Read Online Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) by William W. Johnstone - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William W. Johnstone
Ads: Link
them.
“I suggest that three or four of us ride up there first. We can size up the place and distract the agent. The rest of you be ready to come on full tilt when I give the signal,” Spectre told them.
Gus Jaeger and several others nodded sagely. Gus prompted, “Do you want me to come along?”
Victor Spectre cut his eyes to the lean outlaw. “No. You stay here, lead the men.”
“Good enough.”
Spectre picked two of the gang, then he and Tinsdale rode off toward the distant building. The remainder of the gang waited behind a low ground swell.
When they reached the front of the building, which faced east, they saw two burros tied off out at the hitch-rail. The four outlaws dismounted and entered, to find only three white men occupying the trading post. Two of them had the look of prospectors, the third wore a white shirt, with sleeve garters, dark trousers and a string tie. The agent/trader, Spectre judged. Three Indian women stood at a dry goods counter, haggling with the proprietor over a bolt of cloth. No problem there, the gang boss thought. Spectre stepped up to address the Indian agent.
“I say, sir, might you have some whiskey we could purchase?”
“Nope. Ain’t allowed where there’s Injuns.”
Spectre cocked his head and gave the fellow a “man of the world” look. “Oh, come now. My companions and I are fairly parched after being a week in Utah. Surely you must have a little—ah—private stock set aside?” A hand in one pocket, he let the jingle of gold coins sound clearly.
Avarice glowed in the gray eyes of the trader. “I might be able to find something. It’ll have to be after I get rid of these wimmin. Can’t have them knowin’ there’s liquor around. They’re Utes and their bucks would burn this place down for a swallow apiece.”
“Very well, then.” Spectre crossed to the door and stepped outside. From a vest pocket, he took a highly polished gold watch and lined the open face cover up with the sun. The flash could be seen clearly by the waiting outlaws.
They came down on the trading post like the Tartar warriors of Gengis Khan. By then, Victor Spectre had reentered the trading post. He crossed to the agent/trader and grabbed him by the front of his shirt.
He put his face close to that of the suddenly frightened man and growled at him. “Your strongbox. Where is it?”
Consternation registered a moment before anger washed it away. “You are going to rob me? You’ll not get much, and you’ll not get away with it. Harvey, Lem,” he called to the sourdoughs at the small bar across the room.
Harvey and Lem could do little to help him. They faced into the drawn six-guns of Ralph Tinsdale, Nate Miller, and Judson Reese. Squawking like pudgy hens, the Ute women made for the door. Victor Spectre dragged the spluttering trader across the room and rammed him against a wall.
“Tell me now and I might let you live.”
Raising a trembling hand, the meek Indian agent pointed to the bar. “There, under the counter. It just has a key lock.”
“Where’s the key?”
“In it, during business hours. It’s where I keep my whiskey.”
Spectre motioned to Reese and Miller. “Clean it out.”
That’s when shouts of alarm in the Ute language came from outside. The outlaws swarmed around the agency trading post and began to shoot down the helpless Ute men, who were armed with only lances, bows, and arrows. Women screamed and the children ran in panic.
Laughing, Farlee Huntoon took aim on a boy of about nine and shot him between the shoulder blades. He eared back the hammer to pot the child’s little brother, then yelped in pain as an arrow creased the upper side of his left shoulder.
“Owie! That damn buck done drew blood,” he bellowed as he turned to one side and fired into the face of the Ute who had shot the arrow. “Owie,” he repeated for emphasis.
Those among the Ute men who had not already been killed or seriously wounded began to flee. They dragged
“I suggest that three or four of us ride up there first. We can size up the place and distract the agent. The rest of you be ready to come on full tilt when I give the signal,” Spectre told them.
Gus Jaeger and several others nodded sagely. Gus prompted, “Do you want me to come along?”
Victor Spectre cut his eyes to the lean outlaw. “No. You stay here, lead the men.”
“Good enough.”
Spectre picked two of the gang, then he and Tinsdale rode off toward the distant building. The remainder of the gang waited behind a low ground swell.
When they reached the front of the building, which faced east, they saw two burros tied off out at the hitch-rail. The four outlaws dismounted and entered, to find only three white men occupying the trading post. Two of them had the look of prospectors, the third wore a white shirt, with sleeve garters, dark trousers and a string tie. The agent/trader, Spectre judged. Three Indian women stood at a dry goods counter, haggling with the proprietor over a bolt of cloth. No problem there, the gang boss thought. Spectre stepped up to address the Indian agent.
“I say, sir, might you have some whiskey we could purchase?”
“Nope. Ain’t allowed where there’s Injuns.”
Spectre cocked his head and gave the fellow a “man of the world” look. “Oh, come now. My companions and I are fairly parched after being a week in Utah. Surely you must have a little—ah—private stock set aside?” A hand in one pocket, he let the jingle of gold coins sound clearly.
Avarice glowed in the gray eyes of the trader. “I might be able to find something. It’ll have to be after I get rid of these wimmin. Can’t have them knowin’ there’s liquor around. They’re Utes and their bucks would burn this place down for a swallow apiece.”
“Very well, then.” Spectre crossed to the door and stepped outside. From a vest pocket, he took a highly polished gold watch and lined the open face cover up with the sun. The flash could be seen clearly by the waiting outlaws.
They came down on the trading post like the Tartar warriors of Gengis Khan. By then, Victor Spectre had reentered the trading post. He crossed to the agent/trader and grabbed him by the front of his shirt.
He put his face close to that of the suddenly frightened man and growled at him. “Your strongbox. Where is it?”
Consternation registered a moment before anger washed it away. “You are going to rob me? You’ll not get much, and you’ll not get away with it. Harvey, Lem,” he called to the sourdoughs at the small bar across the room.
Harvey and Lem could do little to help him. They faced into the drawn six-guns of Ralph Tinsdale, Nate Miller, and Judson Reese. Squawking like pudgy hens, the Ute women made for the door. Victor Spectre dragged the spluttering trader across the room and rammed him against a wall.
“Tell me now and I might let you live.”
Raising a trembling hand, the meek Indian agent pointed to the bar. “There, under the counter. It just has a key lock.”
“Where’s the key?”
“In it, during business hours. It’s where I keep my whiskey.”
Spectre motioned to Reese and Miller. “Clean it out.”
That’s when shouts of alarm in the Ute language came from outside. The outlaws swarmed around the agency trading post and began to shoot down the helpless Ute men, who were armed with only lances, bows, and arrows. Women screamed and the children ran in panic.
Laughing, Farlee Huntoon took aim on a boy of about nine and shot him between the shoulder blades. He eared back the hammer to pot the child’s little brother, then yelped in pain as an arrow creased the upper side of his left shoulder.
“Owie! That damn buck done drew blood,” he bellowed as he turned to one side and fired into the face of the Ute who had shot the arrow. “Owie,” he repeated for emphasis.
Those among the Ute men who had not already been killed or seriously wounded began to flee. They dragged
Similar Books
