Read Online Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) by William W. Johnstone - Free Book Online
Authors: William W. Johnstone
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can find a man we’re lookin’ for.”
Smoke shoved back the brim of his Stetson with his left hand, Thunder’s reins held slackly in the fingers. His right hand rested lightly on his thigh. “It would help if I had a name. There’s not many folks this far from town.”
“Yeah. We done asked at Sulpher Springs. A gent in the saloon said the man we want lived down this way. His name is Smoke Jensen.”
Smoke tensed, but didn’t let it show. “Might I ask what you want with Smoke Jensen?”
That bought him a surly answer. “That’s none of yer business, you old fart.”
That did it! Smoke dropped all pretense at civility. “Well, I just happen to think it is my business, being that I am Smoke Jensen.”
The lout beside the orange-haired one cut his eyes to his partner. “Gol-dang, Lance, what do we do now?”
“Go for it, Lonnie!”
That had to rank as the stupidest mistake Lance had ever made. He had barely closed his fingers around the butt-grip of his Smith .44 American when he looked down the muzzle of the .45 Colt Peacemaker in the hand of Smoke Jensen. His eyes went wide and his mouth formed an “O,” though he yanked iron anyway.
Smoke shot him before the cylinder of the tilt-top revolver cleared leather. The bullet punched through Lance’s belly and burst out his right side. Reflex fired the Smith and the would-be gunfighter shot himself in the leg. Smoke swung the barrel of his Colt to cover Lonnie. The kid had his Merwin and Hulbert .44 clear of leather, but not aimed. Smoke’s second round ripped through the youth’s liver and angled upward to shatter a portion of rib before exiting from his back. Desperation fought long enough for him to trigger a round.
At such close range it was nearly impossible to miss a man-sized target, but Lonnie did. Hot lead cracked past the right side of Smoke’s chest and splattered on a granite boulder behind him. Smoke fired again and pin-wheeled Lonnie in the breastbone. Shards of bone slashed the young lout’s aorta on the way through to break a vertebra between his shoulder blades. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Bleeding profusely from stomach and thigh, Lance forced himself to draw his left hand gun for another try. Smoke reached out and batted the weapon from the wounded thug’s hand.
“Give it up, Lance,” he told the adolescent. “You’re dying as it is.”
Lance’s defiance came through gritted teeth. “Go to hell, Smoke Jensen.”
Smoke ignored it. “Out of curiosity, why did you draw on me?”
Lance swung his good left leg over the saddle, put both hands on the horn, and slid off his mount, his face white with agony. His right leg gave and he slumped to the ground. The horse jittered and danced a few steps away. Through the entire brief and bloody action, the only movement Thunder had made was to twitch ears at each gunshot. Smoke dismounted and ground-reined the ’Palouse stallion, then knelt beside the dying saddle trash.
“You might as well tell me and go off to the Almighty with a clear conscience.”
“You taken to preachin’ sermons lately?”
“No, but the man who raised me was called Preacher. He taught me to shoot, too.”
“Did a—a damn fine job of it.”
“Save your breath to answer me. Why did you pull iron on me?”
Lance turned those icy green eyes on Smoke. “The word is out that a whole lot of money will be paid for your head.”
Smoke had a fair idea he knew who had made the offer, though he had to ask. “Who’s supposed to pay?”
“A man named Vic…tor…Spectre,” Lance choked out before he died.
High up along the Colorado River, in the corner of Utah, the gang led by Victor Spectre and his partners found the Ute Indians. Their number had grown to twenty-eight. They hungered for whiskey and women in this strict Mormon land. From a distance they eyed the low, brush lodges of the Utes and the square outline of a trading post. The trader would be the Indian agent, Spectre had told
Smoke shoved back the brim of his Stetson with his left hand, Thunder’s reins held slackly in the fingers. His right hand rested lightly on his thigh. “It would help if I had a name. There’s not many folks this far from town.”
“Yeah. We done asked at Sulpher Springs. A gent in the saloon said the man we want lived down this way. His name is Smoke Jensen.”
Smoke tensed, but didn’t let it show. “Might I ask what you want with Smoke Jensen?”
That bought him a surly answer. “That’s none of yer business, you old fart.”
That did it! Smoke dropped all pretense at civility. “Well, I just happen to think it is my business, being that I am Smoke Jensen.”
The lout beside the orange-haired one cut his eyes to his partner. “Gol-dang, Lance, what do we do now?”
“Go for it, Lonnie!”
That had to rank as the stupidest mistake Lance had ever made. He had barely closed his fingers around the butt-grip of his Smith .44 American when he looked down the muzzle of the .45 Colt Peacemaker in the hand of Smoke Jensen. His eyes went wide and his mouth formed an “O,” though he yanked iron anyway.
Smoke shot him before the cylinder of the tilt-top revolver cleared leather. The bullet punched through Lance’s belly and burst out his right side. Reflex fired the Smith and the would-be gunfighter shot himself in the leg. Smoke swung the barrel of his Colt to cover Lonnie. The kid had his Merwin and Hulbert .44 clear of leather, but not aimed. Smoke’s second round ripped through the youth’s liver and angled upward to shatter a portion of rib before exiting from his back. Desperation fought long enough for him to trigger a round.
At such close range it was nearly impossible to miss a man-sized target, but Lonnie did. Hot lead cracked past the right side of Smoke’s chest and splattered on a granite boulder behind him. Smoke fired again and pin-wheeled Lonnie in the breastbone. Shards of bone slashed the young lout’s aorta on the way through to break a vertebra between his shoulder blades. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Bleeding profusely from stomach and thigh, Lance forced himself to draw his left hand gun for another try. Smoke reached out and batted the weapon from the wounded thug’s hand.
“Give it up, Lance,” he told the adolescent. “You’re dying as it is.”
Lance’s defiance came through gritted teeth. “Go to hell, Smoke Jensen.”
Smoke ignored it. “Out of curiosity, why did you draw on me?”
Lance swung his good left leg over the saddle, put both hands on the horn, and slid off his mount, his face white with agony. His right leg gave and he slumped to the ground. The horse jittered and danced a few steps away. Through the entire brief and bloody action, the only movement Thunder had made was to twitch ears at each gunshot. Smoke dismounted and ground-reined the ’Palouse stallion, then knelt beside the dying saddle trash.
“You might as well tell me and go off to the Almighty with a clear conscience.”
“You taken to preachin’ sermons lately?”
“No, but the man who raised me was called Preacher. He taught me to shoot, too.”
“Did a—a damn fine job of it.”
“Save your breath to answer me. Why did you pull iron on me?”
Lance turned those icy green eyes on Smoke. “The word is out that a whole lot of money will be paid for your head.”
Smoke had a fair idea he knew who had made the offer, though he had to ask. “Who’s supposed to pay?”
“A man named Vic…tor…Spectre,” Lance choked out before he died.
High up along the Colorado River, in the corner of Utah, the gang led by Victor Spectre and his partners found the Ute Indians. Their number had grown to twenty-eight. They hungered for whiskey and women in this strict Mormon land. From a distance they eyed the low, brush lodges of the Utes and the square outline of a trading post. The trader would be the Indian agent, Spectre had told
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