Read Online Return of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone - Free Book Online

“I intend to file charges against you both.”
    â€œHalp!” Casey hollered.
    A local minister began praying for Casey’s poor wretched soul.
    Casey soiled himself as the noose was slipped around his neck.
    The minister prayed harder.
    â€œThat ain’t much of a prayer,” Preacher opined sourly. “I had you beat hands down when them Injuns was fixin’ to skin me alive on the Platte. Put some feelin’ in it, man!”
    The local minister began to shout and sweat. The crowd swelled; some had brought their supper with them. A hanging was always an interesting sight. There just wasn’t that much to do in small western towns. Some men were betting how long it would take for Casey to die—providing his neck didn’t snap when his butt left the saddle.
    A small choir had assembled. The ladies lifted their voices to the sky.
    â€œâ€˜Shall We Gather at the River,’” they intoned.
    â€œI personally think ‘Swing Low’ would be more like it,” Preacher opined.
    A local merchant looked at Casey. “You owe me sixty-five dollars.”
    â€œHell with you!” Casey tried to kick the man.
    â€œI want my money!” the merchant shouted.
    â€œYou got anything to say before you go to Hell?” Smoke asked Casey.
    â€œYou won’t get away with this!” Casey screamed. “If Potter or Stratton don’t git you, Richards will.”
    â€œWhat’s he talkin’ about?” the marshal asked.
    â€œCasey was with the Gray—same as my Pa and brother,” Smoke explained. “Casey and some others waylaid a patrol bringing a load of gold into Georgia. They shot my brother in the back and left him to die. Hard.”
    â€œThat was war,” the marshal said.
    â€œIt was murder.”
    â€œHurry up,” a citizen shouted. “My supper’s gettin’ cold.”
    â€œI’ll see you hang for this,” the marshal told Smoke.
    â€œYou go to hell!” Smoke told him.
    Casey swung in the cool, late afternoon air.
    â€œI’m notifying the territorial governor of this,” the marshal said.
    Casey’s bootheels drummed the air.
    â€œShout, man!” Preacher told the minister. “Sing, sisters, sing!” he urged the choir.
    â€œWhat about my sixty-five dollars?” the merchant shouted.
    All the memories had flashed through Buck’s mind in the space of two heartbeats.
    â€œYou’ve gone away again,” Sally said.
    Buck looked at her. She was smiling up at him. “Yes, I guess I was, Sally. I apologize for that.”
    They continued walking toward the hotel. Sally said, “Buck, are you here to slay dragons or to tilt at windmills?”
    â€œBeg pardon?”
    â€œAre you familiar with Cervantes?”
    â€œIs he a gunhand?”
    She looked at him to see if he was serious. He was. “No, Buck. A writer.”
    â€œNo, I guess I missed that one. I know what slaying dragons means. But what’s that about tilting windmills?”
    â€œOh, I suppose you’re not. I didn’t notice Sancho riding in with you.”
    Now Buck was thoroughly confused. “I never had a Mex sidekick, Sally.”
    â€œI have a copy of Don Quixote —somewhere. I’ll find it and loan it to you. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
    â€œAll right.” Buck was well-read, considering his lack of formal education and allowing for the locale and his lifestyle. But he sure as hell had never heard of any Don Quixote.
    Heads turned as they entered the dining room. Some dining there gave the young couple disapproving looks. A few smiled. They took a table next to the wall, affording them maximum privacy, and ordered supper. PSR beef, naturally, with boiled potatoes and beans, and apple pie for dessert.
    Neither admitted it, for separate reasons, but both wondered what might be taking place at the grand house of the PSR ranch.
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    â€œAnd it was a fair