“So do I. But we couldn’t risk taking that much money with us. These desperadoes would have killed us the first night on the trail. I had to set it up this way for our safety. I think with the men from this Hole place, we’ll make it. If nothing else they’ll buy us some time.”
“Do you suppose Valdes and the others might have killed Jensen?”
“I doubt it. But it’s a nice thought to go to sleep on, isn’t it?”
She laughed. But it was an ugly laugh.
When Smoke crossed the Bighorn River he cut slightly south, skirting the Bighorn Mountains and angling down to catch the stagecoach road that led to the settlement slowly being build around Fort Caspar on the North Platte.
He had a plan, and he thought it would work. Alone, with the big strong Appaloosa under him, he was making about ten miles a day more than those in the large von Hausen party. He’d get to Fort Caspar at least two days ahead of their planned arrival. At Fort Caspar, he would resupply and then head back west and see what damage he could do, plus he wanted to turn the party more north.
Von Hausen would not dare show his face at the Fort, so the only flaw in Smoke’s plan was if the party decided to change directions on him. But he didn’t think they do that. They had to have supplies. Von Hausen and party would camp well away from the fort and send some of their hired guns in for supplies.
Fort Caspar was named for Lt. Caspar Collins, who was killed by Indians while trying to rescue a wagon train. Casper came about due to the misspelling of the railroad clerk who filed the plat for the town.
Gil Webb rode to the Hole and came away with ten salty ol’ boys who thought they could handle Smoke Jensen. What they were were thugs and petty thieves and riff-raff and horse-stealing bums. They were good with a gun, give the devil his due, and any of them would kill for the pennies off a dead man’s eyes.
Smoke had found a tinker on the stagecoach road who was more than willing to sell him coffee and bacon and flour for inflated prices. Since he did not have to go to Fort Caspar, he headed straight north about the time Gil was leaving the Hole with his band of thugs.
The rendezvous on the Powder was going to be very interesting. And quite lively.
24
“This here’s One Eye Slim,” John T. introduced the man to von Hausen.
Von Hausen looked at the man. Both his eyes seemed fine.
“He likes to gouge out the eye of anyone he fights,” John T. explained.
“It’s my trademark,” One Eye said proudly.
“Wonderful,” von Hausen replied. “We all have our little quirks.”
He was introduced to Dick Dorman. “He can do a border roll faster than you can blink,” John T. said.
Von Hausen and company did not have the foggiest idea what a border roll was and none of them were particularly interested in finding out.
“Slick-Finger Bob,” John T. pointed to another man.
Von Hausen waited for some explanation for the nickname.
John T. shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know why they call him that.”
Von Hausen sighed.
He was introduced to Henry Barton, Sandy Beecher, Frank Clover, John Flagg, Joe Elliot, Terry Smith, and Ed Clay.
They were the most disreputable-looking human beings Von Hausen had ever seen in all his life. He was loathe to turn his back on them. “We pull out in the morning,” he said.
Smoke stopped to chat with a drifting cowboy on the trail.
“They’s some bad ol’ boys camped up yonder by the crossin’,” the cowboy said. “That many bad ones all in a bunch spells trouble for somebody.”
“How far ahead?”
“No more’un five miles. You’ll see their smoke. Altogether there must be twenty or twenty-five of them. I got the hell outta there.”
Smoke thanked him and rode on. When he spotted the smoke from their campfires, he found a good place to picket his horse. Smoke took off his boots and slipped into his worn moccasins. He took the .44-.40 from the second saddle boot and moved out while he still had about an hour of light. He stopped about five hundred yards from the big camp and looked it over.
Then he threw back his head and howled like a great gray timber wolf.
“What the hell!” John Flagg said, as the wild howling came again.
“That ain’t no wolf,” Utah Red said. “It’s real close to it, but not quite.”
“Jensen,” John T. said. “He’s found us.”
The howling stopped for a few minutes. Everyone in the camp had armed themselves and taken cover where they could find it.
The howling came again. This time it was coming from a different direction. The men and women in the camp looked at each other nervously.
