“I would say two or three times more should do it.”
“You don’t think too highly of these fellers,” Smoke prompted.
“Au contraire. It is only that they are such terrible shots. Unreasonably terrible.”
Smoke joined his laughter. “Shall we make another run at them?”
“Apres vous. ” So saying, L’Lupe took the lead instead of Smoke.
* * *
“Far the love o’ Jaazus, they’re comin’ back!” a young dockyard punk from Boston wailed, as Smoke Jensen and L’Lupe Douchant appeared over a swell in the basin.
Sean O’Boyle looked up from reloading his revolver to see the flared nostrils of a horse less than twenty feet away. He swiftly raised his .45 Colt and yanked on the hammer. All it got him was a sore thumb. The rear of a fresh cartridge protruded onto the loading gate ramp, which he had failed to close. Then pain and blackness exploded inside his head and he fell away.
“Hokka hey!” L’Lupe shouted exuberantly, as he recovered from the vicious butt-stroke he had given the burly, black-haired Irishman.
Smoke Jensen shook his head in exasperation. Instead of killing the hoodlum, L’Lupe had counted coup. Smoke made up for the lapse by downing two in rapid succession. Long-range fire from the other mountain men began to rip into those manning the barrier.
It took little of this to break the spirit of two thugs. Sticking a cargo hook in the chest of a drunk sailor took little courage. A pitched battle against superlative shots was a far different thing. Especially ones who couldn’t be seen. Where were these other bullets coming from?
The ex-longshoremen cut their eyes to each other, then to the menacing unknown beyond the barricade. “This ain’t our kind o’ fight, Paddy, it ain’t,” one spoke the thoughts of both.
“Aye, that’s the right of it, it is.”
“Then what are we doin’ here?”
“I’m thinkin’ the same thing, I am, Ryan.”
“Then, Paddy, let’s be far gettin’ outta here an’ visitin’ our sainted mithers.”
They broke and ran together. Paddy made it only ten yards when a fat slug from Greener Jack’s .56 Sharps cut him down. Ryan sped on to where the horses had been tethered. The pound of his horse’s hooves proved contagious to the others in the uneven fight. Several threw down their weapons and ran in panic to their mounts. Smoke Jensen fired two more shots, L’Lupe one, and the battle ended.
Inspecting the scene of carnage, Smoke Jensen gave little thought to the corpses. He called in the long-range shooters and soon they joined L’Lupe and himself. Smoke waved a hand at the fallen bodies.
“Look them over. See if there’s any papers, something to indicate the leader, also where they’re headed.”
Smoke’s huge frame swam fuzzily in the blurred eyesight of Sean O’Boyle. He had fortuitously regained consciousness without the usual moans, groans, or shiftings of his body that generally accompanied that condition. Now he fought to piece together just what in hell was going on.
Was he in hell? The thought seared through O’Boyle’s brain as he stared upward through slitted lids at the indistinct shape of the giant who towered over him. Sure an’ the man had to be head an’ shoulders above his own five-foot-seven, he did. Could it be Old Nick himself? Slowly, reality sifted out from confused myth. The giant had a name. Smoke Jensen.
And Sean O’Boyle shuddered at the recognition. Grounded on what was, he gradually devised a plan. He recalled that he had been using a rifle when the world had turned upside down on him. His head had exploded in a shower of bright light and intense pain, then blackness. Now it throbbed and he felt a wet, stickiness oozing down from the crown. If he had used his rifle, that meant he still had a sixgun in its holster, and the small hideout pistol at the small of his back.
“Be clever now, Sean, boyo,” he barely breathed out.
All he had to do was avoid the attention of the men searching the bodies of his fallen friends. He’d have to move slowly, ever so slowly. An inch at a time. Get to that heavy, awkward .45 at his hip and slide it free. Then, all unsuspecting, the end would come for Smoke Jensen.
Smoke Jensen had his back turned to Sean O’Boyle, whom he had belatedly recognized, believing the man still unconscious. When he heard the telltale clicks of a Colt, he quickly revised that assumption. Smoke had made a quarter-turn, and his .45 Peacemaker had already cleared leather, when a hot trail cut across his back, upward from near his left hip to his shoulder blade.
