Return of the Mountain Man

“That’s me.”

“You got some proof of that?”

He pointed to a diploma hanging on the wall. Mining engineer. Rex M. Augsman.

“I’m from PSR headquarters up in Bury.” He held out the saddlebags. “I’m supposed to give this to you.”

“You look like you might just have some sense,” Rex said. “A definite improvement over the others.” He opened the padlocks and looked inside. He smiled and said, “Welcome to the team. You passed the final test.”

“What do you mean?” Buck asked.

The engineer dumped the contents of the heavy saddlebags onto the counter. The bags had been filled with cut-up pieces of newspaper and lots of rocks.

“The young man is not exactly a paragon of intelligence,” Audie said. “But there is something about him that suggests there might be a glimmer of hope.”

“Smart as a whip, you dwarf!” Preacher fired at the former schoolteacher. Halfway to the Divide, Preacher had run into a band of friendly Flatheads. Yes, they had been into Bury many times to trade. Yes, they would keep their eyes and ears open and report back to Preacher. Preacher had returned to the base camp.

“No doubt you speak nonprejudicially,” Audie said.

“Don’t you cuss me!” Preacher warned. “I’ll rap you upside the head.”

Audie reached for the sawed-off .44. Preacher reached for his Colt.

Lobo suddenly growled like a wolf and the two old friends settled down, dropping their hands from the butts of pistols.

“Sorry ’bout that, little friend,” Preacher said.

“I, too, offer my sincere apologies, Preacher,” Audie said. “It’s the tension of waiting for the unknown.”

Dupre grinned and walked to his bedroll. He pulled two clay jugs out of the blankets. “I tink perhaps we have a drink or three,” he said.

“Right good idee,” Greybull said.

“I could stand a taste myself,” Matt said. “How ’bout you, Nighthawk?”

“Ummm.”

Buck had asked for a receipt for the newspapers and rocks. Back in Bury, he solemnly presented it to MacGregor. The Scotsman looked at Buck, then the receipt, and a sour smile slowly formed on his lips.

“You’re a damn fool for staying, boy,” MacGregor said. “I told Richards you were an honest man. That impressed him. But honest men won’t last long in a town filled with scalawags and hooligans. Tell him I said it, if you wish—but you won’t. You’ve stepped into a snake pit, young man. There isn’t a handful of people—men and women—in this town and surrounding area that is worth spit. Oh, I know why you’re here, Mr. Kirby Jensen, aka Smoke, aka Buck West. You’re here to avenge your wife, your son, your father, your friend Preacher. You’re so full of hate it’s consuming you, eating you alive. If you let it, boy, it will destroy you.”

“How many others know who I am?” Buck asked, keeping his voice calm.

“I think the red-haired gunman, Sam, probably knows. Sam is quite like you. An honest man. The schoolteacher you’ve been sparking about, Sally. She probably suspects. Don’t worry about me, Buck. I am a federal marshal.”

11

Buck had asked the Scotsman how he had known about him. MacGregor had shown him a wanted dodger on Smoke. He had cut off the hair and added a beard. It was eerie; almost like looking into a mirror.

“Your skill and speed with your guns gave you away, Buck,” MacGregor said. Then he smiled. “What are you planning to do here?”

“I’m going to kill Potter and Richards and Stratton and then burn this damn town to the ground.”

“Warn me before you start putting your suicidal plan into action. I need to gather up my evidence and get out of here.”

Buck had looked at the smaller man, not knowing how to take the man. “But you’re a federal marshal, MacGregor. Aren’t you going to arrest me?”

“On what charges, Buck? I’m not aware of any federal charges against you. You haven’t committed any acts of treason against the government of the United States. You haven’t robbed any federal mints. You haven’t assaulted any federal agents or destroyed any federal property. Hell, I personally hope you are successful in destroying this cesspool. Good day, Mr. West.”

Buck stabled Drifter and went back to the hotel for a bath and shave. MacGregor hadn’t told him very much as to the why of a federal marshal being in Bury; just that if he, MacGregor, was successful, another chapter in that regrettable bloody insurrection referred to as the Civil War would be closed. And perhaps a young man would finally be at peace with himself.

MacGregor had left it at that.

After cleaning up, Buck walked to Sally’s house carrying a small package wrapped in brown paper. He found her working in the yard, planting flowers. She turned at the sounds of his bootheels and the jingle of his spurs and smiled at him.

Brushing off her hands, Sally asked, “Did you have a good trip?”