked.

  “I’d be obliged. I ran out of supplies several days ago.”

  “You poor man!” Blanche said. “You must be starved.”

  “Oh, no,” Smoke told her, “I’ve been living off the land.” He smiled at her. My word, what a handsome man, she thought. “No reason for anybody to go hungry in this land of bounty, ma’am. You just have to know something about surviving out here. The only bad thing is running out of coffee.”

  “Well, we have plenty of that,” Thomas said.

  Something popped in the timber and suddenly the stranger was on his feet from his kneeling by the fire and he had a gun in his hand. His draw had been so smooth and so fast none of the scientists were aware of it. It just seemed to appear in his hand.

  All did notice, however, how hard and tight his face had become, and how cold were his eyes.

  “One of our mules,” Paula said quickly.

  Smoke nodded and walked to the edge of the small clearing. He could see mules and horses picketed. “Pull them in closer,” he said, returning to the fire and the coffee pot. “You got your picket line too far away from camp. There are folks out here who’d steal from you. The west has tamed somewhat, but not that much. Move it right over there.” He pointed. “You see anybody trying to steal your livestock, shoot ’em.”

  “Shoot them?” Gilbert said.

  “Yes. You do have weapons, don’t you?”

  “We have a rifle and a shotgun,” Thomas said. “And Robert has a sidearm.”

  “That’s good. Keep them close by.” He walked to his packhorse and returned with two gunbelts he’d taken from bounty-hunters in von Hausen“s party. ”Here,” he said, handing the guns and leather to Gilbert. ”I’m gettin’ loaded down with weapo
ns. I’ll give you folks a .44 carbine, too.”

  “This is very generous of you, sir,” Gilbert said. “Let us pay you for these fine weapons. We’re out here on a government grant.”

  Smoke shook his head. “The people I took them from don’t need them any longer.”

  “You’re a lawman?” Blanche asked.

  “No, ma’am. Those guns belonged to some ol’ boys who were chasing me. They caught up with me.” He looked at her confused expression and smiled, transforming his entire face, taking years from him. “I’m not an outlaw, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m a rancher from down in Colorado. My wife is the former Sally Reynolds of New Hampshire.”

  “How marvelous!” Paula said. “The banking family. Very old and respected name.” She closed her mouth and looked at the others in her group. “Then you must be? ... It was in all the newspapers ... Some thought it was so scandalous ... For her to marry a ... Oh, my God!”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m Smoke Jensen.”

  The women got all flustered and the men got all nervous. Smoke sipped his coffee. Too weak for his taste. But he wasn’t about to complain.

  “I read in the newspapers before we left that Sally was home visiting friends and family,” Carol said. “Her parents are still in Europe, are they not?”

  “Yes, ma‘am. With our children. Look here, what do you call those hats y’all are wearing?”

  “Pith,” Robert said.

  Smoke almost spilled his coffee. He blurted, “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Pith helmets,” Paula said. “They’re quite the rage for any type of expedition into the wilderness.”

  “If you say so,” Smoke mumbled.

  Thomas said, “These guns you just gave us ... the men chasing you gave them up voluntarily?”

  “They did after I shot them.”

  Blanche sat down on a log. “Were they severely wounded?”

  “About as severe as you can get,” Smoke said, spearing a piece of bacon from the skillet. “They sure weren’t in any condition to complain about it.”

  “You turned the thugs over to the law?”

  “No. Their buddies buried them.”

  Carol sat down beside Blanche and both women started fanning themselves vigorously.

  “You ... killed them?” Gilbert asked.

  “I sure did.” Then Smoke explained, in detail, about those chasing him. While he was explaining, he spotted the coffee can and made a fresh pot of coffee. Stuff that was drinkable. Cowboy coffee. “I just can’t seem to convince that crazy German to leave me alone. He’s about to make me mad.”

  Robert poured a cup of the fresh brew and took a sip. His eyes bugged out as he bravely swallowed it. He sat the cup down.

  “How ... many men do you have chasing you?” Gilbert asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Twenty-five or thirty, I suppose. I killed three more the other day, over on the Yellowstone. They just keep coming at me and I just keep whittling them down. I’m goin’ to have to make a stand of it somewhere, I reckon. But I don’t want to see any innocent people get hurt.”

  “I don’t think there is anyone else in the park this time of year,” Thomas said. “We did see some young men a couple of weeks ago. Government surveyors.”

  “I ran into them. Nice bunch of boys. They said they were going to tell the superintendent about the men after me. But by the time he gets word out and the army, or U.S. Marshals get in, this fracas will be over.”

  “You are very ... well, cavalier about this matter, Mister Jensen,” Carol said.

  “No point in getting all worked up about it.” Smoke nibbled on a biscuit. “I’ll just handle it my way.”

  “But there are thirty gunmen chasing you!” Blanche said.

  Smoke shrugged. “More or less. And I assure you it’ll be less in a day or two. I faced eighteen men in the streets of a town on the Uncompahgre some years back. I was just out of my teens. I left all eighteen belly down in the dirt.”

  “Eighteen!” Robert said. “You killed eighteen men by yourself?”

  “Sure did. They got lead in me, I won’t deny that. Almost killed me. But I was still standing when the dust cleared ... sort of. I was on my knees in the street but I was still alive.”

