Pursuit Of The Mountain Man

by Johnstone, William W.

  “Where will you make your stand?” Morris asked.

  “Up the trail somewhere. I’ll know it when I see it.”

  “More coffee, Mister Jensen?” Thomas asked.

  “Only if I can make a fresh pot.”

  “I’ll have tea,” Gilbert said quickly.

  “Their horses is gettin’ tired,” Mack said, looking down at the tracks left by Walt and Angel. “And them tracks is fresh. We’re closin’ in, boys.”

  “I want Ol’ Walt,” Lou said. “I want that old bastard lookin’ at me when I drop him.”

  “This ain’t gonna be no stand up and draw thing, Lou,” Mack told him. “Our orders is to kill them both the best and quickest way we can.”

  “Hell with orders. I want to see what kind of stuff that old coot has.”

  “You do that,” Mack said, “and he just might be the one standin’ over you when it’s done.”

  Lou sneered and cussed as he swung back into the saddle. “No way, Mack. No way. We got about an hour of daylight left. Let’s go.”

  “Come up lame,” Walt said, stripping the saddle and bridle from his horse and patting it on the rump. “I felt it when he hurt hisself back yonder on them rocks. Built a fire, Angel, let’s have us some coffee and bacon. I ’spect them that’s doggin’ us will be along right shortly. I’ll have me another horse right after dark.”

  Angel grinned and began gathering up firewood while Walt rigged a shelter-half for them in the timber. Walt had strapped on his guns and tied them down. He spun the cylinders, checking the loads.

  Angel was thinking: I’d not want to mess with that old man. He knew Walt had given up gunfighting simply because he was tired of the killing, tired of the blood, tired of having to prove himself against every two-bit punk that came along. But he was still snake-quick and a dead shot. And now he was ready to go again. Walt Webster was a living legend. Not in Smoke’s class, but close. Real close.

  The two men drank their coffee and ate the bacon, then moved back into the timber, after building the fire up. It could not be missed by anyone coming up in the fading light.

  “Lou Kennedy was always bragging about how he could take you any day, Walt,” Angel said.

  “He’s a loud-mouthed tinhorn,” the old gunfighter said. “All bluster and no brains.”

  “What will you do if he calls you out?”

  “Walk out and shoot him dead.”

  “I will have a rifle on the others should that be the way it happens.”

  “Obliged. Here they come.”

  “It’s a trap,” Mack said, spotting the fire. “One of the horses come up lame back yonder and they’re sitting up there waitin’ on us to ride in.”

  Before anyone could stop him, Lou Kennedy yelled, “Walt Webster! This is Lou Kennedy. Can you hear me, Walt?”

  “I hear you, you big-mouth,” Walt called. “You probably scared all the little critters within half a mile flappin’ your gums. What the hell do you want?”

  “You and me, Walt. How about it?”

  “With that scum with you backin’ you up, Lou?”

  “No. Just me and you, Walt.”

  “Damnit, Lou!” Mack said. “Back off now, you hear?”

  “No way, Mack.” Lou shook off the other man’s hand. “I want him. If I gun Walt Webster down, I can write my own ticket, you know that.”

  “Then go on!” Mack said, anger and disgust in his voice. “Walt. Walt Webster. This is Mack. You can have him, Walt. I give you my word, we won’t interfere. You got my word on it.”

  “How about the others with you?” Walt called, hoping they’d fall for the question.

  They did. “Walt, this is Leo Grant. We’re out of it, Walt. Me and Nat’ll stand clear. And that’s as good as gold, Walt. If you drop him, you can get on back to cover.”

  “Four of them,” Angel said. “And the light’s fading, amigo.”

  “Let it go.” He raised his voice. “Let’s get this done, Lou. We walk out on a five count. You count it down, Nat. Draw whenever you feel lucky, boy.”

  Leo looked at Lou with disgust in his eyes. “You’re a fool,” he said flatly. “Did you ever stop to think that old man just might get lucky and blow a hole in you?”

  “He ain’t even gonna clear leather. Start countin’, Nat.”

  On five both men stepped out of the timber. Walt stayed close to the timber, forcing Lou to come to him. “How’s it feel, Lou?” Walt called.