Good thing he had turned, Smoke Jensen thought giddily, or that slug would have got him in a kidney. Which would have ended an otherwise good life. He continued to pivot on one bootheel until he faced his assailant. Sean O’Boyle’s eyes widened when he saw that his shot had not had the desired effect.
Desperately he tried to cock the hammer once more. Two bullets, in rapid order, destroyed his right shoulder joint and brought on more excruciating pain. Sean O’Boyle howled in release of his discomfort and dropped backward onto the ground. His blood stained the yellow earth a deep magenta. Smoke Jensen stepped closer as the others gathered around.
“Even a rattlesnake gives warning, O’Boyle,” Smoke told him coldly.
“Ye know me, then?”
“Yes. From the lecture hall, and later, that warehouse in Boston. Ollie Johnson pointed you out to me in Central Park.”
“Damned snoop reporters,” growled O'Boyle. A new idea occurred to him. “Then ye’ll be knowin’ that I’m of some importance to Mr. Lathrop, an’ ’twould be to yer advantage to keep me alive, it would.”
While he spoke, Sean O’Boyle worked his undamaged left arm under his back. He fixed small, close-set, black eyes on Smoke’s slate orbs and suppressed a shudder at the awful fate he saw reflected there. It took every ounce of his will to force Sean to continue with his intentions.
“The only advantage I see is to force you to talk, then finish you off,” Smoke told him flatly.
“Ah, now, there’s where yer wrong, ye are. Don't I jist know where it is the fancy Mr. Phineas Lathrop is headed? All the torture in the world won’t get that from me lips. But ... if I was to be treated for me wounds, all nice an’ proper, then allowed to go me way in peace . . . well, bucko, that’s a whole different proposition.”
“Suppose I were to agree?”
“Mon ami, you’ve been hit. Come away and let us dress that wound,” L’Lupe insisted.
O’Boyle rode over at the urging of L’Lupe. “Why, then, ye’d be richer by that knowledge an’ I’d be on me way back to Boston, I would.”
Smoke Jensen laughed soft and low. “It’s not often I cut a deal with a piece of horseshit like you.”
Pausing, Smoke considered how to phrase the rest. While he did, elation shot through Sean’s aching body. Almost there. His fingertips brushed at the checked, black, hard rubber grips of the .32 Smith & Wesson.
A heavy sigh gusted from the barrel chest of Smoke Jensen. “But I am in a hurry and would like to know if I can bypass Lathrop and be waiting for him when he gets there. Go ahead. Tell me what you know and I'll see you are patched up and sent on your way.”
He had it! Tightly gripped in his hand, the S & W .32 banished for the moment the awful pain that racked Sean O’Boyle’s body. He forced a smile and spoke so lowly it forced Smoke Jensen closer.
“There’s a place Lathrop spoke of, northwest of here, it is. It’s called Yellow Stone.”
O’Boyle’s hide-out slid free of his waistband. He edged it to his left side.
“You mean the Yellowstone? A river?” Smoke’s excitement was electric.
“N-not a river, man, no it’s not. It’s some sort of park. A place Lathrop said where hot water shot out of the ground. Can ye believe that, man?”
Muted laughter at such a preposterous idea covered the final movement as O’Boyle whipped the little revolver free. He fired two fast, desperate rounds. Smoke Jensen felt a pair of hard, painful punches to his belly, in the region of two crossed, thick leather belts and a heavy
silver buckle. His own bullet came delayed only long enough for Sean O’Boyle to register utter surprise, before it crashed into the bridge of his nose and blew out the back of his head.
“Sacre Nom! He’s shot you again,” L’Lupe blurted, staring at Smoke’s bent frame.
“Only a little bit. I think I’m all right.” Smoke Jensen came painfully upright in a cloud of powder smoke and turned to a startled L’Lupe. “Our guess was right. Lathrop is headed for Yellowstone National Park. I’ll leave a message for Monte and his posse. Then we have to ride hard and fast to outdistance that gang of vultures.”
“Not you, my friend. Your back looks like he used a wooden plough to cut that furrow. At least I see no blood in the front.”
“Lucky, I guess. Appears my belts stopped those little, underpowered slugs. I’ll have a hell of a bruise, though. I’ll let someone fix my back, then we’re on the move.”