“He’s playin’ games,” Cat Brown said. “The dirty son is playin’ games with us.”
“Then he’s a damn fool,” Dick Dorman said. “One man against all of us. Who the hell does he think he is?”
A .44-.40 slug from Smoke’s rifle screamed off a rock about two inches from Dick’s head. Rock fragments bloodied Dick’s face and sent the outlaw hugging the ground. A second slug tore into his exposed boot and shattered his ankle. Dick screamed in pain and doubled up, both hands to his bullet-broken ankle.
Another slug punched a hole in the coffee pot and coffee spewed out into the fire. Another round from the .44- .40 whined wickedly off the big cook pot and started it rocking.
Paul Melham jumped up and jerked his rifle to his shoulder. That move got him a slug right between the eyes that blew out the back of his head. He fell backward without a sound.
“Damnit!” von Hausen yelled from his position behind a tree. “Rush him. Drive him back. If you don’t he’ll pick us off one at a time. It’s our only chance. Come on, let’s go!” von Hausen leaped from his position and zig-zagged a few yards forward.
The hired guns could not hang back while the man who was paying them risked his life. They charged, running and ducking and twisting.
Smoke faded back and slipped away into the waning light of early evening.
Roy Drum found his tracks. Cautiously, the men followed the tracker. “He’s runnin’ hard,” Drum pointed out. “See how his moccasins is diggin’ in? He’s way ahead of us.”
The men pressed on, cautious, but eager for the kill.
Smoke jumped into the saddle and headed straight back for the camp while the main body of men were a good three quarters of a mile away and getting further. Smoke hit the camp screaming like a wild man.
Marlene shrieked and grabbed for a rifle just as the shoulder of Smoke’s horse hit her and knocked her sprawling. She fell hard to the ground, knocking the wind from her.
Smoke rode right over a big tent, the Appaloosa’s hooves shredding the canvas and destroying equipment.
Andrea ran screaming from the onslaught. Smoke leaned over in the saddle, grabbed her by the belt and lifted her off the ground. She was wailing in fright. He dumped her unceremoniously on her butt into the river and left her splashing and sputtering and screaming. He turned and headed back for the camp. Maria was lifting a rifle to her shoulder when Smoke started putting rounds from his six-gun into the ground around her feet. She shrieked and made a run for it. She didn’t get far.
With the reins in his teeth, Smoke grabbed her by the seat of her pants and turned her flipping and rolling, her aristocratic posterior catching up with her boots. She landed on her belly and went sliding in the dirt.
He stampeded the horses, sending them racing in all directions, then made a final pass through the camp, tearing down the second big tent and dragging it into the fire. The barons and princes and princesses would have to sleep under the stars from now on.
Marlene was just getting to her feet, screaming her rage and calling Smoke some really terrible names, when Smoke turned and raced toward her. She reversed herself and took off. He grabbed her by the shirt collar and dragged her toward the river just as Andrea was reaching shore. He tossed Marlene into Andrea and the two women got dun
ked.
Smoke headed out, driving the frightened horses ahead of him and screaming like a Comanche.
When the men got back into camp-or what was left of it-they were out of breath from running. Von Hausen jerked his pith helmet off his head and threw it on the ground. “He’s taken the women!” he shouted.
“He’s damn welcome to ’em,” John T. muttered.
“There’s two of ’em,” Utah Red yelled, pointing to the river.
Marlene and Andrea were climbing out of the river, slopping and sloshing to the bank.
“I’ll kill him slow!” Marlene screamed. “I swear it’ll take him days to die.”
Maria groaned and got to her feet. Her face was skinned from her abrupt hard slide on the ground. Gunter ran to her side. She shoved him aside and screamed, “He put his goddamned hands on me!” she squalled. “Treated me like dirt! Me!” She whirled at the men. “Five thousand dollars for the man who kills Smoke Jensen.”
“I’ll add five thousand more!” screamed Marlene.
“And I’ll add five thousand to that!” shrieked Andrea.