  “How’s what feel, you old fart?”

  “Knowin’ you’re about to die.”

  Lou cussed him as he walked up the slope. Walt stood, a smile on his lips. Lou was a fool, playing right into Walt’s plan. The slope was slippery, and by the time Lou got within shooting range, he’d be winded. Add to that he would have to shoot uphill—that is, should he be lucky enough to clear leather—and Walt didn’t believe he had it in him to do that.

  “Come on, you punk tinhorn,” Walt called. “My coffee’s gettin’ cold.”

  Lou called him several very ugly names as he struggled to get up the slope.

  “He’s dead,” Mack said. “Dead and he don’t even know it. He’ll be wore out time he gets into range. Ol’ Walt planned it that way.”

  “Sure, he did,” Leo said. “But I gave my word and I’m keepin’ it.”

  “We all did,” Nat said. “And we’ll all keep it.”

  Lou stopped about sixty feet from Walt. The climb up the snow-slick slope had been hard and the much younger gunslick was winded. “You got any relatives you want me to notify, you old fart?”

  Walt laughed. “When did you learn to write, you ignorant whelp?”

  “Draw!” Lou yelled.

  “After you, boy.” Walt’s words were calm.

  “Drag iron, damn you!”

  “Go ahead.”

  Lou hesitated. “You’re yeller, Walt. You’re scared of me, ain’t you?”

  “Not at all, you two-bit thief. Your momma shoulda dumped you in a sack when you was born and chucked you into the nearest river. Now pull iron, you cheap little son of a bitch!”

  Lou’s hand dropped to the butt of his .45. Walt’s draw was smooth and deadly. His first slug hit Lou in the belly, the second one in the chest, right side, blowing through a lung. Lou managed to get his .45 out of leather and cock it. He fired once into the air before his legs buckled and he slumped to the ground.

  Walt stepped back into the timber. “You want to come get him, boys, come on. We’ll not fire on you.”

  “ ’Ppreciate it, Walt,” Nat said.

  But they didn’t have to climb the slope. Lou started slowly sliding down the slippery surface, losing his guns along the way. He was too weak to stop his slide. His hands did not have the strength to grasp anything. He rolled the rest of the way down. Leo reached out and pulled him into the copse of trees where they were hiding.

  “Oh, Jesus,” he blubbered the words, pink froth staining his lips. “I’m hard hit. Did I get him, boys?”

  “Yeah,” Nat lied. “Yeah, you got him, Lou.”

  “You boys pass the word,” Lou said. “I kilt Walt Webster. You’ll do that for me, won’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Mack said, suddenly realizing that none of them were going to kill Ol’ Walt. None of them were going to come out of this rich. None of them were going to come out of it with anything at all. Except dead. He looked down into the wide open and shuddered, seeing nothing but the eyes of Lou Kennedy.

  17

  Smoke raised his head and narrowed his eyes at the sound of the shots. “Close,” he muttered, setting down his coffee cup. “No more than a mile. Probably less than that. Sound doesn’t carry well in this kind of weather. Two shots.”

  “Does that mean something to you?” Gilbert asked.

  “Sounded like pistol shots. Pistol’s a poor choice of weapon to use in an ambush.” He shook his head and stood up. “I don’t know what it means.” He picked up his rifle and checked it. “I’m heading over there to check it out. You people stay p
ut and keep your heads down. Arm yourselves and be ready to use those weapons. And cut that fire back to coals to keep the smoke down.” He was gone before any could say a word of protest.

  Leo, Mack and Nat opened up on Walt and Angel, knowing that from their position, they weren’t going to hit a thing. The body of Lou Kennedy lay on the cold ground behind them.

  Smoke slipped through the timber, silently working his way toward the firing.

  Walt and Angel lay on their bellies at the forest’s edge, not returning the fire; from their angle they would have about as much success hitting anything as those below them.

  “We have, I think,” Angel said, a twinkle in his eyes, “a Norte Americano stand-off, hey, Walt?”

  Walt smiled at the play-off of the expression. “You called it, partner.”

