Pursuit Of The Mountain Man

Maria cussed.

“He hasn’t lost his nerve, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Marlene said. “That took a lot of cold nerve to come into an armed camp.”

“Oh, no,” Frederick said. “He still has plenty of courage. But he can’t kill anymore!”

That got everybody’s attention.

“Add it up. That chap we met on the trail several days back. He told us about that young hooligan in that saloon back south that braced Smoke. According to what the drifter heard, Smoke refused to be goaded into fighting him; actually walked away from the young hoodlum. A gambler killed the loud-mouth moments later. And that thug, Tom Lilly. That old drunk said Smoke shot him in the arm. Smoke Jensen never shot anybody in the arm in his life. He fired at us the other day. But did he? I think not. He was shooting all around us. But not at us. He roped Cosgrove but didn’t even hurt him. Smoke Jensen can no longer kill. The game now becomes ever so much more interesting.”

“How do you mean, Frederick?” Marlene asked.

“We press him. Push him. Force him to stand and fight. And then we can all have a good laugh at his expense as we watch him stand helplessly, unable to kill. That will truly be a moment for posterity. The great legendary Smoke Jensen, unable to use his guns, reduced to tears.” His laugh was triumphal.

“This calls for champagne,” Hans said. “I believe we can safely open one of the few bottles we brought for this occasion.”

“But of course!” von Hausen said, his voice full of good cheer. “But we must save at least one bottle to drink over Smoke Jensen’s body while Hans takes pictures of the event. Your camera equipment is intact; it stood the journey well, Hans?”

“Oh, yes. We shall have our pictures, Frederick. I assure you of that.”

Smoke took advantage of the furious storm to break camp and move north. He moved carefully, taking his time, and rode up to just south of Jenny Lake. It took him two days to make those few miles. The yellow arrowleaf balsamroot blossoms were just opening and, when he crossed the little valley, he seemed to be moving through a living sea of yellow and green. He made little effort to hide his tracks. He had heard the gunfire after he’d left the woman’s tent, and knew his words had been wasted. And it had saddened him. Von Hausen and his people were not going to quit. They were going to continue pushing him, pressing him, until he would be forced to start shedding blood.

Their blood, not his.

Smoke caught his supper from the lake and after eating, moved his camp back into the rocks where he was protected from prying eyes, the wind, and bullets.

The next morning he found a secluded and well-protected place for his horses, with plenty of water and graze. He rigged a pack for himself and chose the weapons he would take that day-and they were formidable ones. He stuck a packet of crackers into his pack and set out, skirting the meadow he’d crossed and staying in the timber as much as possible as he back-tracked to the trail he’d used coming in.

There was no point in kidding himself any longer. He had run out of options; run out of ways to try to convince those chasing him to give it up. Those coming after him were not going to quit. This was going to be a fight to the finish so, he concluded, let us get on with it.

At the trail, he rigged a swing trap using a limber limb, a length of rope, and a stake set off the trail. Someone was going to have a very messed-up face when the horse triggered the rope placed close to the ground. Further on up the trail he rigged a deadfall employing the same methods. Then he carefully chose a defensive position and waited for the action to start.

Nick was at the point, riding slowly, scanning the terrain ahead of him. Jensen had left plenty of sign to follow, so there was a need to look at the ground only occasionally. His horse’s hoof hit the rope and the limb sprang forward. Nick took the full force of the green limb in the face, slapping him out of the saddle, smashing his mouth and nose, and knocking him unconscious. He was still out, sprawled on the ground, when Pat Gilman found him.

“Hold it up!” Pat shouted, swinging down from the saddle. “John T. Up here, Nick’s down.”

“He ain’t dead,” John T. said, kneeling down beside the bloody Nick. “But his face is some messed up. Lost some teeth and busted his nose for sure.” But Jensen isn’t killing, he thought. We’ll all take some bumps and bruises, but that’s a damn sight better than taking a bullet.

“Oh, I say now,” Hans said, riding up and looking at the bloody Nick, sitting up and bathing his face with a wet cloth. “This isn’t playing fair at all. The man obviously is no sportsman.”

John T. glanced up at the man, thinking: and none of you is playin’ with a full deck, either. I never met no people like you in all my days. You’re all nuts! If Jensen hadn’t run his string out, you’d all see that this here ain’t no damn game.

“Can he ride?” von Hausen asked.

“Yeah,” John T. told him. “Just as soon as he comes to his senses. He took a pretty good lick in the face.”

“I’ll get the medical kit,” Gunter said, waving to a man leading a pack horse.

“Scout on ahead,” von Hausen told a gunfighter from Nevada. “And keep your eyes open for more booby traps.”

The hired gun nodded and moved out. He was soon lost from sight in the lush wilderness. The brush and timber and undergrowth was so thick a horses’ hooves could not be heard more than a few yards away.

John T. stood up from his squat and met the eyes of Frederick von Hausen.

He knows, John T. thought.

He knows, Frederick von Hausen thought.