William W. Johnstone - Law of The Mountain Man (Mountain Man 5)

AMBUSH!

Smoke Jensen exploded outof the brush, his knife in his hand.

The bounty hunter wheeled around, his eyes wide with panic, the rifle in his hands coming up. But Smokes forward charge knocked the man sprawling, loosening his grip on the Winchester. The man opened his mouth to yell a warning. With one hard swing of the long-bladed knife, Smoke ended the life of the hunter.

He took the mans rifle, pistol and ammo, and then dragged the body into the brush. Once more he headed out for the woods.

Smoke knew the time had come to show Jud Vale what he thought of a man who would declare war on women and young boys.

And he would write the message in blood!

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WILLIAM W.
JOHNSTONE

LAW OF THE
MOUNTAIN MAN

Pinnacle Books
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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Copyright 1989 William W. Johnstone

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ISBN: 978-0-7860-2572-5

I feel an army in my fist.
Friedrich von Schiller

Dedicated to Johnie and Molly Matthews

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Contents

He hoped this wou Id be the last winter storm of the season. Probably wouldnt be, but there is that line about hope springing eternal.

He just wished it was spring. Period.

Smoke Jensen sat in a cave over a fire and boiled the last of his coffee. He knew he was in Idaho. He guessed somewhere south of Montpelier. All he knew for certain was that he was cold, and he was being hunted by a large group of men. He knew why he was cold; he didnt really have a clear idea why he was being hunted.

He poured a cup of scalding strong coffee and fed a few more sticks to the fire, then leaned back against the stone wall of the cavern and once more went over events in his mind.

Sallys parents had come but from the East for a visit. Why they had chosen to come to northern Colorado in the middle of winter was still a mystery to Smoke. It was so cold during the winter, that when someone died the body was placed in a cave until spring when the ground thawed and a hole could be dug.

It was colder here in Idaho, Smoke mentally griped, his big hands soaking up the warmth from the tin cup.

Dagger, Smokes big mountain-bred horse chomped on some grass Smoke had dug up for him.

Then the baby had taken sicksome sort of lung ailmentand Sallys father had suggested they go to Arizona for the winter. Smoke had no desire to go to Arizona and there were a few things he needed to tend to around the spread.

With the house empty and matters tended to, Smoke became restless. The pull of the High Lonesome tugged at him. He saddled up and rode out one cold but sunshiny morning.

He didnt have any particular place in mind. He just wanted to be one with the mountains again. Damn near got himself killed doing it. And wasnt out of the fire yet.

He had headed northwest out of Colorado, staying on the west side of the Continental Divide, angling northwest. He did all right until he came to a little town on the Bear River, just about on the border, he reckoned. He had stopped at the general store to resupply and then to have a drink of whiskey. Not normally a drinking man, Smoke visited the saloons more for news than for booze, although in this sort of weather, a shot of whiskey did feel good going down.

Smoke was tall, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, and ruggedly handsome, with cold brown eyes. Smoke Jensen, called the last mountain man by some, was the hero of countless penny dreadfuls sold all over the country. He was also known as the fastest gun in the West. He wore two guns: on the left a .44 worn high and butt-forward for a cross-draw, on the right a .44 worn low and tied down.

When Smoke had been just a young boy, he was taken under the wing of a cantankerous old mountain man named Preacher. Preacher had taught the boy well, watching him practice with those deadly guns as they traveled all over the Northwest.

Outlaws had raped and killed Smokes first wife and cold-bloodedly murdered their newborn son. Smoke had tracked them all down and killed them, then rode into the outlaw town that had been their headquarters and shot it out with the killers friends. His reputation was then carved in granite.

He poured another cup of cowboy coffee and let his mind drift back a few days.

Whiskey, Smoke told the barkeep. Out of the good bottle.

The saloon had quieted as Smoke walked in, something that did not escape his attention. He paid little mind, though. A stranger appearing out of the dead of winter always drew attention.

Especially one who wore his guns like Smoke wore his.

We dont serve no Box T riders in here, mister, the barkeep warned.

Smokes eyes turned colder than the weather outside.idont ride for the Box T. I dont even know where it is or what it is. Now pour the drink. He laid money on the bar.

A man walked up behind Smoke, spurs jingling. I say youre a liar. I say youre one of that old man and womans hands. And I say you aint gonna buy no drink in here. I say

Whatever the loudmouth was going to say, he didnt get the chance to finish it. Smoke spun and hit the man smack in the teeth with one big, work-hardened fist. The cowboys eyes were rolling back in his head and he was out cold before he hit the floor.

Smoke shifted positions, moving to the end of the bar closest to the door so he could keep an eye on the rest of the riders in the room.

Pour the damn drink! Smoke told the barkeep. And make it out of a new bottle. Let me see you pry the cork and pour!

Yes, sir! the barkeep barked. Right now. Then will you please get the hell out of here?

Ill think about it. Smoke held the glass in his left hand. His right hand was hidden by the bar. His right hand was close to the butt of his .44. Out of habit, he always slipped the hammer-thong from his .44 as soon as his boots left the stirrups and touched the ground.