  Smoke slipped to within a few yards of the men. It was almost full dark now and he could not make out their features. He knelt down behind a tree and listened to them talk when the gunfire from below stopped.

  “That loco German is going to kill everybody he thinks might know of his plan,” Angel said. “Right, Walt?”

  “That’s right, partner,” Walt replied. “That’s the way I see it.”

  “But Al Hayre surely is out of the park and talking. So what is von Hausen’s reasoning behind this madness?”

  “He ain’t reasonin’, Angel. He’s crazy. And so’s them fools with him.”

  “I wonder if Jensen has put all this together?” Angel spoke softly.

  “I ’magine he has. I just hope he can get clear and get any visitors out of this park. We’ve seen smoke from campfires from time to time. If von Hausen and that trash with him finds any campers ...” He trailed that off.

  “They will kill them.”

  “Yep. They shore will. Craziest mess I ever got myself mixed up in.”

  “Stand easy, boys,” Smoke called softly. “I mean you no harm.”

  Walt grunted. Without turning his head, he said, “Jensen?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re as good as the talk makes you out to be. Ain’t nobody ever snuck up on me ’fore now. They’s three pretty bad ol’ boys down yonder ...”

  A burst of gunfire made him pause for a moment.

  “Fools,” Walt said when the firing had stopped. “They can’t hit us from their position. Leo Grant, Mack Saxton, and Nat Reed. Lou Kennedy was with them. I dropped him. You got to get clear, Jensen. You got to warn any in this park to get the hell gone.”

  “I know,” Smoke told him. “I’ve got a bunch of park-people about a half mile from here right now. Are you Walt Webster?”

  “Alive and still kickin’.”

  “Angel Cortez,” the Mexican gunfighter said.

  “You’re the two who wore the white handkerchiefs on your arms.”

  “That’s us.”

  “Stay where you are. Don’t get out of position and don’t fire in the outlaws’ direction. You might hit me. I’m going down there.”

  “Well, if anybody can Injun up on them, you’re the one to do it.” He twisted around. “I ...”

  But he was talking to emptiness. Smoke was already gone, moving like a deadly ghost through the timber.

  Angel had also turned around. He shook his head in the cold darkness. “That is a bad man, amigo. I thank God that I had enough sense to see through von Hausen’s crazy game.”

  “You and me both, partner.”

  “Walt!” Mack called from below them. “Give it up, Walt. Join us and live. Von Hausen will take you back. You and Angel think about it. If you get out and talk, you’re signin’ our death warrants. Come on, men, what’d you say?”

  “Let’s keep them talking,” Angel suggested. “That’ll give away their positions to Smoke.”

  “No deal, Mack,” Walt called. “You boys surrender to us and we’ll see that you get a fair trial. You have my word on it.”

  “Surrender? Us?” Nat yelled. “You’re crazy!”

  Nat had moved to his right. He was trying to work his way up the other side of the slope. The timber side. Toward Smoke.

  “Angel,” Mack yelled. “Listen to me. You got good sense for a greaser ...”

  “What a compliment,” Angel muttered.

  “... You don’t wanna die no more than we do. Think about it and join us.”

  Nat ran into a long bladed knife that drove up to the hilt in his belly. Smoke jerked the blade upward with one hand while his other hand was covering Nat’s mouth, to prevent any screaming. The blade tore into the gunslinger’s heart and Nat Reed would hire out his gun no more. Smoke silently lowered the body to the cold earth, wiped his blade clean on Nat’s jacket, and moved on toward the voices.

  “We’re just gonna outwait you, boys,” Mack called. “We got food and blankets and coffee and time. You boys ain’t got nothin’. You can’t slip away. You got a lame horse. Think about it. Don’t be fools and die for Smoke Jensen. He ain’t never done a damn thing for either of you.”

  “What has von Hausen done for us?” Angel yelled. “What the hell have any of you done for us?”

  “They ain’t gonna give it up,” Leo said. “We’re gonna have to take ’em. Nat oughtta be in position about now. What’d you say, Mack?”

  “He said he’d chunk a rock over this way when he got in place. I ain’t heard no rocks, have you?”

  “Naw.”

