THE FIRST MOUNTAIN MAN PREACHER’S ASSAULT
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
MATT JENSEN, THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN:
Copyright Page
CHAPTER 1
Independence, Missouri, was a place most folks visited solely in order to leave. The route people had recently started to call the Oregon Trail began there, and already hundreds of wagons carrying immigrants had traversed it, heading to the Pacific Northwest where those settlers would make their new homes.
Independence was also where the Santa Fe Trail began, but the wagons that followed that path weren’t loaded down with immigrants. Instead, they were packed with trade goods bound for the markets of Santa Fe, in Mexican territory. A few settlers made that trip, too, but the Mexican government discouraged immigration in favor of commerce. When the wagons made their return journey to the States, they would be filled with Mexican gold and silver.
Like most people who went to Independence, the man called Preacher didn’t intend to stay long. But as he stared down the barrel of a pistol, he wondered if he was going to be staying in Independence from now on, probably in an unmarked grave. “Take it easy there, hoss,” he drawled in his gravelly voice. “I ain’t lookin’ for trouble.”
“I ain’t either,” replied the man pointing the gun at him. “I’m lookin’ for money, and I’ll take what you got.”
Preacher couldn’t help but chuckle. “Well, you are smack-dab out of luck, friend, because I don’t have a single coin in my pocket.”
It was true. Earlier that evening, Preacher had spent the last of his money on supplies for him and his two companions, Lorenzo and Casey. He’d cached the goods in the stable where they had their horses, and he was on his way to the tavern where he knew he would find them.
Lorenzo had a small stake, and he planned to try running it into a bigger one if he could find a suitable poker game. Preacher had decided to cut through the alley to reach the tavern, and it was looking like a questionable decision. A man had stepped out of the shadows and accosted him at gunpoint, and Preacher’s keen ears had picked up a scuff of boot leather on hard-packed ground behind him, as well. There were two of the scoundrels.
But Preacher wasn’t exactly alone. Standing tensely beside him was the big, shaggy, wolflike cur known only as Dog.
“No money?” the would-be robber in front of Preacher said. “You’re a liar! You got to have some money!”
Until then, Preacher might have been willing to turn out his pockets to prove he was penniless, since he’d been in an unusually peaceable mood. He didn’t cotton to being called a liar and his back stiffened in anger.
“You’d best put away that pistol and step aside, mister,” he said harshly. “Else I won’t be responsible for what happens.”
