“Yes, ma’am. I’m Smoke Jensen.”
The women got all flustered and the men got all nervous. Smoke sipped his coffee. Too weak for his taste. But he wasn’t about to complain.
“I read in the newspapers before we left that Sally was home visiting friends and family,” Carol said. “Her parents are still in Europe, are they not?”
“Yes, ma‘am. With our children. Look here, what do you call those hats y’all are wearing?”
“Pith,” Robert said.
Smoke almost spilled his coffee. He blurted, “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Pith helmets,” Paula said. “They’re quite the rage for any type of expedition into the wilderness.”
“If you say so,” Smoke mumbled.
Thomas said, “These guns you just gave us ... the men chasing you gave them up voluntarily?”
“They did after I shot them.”
Blanche sat down on a log. “Were they severely wounded?”
“About as severe as you can get,” Smoke said, spearing a piece of bacon from the skillet. “They sure weren’t in any condition to complain about it.”
“You turned the thugs over to the law?”
“No. Their buddies buried them.”
Carol sat down beside Blanche and both women started fanning themselves vigorously.
“You ...
killed
them?” Gilbert asked.
“I sure did.” Then Smoke explained, in detail, about those chasing him. While he was explaining, he spotted the coffee can and made a fresh pot of coffee. Stuff that was drinkable. Cowboy coffee. “I just can’t seem to convince that crazy German to leave me alone. He’s about to make me mad.”
Robert poured a cup of the fresh brew and took a sip. His eyes bugged out as he bravely swallowed it. He sat the cup down.
“How ... many men do you have chasing you?” Gilbert asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Twenty-five or thirty, I suppose. I killed three more the other day, over on the Yellowstone. They just keep coming at me and I just keep whittling them down. I’m goin’ to have to make a stand of it somewhere, I reckon. But I don’t want to see any innocent people get hurt.”
“I don’t think there is anyone else in the park this time of year,” Thomas said. “We did see some young men a couple of weeks ago. Government surveyors.”
“I ran into them. Nice bunch of boys. They said they were going to tell the superintendent about the men after me. But by the time he gets word out and the army, or U.S. Marshals get in, this fracas will be over.”
“You are very ... well,
cavalier
about this matter, Mister Jensen,” Carol said.
“No point in getting all worked up about it.” Smoke nibbled on a biscuit. “I’ll just handle it my way.”
“But there are
thirty
gunmen chasing you!” Blanche said.
Smoke shrugged. “More or less. And I assure you it’ll be less in a day or two. I faced eighteen men in the streets of a town on the Uncompahgre some years back. I was just out of my teens. I left all eighteen belly down in the dirt.”
“Eighteen!” Robert said. “You killed eighteen men by yourself?”
“Sure did. They got lead in me, I won’t deny that. Almost killed me. But I was still standing when the dust cleared ... sort of. I was on my knees in the street but I was still alive.”
“Where was the law?” Paula asked.
Smoke tapped the butt of a Colt. “Right there, ma’am. The law is good for handling lost horses and finding runaway kids and the like. It’s good to see the law walking the street and tipping their hats to ladies. Makes everybody feel good. All secure and such as that. But there are some things that a man has to handle personal. If he’s been pushed to the end of the line and can’t get any relief and if he’s capable and has the where-with-all. I’m 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 had measured the distance between stone stumps and trees from where he now lay to the crest of the ridge. He had ample brush to help along the way and in addition, a cut in the earth several feet deep that led to the crest and curved with one wall facing those below him.
Gary paused to catch his breath and it was his last one. Smoke’s .44-.40 boomed and Gary went down.
“Goddamnit!” Roy yelled, diving for cover. “I knowed it was a trap.”
Al Hayre exposed part of his body from behind a stone and Smoke drilled him clean through the shoulder. Al dropped his rifle and began a fast roll down the ridge toward the valley below, hollering and yelling and cussing until his head hit a rock and shut him up.
Smoke slung his pack and rolled to another, better protected area, angling toward the cut. Pride Anderson stepped out from cover and dropped to one knee and fired, the slug howling off stone and sending chips into Smoke’s face. Smoke wiped off the blood and moved to the other side of the huge fallen tree, slipping behind a mass of brush and stone. Pride made the mistake of trying for a second shot at Smoke. He would never get another shot at anything.
Smoke quick-sighted him in and pulled the trigger. Pride took the .44-.40 slug in the center of his forehead. The force of the bullet snapped his head back and Pride tumbled, rolling lifeless down the ridge.
Smoke sent several rawhide bound sticks of dynamite down the ridge and everybody hit the earth. Everybody except Smoke. He scrambled for the cut and ran to the top of the ridge just as the dynamite blew. Once again, horses panicked and ran off down the hill.
Smoke found him a good spot behind a small stand of trees on the crest, punched more cartridges into his rifle then chewed on a biscuit and waited.
“A couple of you men work your way over to the timber in that direction,” von Hausen ordered. “Two more to that side,” He pointed. “Try to box him in.”
“You’ll never do it, your majesty,” Walt said, safely behind a petrified log.
Smoke had pulled away from the ridge and worked his way some two hundred yards back from the crest. It put him that much closer to his horses and in better cover should von Hausen order men to attempt to flank him.
On the hill, Andrea and Marlene and Maria looked with horror and disgust in their eyes-more disgust than horror—at the smear of blood and hair and brains that Pride had left on the side of a stone stump.
“Al’s stirring down there,” Angel said, sitting beside Walt behind the huge log.
“If he’s smart, he’ll find his horse and get the hell gone from here.”
“One arm’s hanging limp by his side,” Angel said. “He looks sort of confused.”
“Busted his head on the way down. There’s another walkin’ wounded for us to tend to. We’re gonna look like a hospital ’fore this trip gets over.”
Marty Boswell’s daddy had always told him he had sawdust for brains. Marty got tired of listening to his daddy and shot him dead one day back in Nebraska. Smoke proved Marty’s daddy wrong when Marty stuck his ugly face out from behind a large rock for a look-see. He had some brains. But they were now several feet behind the gunslinger, on the ground, due to the impacting of a .44-.40 slug with Marty’s head.
Gil Webb wisely decided not to move from his position.