  “Will .44’s do?” Smoke asked from behind the men.

  They spun around, lifting their rifles. Smoke’s twin .44’s belched flame in the darkness. Mack was thrown backward, the slug tearing into his heart. Leo took his high in the chest, left side, and managed to lift his rifle. Smoke fired again, the slug lifting Leo off his boots and turning him around in a strange dance. He toppled over.

  “That’s it,” Smoke called. He collected the rifles and gunbelts of the men and joined Walt and Angel on the crest of the small hill.

  “I’ll switch saddles and ride one of their horses,” Walt said. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through silver hair. “Mack had a decent streak in him at one time. I’ve knowed him for years. I don’t know when he turned vicious.”

  “He can explain it to God,” Smoke said.

  “The ones that are left, Senor Jensen,” Angel said. “They are vicious. All of them. Through and through. You heard us talking about von Hausen’s plans?”

  “Yes. We’ll stop him. Bring the other horses along. We might need them. We’re camped just over that ridge. Come on. I’ll help you pack up.”

  When they got back to the camp Smoke checked over the short guns and the rifles taken from the outlaws. They were well supplied with ammo and Smoke divided that up and passed it around, then assigned the guns. Now everyone was armed, and well armed, for the four men who lay unburied on the cold ground a half mile away had each carried two six-guns tied down and each one had a rifle.

  “What do we do now?” Carol asked, looking around her at the dark timber.

  “Have something to eat and get some rest,” Smoke said. “From here on in, it gets interesting.”

  The next day was clear and warm, the temperature climbing into the sixties before mid-morning. Roy Drum pointed to the carrion birds circling just ahead and to the west of the trail they were on. Von Hausen sent a man to check it out. He was back quickly.

  “You best see this,” he said, “all of you.” He did not add: except for the women. The outlaw was well aware of how vicious these so-called ladies were. Especially that damned cold-actin’ Marlene.

  The flesh-eating birds had started their feasting and the men had to kick them away from the bodies. It was a gory sight.

  “Took their guns and horses,” John T. said. “I don’t believe Walt and Angel done this.”

  “Found where a whole bunch of people camped last night,” Cat Brown said, riding up. “And Smoke and Walt and Angel was among ’em.

  “How many people?” Von Hausen asked.

  “I’d say ’tween twelve and fifteen, countin’ Smoke and W
alt and Angel.”

  Gunter cussed and Hans looked worried. He wasn’t liking any of this. It had turned too bloody, too savage. They had lost sight of the spirit of the hunt. It was out of control. It never occurred to him that it was out of control the instant they chose Smoke Jensen as the man they were to hunt.

  “They’re pilgrims,” Cat said. “And they got some women with ’em.

  “Interesting,” von Hausen said.

  “Frederick,” Hans said. “I think ...”

  Von Hausen spat out rapid-fire German. Hans shut his mouth. Andrea came to him and took his arm. They walked away together.

  “This has got to stop, Andrea,” Hans said, when they were out of earshot of von Hausen. “It’s gone much too far.”

  “It can’t stop, Hans. We have no choice but to hunt those people down and be rid of them.”

  “My God, Andrea! Listen to you. You sound like some bloodthirsty crazed person. How many deaths do you want? How much blood on our hands?”

  “Have you lost your stomach for the hunt, Hans?” Her words were cold and borderline contemptuous.

  “This isn’t a hunt. What this is... I don’t know what it is. But I do know that it is out of control.”

  “Hans,” she said, touching his arm. “Listen to me. This is the American west. Not New York City. Despite our having diplomatic papers, do you think the western men out here—who tamed this country—would let us leave without punishment? Think about that. This is the wild west, Hans. And it’s still wild. Justice comes down very hard and fast out here. We wouldn’t get ten miles before some vigilante group would have us hanged. And they do hang women out here, Hans.”

  Hans clenched his hands into fists. He took several deep breaths. “All right, Andrea. All right. You do make a presentable case. Let’s just get this over with and get out of this dreadful place.”

  Hans went back to his horse and rode up to the trail to be alone. The sight of those disgusting birds tearing at dead human flesh was nauseating. He lifted his hands. They were trembling.