Phineas Lathrop and his gang had been compelled to travel at a leisurely pace due to the number of wounded they had acquired along the way. That included those who had escaped from the disastrous ambush in Togwotee Pass. They had brought forward a horrendous tale of the prowess of the mountain men who had slaughtered their companions with cold detachment, and from impossible range. They, for certain, chafed at the delays, grumbled over the late-morning starts, and generally glanced fearfully over their shoulders for sign of pursuit.
They saw none, because with a destination in mind, Smoke Jensen and his four associates could skirt wide of the trail taken by Lathrop and move a whole lot faster. That suited the rangy gunfighter. For all the physical discomfort he experienced, Smoke Jensen wanted an end to this land grab and to Phineas Lathrop. This had gone beyond mere arrest of a criminal genius.
Good men, and some women, too, had died as a result of Lathrop’s mad desire to lay conquest to a vast portion of the High Lonesome. Smoke Jensen wanted Phineas Lathrop dead. He longed to see the photographs of Lathrop and his lead henchmen laid out in suits, arms crossed over dead chests, on the lids of hastily constructed wooden coffins that rested beside them.
He would have it, too, he swore to himself, as he, L’Lupe, and the other three thundered through tall ranks of ancient Douglas fir, north of Grand Teton, and only twenty miles from the heart of Yellowstone country. Along the way, Smoke Jensen kept looking for suitable locations to hole up and do battle. What continued to bother him was why Lathrop had made his goal the nation’s first National Park.
What could he hope to gain from that? Even though they knew for certain now that Lathrop intended all along to go to Yellowstone, it didn’t make sense to Smoke. Not one for long ponderings on the unponderable, Smoke dismissed it as they neared the park entrance. There it suddenly came clear.
Smoke and his sidekicks rode past ranks of wagons, each with rows of seats and canvas shade covers, waiting for the daily flow of visitors. Clusters of crude cabins, the park people’s mistaken idea of what fur trappers’ cabins looked like, to house those who had come to see the marvels, dotted the partially denuded hillsides. Here and there, as they rode deeper into the park, they found tents, with ladies in long, high-necked dresses and parasols, men in shirtsleeves, mustaches waving in the breeze, and children, the boys barefoot and in short pants, gamboling in the meadows. A few fishermen plied the streams.
“Hostages,” Smoke stated tightly. “He’s got an idea he can come here, grab some innocent people, and bargain for his own safety and release.”
“Par bleu, I think you are right, mon ami. ”
“Fits, with a skunk like this,” Greener Jack agreed.
“I reckon he’ll try to lose himself among the visitors at first.” Smoke slowed the pace and glanced around. “That’s what I'd do. Here’s the only place those East Coast gangsters would not look out of place. They could spread out, board a train, and get away without anyone being suspicious.”
“Oui. All too easily. So what shall we do, Smoke?”
“I hate to say it, but I think we should turn back, at least to the south entrance to the park, and wait for Monte and the posse. We need more men, more eyes, to pick out the wolves from the sheep.”
Always persistent, Monte Carson pushed his men as hard as Smoke Jensen and the mountain men had traveled. After discovery of the message at Togwotee Pass, he had become an unflagging taskmaster. As a result, Smoke Jensen’s wait proved a short one. He brought fresh news that energized Smoke as none other could.
“There’s only one road in here from the south,” the lawman reported unnecessarily. “An’ Lathrop is on it. We plumb near run over the top of his gang when we cut west to come in here. Looks like he rode through Jackson’s Hole on the way. Only makes sense.”
“How far behind are they?” Smoke asked.
“Half a day at the speed they’re movin’. We had to skirt wide to avoid contact, then cut a lick to get here well before them.”
“Did you get a count?”
“Yep. Way I see it, we’re ’bout equal in size now.” “Good work, Monte. That eye of yours don’t miss a thing. I’m gonna wager everything on it. Any guess on what they are fixin’ to do once they get here?”
“They’ve got to split up, Smoke. The way I see it, they don’t want to upset the visitors. Or draw any attention to themselves. Thirty or so boys ridin’ in a bunch tends to do that. Particular’ to eastern dudes.”
