Rage of the Mountain Man (33 page)

“
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 am
i. ”

“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.”

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.

“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.

It didn’t take long for Smoke, Ollie, L’Lupe, and Monte to find who they sought. As they were topping a rise, a shot cracked overhead, barely heard in the hiss and roar of the geysers that erupted around them. This was the Land of Spirit Smokes, as the original inhabitants had called it.

Subterranean sources heated basins at the water table to boiling and then to steam, which expanded rapidly and jetted to the surface to spew hundreds of feet into the air. It was a frightening land that trembled all the time and shot off its scalding fountains unpredictably to the Indians who lived nearby, who knew nothing of minutes or hours. A mysterious land, a sacred land.

Now, Phineas Lathrop and remainder of his gang defiled it for their own murderous purposes. Smoke took placid note of the bullet even as he and his companions spread out and hunkered down on their horses. A cold, hard smile creased Smoke’s lips. Those ahead, so confident of success, had no idea of what Smoke had in store for them.

Monte Carson had brought along with the posse eleven more cronies of Preacher and the youthful Smoke Jensen. They had a noisy, boisterous, and profane reunion that shocked the visiting womenfolk, made nervous the men, and won the admiration and hearts of the small, young eastern boys, who had never heard such colorful swearing.

Over Smoke’s not too enthusiastic objections, jugs were passed around, and then a general plan was laid out. The old lobos of the mountains would sidle along on the flanks of the trail that Smoke and L’Lupe followed, and deploy themselves to cause the most grief to the “hostiles” as they could when the time came. So Smoke judged it fine to play target at a safe distance in order to allow those keen-eyed, hard-bitten men to get in place, and also to count the number of guns they faced.

That part of the plan worked excellently. It was only when Phineas Lathrop decided to turn about and carry the fight to Smoke Jensen that things got hot and hairy.

Smoke Jensen watched the ragged charge of Lathrop’s ragtag army with a sudden grim expression. “What’ll you bet that Lathrop and his partners aren’t in that bunch?”

“Do we wait to meet them?” L’Lupe replied in answer.

“No, leave that to what’s left of the posse and our friends up there.” Smoke nodded to the ridge that overlooked the trembling geyser basin.