Law Of The Mountain Man. William W. Johnstone

fed a few more sticks to the fire, then leaned back against the stone wall of the cavern and once more went over events in his mind.

      Sally’s parents had come but from the East for a visit. Why they had chosen to come to northern Colorado in the middle of winter was still a mystery to Smoke. It was so cold during the winter, that when someone died the body was placed in a cave until spring when the ground thawed and a hole could be dug.

      It was colder here in Idaho, Smoke mentally griped, his big hands soaking up the warmth from the tin cup.

      Dagger, Smoke’s big mountain-bred horse chomped on some grass Smoke had dug up for him.

      Then the baby had taken sick—some sort of lung ailment—and Sally’s father had suggested they go to Arizona for the winter. Smoke had no desire to go to Arizona and there were a few things he needed to tend to around the spread.

      With the house empty and matters tended to, Smoke became restless. The pull of the High Lonesome tugged at him. He saddled up and rode out one cold but sunshiny morning.

      He didn’t have any particular place in mind. He just wanted to be one with the mountains again. Damn near got himself killed doing it. And wasn’t out of the fire yet.

      He had headed northwest out of Colorado, staying on the west side of the Continental Divide, angling northwest. He did all right until he came to a little town on the Bear River, just about on the border, he reckoned. He had stopped at the general store to resupply and then to have a drink of whiskey. Not normally a drinking man, Smoke visited the saloons more for news than for booze, although in this sort of weather, a shot of whiskey did feel good going down.

      Smoke was tall, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, and ruggedly handsome, with cold brown eyes. Smoke Jensen, called the last mountain man by some, was the hero of countless penny dreadfuls sold all over the country. He was also known as the fastest gun in the West. He wore two guns: on the left a .44 worn high and butt-forward for a cross-draw, on the right a .44 worn low and tied down.

      When Smoke had been just a young boy, he was taken under the wing of a cantankerous old mountain man named Preacher. Preacher had taught the boy well, watching him practice with those deadly guns as they traveled all over the Northwest.

      Outlaws had raped and killed Smoke’s first wife and cold-bloodedly murdered their newborn son. Smoke had tracked them all down and killed them, then rode into the outlaw town that had been their headquarters and shot it out with the killers’ friends. His reputation was then carved in granite.

      He poured another cup of cowboy coffee and let his mind drift back a few days.

      “Whiskey,” Smoke told the barkeep. “Out of the good bottle.”

      The saloon had quieted as Smoke walked in, something that did not escape his attention. He paid little mind, though. A stranger appearing out of the dead of winter always drew attention.

      Especially one who wore his guns like Smoke wore his.

      “We don’t serve no Box T riders in here, mister,” the barkeep warned.

      Smoke’s eyes turned colder than the weather outside. “I don’t ride for the Box T. I don’t even know where it is or what it is. Now pour the drink.” He laid money on the bar.

      A man walked up behind Smoke, spurs jingling. “I say you’re a liar. I say you’re one of that old man and woman’s hands. And I say you ain’t gonna buy no drink in here. I say—”

      Whatever the loudmouth was going to say, he didn’t get the chance to finish it. Smoke spun and hit the man smack in the teeth with one big, work-hardened fist. The cowboy’s eyes were rolling back in his head and he was out cold before he hit the floor.

      Smoke shifted positions, moving to the end of the bar closest to the door so he could keep an eye on the rest of the riders in the room.

      “Pour the damn drink!” Smoke told the barkeep. “And make it out of a new bottle. Let me see you pry the cork and pour!”

      “Yes, sir!” the barkeep barked. “Right now. Then will you please get the hell out of here?”

      “I’ll think about it.” Smoke held the glass in his left hand. His right hand was hidden by the bar. His right hand was close to the butt of his .44. Out of habit, he always slipped the hammer-thong from his .44 as soon as his boots left the stirrups and touched the ground.

      Preacher’s lessons stayed with him.

      “Mister,” the voice came from a table near the back of the room. “That there is Jud Vale on the floor. He’s gonna kill you when he gets up.”

      “If he doesn’t handle his guns any better than he flaps his mouth he’s going to be in for another surprise.”

      “You won’t say that to his face”

      Smoke laughed at the man.

      “You can’t take all of us,” another voice added.

      “Bastard looks like Perkins, don’t he?” yet another said.

      Perkins? Smoke thought. Who is Perkins? “Maybe not. But I can kill the first six or eight. Anybody want to start?”

      Apparently, no one did. No more voices were heard.

      Smoke sipped his drink as Jud Vale moaned and stirred on the floor. “Isn’t anyone going to help this stumblebum up?”

      Several men stood up and warily approached the groaning Jud Vale. All of them keeping an eye on Smoke, who was standing by the bar smiling at their antics. Whoever this Perkins person was, he was respected, for sure.

      “You a dead man, Perkins, or whoever you are,” one of the men said, helping Jud to his feet. “You got one boot in the grave now.”

      Jud Vale, his bloody mouth puffy, glared at Smoke. “I’m gonna let you ride, you punk!” he snarled. “Take this message back to Burden: I’m gonna kill him and then run that old broad off the land. You tell him I said that.”

      Smoke started to tell the man that his name wasn’t Perkins and he didn’t know anybody named Burden.

      Then he thought better of it. He’d play along for a time.

      The idea of somebody like this loudmouth Jud Vale bothering some old couple rankled him.

      Smoke nodded, finished his whiskey and then backed away from the bar. finding the doorknob with his left hand. He stepped out into the cold blowing winds and closed the door behind him.

      He stopped at a farmhouse a few miles from town, spotting a man carrying a slop bucket out to his hogs.

      “Mister, where can I find the Box T spread?”

      “South of here. It’s right around Bear Lake. You got any sense you’ll stay away from there.”

      “Why?”

      “’Cause Jud Vale wants it, that’s why. And whatever Jud Vale wants, he gits. Now you git!” Smoke got.

      Jud Vale’s men came after him hard. So far, not a killing shot had been fired from either side, but Jud’s men kept Smoke in a box, warning him back with well-placed rifle shots and causing Smoke to wonder what in the hell was going on.

      He was south of Montpelier, a town settled by the Mormons back in ’63, first known as Clover Creek and later as Belmont; Brigham Young gave it its present name. He was not too far from the Oregon Trail. Smoke was close to Bear Lake and the Box T spread, but could not figure out a way to get to the place without killing some of Jud Vale’s men, and that was something he did not want to do. Not just yet, anyway.

      How do I get myself in these messes? he wondered, drinking the last of his coffee. All I wanted to do was see some country, not fight a war.

      He walked to the front of the cave and looked out. It was getting light, and soon the hunt would continue. Smoke sighed and did his best to keep his patience. He didn’t want to get riled up. When Smoke Jensen