“I’d fight a grizzly bear and make love to an Eskimo woman for that,” Slick Finger Bob said. “Or vicey-versey,” he added.
“Now, ladies,” von Hausen tried to calm them. “Our mission is to get to Dodge City. We simply can’t ...
“You go right straight to hell!” Marlene screamed. “I want Smoke Jensen’s ...”
She named a couple of things she wanted cut from Smoke.
“Whoa!” Montana Jess whispered. “That there’s a real mad woman.”
Smoke rounded up as many horses as he could and cut the cinch straps off the saddles. Then he slapped them on the rump and sent them running off, free and happy. He emptied out the men’s saddlebags and took what food they had and threw the rest of the contents in the river. Then he swung back into the saddle, recrossed the Powder and found him a good campsite, high up on a mesa and tucked behind some huge boulders.
His supper that night was sandwiches of biscuits and salt meat he’d taken from someone’s saddlebags. He went to sleep smiling at how furious he’d made those fancy women.
There was no placating the women, so von Hausen soon gave up trying. They had been manhandled and humiliated by Jensen, and none of them were forgiving creatures. But, von Hausen thought, sitting and drinking coffee that night, perhaps they were right. The women maintained that they would never reach Dodge City; that Smoke Jensen would track them down and kill them all. That it was just a matter of time.
John Flagg recollected that Smoke had traveled clear across country to New Hampshire one time to settle a score, so why not just deal with him now?
Von Hausen had started to argue that surely Jensen would not come to Europe to settle a score. But he’d shut his mouth before the words could form. Jensen probably would do that.
And von Hausen was going to do something else. He’d set up a code word with the lawyer in Dodge City; a code word that would release the money to the men. A little item he had kept from everyone. As soon as they got to a town with a telegraph office, he’d free up the money and take his party into Canada. They would travel east and sail out of a port there... even though he would have to be friendly with those damnable French for a time. He felt better now that that was settled in his mind.
Now all they had to deal with was Smoke Jensen, von Hausen thought ruefully. And for the first time on this long hunt, he admitted-to himself-that he had made a mistake in chasing Smoke Jensen.
Frank Clover felt his guts churn and sweat pop out on his face when the cold voice spoke from behind him.
“Get off your damn horse.”
Frank froze in the saddle. He didn’t want it in the back. He’d shot men in the back, but he didn’t want to go out that way. “I’m gettin’ off. Jensen?”
“Yeah. Turn your horse so I can see your moves.”
“Whatever you say, Jensen. Slow and easy. You gonna give me a chance?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Frank dismounted and turned to face Jensen. Lord, lord, but the man was dangerous looking.
“Slap your horse on the rump,” Smoke told him. “Get him out of the way.”
Frank slapped his horse and the animal moved off a few yards. He grinned at Smoke. “I don’t want to hit him too hard. I’m gonna need him to ride out of here.”
“You’re not riding anywhere, hombre. This is your last day to do anything. You should have stayed at the Hole.”
Frank looked puzzled. How in the hell had Jensen known about that?
“My name’s Frank Clover.”
“Heard of you. Two-bit thief and back-shooter. Like to slap women around. You’re a real brave boy. Drag iron, punk.”
Frank tried. He got as far as closing his fingers around the butt of his .45. Two shots rang out, twin lightning and thunder bolts that slammed into his chest and knocked him down. The last thing Frank Clover remembered was that the sky was so blue. So blue...
Smoke unsaddled the horse and turned him loose. He left Frank Clover stretched out on the trail. Both his guns were still in leather. He should have listened to his mother and stayed on the farm in Minnesota.
John Flagg found the body and looked nervously around him. He was growing increasingly nervous until Joe Elliot and Terry Smith rode up. That made him feel better.
The howling of a wolf sent chills scampering up and down their spines. The wolf howl came again, and their horses got jittery at the sound.
A rock about the size of a grapefruit came hurling down from a mesa and slammed into Joe Elliot’s shoulder, knocking the man to the ground.
“Jesus Christ!” he bellered. “My shoulder’s broke. Oh, damn, it hurts.”
