“Ummm.”
“I’ll not have this town filled up with would-be gunhands looking to make themselves a reputation,” Marshal Dooley said. “Get your truck together and hit the trail, West.”
“Friendly place you have here, Marshal,” Buck said with a double-edged smile.
“Yes, it is,” Dooley said, ignoring the sarcasm in Buck’s tone. “Something about you invites trouble, boy.” He waved a hand absently. “I know, I know. You didn’t start the fight. And I understand from talking with witnesses you even tried—slightly—to back away from it. That’s good. But not good enough. Clear out, West.”
“In the morning soon enough?”
Dooley wavered. He nodded his head. “Stay out of the saloons tonight and be gone by dawn.”
Buck stepped out of the office onto the boardwalk. He didn’t object to being asked to leave town. He didn’t blame the law. It was time to be moving on. And there was no point in delaying his departure until morning. Buck was getting that closed-in feeling anyway. And so was Drifter. Last time he’d looked in on the animal, Drifter had rolled his eyes and tossed his head. And then proceeded to kick in the back of his stall.
Buck walked to the hotel, gathered up his gear, and headed for the stable. He had bought his supplies earlier and was ready to go.
“Ready to go, Drifter?” Buck asked the stallion.
Drifter reared up and smashed the front of his stall.
“Guess so,” Buck mumbled.
The band of mountain men met Lobo at the base of Grey-rock Mountain, about halfway between the Sawtooth Wilderness area and Challis. Lobo briefed the men on what he’d seen in town.
It was rumored that Lobo had once lived with wolves.
“Faster than greased lightnin’,” Lobo said. “I never seen nothin’ like it afore in my life. An’ the lad didn’t even blink an eye doin’ it.”
“Tole you!” Preacher said to the men, grinning.
“Don’t start braggin’,” Powder Pete told Preacher. “It’s bad ’nuff jist havin’ to look at you.” Powder Pete was so called because of his expertise with explosives.
“Did the law run him out of town?”
“Don’t know. Didn’t hang around to see. Law might
“Wal, les’ us just sorta amble on toward the northeast,” Preacher said. “If I know Smoke—and I do, I raised him—he’ll take his time gettin’ to Bury. He’ll lay back in the timber for a day ’er so and look the situation over. We’ll cross the Lost River Range, head acrost the flats, and turn north, make camp in the narrows south of Bury. I know me some Flatheads live just west of Bitterroot. Once we set up camp, I’ll take me a ride over to the Divide, palaver some with ’em. They’ll be our eyes and ears. That sound all right to you boys?”
“Quite inventive,” Audie said.
“Ummm,” Nighthawk grunted.
Buck crossed the Salmon to the east bank and began following the river north. He stayed on the fringe of the timber that made up the northern edge of the Lemhi Range. He would follow the river for about thirty-five miles before cutting to the east for about ten miles. That should put him on the outskirts of Bury. Once there, he would make camp south of the town and look it over.
The dozen mountain men, with about six hundred years of survival and fighting experience between them, were riding hard just south of Challis. With their rifles held across the saddle-horns, their fringed buckskins and animal- hide caps and brightly colored shirts and jackets and sashes, the last of the mountain men were returning for one more fight. They were riding hard to help—if he needed it—the youngest mountain man. One of their own. A young man who had chosen the lonely call of the wilderness as home. A young man who preferred the high lonesome over the towns and cities. A young man they had taken under their wing and helped to raise, imparting to him the wisdom of the wilderness, hopefully perpetuating a way of life that so-called civilized people now sneered at and rejected. This gathering, this aging motley crew, knew they were the last—the very last—of a select breed of men. After this ride, never again would so many gather. But hopefully, just maybe, their young protege would live on, known for the rest of his life, as the last mountain man.
6
The town of Bury, with a population of about five hundred, sat on a road first roughed out by Mormon settlers in the mid-1850s. Bury had a bank, probably the best school in that part of the country—a large, two-story building—a large mercantile store, a weekly newspaper, several saloons, several cafes, a large hotel, a sheriff, several deputies, a jail, a leather shop, and several other businesses, including a whorehouse located discreetly outside of town. The town also boasted several churches. A handful of ranches lay around the town, and a lot of producing mines as well.
And nearly all of it was owned by three men: Stratton, Potter, and Richards.
Bury also had a volunteer fire department. They were going to need a fire department before Buck was through.
The business district of Bury was three blocks long, on both sides of the wide street. It was down that street that Buck rode at midmorning. He had camped some miles from the town, watching the one road for two days. A stagecoach rolled in every other day. Wagons bringing supplies rolled by. Peddlers and tinkers and snake-oil salesmen rattled past.
Booming little town, Buck thought. For a while longer, that is.
The first thing Buck noticed in his slow ride up the street was the number of gunhands lounging about on the boardwalk, and not just in front of the saloons. A couple always seemed to be in front of the bank, as well. Buck
