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

another rustler’s head. Hector shot again, and the thief threw up his hands and fell backward off his mount.
    By that time, the reports of the weapons had registered on the dim brains of the cattle. They reacted at once and broke into a shambling run. Controlling the cattle became the primary objective of the rustlers, yet one took the time to ride down on Hector Blanco and steal his life with a bullet through the brain. Then the killer galloped ahead to join the others in a V-shaped formation in front of the stampeded herd and direct it off Alvarado land toward a waiting holding pen in a blind canyon.
    Twenty minutes later, the horrified and grief-stricken sons of Arturo and Hector found the bodies of all three vaqueros. The Whitewater Paddy Quinn gang had struck again.

5
    An hour short of sundown, with long, golden and carmine shafts of light spilling through the canyons, Smoke Jensen made night camp on a bluff above the Canadian River. He staked out his horses to graze and prepared a fire ring. Then he gathered dry windfall and laid a fire. With seemingly calm indifference to his surroundings, he went about setting up his cooking equipment. Constantly, though, he kept his ears tuned to the sound of soft footfalls that grew steadily nearer. Smoke’s surprise registered on his face when the source of that noise came up within thirty feet of the campsite and hailed him.
    â€œHello, Mr. Jensen. It’s me, Mac.”
    Smoke looked up from the task of slicing potatoes into a skillet to study the gangly youth. Mac’s shoulders were broad and his arms long, the promise of a fair-sized man when he got his growth. He was slim, though, and narrow-hipped, and with that boyish face, he looked a long way from reaching that maturity. Smoke motioned him in.
    â€œHowdy, Mac. What brings you along?”
    â€œWell, Mr. Jensen, I wanted to thank you again for saving my life. Really, though, I sort of got to thinking. I wondered if—if you’d welcome me to ride along with you. Seein’ we’re headed the same direction, that is.”
    So much earnestness shone from his freckled face that Smoke had to turn away to keep control of his laughter. He fished an onion from a pan of water and began to slice it onto a tin plate to add to the potatoes. “Now, what direction would that be?”
    â€œWhy, to Taos, of course.”
    Smoke feigned doubtfulness. “I’ll have to think on that one. But, step down. Least you can do now is share my eats. I’ve got some fatback, taters, and I’ll make some biscuits.”
    Memory of the boiled oatmeal, twice a day, that had sustained him between his home and Raton prodded Ian MacGreggor. “Gosh, you sure eat well, Mr. Jensen.”
    â€œCall me Smoke, Mac.”
    Caught off balance by this, Mac gulped his words. “Yes, sir, ah, Smoke.”
    â€œNow, to eatin’ well, it’s only common sense. In this climate, a man has to use up his fresh stuff right at the start. By the time we reach Taos it’ll be spare enough.” Smoke turned his attention to the food for a while, then asked, “You have family in Taos?”
    â€œNo, sir, I’m leavin’ home for good. I’m my pap’s third son, so there’s nothin’ for me around the farm. We have a little dirt-scrabble place over in Texas. Whole lot of Scots folks around Amarillo. The farm’ll go to my oldest brother, Caleb. Dirk is hot for workin’ on the railroad. Wants to be an engineer. The apprenticeship and schoolin’ costs money, so there was not much left for me.”
    â€œThen, I gather you are looking for work in Taos?”
    â€œThat’s right, Smoke. I heard there was plenty work being offered out Taos way. There was even a notice in the Amarillo paper. A man named Satterlee. He’s lookin’ for cowhands, timber fallers, all sorts of jobs.”
    Smoke’s frown surprised Mac. “Ah—Mac, I don’t want to