Pursuit Of The Mountain Man

Smoke started shooting, working the lever on his .44 carbine as fast as he could. Nick took a round in the belly that doubled him over. He fell to the shattered ground, screaming as the pain rode him down like a surging tidal wave.

Tom Ritter reached his frightened and rearing horse, got into the saddle, and Smoke put a slug in his shoulder as he was galloping off. He jerked in the saddle but stayed on.

Mike Hunt got to his boots, both hands filled with six-guns. Smoke shot him in the center of the chest just as Pat Gilman started throwing lead in Smoke’s direction. Smoke dropped to his knees at the edge of the clearing and pulled the trigger. The slug was low and caught Pat in the hipbone, knocking him down. Pat hollered and began crawling for a horse, any horse.

Smoke dropped his carbine and jerked his six-guns. Tony Addison screamed obscenities at him and leveled his guns. Smoke sent him to hell carrying two .44 slugs, one in his belly, the other one in his chest.

Smoke stepped back into the brush and squatted down. He could hear hard-running horses, the sounds of their hooves rapidly fading away. The little meadow was filled with flowers and gunsmoke and blood and death.

Smoke waited for several minutes, waiting for the dust to settle. He could see one man moving. He took that time to reload his carbine. He stood up, still in the timber and brush at meadow’s edge, and surveyed the scene. He was startled to see the wounded man was dressed like he was on an African safari. His stupid looking hat—what were they called, yeah, pith helmets—lay off to one side.

Smoke checked the dead. Two of them. Even the one who appeared to have a broken leg got away. But Smoke knew he’d put several out of action.

He walked over to the wounded man. The blood was dark as it oozed from his wound. Probably shot in the gizzard.

“I didn’t shoot you,” Smoke said. “A .44 round would have made a bigger hole than that.”

“My ... wife shot me. Andrea Brodermann.”

“Your wife shot you?” Smoke knelt down beside the man.

“Yes. I’m ... going to die, aren’t I?”

“Probably. Looks like she drilled you through the liver. Small caliber pistol. Those small slugs tend to wander around in a person’s innards; do all sorts of damage.”

“You’re Smoke Jensen?”

“That I am.”

“Please accept my ... apologies for this ... insanity. Long days back I ... tried to stop this. They would ... have none of it.” He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the pain. He sighed and said, “She shot me ... just as the dynamite blew. I should have been ... more careful.”

Smoke started to tell him that when you run with hyenas, you shouldn’t expect to get the best cuts of meat, but he decided against that. Man had enough troubles right now.

“I am a Prince,” Hans said.

“Do tell?”

“Yes. The men left ... alive. They will not give up, sir. They ... have money deposited for them ... and they will hunt you ... down.”

“Well, I shortened the odds some this day.” Hans’ face was deadly white. Smoke figured the man didn’t have much longer. “You got family you want me to write, Prince?” He did not slur the title.

“In my wallet. My jacket ... pocket. Inside. If you would be ... so kind as to write my parents.”

“Sure. I’ll do it. You have my word.”

Hans tried a smile. “With that tremendous dynamite ... charge, you shouldn’t have much of a ... hole to dig.”

Smoke returned the smile and wiped the sweat from the man’s brow with a bandana. “I’ll bury you better than that, partner. That’s a promise.”

“Be careful of the ... women in our,” he grimaced, “that group. They are vicious, sir. I think we have married too closely ... over the years. It’s beginning to ... show.”

Smoke said nothing. The man’s time was running out. Let him talk until he shook hands with the devil.

“I have a considerable sum of greenbacks in ... my wallet and ... several small sacks of ... gold coin in my saddlebags. That’s my horse ... over there. The ... there is no word for it in my language.” He cut his eyes. The horse was grazing not far away.

“Roan,” Smoke said.

“Yes. That is it. I want to compensate you for all the misery we have caused you ...”

“There is no need for that.”

“I want to.”

“All right.”

“Take it ... now. Let me see you do it. Please. A final request.”

Smoke walked to the horse, spoke to it, and opened the saddlebags, all the time keeping an eye on Hans. He took out three small but heavy leather sacks of gold coin. When he returned to Hans, the man was holding out a wallet.

“It will not make up for what ... we have done to you and the others. But it is a step. I did not fire upon the soldiers.”