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.”
“Well, that’s a fact,” Roy admitted.
Von Hausen began scanning the ridge with his long lenses. After several minutes of searching, he cased the binoculars, hung them on his saddle horn, and picked up the reins. “Let’s go. The ridge is void of life.”
“Gary, take the point,” John T. said. “Might be a good idea if we walked our horses up. That’s a steep climb. Wouldn’t do to have a horse break a leg now.”
“You’re right,” von Hausen said, and swung from the saddle to help the ladies down. A true gentleman.
Smoke lay flat on his belly behind a huge stone stump of what had been redwood, millions of years back. He
