Return Of The Mountain Man Part 3

Buck let him clear leather before he drew his right-hand .44. He fired twice, one slug taking Phillips in the belly, the second slug hitting the man in the center of his chest. Phillips fell backward, mortally wounded.

Carson had not drawn. The man's face was chalky white. He watched as Buck holstered his .44. Buck waited patiently.

The street was silent as a hundred pairs of eyes watched in awe and disbelief, the incredible speed of the tall young man an astonis.h.i.+ng thing to witness. His hand had been like a blur as he drew, c.o.c.ked, and fired.

"Back off, Carson," Buck said. "Just turn around and walk away and it's over. How about it?"

A hundred pairs of ears heard him offer the man his life.

A hundred pairs of ears heard Carson refuse the offer. "h.e.l.l with you!" Carson snarled, and went for his gun.

Born with the gift of ambidextrousness, Buck was as fast with his left hand as with his right. In a heartbeat, Carson lay dead on the dusty street. The man's bootheels and spurs beat a death march on the dirt as his spirit joined that of Phillips, winging their way to their just rewards.

Buck reloaded his .44s and holstered them. He walked across the street to his chair and sat down.

People began streaming out of offices and stores and saloons. They gathered around the fallen pair of would-be gunhands. They looked at Buck, sitting calmly on the boardwalk.

"Mind if we get the man to take your picture?" some called.

Buck didn't mind at all. He wanted Stratton and Potter and Richards to hear of this.

The town's only photographer gathered up his bulky equipment and came on a run.

Buck sat calmly, waiting for the marshal.

5.

"When you gonna tell the boy you still alive and kickin'?" Beartooth asked the mountain man who had been following Buck.

He was called Beartooth because he didn't have a tooth in his mouth. And hadn't had in forty years. No one knew what his Christian name was, and it wasn't a polite question to ask.

"I might not never," the mountain man said. "He thinks I'm dead. Might be best to keep it thataway. I'm only goin' in if and when he needs help."

"He'll need help," Dupre said. "Plenty guns up at Bury. And they all going to be aimed at your friend."

Dupre had drifted up from New Orleans in the late '20s. His accent was still as thick as sorghum.

"You ain't seen Smoke-'scuse me, Buck-git into action," the mountain man said. "He's h.e.l.l on wheels, boys. Best I ever seen. And I seen 'em all."

"Don't start lyin', Preacher," Greybull said.

Greybull was a mountain of a man. It took a mule to pack him around.

"What do you think about it, Nighthawk?" Preacher asked.

"Ummm," the old Crow grunted.

"Whutever the h.e.l.l that means," Tenneysee said. "d.a.m.ned Injun ain't said fifteen words in the fifty year I been knowin' him."

"Ummm," Nighthawk said.

"Might make the lad feel better if'n he knowed you was still breathin'," Pugh said. Pugh was commonly referred to as "Phew!" He hated water. "Then again," Pugh said. "It might make him irritable. He probably said all sorts of kind words 'bout you. An' thinkin' of enough kind words 'bout you to bury you probably took him the better part of a month."

"Phew," Preacher said. "Would you mind changin' positions just a tad. Right there. Don't move. Now the wind is right. Why don't you take a bath? d.a.m.n, you'd make a vulture puke."

"Well, if you ask me-" Audie said.

"n.o.body did," Beartooth said. "h.e.l.l, n.o.body can see you."

Audie was a midget. About three and a half feet tall. And about three and a half feet wide. He was a large amount of trouble in a very compact package.

"As I was saying," Audie said, "before your rudeness took precedent." Audie had taught school in Pennsylvania before the wanderl.u.s.t hit him and he had struck out for the west, on a Shetland pony. When the Indians had seen him, they'd laughed so hard they forgot to kill him. "I think it best that Preacher keep his anonymity for the period preceding our arrival in Bury. Should Preacher reveal his living, breathing self to the young man, it might prove so traumatic as to be detrimental to Jensen's well-being."

"Ummm," Nighthawk said, nodding his head in agreement.

"Whut the hale's far you shakin' your head about, you dumb Injun?" Greybull said. "You don't know no more whut he said than us'ins do."

"Ummm," Nighthawk said.

"Whatever Audie said, I agree with him," Matt said. Matt was a Negro. Big and mean and one-eyed.

Matt was probably the youngest man present. And he was at least sixty-five. He had lost his eye during a fight with an angry mountain lion. Matt had finally broken the puma's back.

"Good Gawd, Audie!" Deadlead said. "Cain't you talk American? What the h.e.l.l did you jist say?"

Deadlead had earned his nickname from being a crack shot with a pistol. Like most of the mountain men, no one knew what his Christian name was.

"Ummm," Nighthawk said.

"I say we break camp and meander on up towards Bury," Powder Pete said. "Old as we is, some of us might not make the trip if we wait much longer."

"I opt fer that myself," Tenneysee said. "What do you say, Nighthawk?"

"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 ask him to leave. But if that there boy gits his back up, there ain't n.o.body gonna run him nowheres."

"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 s.h.i.+rts 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 wh.o.r.ehouse 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 guessed there had been some attempts to hold up the place. Or perhaps the Big Three were just cautious men.

He located the livery stable and arranged a stall for Drifter, warning the stable boy not to enter Drifter's stall.

"He's got a mean eye for sure," the boy said, eyeballing the stallion.

"He killed one man," Buck said, knowing that tale would soon spread throughout the small town.

The boy solemnly nodded his head.

Buck handed the boy a five-dollar gold piece. "Just between you and me, now. Make certain he gets an extra ration of grain."

"Yes, sir!"

"Both Drifter and the packhorse, now."

"Yes, sir!"

Taking his personal gear and his rifle, Buck stashed the rest of his gear in Drifter's stall. He walked toward the hotel. As he walked, he pa.s.sed by a very pretty, dark-haired, hazel-eyed young woman. He smiled at her and she blushed. Buck paused and watched her walk on toward the edge of town. Buck crossed the street to better watch her and saw her push open the gate on a small picket fence and walk up onto the porch of a small house. She disappeared from view.

"Nice," he muttered.

"Sure is," a voice came from behind him.

Buck slowly turned around to face the sheriff and one of his deputies. Neither one of them would win any prizes for good looks.

"Sheriff Reese. This is Rogers, one of my deputies. I don't know you."

That's good, Buck thought. But you will, Sheriff. You will. "Buck West."

"Ahh," Reese said. "Now I know you. The gunhand."

"Some say I am."

"Going to be in town long?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On how fast I get rested up, resupplied, and find out more about this Smoke Jensen and how I go about collecting the reward money."