Another rock about the size of a big fist came flying down and hit Terry Smith in the head, knocking him flat on the ground and unconscious.
John Flagg hit the saddle and got the hell gone from that crazy place.
Joe Elliot looked up and saw Smoke Jensen standing in the rock above him.
“Strip,” Smoke told him. “Right down to the skin. Then get your canteen and pour some water on your buddy on the ground.”
Elliot peeled down to the pale buff. He was in very bad need of a bath. Terry could not talk due to his badly swollen and very busted jaw. But he could strip down and did. He was even nastier than Elliot.
“Throw your guns in the bushes,” Smoke told them. “Then start hiking.”
“This ain’t decent!” Elliot hollered.
Smoke jacked back the hammer on his .44. The naked pair started hiking back to camp.
“And take a damn bath when you get to the river,” Smoke shouted at them. “You stink!”
Dick Dorman saw them coming. His wound had been cleaned out and his ankle set and he was in camp with the women. “You ladies best turn your heads,” he called. “We got some company comin’ and they’re nekkid as a new born.”
“Tell them to take a bath in the river before they come in,” Andrea said. She picked up a bar of soap and hurled it at the limping men. “Bathe, goddamnit!” she yelled at them.
Dorman, using a sturdy branch for a crutch, hobbled over to the men’s bedrolls and found clothing for them.
“And tell them not to put on those stinking pile of rags until they wash them, too,” Andrea screamed.
“Yes’um,” Dorman said.
“And it wouldn’t hurt you to take a bath, either,” Marlene squalled at him.
“Yes‘um,” Dorman said, thinking for the umpteenth time that day that if he could find his horse he’d leave this crazy bunch ’fore Jensen kilt them all. Never again would he be so stupid as to tie up with anybody who wanted to hunt down Smoke Jensen.
Von Hausen and Gunter rode in and looked at the men, bathing in the river.
“Jensen kilt Frank Clover and took our clothes,” Elliot said. “We had to walk back.”
Von Hausen had a dozen questions to ask about that. But he only shook his head and walked his weary horse over to t
he picket line. Marlene met him.
“Any luck?” she asked.
“We couldn’t even find his trail,” von Hausen admitted. “The man’s hid his horse somewhere and is on foot. And he’s not leaving any tracks.”
All the women were bruised and somewhat the worse for wear after their brief encounter with Smoke, and they were in no mood for excuses.
Marlene said, “We have hunted man-killers all over the world. We have always been successful. Tomorrow, we,” she waved at Andrea and Maria, “shall take to the field and show you big, brave men how to hunt.”
“Marlene,” von Hausen said, his temper barely under control, “as of this moment, I do not give a damn what you ladies do.”
Marlene tossed her head and stalked off, Maria and Andrea with her.
Von Hausen had to clench his fists in order not to give the backs of the ladies a very vulgar gesture.
25
Smoke shook his head when he spotted the women the next morning. They were riding without men. Smoke concluded they were either the dumbest females he had ever run into, or just so arrogant they did not realize the danger they were in. He decided on the latter. He flattened out and let them come on. His clothing blended with the earth and Smoke had the patience of an Apache. Ol’ Preacher had drilled into his head that many times movement gives away position more than noise.
Smoke did not want to hurt the women. A dunk in the river and a good shaking up was about the limit he was prepared to go with them, even though they were as vicious as any man he had ever encountered. What would he do if they started shooting at him? He didn’t know.
As they drew closer, Smoke thought again that this was not his favorite terrain for fighting. He liked the high mountains and deep timber. Where he was now was rocky and sparse. There were peaks here: Roughlock Peak was to his north, Deadman Butte lay to the west, but nothing to compare to the High Lonesome.
Andrea made up his mind.
The women reined up about ten feet from him and Andrea said, “This is a good spot. I’ll stay here. Marlene, you ride on about two hundred and fifty yards. Maria, you ride on an equal distance past Marlene. We’ve got rocks behind us and a good field of view in front of us. As long as we stay within shouting distance of each other, we’ll be fine.”
Pursuit Of The Mountain Man Page 20
