Trail Of The Mountain Man/revenge Of The Mountain Man (The Last Mountain Man)

hurt caused by a hard fist. The preacher looked as if he wished his wife would cover herself.

One drifter shoved Dana and Bountiful out of the way, stepping over to join his friend, facing Smoke. The other two drifters hung back, being careful to keep their hands away from their guns. The two who hung back were older, and wiser to the ways of gunslicks. And they did not like the looks of this young man with the twin Colts. There was something very familiar about him. Something calm and cold and very deadly.

“Back off, Ford,” one finally spoke. “Let’s ride.”

“Hell with you!” the rider named Ford said, not taking his eyes from Smoke. “I’m gonna kill this punk!”

“Something tells me you ain’t neither,” his friend said.

“Better listen to him,” Smoke advised Ford.

“Now see here, gentlemen!” Hunt said.

“Shut your gawddamned mouth!” he was told.

Hunt closed his mouth. Heavens! he thought. This just simply was not done back in Boston.

“You gonna draw, punk?” Ford said.

“After you,” Smoke said quietly.

“Jesus, Ford!” the rider who hung back said. “I know who that is.”

“He’s dead, that’s who he is,” Ford said, and reached for his gun.

His friend drew at the same time.

Smoke let them clear leather before he began his lightning draw. His Colts belched fire and smoke, the slugs taking them in the chest, flinging them backward. They had not gotten off a shot.

“Smoke Jensen!” the drifter said.

“Right,” Smoke said. “Now ride!”

6

The two drifters who had wisely elected not to take part in facing Smoke leaped for their horses and were gone in a cloud of galloping dust. They had not given a second glance at their dead friends.

Smoke reloaded his Colts and holstered them. Then he looked at the wagon people. The Easterners were clearly in a mild state of shock. Bountiful still had not taken the few seconds needed to repair her torn bodice. Smoke summed her up quickly and needed only one word to do so: trouble.

“My word!” Colton Spaiding finally said. “You are very quick with those guns, sir.”

“I’m alive,” Smoke said.

“You killed those men!” Hunt Brook said, getting up off the ground and brushing the dust from the seat of his britches.

“What did you want me to do?” Smoke asked, knowing where this was leading. “Kiss them?”

Hunt wiped his bloody mouth with a handkerchief. “You shall certainly need representation at the hearing. Consider me as your attorney.”

Smoke looked at the man and smiled slowly. He shook his head in disbelief. “Lawyer, the nearest lawman is about three days ride from here. And I’m not even sure this area is in his jurisdiction. There won’t be any hearing, Mister. It’s all been settled and over and done with.”

Haywood Arden was looking at Smoke through cool eyes. Smoke met the man’s steady gaze.

This one will do, Smoke thought. This one doesn’t have his head in the clouds. “So you’re going to start up a newspaper, huh?” Smoke said.

“Yes. But how did you know that?”

“Me and Horse been sitting over there,” Smoke said, jerking his head in the direction of the timber. “Listening.”

“You move very quietly, sir,” Mona Spalding said.

“I learned to do that. Helps in staying alive.” Smoke wished Bountiful would cover up. It was mildly distracting.

“One of those ruffians called you Smoke, I believe,” Hunt said. “I don’t believe I ever met a man named Smoke.”

Ruffians, Smoke thought. He hid his smile. Interesting choice of words to describe the drifters. “I was halfway raised by an old Mountain Man named Preacher. He hung that name on me.”

The drifter called Ford broke wind in death. The shopkeeper’s wife, Peg, thought as though she might faint any second. “Could someone please do something about those poor dead men?” she asked.

Dawn had given way to a bright clear mountain day. A stream of humanity had begun riding and walking toward Fontana. A tough-looking pair of miners riding mules reined up. Their eyes dismissed the Easterners and settled on Smoke. “Trouble?” one asked.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Smoke told him.

“’Pears that way,” the second miner said drily. “Ford Beechan was a good hand with a short gun.” He cut his eyes toward the sprawled body of Ford.

“He wasn’t as good as he thought,” Smoke replied.

“’Pears that’s the truth. We’ll plant ’em for four bits a piece.”

“Deal.”