Read Online Pursuit Of The Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone - Free Book Online
Authors: William W. Johnstone
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“That’s a strange way of lookin’ at it.”
“Ain’t it the truth. Women start shootin’ at me, I’m damn sure gonna return the fire.”
“Break up into groups,” von Hausen ordered the gunfighters. “Five groups. The first group to corner Smoke Jensen and lead me to him gets an additional five thousand dollars. We start the hunt first thing in the morning. John T., find us a suitable place to make camp.”
“We break up into groups of five,” John T. said. “One group stays with the Germans and we’ll switch around ever’ day so’s ever’body can get the same chance at the additional money.” He rolled him a cigarette. “Damn sure beats the hell out of killin’ homesteaders. I think,” he added.
Smoke had worked his way back to his horses and was gone, vanishing back into the rugged wilderness. He rode through the harsh and unforgiving terrain with the ease of a man who was comfortable with the elements; at home with them. The mountains, the desert, the swamps ... they are neither for nor against a man. They are neutral. But if one is too survive, that person must understand what he is up against and work with his surroundings, never against them.
Smoke understood that. Probably the men of the west riding with the Germans knew it too. He doubted any of the others did. And eventually, he would use that lack of knowledge and their natural arrogance to work against them.
He could have easily killed von Hausen and the others a few moments ago. But he did not want to kill anymore. He wanted to dissuade them from this stupid hunt.
He wondered if that was possible?
He didn’t think so, but he had to try.
Briscoe killed a deer and the meat was cooking as the night began closing in around the hunting party in the Tetons. The hunters were very quiet, each with their own thoughts in this harsh land. Miles away from them, in a very carefully selected spot, Smoke sat before his own small fire—which he would soon extinguish for safety’s sake—and cooked his supper and boiled his coffee. It had been years since he’d been in this country, but all the trails and creeks and rushing mountain streams and cul-de-sacs were mapped in his mind.
He was camped between Hunt Mountain and Prospectors Mountain. To the west lay Fossil Mountain, the east, Phelps Lake. Below him were the hunters. He could actually see their fires, when he stepped out of the rocks which concealed his camp.
“Vain, silly people,” Smoke muttered to the night. “Leading others to their death if they keep this up.”
A wolf howled in the night, and Smoke smiled. He could commiserate with the wolf; knew just how the animal felt. Knew how it felt to be hunted for no real reason. He knew the wolf posed no real threat to mankind; never had and never would, if people would just give it room to hunt and exist. But Smoke knew that much of humankind was timid and selfish; much of what was left were just like those hunting him: the types of people who wanted to kill for the sake of blood-letting alone, enjoying seeing their prey suffer. Smoke had no use for those types. None at all.
Ol’ Preacher had told him, long ago, that if God hadn’t wanted all the critters of the forests and plains and swamps and deserts to exist side by side with man, the Almighty wouldn’t have put them here. Preacher had said that if given the chance, nearly all the critters would leave man alone, if man would just take the time to understand them. Indians felt the same way. But most men were too impatient, and would not take the time to really understand the value of those who share the earth.
Smoke recalled Ol’ Preacher’s words: “One of these days, boy, after we’re dead and gone and has become a part of the wind and the sky and earth, man is gonna look around him and say: I wonder what happened to the wolf, the puma, the bear, the deer, the beaver, the jaybird, and the eagle. I miss them. What happened? And most will be too gawddamn stupid to
“Ain’t it the truth. Women start shootin’ at me, I’m damn sure gonna return the fire.”
“Break up into groups,” von Hausen ordered the gunfighters. “Five groups. The first group to corner Smoke Jensen and lead me to him gets an additional five thousand dollars. We start the hunt first thing in the morning. John T., find us a suitable place to make camp.”
“We break up into groups of five,” John T. said. “One group stays with the Germans and we’ll switch around ever’ day so’s ever’body can get the same chance at the additional money.” He rolled him a cigarette. “Damn sure beats the hell out of killin’ homesteaders. I think,” he added.
Smoke had worked his way back to his horses and was gone, vanishing back into the rugged wilderness. He rode through the harsh and unforgiving terrain with the ease of a man who was comfortable with the elements; at home with them. The mountains, the desert, the swamps ... they are neither for nor against a man. They are neutral. But if one is too survive, that person must understand what he is up against and work with his surroundings, never against them.
Smoke understood that. Probably the men of the west riding with the Germans knew it too. He doubted any of the others did. And eventually, he would use that lack of knowledge and their natural arrogance to work against them.
He could have easily killed von Hausen and the others a few moments ago. But he did not want to kill anymore. He wanted to dissuade them from this stupid hunt.
He wondered if that was possible?
He didn’t think so, but he had to try.
Briscoe killed a deer and the meat was cooking as the night began closing in around the hunting party in the Tetons. The hunters were very quiet, each with their own thoughts in this harsh land. Miles away from them, in a very carefully selected spot, Smoke sat before his own small fire—which he would soon extinguish for safety’s sake—and cooked his supper and boiled his coffee. It had been years since he’d been in this country, but all the trails and creeks and rushing mountain streams and cul-de-sacs were mapped in his mind.
He was camped between Hunt Mountain and Prospectors Mountain. To the west lay Fossil Mountain, the east, Phelps Lake. Below him were the hunters. He could actually see their fires, when he stepped out of the rocks which concealed his camp.
“Vain, silly people,” Smoke muttered to the night. “Leading others to their death if they keep this up.”
A wolf howled in the night, and Smoke smiled. He could commiserate with the wolf; knew just how the animal felt. Knew how it felt to be hunted for no real reason. He knew the wolf posed no real threat to mankind; never had and never would, if people would just give it room to hunt and exist. But Smoke knew that much of humankind was timid and selfish; much of what was left were just like those hunting him: the types of people who wanted to kill for the sake of blood-letting alone, enjoying seeing their prey suffer. Smoke had no use for those types. None at all.
Ol’ Preacher had told him, long ago, that if God hadn’t wanted all the critters of the forests and plains and swamps and deserts to exist side by side with man, the Almighty wouldn’t have put them here. Preacher had said that if given the chance, nearly all the critters would leave man alone, if man would just take the time to understand them. Indians felt the same way. But most men were too impatient, and would not take the time to really understand the value of those who share the earth.
Smoke recalled Ol’ Preacher’s words: “One of these days, boy, after we’re dead and gone and has become a part of the wind and the sky and earth, man is gonna look around him and say: I wonder what happened to the wolf, the puma, the bear, the deer, the beaver, the jaybird, and the eagle. I miss them. What happened? And most will be too gawddamn stupid to
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