  “Where was the law?” Paula asked.

  Smoke tapped the butt of a Colt. “Right there, ma’am. The law is good for handling lost horses and finding runaway kids and the like. It’s good to see the law walking the street and tipping their hats to ladies. Makes everybody feel good. All secure and such as that. But there are some things that a man has to handle personal. If he’s been pushed to the end of the line and can’t get any relief and if he’s capable and has the where-with-all. I’m capable and I damn sure have the where-with-all.”

  Smoke rolled a cigarette and poured another cup of coffee.

  “Then you are a follower of Kropotkin?” Thomas asked.

  “Who?”

  “A Russian anarchist. A revolutionary.”

  “No, sir. I’m just a man who believes in saddling his own horses and stomping on his own snakes. I’m all for law and order. We have us a fine sheriff back home. I voted for him. But I also believe there are people out there in society who don’t give a damn for anybody’s rights or wishes or privileges. Now if the law is around when those types break the rules, that’s fine; let the law handle it. But there are others in society who would have me run away from this situation with my tail tucked between my legs and go crying to the law about those chasing me. I don’t believe in that. I believe that if a man can’t or won’t follow even the simplest rules of conduct, or abide by the simplest of moral codes ... get rid of him. Sooner or later, somebody is going to have to do it. Why not now, before that person can bring more grief to innocents?”

  “For the simple reason that as human beings they deserve a second chance; a chance to redeem themselves,” Gilbert said.

  “Fine. But do they deserve a tenth chance, or a twentieth?” Smoke countered. “When does society say that’s enough and dispose of them? And how many more innocent, law-abiding people have to suffer all types of losses and indignities and injuries and even face death and die—sometimes horribly-before those criminals are either put away for life or hanged? Their victims often don’t get a second chance at life. Why the hell should the criminal have more rights than the victim? That type of thinking doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  The scientists looked at one another.

  “I set out from my ranch to buy some bulls from a friend of mine in Central Wyoming,” Smoke said. “That’s all. Just a simple legal business transaction between two men. Suddenly I find myself being tracked and hunted by a gang of nuts. Then I learn that they plan on using me like some poor animal; cornered and killed for sport. I went to the Army with it. I was told they couldn’t do anything about it. Well, fine. But I can sure do something about it. I can kill every no-count scummy bastard-excuse my language, ladies—that’s coming up the trail after me. And that is exactly what I intend to do.”

  14

  The anthropologists re-supplied Smoke and wished him well on his journey. Then they quickly packed up their equipment and beat it back to park headquarters as fast as they could lope their mules.

  Smoke headed north, toward one of the strangest sights he had ever seen in all his life: the dead forest. Old Preacher used to tell a story about Jim Bridger, when someone asked him if it was true about the stone trees. Preacher said Bridger told the person, “That’s peetrification. Head to the Yellowstone and you’ll see peetrified trees a-growin‘, with peetrified birds on ’em a-singin’ peetrified songs.”

  Preacher swore it was true. However, Preacher said he never could find them peetrified flowers a-bloomin’ in colors of crystal that Bridger said he saw. “Bridger wasn’t above tellin’ a lie ever’ now and then,” Preacher admitted.

  Smoke didn’t make any effort to hide his tracks. The government-or somebody—had cut a nature trail through the park and he stayed on it.
It was easier on his horses and on him. He crossed Tower Creek and followed the trail as it curved westward. Near as he could remember, the twenty-five or thirty square miles of stone trees were only a few miles further, most on a ridge.

  The scientists in the pith helmets back yonder had told Smoke that the stone trees were millions of years old, buried alive by volcanic ash. Since Smoke had never seen a volcano—and really didn’t want to see one, not up close—he really didn’t have an opinion on it one way or the other.

  He pulled up short this time, just as he had the other times he’d looked upon the strangeness of the stone forest. It was eerie, and very quiet. Many of the trees here had not fallen, but stood like silent sentinels over their fallen comrades.

  Smoke did not enter the silent dead forest at this point. He rode on, staying with the trail for several miles. When he did decide to enter the stone forest, he made his trail clear for a time. Then he tied sacking around his horses’ hooves and led them out of the stone forest to a small cul-de-sac with graze and water. He blocked the entrance with brush and logs and slipped back into the stillness of the stone forest, taking with him only what supplies he could comfortably carry in a small pack on his back.

  He hiked back to Specimen Ridge and chose his site carefully; one that gave him a commanding view of all that lay in front of him. since he had ridden up, no small feat for his horses, von Hausen and party would be coming up the same trail-he hoped. Smoke would be shooting downhill, so that would be tricky, but nothing that he couldn’t overcome with the good sights on the .44-.40.

  Now all he had to do was wait and hope that von Hausen and company took the bait.

  Roy Drum halted the parade in the valley that Smoke overlooked from his spot on the small mountain that held the stone trees.

  “What’s the matter?” von Hausen asked.

  “I don’t like it,” the tracker said. “Jensen went right up that big ridge yonder with them dead stone trees. It’s like he wanted us to see his tracks.”

  “Hell, man!” John T. said. “He ain’t tried to hide his tracks in a hundred miles.”