Smoke chuckled at that. “Same as I see it. So we have to put men on each of these smaller groups. No place for scare tactics. The dudes would panic at Indian drums in the night, or fellers skulkin’ around in the dark. What I want is Lathrop. Cut off the head and the snake dies.”
“Damn, but yer gettin’ windier every year, Smoke. That’s the most I’ve ever heard you say at one time.”
A big grin answered Monte. Smoke turned to L’Lupe Douchant and his aging companions. We’ll consider they’ll break into five groups for a start. Each of you take one. Monte an’ I’ll do the same. Monte, if you’ll divide the posse into five groups, we can keep an eye on Lathrop a mite easier.”
“Sure thing, Smoke.”
“What about me?” Ollie Johnson asked.
Smoke considered a moment. “You’ll come with me. You’ve hung in there pretty good, so far, Ollie. Be a shame for you to miss out on the end of this.”
Twenty-seven
Woodsmoke from the fifty or so campsites filtered through the thick stands of pine and fir. The trees further added to the tantalizing aroma with tangy resin. Pink dawn light permeated the little clearings where tents and cabins offered shelter to park visitors. By the time it had diffused through gold to day white, frying bacon and the savor of brewing coffee made a tempting medley of pleasant scents to the mountain men and volunteer lawmen in Monte Carson’s posse.
Stomachs rumbled, and even Smoke Jensen allowed as how he could use something to fill his. Common sense, and years of experience, said to put something away when you could, so the gathering of lawmen, concealed by the trees and undergrowth left standing, set to preparing breakfast. Coffee came first for these hardened outdoorsmen, then fatback, beans, eggs obtained from the suttler’s store next to park headquarters, and trail bread.
Smoke Jensen wiped the last of the yolk of three eggs, and some grease from his pan with a partly consumed wedge of the biscuitlike trail bread when the first of Lathrop’s gunmen walked their horses into the park. For a moment they stood out, wary looks telegraphing their identities as desperados. Then, when the accents of voices around them rose, they made subtle shifts in expression and chatted among themselves in the same, or similar, dialects.
Before long, save for the vigilance of the hidden watchers, they would have disappeared into the throng of visitors. Three men set off from the posse to follow them. They reported back that the newcomers went directly to the depot and inquired about the earliest train out of Yellowstone to a destination where they could transfer to an eastbound.
“That won’t be until near noon,” the posseman reported to Smoke and Monte.
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br /> “Let them get settled in, then take them all at once,” Smoke ordered the man. “Try not to have any gunplay. We don’t want to tip our hand.”
By the time the surrounding peaks echoed the shrill hoot of a steam whistle, which announced the day’s shipment of gawkers and brave souls who had come to “rough it” out West, five more groups, numbering from three to seven, had been identified and men had been detailed to make the capture. It gave Smoke another idea.
He offered it to Monte and L’Lupe, whose opinions he respected. “To keep it as quiet as possible, why not let them board and, once the train pulls out, take them in the coaches? Less chance of some innocent bystanders being harmed that way.”
L’Lupe wiped the back of one knuckle-gnarled hand over his lips. “That shines, youngster. The one we’re after is this Lathrop, right?”
“Him, Middleton, Cabbott, and Asher, right enough.” Smoke gave a nod to L’Lupe to go on.
“Ainsi, we reduce the strength of his supporters without arousing any suspicion. Ensuite, these marauders stand alone.”
“Provided, L’Lupe, they do not board the first train out of here.”
Douchant stared at Smoke and shrugged. “They are not here, so far. Already people are taking the train. It will leave in a few minutes. No, mon ami, they have something else in mind. And if I am not mistaken, it is to kill you before they leave.”
* * *
Lathrop and his partners entered Yellowstone National Park with only seven bodyguards. Another party of fifteen had preceded them and set up fortifications in a part of the park that a map had shown to be easy to defend, and equally easy for Smoke Jensen and whoever accompanied him to find. Lathrop, much to the objections of Victor Middleton and Arnold Cabbott, made little effort to conceal his arrival.
Consequently, word got to Smoke Jensen within ten minutes of the arrival of Phineas Lathrop. By that time, the posse had been reduced by two-thirds. They had followed the New York and Boston thugs onto the train. The odds did not deter Smoke, who set off on Dandy to follow to wherever Lathrop led him.
Rage of the Mountain Man Page 26
