Return of the Mountain Man

Buck’s ride to Challis was uneventful. He found the man named Gilmore, completed his business, and headed back. When he rode into Bury, past Miss Flora’s Pink House, he noticed the front door was closed, a hand-lettered sign hanging from a string. Closed, the sign read. Smiling, Buck rode to the PSR office and handed the receipt to MacGregor. The Scotsman had a worried look on his now-more-than-ever dour face.

“What’s wrong?” Buck asked.

“New territorial governor was just named. It wasn’t Potter. He’s fit to be tied.”

“You knew it wouldn’t be all along, didn’t you?”

“I had a rather strong suspicion.”

“Now what?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t got enough evidence to bring any of the Big Three to court and make it stick. The Big Three violate a number of moral laws. But they run their own businesses on the up and up—so far as I’ve been able to find out. They have committed murder—either themselves or by hiring it out—but since this town, and all the people in it, belong to the Big Three, no one will talk. But there is a sour, rancid feeling hanging in the air, Buck, Smoke—what is your real name?”

“Kirby.”

MacGregor nodded absently. “I gather those mountain men in the timber are friends of yours?”

“Preacher helped raise me. I know most of the others.” He named them.

MacGregor chuckled. “Old bastards!” he said, with no malice in the profanity. “Did you know Audie is the holder of several degrees?”

“Yes. How did you know about that?”

“Oh, ever since I came out here, fifteen years ago, I have maintained a journal of sorts. I should like to take all those pages and turn them into a book someday. A book about mountain men. I’ve talked with many of them. But my God, they lie so much. I can’t tell what is truth and what is fiction.”

“I’ve discovered that most of what they say is true.”

“Really now, Smoke! A human being cannot successfully fight a grizzly bear and win!”

“Negro Matt fought a mountain lion with his bare hands and killed it. Preacher fought a bear up on the North Milk in Canada and killed it. Jedediah Smith fought a grizzly and killed it—by himself. Bear chewed off one of his ears, though. Shoo Fly Miller had a grizzly bear for a pet. Those old boys are still about half hoss, half alligator.”

“My word!” MacGregor said.

“Stick around, Mac,” Buck said cheerfully. “If you live through what’s coming up shortly, you can write the final chapter to the lives of the mountain men.”

It was going sour, Buck thought, walking from the PSR offices back to his hotel. He could sense it; an almost tangible sensation. The gunhands that were constantly in view were behaving in a surly manner. Cursing more and drinking more openly. Buck noticed a distinct lack of kids playing on the boardwalks and streets. He noticed a couple of loaded-down wagons parked in front of the general store.

Buck stopped in front of a saloon and asked the scar-faced Joiner, “What’s going on?”

“Two schoolteachers and their families pullin’ out. Didn’t like the way Miz Sally was treated. The boss is some sore, let me tell you.”

Buck smiled.

Joiner looked sourly at him. “You find something funny about that, West?”

“Just that a man can’t push some women, is all.”

Joiner grunted. It was obvious to Buck that he was looking for a fight. And Buck wasn’t.

When Joiner saw that Buck wasn’t going to fight, he said, “There can’t be much sand to your bottom, boy.”

Buck met him eye to eye. “If you want to get a shovel and start digging for that sand, Joiner, feel free to do so. But I’d suggest you make one stopover first for a little digging.”

“Oh? And where’s that?”

“Boot Hill.” Buck turned and walked on up the street. As he turned, his right side blocked to Joiner’s view, Buck slipped the hammer thong off his .44.

He could feel Joiner’s eyes boring into his back as he walked.

“Buck West!” Joiner shouted. “Turn and fight, you tinhorn!”

Buck heard Joiner’s hand as his palm struck the wooden grips of his pistol.

Turning, Buck drew, cocked, and fired, all in one fluid motion. Joiner’s pistol clattered to the wooden boardwalk as the .44 slug from Buck’s gun hit him squarely in the center of the chest. Joiner staggered backward, grabbed at a wooden chair for support, missed the arm of the chair, and sat down heavily on the boardwalk, one hand supporting himself, holding himself up, the other hand covering the hole in his chest.

“You bassard!” Joiner hissed at Buck.

“You pushed me, Joiner,” Buck reminded the man.

Joiner groaned and let himself slump to the boards.

Burton ran out of the apothecary shop, crossed the street, and knelt by the dying Joiner. When he looked up at Buck, his face was flushed with hate. “If you’re so damned good with a gun, why didn’t you just shoot the gun out of his hand? You didn’t have to kill him.”